All posts filed under: MemoryWordsStories

A Young Director and his only film

I came across a brief write up by one of my acquaintances on Facebook   a few days back. “…Asia is the place where cinema is still breathing a fresh whiff of significant cinema – something which current European cinema is visibly lacking!”, it concluded. He listed a bunch of directors from different parts of Asia who are shining with their works today. But what caught my eyes was this line: “Sadly, I couldn’t add Bo Hu’s name.” I asked him if it’s because of the fact Hu Bo is no more. His answer was ‘yes’. ‘An elephant sitting still” is the first and the last feature film by Chinese director Hu Bo. He killed himself during the final editing procedure of the film, in 2017, at the age of 29. The film came out in 2018 and immediately gained attention from world audience. Hu Bo was a student of Bela Tarr, the Hungarian auteur. The film opens up in a morning with a story about an elephant, narrated in a voice of one of the …

Maborosi and memory

Maborosi, the first feature film by contemporary Japanese maestro Kore-eda Hirokazu. Yumiko, the protagonist, is a girl when we first meet her. She lives with her parents and grandmother in Osaka. Her grandmother leaves the home to go back to the village she is from before dying. Yumiko tries to stop her but fails. Her grandmother never comes back. She met a boy with a bicycle named Iuko and the story cuts forward to several years when they are married and have a new-born child. Their life is happy and charming until Yumiko becomes a widow. After five years or so a well-wisher of Yumiko finds a match for her named Tamio who lives with his daughter and his father in a village by the sea far away from Osaka. Yumiko moves there with her son to start a new life. I sat still in my chair even after the end credits were gone and the faint hint of light was clearing out the darkness of the screen. I was in my room and it …

Montage

Originally posted on Memory, Fiction…:
1 The cigarette was hanging between his lips, the smoke was curling up in the air. The moon was astonishingly bright that night and the halo, too clear to remain unnoticed. He took out his phone, wrote “Lunar halo. Have a look at the moon.”. “Aren’t you sleepy?”, a reply came before the next puff of the cigarette. He took the last puff, smiled while exhaling. He looked at the distant hills, those small lights, the other side of the river. It was the beginning of the fall, his most dear days of the year. He went back to his room. Chopin’s Nocturnes was still playing on the music player. Everything was too good to be real. 2 He took out his phone, looked at the screen. It was 10:30 pm. The roads were empty, the shops were closed. He was waiting for the cab to arrive. It was the same place where he usually waits for her for rare meetings, those glamorous afternoons. He wrote her before getting into…