Review : Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince

Before I go into anything, I must mention that I read all books in a stretch, being a late bloomer and all that. I like the series, and have nothing but good thoughts for all the books except the third and seventh in the series.

Finally, after a year long (desperate) wait for the most awaited summer blockbuster, I made it early to the advance booking section, only to find the line nearly empty. “Oh well, Joy!” I said to myself, and bought the best seats in the house, Gold class, mind you, to truly enjoy the experience of the magic of the movies, so to speak.

After driving most of my friends and family batty with my occasional “WooHoo!” countdown to the movie, I finally had the tickets to the first day of screening.

Mind you, despite the rude wankers in the theatre who refused to turn off the cell phones and talkative mothers who left their husbands at home to catch up on gossip in the middle of the movie, I was charged.

It was my favourite book after all.

The movie started off well, with Yates keeping to the code, and not totally changing Narcissa to someone else more glamorous, that is to say, keeping it by the book, pun intended.

Throughout the movie, I came to the conclusion that David Yates’ heroic efforts at trying to keep the movie by the book and at the same time maintaining a decent runtime, was very much; I’d like to think, in a parallel with Harry Potter’s heroic efforts: Clumsy, Inept and someone dies in the process. No, literally.

Although I have nothing to say about the senior actors’ and actresses’ performances – they were, truly inspiring – but I have much to say about the younger cast.

I would perhaps, give them leeway for having to work with a somewhat confused and scattered script, but mostly I’d sneer at their feeble attempts to make it all look real.

They have much to learn, the younger cast, and one would wonder, that while working many years alongside great people like Gambon, Smith, Coltrane, Rickman, Broadbent, Fiennes, Bonham-Carter, and the others, they ought to have picked up at-least a morsel or two.

Well, there are many things about the movie that ought to have been, but sadly, are quite far from the goalpost.

I would of course, say that Rupert Grint gave an excellent performance, and remains safe from this critic’s sharp quill, magical or otherwise.

The Half Blood Prince was rife with discontinuities, and having a rather non-fanatic companion to the same, I found that it was confusing if you didn’t know the real story. It left gaps, and questions that would put off a first timer. Although it is directed at the non-clueless audience, it leaves the rest dangling.

It quite reminds me of the blind groping of Potter without his glasses.

A noble effort to keep many scenes verbatim, but unfortunately, a failed one to keep the flow.

Not to mention some important jibes and confrontations between members of the order (not to give away things for the reader with no book-knowledge).

On Nth thoughts, the humor, I admit, was spot on. Had the audience cracking up on quite a few occasions, to the credit of Master Grint and the senior actors. Grint has proved himself more than capable of comedy.

All in all, it was rather disappointing for me, having such high expectations for this particular movie. I still think that after the initial fuss over it, it will be one of the quite-forgettable experiences at the theatre. I for one am looking to make up for this damper, with the help of Public Enemies; let’s hope it sticks to the wall with that.

This movie-lover has been turned off. Good luck to the unsuspecting lovers of the books.

Sorci

You lay there in the gloom, in the doom

Watching and quietly waiting
You offer your tears as crystals pure
To the hapless weak who take the lure
And in you drag them, smiling and fine
To your cove where there is naught day
Drive them mad, and into slavery
To do what calls for your bidding
You weave such intricacies in your web
That it leaves them quite astounded
Poor souls, they think the threads go tight
To keep the warmth, and thaw the chill
For they are too blind to find a flaw
In such perfection that you wove
Men are weak and helpless fools
When blinded by their passion
Few emerge, once prepared to go
Where fruits are most forbidden
And so you weave and wait and see
For still other opportune moments
Fortuitous is he who comes to believe
That you are, but the Garden of Eden.

Sreedevi.

A Funny Disclaimer

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Don't Sue Me; I have no money, lost it all on the stock market.
If you want to give me money, leave a name and number.
Don't get me into trouble; I have enough of that already.
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Snowflakes

The water is loud. It froths and seethes as it rushes by.

But among the harsh slaps against the rocky shore and bed, I can hear a gurgling.

It sounds like the water is meaningfully drowning its softer side.

I wonder why.

The grass is wet under my feet, and my soles are raw from the hidden bits of rock in them.

Another spray of mist, a rumble.

The sky is overcast. I smile a little.So damn apt for this.

I can feel the cuts in my palm, I’ve been crushing it too hard. My brain long since gave up warning me of the abuse. It’s strangely numb, and yet I feel the sharp edges.

I can see the picture in my head, and I try not to think of anything else.

Just the picture, till this is over.

My legs are freezing, and I look down at slightly blue toes peeking out from under too-long jeans.

I never did have them fixed. I doubt I’m going to start now.

The water is still rushing by, and I wonder if it is as loud as the thoughts rushing through my head.

A bolt of lightening strikes across the sky beyond, and I can see little spots in front of my eyes.

I can feel the cold metal in my hand, and I absently brush the metal with my thumb. Involuntarily I flinch at the sudden burn and pain.

It doesn’t matter to me.It will go away.

Here, by the water, cold, wet and soaked, and bleeding.

It’s light, but I feel it burn into my skin. It’s cold but it reminds me of warmth.

Warm skin it used to rest on.

I look down at my half open palm. It is, as I thought it would be.

But at the centre, mingled in blood, is a snowflake.It looks beautiful.

Bloody and beautiful.

I remember it on your skin, how it used to tinkle when you turned in your sleep.

How it was so alive on you.

How your eyes shone when you saw it.

How it seemed to shine brighter when you smiled.

Here it lies, glimmering in the dim light. And it reminds me of you.

Only you.

A few drops of rain fall in warning. It is time.

I panic. I’m not ready yet. Not yet. But I must. I cannot hold on anymore.

It’s been so long, and the house has grown cold. Too cold.

Like the diamond in my hand. Cold droplets burn the skin.

I clutch the diamond and remember. One last time.

You made me promise that I wouldn’t do anything stupid. That I would let you go.

I lied.

The chill of the water is like knives on my skin. The water filling my lungs is like knives inside me.

I can see the snowflake, and think of nothing else.

Somewhere, over the fence...

It‘s getting dark out.

I know that on weekends it’s my turn to take the dog out. I don’t mind; he’s a very sweet thing, and doesn’t bother me much.

He let’s me walk aimlessly behind him.

The dog walk is just up the street and across the main road. It’s a route I’d know to follow even if I were asleep. It’s nice to take a walk in the evenings. The winds blow well, and carry a promise of rain on them.

Soon. It will rain soon.

I don’t even have to look to know the furry thing is following my long steps at a trot. I smile to see him lolling his tongue and wagging his little tail.

We wait patiently at the crossing; waiting for the motorists to realise there are pedestrians by the side of the road.

They don’t. We wait.

A small break in the endless river of vehicles, and we quickly cross the street to the dog walk; a narrow raised area by the rail road, interspersed with old trees.

You can see the walk for a long way, and I realise we are the only walking pair at this time. It’s a good thing; I don’t have to worry about a fight or momentary fling between dogs. I can walk my aimless walk.

He knows the drill, so he happily trots off down the walk, me following at an almost snail pace. I hum to myself and watch a train go by noisily.

The wind is making his promises again. I pay little attention to them.

It’s fully dark now, and the lamps are on, throwing pools of light like little suns on the ground. Shadows play in the pools of light.

The grid fence goes on as far as the eye can see, and I reach out to touch a creeper that’s boldly crept up higher than my head. The fence is tall and wide and it makes me think of a really large cage.

I know the fence ends somewhere in the distance and is then replaced by concrete fences we know as walls and buildings. So it is a cage; we only don’t see it.

We have drawn such big cages and walls that we forget we are in them, and go on as if we were free.

None of us are free.

It’s only that grand illusion we have for ourselves. With our comfortable houses and uncomfortable jobs; the long hours; the unending spending.

We are all in cages, some just bigger than others and some just more comfortable. The luxury we buy for the lives we have turned into cages is just a rationalisation; just something we do to make it seem all better.

The fences we build around our houses and in turn around our families and then around our hearts and lives is a self inflicted imprisonment.

Are the fences to keep people in, or keep people out? Both, I think.

I look beyond the fence in front of my eyes, beyond the railroad trench, and to the other side. More houses, more walls, more people looking beyond the fence and the railroad trench; looking at me looking at them.

Are they farther from the inside or am I closer to the outside? Hard to answer when I don’t know whether I’m inside or outside. Confusing, I know.

Sometimes ignorance is bliss.

Here I am, standing in a pool of shadows, looking to a place I’ve been to , and yet unsure what I am looking at.

Confusing, I know.

I stand, and my dog sits by my feet, and both of us stare a little while longer. We have nothing to lose but time.

When we walk back, we walk back to another cage I think, or maybe the only place we can be known, and missed.

We walk back.

I saw the Joker,
Lying by the side of the road
I felt pity take me
To the point of overflow
I asked if I could help.
The joker laughed and laughed
The joker was so amused
Through the marks of wear and abuse
The joker turned around
It was then I wished I was dead
For it was my face that I saw
In the Joker's broken head.

Sreedevi.

Wait for me...

The grass in wet beneath my feet, and my shoes make squelching noises as I walk to where I need to be.

I'm only now aware that I am soaking wet, or maybe I was aware, and just didn't care. It doesn't matter; not much I can do about it now.

I'm cold though, and it's as if the rain has soaked me through my skin, right to the bones. A hand comes up to my face and brushes off the wet hair sticking to my forehead, and dripping water into my eyes.

I know that the rain water is cold, and yet there are warm drops flowing down my cold skin. It makes me shiver.

No one is here, and that's good. I don't want anyone to be here. I cannot stand to look in their eyes and see what's there. I cannot.

There is an ache in my chest and I rub at it, and it's a few times before I realise it is from within, and that nothing can soothe it.

It's still raining and I'm still walking, closer and closer to there.

Thoughts run through my head, things of little meaning and consequence. Bills to pay, people to meet, things to buy.

I'm not ready to think more, just yet.

I'm here, I say to myself. Here at last.

It seems as if every bone in my body is weighed down in lead, and yet I'm hollow to my core. I cannot rid myself of the hollow feeling, and it irritates me, makes me restless.

Makes me do things like walk in pouring rain to be all alone, with little care for anything else.

Perhaps it's the right aftermath I'm looking for from this insane experience.

I'm looking now, forcing myself to read the letters on the stone, forcing myself to understand what they mean.

Forcing myself to accept it, and still failing.

Something bubbles in my chest, and it's not a pleasant feeling, but anything is more pleasant than having to do this. Time and again, and still, failing miserably.

Maybe I don't want to let go of this yet.

It's been a while, and the rain has slowed, but it is darker than when I got here.

I cannot face this, I want to say so much, but I don't know if you'll listen to me anymore.

My legs fail under me, and I fall painfully to my knees, feeling the scratch of earth through my clothes, but this feels better.

At least this pain, I know, will go away.

I stare at the words and reach out to trace them on the stone. It's smooth under my frozen fingers. It calms me to watch the repeated movements as my fingertips caress the black words.

A name.

A name that meant the world, but only to me. Only in my world.

And a name that will rest here, in this stone, forever.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Peace.

It's the living who find no peace in the death of others. You left, to be in peace, and you took mine away.

Why?

Without you, peace is but a lost dream, something you cannot remember when you wake, but long for it, not knowing what it is.

I cannot see you this way, I will not see you this way.

And yet here I am.

In the damned rain you loved so much.