Broken Images

Broken Images, a one-woman play, ran a single night at Washington, D.C.’s Kennedy Center yesterday, attracting a full house, despite its middle of the week showing.

Dubbed a psychological thriller, it’s the story of an Indian author who writes short stories in Hindi but doesn’t achieve widespread fame until she publishes her first novel in English, leaving her to deal with issues of identity and guilt. The story is about so much more—not just language, but various layers of identity, awareness, interpretation, perception, perspective, love, and betrayal. There were also messages about the alienation we feel from ubiquitous technology and media and a modern take on an age-old folklore. And while those themes may sound overdone, the play felt fresh and powerful.

A few things about this show caught my attention from the get-go. Not only the rave reviews, but the high-caliber names associated with the play. One of India’s premier actresses, Shabana Azmi, plays the title role, as the author who banters almost exclusively in English with what appears to be her alter ego—common sense, conscience, or maybe devil’s advocate—shown on a large, plasma-screen monitor. Azmi has always been on the cutting edge. One of her most stunning and gutsy roles came in 1996, when already a well-regarded celebrity, Azmi played a lesbian in Deepa Mehta’s landmark film, Fire, a role that included a love scene.

In Broken Images, she spends an hour alone on stage, holding the audience spellbound with her incredible stage presence combined with a powerful script written by one of India’s leading playwrights, Girish Karnad (also a noted director and actor). The performance was directed by renowned theatre actor and producer Alyque Padamsee, who’s also known for his supporting role as Pakistan’s founding father in the film Gandhi.

The story of Broken Images starts with the author, Manjula Sharma, giving a short presentation introducing the movie version of her now-bestselling book. In the talk, she explains how she's been criticized for writing it in English instead of her native language, why she chose that language (because, she explains, that's how it came to her), and how much her family supported her through its writing. At the end of her presentation, she prepares to leave the set but her image on the monitor televising her presentation keeps talking. Only this time, her image on screen is addressing herself on the stage. The audience doesn't know exactly who the character on the screen is supposed to represent—Manjula’s inner self or her outer one, her conscience or her ego—but regardless, the TV Manjula begins probing her on-stage self about the same issues she’d discussed in the presentation, slowly unraveling the real story of how and why the book came about and the role her family played in it.

It's just one actor whose splintered character interacts with herself  on screen and on set, using well-coordinated dialogue and body language. There's no other set change, no costume change, and few props other than that large monitor. Nothing really happens in the physical sense. And yet the audience knows something important, something big is happening on stage. The storyline moves quickly, changing and twisting, making you think a lot and feel a lot. I hadn't realized I was holding my breath through most of it until the end when I finally exhaled.

The complex layers of the language and identity themes in Broken Images are fascinating. The character discusses the criticism she receives as an author writing in a colonial language, yet the title of the play comes from the English poem, The Waste Land, by T.S. Eliot: “….for you know only/A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,/And the dead tree gives no shelter….” Playwright Girish Karnad wrote the original script as the protagonist having written her earlier stories in her native South Indian language, Kannada. Somewhere along the way, Karnad adapted the show to larger audiences, changing his character from a Kannada author to a Hindi one. And while the play has been performed in Kannada, Hindi, and now in English, Karnad himself, it’s worth noting, is Konkani. So the duality of languages and identity layers the real-life drama of the performance as well.

Director Padamsee somewhat addresses these ironies on the play’s official site (http://www.brokenimagesplay.com): “We live today in a double world. Who we project ourselves to be … and who we really are…. In our discussions at rehearsals, we found out more about ourselves than the characters in Girish’s play. Broken [i]mages sometimes re-create themselves in new and unexpected avatars.”

It’s incredible how much punch could be packed into a one-woman, 60-minute show, but by the end, the flawless acting and script transcend what you think a play can do.

The Caucasian Chalk Circle

As a theatre reviewer, I like plays that stay with me long after the curtain is drawn, and thus my heart belongs to those off Broadway. There’s no glitz but there’s an edge, and there are no big budgets, but there’s infinite creativity. One such show is the latest production by the Pipeline Theater Company – The Caucasian Chalk Circle, a long rich ethnic story that had more unexpected twists and turns than a modern thriller. Written by German playwright and anti-war activist Bertolt Brecht and directed by Adjunct Professor at the Tisch School of Arts, Anya Saffir, the play kept me guessing, among other things, about its name. Really, why the chalk circle?

The play opens with a dispute between two Soviet communes, the Galinsk goat farm and the Rosa Luxemburg collective, over who is to own a piece of land after the end of the Nazi occupation. But then a group of actors and singers arrive, and, like the famous Arabic classic, A Thousand and One Arabian Nights, in which one fable tells another, the play drops us into medieval Gruzinia (Georgia), in the midst of a mutiny and armed conflict. Prince Kazbeki, backed by the Ironshirts, murders the governor, Georgi Abashvili, whose fleeing wife Natella is more concerned with picking out her wardrobe than packing her baby son – and so little Michael gets left behind. Grusha, a young maid, who had just gotten engaged to Simon, the soldier, finds the baby and runs away with him, saving the boy from the Ironshirts, as her fiancé leaves to fight the war.

The infant puts Grusha at odds with society: she cannot reveal Michael's identity because the Ironshirts are after him. "He's mine," she yells as she collapses into her brother's arms exhausted and sick from the winter cold after crossing the mountains. The brother's wife is not sympathetic – an unwed mother is an embarrassment, not to mention two extra mouths to feed. Yielding to the pressure, Grusha agrees to marry a dying peasant to become a respectable widow - but the man miraculously recovers after the wedding. Thus, Grusha finds herself married with child and without a clue as to how she'd ever explain this to Simon who, hopefully, will come back from the war. But life has another ugly surprise for her: Natella returns to claim her son – her key to the estate. Can the dispute be settled with a chalk circle? Yes, if you place the child in the middle and let the arguing women pull him apart… if they have the heart.

Every actor in this energetic, well-directed cast plays at least three different roles, changing hats, dresses, and historical times with remarkable ease and flair. The usage of stage sets is impressive: simple yet sufficient structures quickly transform the stage from a mansion to a peasant shack and from a court into a mountain road. Dramatically orchestrated and touching is the scene in which fleeing Grusha crosses a broken bridge over a two-thousand-foot-deep abyss, disregarding a group of locals who warn her the old wood won't hold her weight. Weaved naturally into the plot, the songs and music by Cormac Bluestone give it that special ethnic feel as if we had been invited to a traditional Gruzinian wedding where the old fashioned entertainers amuse the guests with their tales.

Compliments to director Anya Saffir, this drama never drops its intensity yet it makes us laugh quite a few times – at people's stupidity, greed, or self-centeredness. "[In this play, Brecht] invites us to take a closer look at those small choices we make in life," Saffir says in her interview, which you can watch below, "and how those choices impact the life of others." Like a great old book rediscovered in a grandmother's trunk, this production is a delicious revival of an almost forgotten classic, and a definite treat. If you are in New York, don't miss your chance to see it! For tickets, go to SmartTix

Raising the Stakes

I’ve never been one to pay much attention to awards. Sure, they’re nice, but as with anything to do with the arts, they are subjective. Back in 2000 I discovered Nueve Reinas (Nine Queens), an Argentine movie that had won 21 out of the 28 film awards they’d been nominated for. Investing a couple of hours of my time to watch this movie appealed to me, and I’ve now lost count of how many times I’ve seen it and discovered something new. 

I will give full disclosure by saying I’m a sucker for heist and con-man movies. I’m also into movies and books that make me want to go back and study it in further detail so I can find those little pearls that weren’t obvious the first time around (The Sixth Sense is a classic example.) Nueve Reinas is another instance where knowing the ending will give you new insight and appreciation for the clever writing, acting, and directing when you watch it again.

Set in Buenos Aires, the film opens in a convenience store. Juan, a young con artist, successfully scams the cashier but on a second go with the con, Juan messes it up with the new cashier on the next shift. Marcos has been observing Juan and poses a detective, hauling him out of the shop and out of trouble. When Juan discovers Marcos is a fellow conman, he tries to enlist him as a mentor. Up until now, Juan has been conning small time but he needs to go large. If he can pull off a big scam then he’ll have enough money to bribe a judge to reduce his father’s jail sentence from ten years to six months.

At first, Marcos knocks Juan back, but then relents and takes on the protégé, and that’s when they learn about the Nine Queens—valuable stamps that really get the movie going. I will leave the plot description there for fear of ruining the story for those who haven’t seen this amazing movie. I will add, however, there is a wealthy widow with dubious motivations, a smuggling Spaniard, and Marcos’s estranged sister, Valeria, who can easily blow the con if she chooses to. Valeria almost steals the show with her femme fatal strut and pout. Mix this in with an ending you’re not likely to see coming, and Nueve Reinas is a wise investment of cinematic time.

Then there’s Buenos Aires, a gorgeous city. It has some dodgy areas, of course, but the architecture, plazas, gardens, and waterfronts give the Paris of the Americas a special beauty. None of this is clearly shown in Nueve Reinas which is a tad disappointing. It certainly would have been a great way to show the city at its best. But what this movie does do brilliantly is depict the Argentine sensibilities and humor while running with one storyline and having another, more complicated story, simmer just below the surface.

It’s the three-dimensional characters that are the catalyst for plot twists and will have you scratching your head long after a new turn appears. Unfortunately the film’s director, Fabián Bielinsky, passed away in 2006. Nueve Reinas was the first of two films he made, and I can only imagine what gems of Argentine cinema he would have produced if he were still around. The film’s actors--Gastón Pauls, Ricardo Darín and Leticia Brédice--are still contributing to the burgeoning South American film industry that is attracting attention from around the world. 

And to entice you just a little more to hire or buy the movie, here’s the trailer:

Fireworks Marriage

Tomorrow is chahar shanbeh souri, the fire festival that marks the start of the Persian New Year. Iranians around the world will be celebrating by building bonfires in the street (or a parking lot) and jumping over them in a cleansing ritual that goes back thousands of years. In Iran, the air will be crackling with fireworks, everything from simple sparklers to home-made cherry bombs.

Chahar Shanbeh Souri (Fireworks Wednesday) is also the title of a 2006 movie, written and directed by Iranian filmmaker Asghar Farhadi, which won a Golden Hugo award at the Chicago International Film Festival. Set in present-day Tehran, the film tells the tale of three marriages: one about to begin, a second recently ended, and a third on the verge of exploding as dramatically as the fireworks sparking in the night air.

The story opens with Rouhi flirting with her fiancé as they ride into town on his motorcycle. Rouhi has taken a job cleaning houses to help pay for their wedding, which is to take place two days later. But when Rouhi arrives for her current assignment in a middle-class Tehran neighborhood, she finds her employers, Mozhdeh and Morteza, embroiled in a bitter domestic dispute. Mozhdeh is convinced that her husband is having an affair with their next-door neighbor, Simine. Rouhi, whose head is filled with happy dreams of her own impending marital bliss, now gets caught up in a bewildering domestic maelstrom.

As the day drags on, Mozhdeh uses Rouhi to spy on Simine by posing as a customer in the suspected mistress’s beauty salon. At first, the maid is intrigued by her new assignment—spying is certainly a lot more fun than scrubbing floors, and she gets a brand new set of plucked eyebrows for her wedding as a bonus. But in her naïveté, Rouhi flounders in a confusing series of subterfuges, unable to keep all the lies and half-truths straight, until she ends up making a bad situation worse.

What makes this movie so appealing is the way it reaches past the political headlines and stereotypes of Iran’s conservative religious society and tells a compelling story of humans in conflict. Relationships are complicated, no less so in Tehran than anywhere else. And when they go wrong, everyone gets caught up in the conflagration: neighbors who put up with the couple’s constant fighting night after night; the relatives whose help and advice is rejected; and most heartbreakingly, the embattled couple’s young son, Amir Ali, who fears that his world is falling apart around his little ears.

The layers to this story make it impossible to take anything at face value. Are Mozhdeh’s fears real, or is she engaged in a personal meltdown of her own? When she tells Rouhi (a woman she’s known only for a few hours) to pick up Amir Ali from school while Mozhdeh takes a nap, I have to wonder if the mother is thinking clearly. But then Mozhdeh “borrows” Rouhi’s chador so she can spy on Morteza at work, believing the voluminous cloak is the perfect disguise. The ruse doesn’t work, and I begin to believe the suspected adultery is a figment of Mozhdeh’s troubled mind.

Morteza is no less three-dimensional. He seems to be the kind, long-suffering husband, entirely innocent of the adultery he’s being accused of. But when he unloads his troubles on his friend at work, complaining at how much he suffers under his wife’s irrational outbursts, he comes across as insincere and self-indulgent, and I start wondering if he really is cheating on his wife. So is the situation entirely of Mozhdeh’s making? I‘m filled with doubt, despite the fact that I’d reached the very same conclusion only moments earlier.

As for Simine, is she really the sweet divorcee whose husband left her for another woman? She gives Rouhi sisterly advice on the girl’s pending marriage then refuses to accept payment for the eyebrow trim. But when her ex drops their daughter off for a visit, he sits all night in the car, gazing with puppy-dog eyes at Simine’s lit window, and I wonder which of them is the injured party in this failed relationship.

Like many Iranian movies, Fireworks Wednesday does not have a firm resolution. The question of adultery is cleared up, but we never see what the characters do about it. Will Morteza and Mozhdeh resume their battle in the morning or will one of them have the courage to pack up and leave? Will Rouhi and her man live happily ever after, or will their marriage eventually dissolve into strife as Morteza’s and Mozhdeh’s did?

This lack of resolution doesn’t bother me, for ultimately this is not a story about happy endings—or tragic ones, either. It is about the choices that people make to either live in harmony or render each other’s lives a living hell.

Off the Beaten Track: Of Words and Bricks

Today’s guest blogger is Philip Briggs, an architect and reader. He lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota, with his family and many books.

For many, an ideal getaway from their workaday world is to lie on the beach with a good book. Personally, I would keep the book but ditch the beach in favor of an urban space: maybe the main concourse of Grand Central Terminal in New York, a café on Venice’s Piazza San Marco, a bench in Saint Paul’s Rice Park, or under the canopy at the Menil Collection Museum in Houston. Well-designed places, both grand and modest, are a source of joy for me.

Piazza San Marco, Venice, Italy –
Napoleon called it the ‘finest drawing
room in Europe.’ I think I agree.

I am an architect, and long before I knew the word “architecture,” I was interested in and inspired by the built environment of cities and towns. The study of architecture, either as a hobby or a field of study, involves a respect for history, recognition of visual composition, and an appreciation for functionality. Architecture is unique in that it is a synthesis of many disparate elements, and it can be a window upon the culture at a place in time.

Although I can hardly describe myself as a writer, I have also always loved reading. Both fiction and nonfiction serve as my portal into many different worlds. Works of literature in particular create inhabited and realized worlds, not unlike a work of architecture. It occasionally occurs to me that these two realms of creativity are further related: that the experience of architecture has parallels in the world of the narrative for both the creator and the audience.

Visual arts such as painting or sculpture can concern themselves with a singular expressive idea, not unlike the effect of a short poem or a lyric. In contrast, a meaningful fictional narrative brings together many elements – the characters, the settings, dialogue – to create a compelling and plausible world for the story to occur. None of these crafted elements are intended to stand alone: they exist to serve the larger purposes of the story.

Grand Central Terminal, New York – Majesty and serene
proportions for the harried daily commuter.
(Original photography & stitching by Diliff, horizontal correction by Janke)

Similarly, a work of architecture consists of many constituent parts but ultimately it is to be appreciated and experienced as a whole, an integrated entity. Architectural design considers many issues such as constructability, programmatic functions, aesthetic considerations, and (unfailingly) the budget. If any of the critical aspects are weak or unsatisfactorily resolved, the building usually fails in its mission as architecture. A well-designed building combines its elements gracefully, achieving harmony and order that belies the great effort made during its design.

Landmark Center- Rice Park,
Saint Paul, Minnesota – An elegant urban space framed
by lovely buildings – a current destination on sunny days.

In the novel form, I expect most writers would say that the single most important element must be the story line itself. I look upon the storyline as the structure of the book, the invisible backbone within the binding. During the architectural design process, it is similarly essential that a strong diagrammatic plan be developed early on. The term often used for this diagram (especially in academia) is “parti,” which might be best described as the proverbial napkin sketch. It is often very simple, and it deals with the core architectural issues at an elemental level. As the building design develops, with its many refinements, details, and decisions, this main idea should be reinforced. It can evolve and change, but it must not be lost. Details do matter: They flesh out the story and give the building its texture and life. But, as with literature, they are of secondary importance, to be addressed after the essential parameters are established and understood.

I have heard it said by many a critical reader that a particular book “did not flow.” Interestingly, this is a comment I also hear in architecture: it can be directed at a disjointed building exterior, an uncomfortable interior space, or a confusing pathway of circulation (lots of signs = bad architecture). The true measure of architecture is not its impressiveness or the fame of its architect. It is how it serves as a setting for the lives of people. Once a building or a novel is created, it is no longer the home of the architect or the writer. This new creation will now be defined by perceptions and experiences – by the building’s occupants, the story’s readers. In the built environment you, dear reader, are ultimately the protagonist of the story. And if it isn’t working – doesn’t “flow” – you can’t help but notice it.

Menil Collection, Houston, Texas – An esoteric front porch,
an artistic shelter from the Texas sun. (Photo by Lian Chang)

For me, spending time in a beautiful urban space or a well-designed building is not unlike getting immersed in a great book: senses are heightened, the mind feels quickened, and I am thoroughly engaged in the rich experiences of the moment. There is an energy, a sense of exploration and a desire to linger. Some of my most treasured places were visited long ago, and yet my mind recalls them vividly. If I do get a chance to return, it is like picking a favorite book off of the shelf: I recall not only its qualities, but also my original reactions and emotions. To those I add my new experiences of the place: it grows anew in meaning, memory joined with a joyful rediscovery.

Russian Animal Fables

Russians tend to humanize their animals rather than mystify them. They give their ursine, vulpine, and feline creatures humanlike characteristics, imbue them with character traits and language abilities. In many tales, man and beasts argue and fight over food, land, or goods. Sometimes they team up against oppressors – human or otherwise. A very popular fable theme typically involves a man catching an animal who begs to be set free on the promise of health, wealth, magical goods, or the gift of a beautiful tsarina to its captor. The story hero pities the creature and lets it go, often not even expecting the pledge to be fulfilled – only to discover that magical things do indeed start to happen to him. Another favorite plot involves man freeing animals from evil spells and turning them back into humans. Somehow, all of those liberated heroes or heroines tend to be of noble origin – princes or princesses, and they immediately fall in love and marry their commoner rescuers.

Animals possess not only very consistent character traits, but often standard genders and names too. They are always referred to as either male or female characters, never an “it.” Bear is big, bulky, and not particular bright. While he is certainly frightening, he can be tricked and bargained with. He is typically named Misha, the Medved (medved means bear) – and yes, that’s the last name of the current president of the Russian Federation – Medvedev. Wolves are dangerous and will gobble up you and your cattle if you don’t ward them off. Luckily, they aren’t very smart and can be fooled. They very often fall victims of foxes’ trickery – the sly cunning Lisaveta wraps Volk around her claw with smiles, flattery, and empty promises. Worse, she often gets him into trouble while slipping away with booty he helped her to steal. Hare, or Zaika, is quick, sometimes cowardly, yet he possesses a certain dignity and is willing to help. Rooster Peter the Petukh is boastful, sometimes narcissistic, and overly self assured, which often gets him in trouble: all Lisaveta has to do is to sing praises to his gorgeous voice and elegant tail, and he is more than willing to fly into her wide open paws. Swan is usually beautiful and, if handled properly, can metamorphose into a single and available tsarina. Whether the hero is Ivan the Fool or Ivan the Tsarevich, they both have to do some slaying of the evil – and that’s where Hare, Duck, and Fish come to help. Actually fish – sometimes Golden Fish, sometimes Tschuka – has been known to magically fulfill her captors’ every wish no matter how ridiculous, in exchange for not being turned into a soup.

Interestingly enough, the talking animals in the tales behave as real animals – carnivorous animals (and humans) still eat meat, even when the meat in question can talk. “I’m gonna eat you,” Wolf says to Hare, who usually yaps long enough to talk his way out. Man bargains with Misha, the Medved, “Don’t hurt me – I’ll give you the top half of my harvest” – and hands the beast the turnip leaves while keeping the roots for himself.

Just about every animal’s personality is beautifully revealed in the famous folk tale Teremok, which doesn’t exactly translate as House, but rather a special kind of a fancy building akin to a palace. Discovering the big comfortable space, various animals move in one by one, forming a happy co-op menagerie until one day there comes a troublemaker who can’t play by the rules, ruins the peace and destroys the edifice.

So, tell me, which animals are part of your national folklore, and what adventures do they bring to your people?

No Monkeying Around

Hanuman Statue in Trinidad and Tobago
(Photo by Kevin Rajeev Persad)

 Over the ages, Hindus have interpreted and explained complicated divine forces through a vast, colorful array of forms, probably none more so than Hanuman, a flying warrior monkey-god with followers even today.

Hanuman’s most notable role takes place in the religious and literary epic, Ramayana, which scholars believe the poet Valmiki wrote around 450 B.C. In it, Prince Rama’s wife, Sita, is kidnapped and held captive for 14 years by the multi-headed demon, Ravana, from Ceylon (modern-day Sri Lanka). While Rama and his brother go searching for Sita, it’s Hanuman, Rama’s trusted bodyguard and devoted servant, who discovers where Sita’s been taken and goes to rescue her. Sita ultimately refuses his help, insisting only her husband can come avenge the insult on her honor, so Hanuman has to go back and notify Rama. Before he does, he wreaks havoc on the tiny island, thus beginning a long and ugly war between the two sides.

A dancer's mask of Hanuman
in Thailand (Photo by Saerin)



There are numerous stories about his origin, but Hanuman’s generally considered an incarnation of Shiva, the god of destruction. He’s the lord of the planet Mars, and is said to control the planets with just his tail. In popular retellings, he’s often depicted looking like a muscular nobleman, wearing a round, gold crown. He may be shown holding his palms together, to indicate his selfless devotion to Rama, who’s believed to be an incarnation of a god himself, or carrying an umbrella or a heavy club. Often, he’s portrayed flying to and from Ceylon or else taking on a giant form and stepping across the ocean to reach the little island. In another depiction, he’s shown as having five heads and ten arms, a form he supposedly took on at one point during the war so as to kill a particular rakshasa, a demon who practiced a kind of black magic. 

Hanuman is still a huge iconic figure in Indian culture and folklore. Believers pray to him for strength as well as modesty. There are large statues of him all across India as well as other countries where the Ramayana is well known, including Sri Lanka and Southeast Asia. One statue in Trinidad and Tobago is said to be the largest outside of Asia, at around 24 feet high and 12 feet wide. Within India, there are plenty of them triple that size. Numerous Hanuman temples abound, especially in North India, where he may be the most revered.  

The Hanuman Dhoka in Kathmandu, Nepal, is the entrance gate
that protects a 16^th century palace complex from the Shah
dynasty. (Photo by Manjariz)

Across India, it’s a common sight to see monkeys lingering along the walkways that lead to temple entrances. I’m not sure how they get there, but their presence has always made me more than a little nervous. These are wild monkeys, sometimes cute and gentle but also often hungry and a little unnerved by humans. Temple-goers try not to bother them though. These monkeys are supposedly there to ward off evil forces and serve the gods, just as Hanuman himself would do.