As shallow as a petri dish
I have often thought of myself to possess fairly good, cultivated tastes in most aspects. But over the past few years I have found this premise to be unraveling quite fast. This is especially true with regard to critically acclaimed books and movies that I have read and watched of late. In general I found that my taste or opinion seemed to disagree with that of the connoisseur.
It all started maybe a couple of years back when I chanced to glance at a list of top 100 books as rated by a highly distinguished panel (as in most such lists, Ulysses seems to be unshakable from the top). Looking at the list I realized how much of good literature I had actually missed reading. That I am an incredibly slow reader has not really helped my cause either. I have this tendency to re-read pages and lines I have already read and only a few minutes down the line realize that the seeming familiarity with the text was not due to any foreboding powers that I possessed, but due to my apparent stupidity in not mentally marking the point from where I left off. I re-read the list in the hope of finding a few books that I could claim to have read, but there were not too many. I felt a bit deprived and wondered if I will do justice to my existence if I did not manage to get at least a few of these books under my belt by them time I started using a walking stick.
And thus began the quest to read (or more realistically to hoard up) some of these masterpieces. When the next Strand book exhibition came around, I ran out and purchased Jonathan Livingston Seagull, Lord of the flies, The great Gatsby, Catch 22 and a couple of others. All the Ulysses editions bordered (luckily) on the marginally expensive side, and I decided to give them a miss for the time being.
A year passes by…
I have now read The Alchemist, Jonathan Livingston Seagull, The great Gatsby, The old man and the sea. My verdict?? I am a little clueless about why so much has been made of these books. Sacrilegious as it may sound, I am GENUIENLY puzzled about why critics claim that these are amongst the masterpieces of our time. The Alchemist was pleasant reading in the beginning, but once the protagonist begins his search for the alchemist, the book for me became unpick able! The repeated references to two stones (Ur and something else) became quite annoying. As for Jonathan Livingston Seagull, and The old man and the sea, I can’t fathom any deeper implicit meaning that these books are supposed to convey. I did however find myself sympathizing deeply with the Old man. I heaved a big sigh of relief when I finally managed to wade through the Great Gatsby. It is a far from memorable book.
I also recall reading somewhere that Moby Dick is supposed to convey a more significant message to readers above the superficial story of captain Ahab out to avenge the loss of his leg being made part of a midday meal by a tempestuous sperm whale. Curiouser and Curiouser! I am still searching for that message. I am lamenting on why I was in such a hurry to buy The Lord of the flies. The language used in the book seemed to me quite dense, uninteresting. Here too the back cover glorified the purported message the author was trying to get across about decadence of our society and how we are going at war with each other. I could not progress beyond the first fifteen pages.
My experience with acclaimed movies is alike. A fish called Wanda comes to mind immediately. Why does it find a place in an all time great movies list is quite an enigma. It happens the other way around too. I quite liked this movie called Sweet November. Maybe it was because of the absolutely lilting soundtrack song by Enya, or maybe because I am a fan of Ms Theron, and that I don’t quite mind the sight of Keanu Reavees. But I was quite shocked to see that each and every online review I read shredded the movie to bits (I have a shifty feeling that all reviewers, behind the scene, work conjointly to avoid giving discordant statements, and loosing face). They claimed that the chemistry between the lead artists was virtually non-existent and that the movie ending was unreal. They did not even grant the movie the status of a pastime tearjerker. I am sure that had I been a girl, I would have been through 2 packs of weepie-wee tissue papers by the time that the movie credits began to scroll up.
I have now realized that my brief endeavor at sampling the connoisseur’s recommendations is not completely worth the effort. Therefore I am not going to reach out for Ulysses in a hurry. And yes I loved the movie Serendipity no matter what they say!
If the readers of this post mirror my experiences or anything thereabout related, I would request them to share it in their comments. It would be heartening to learn that I am not the lone petri dish in this world!
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