Zia Mohyeddin column
Guns, Muscles and Fireballs
The films which are popular in our part of the world -- and the rest of the world, I daresay, -- are full of blood and gore. The film-makers go for something funky; the hero is a bad boy prone to dissent and violence. This is the smart young mood of today; being bloody is being authentic. And those who disapprove or shudder and turn away form the (heroic) sins are not supposed to be in the flow of contemporary reality. The block-buster films of today are soaked in blood, with the impact of bullets on the flesh, with the fear of imminent death, with agonised writhings.

The Lithuanian born Polish poet Czeslaw Milosz lived and experienced the inhospitable and war-torn 20th century European and global landscapes of exile. Both an adherent and detractor of Communism, Milosz's poetry is the voice of the oppressed and it depicts horrors ranging from the Nazi Germany to the Soviet invasion of Poland.

Milosz remained aesthetically engaged to the poetic projects but often the political sedimentation in his consciousness influenced the literary output. Never an avowed political commentator, Milosz used politics tangentially to further his poetic missions. Resultantly, his poetry became a sustainable divide of a politics subtly guised in poetry and poetry cautiously distanced from direct propaganda. It was impossible for Milosz to reserve his political insights when Europe was devastated by Nazi mania and later on Poland was invaded by Russia. Milosz's poetry is the poetry of spiritual awakening in a world ruined by violence and dogma. Apart from the Nazi invasions, it is the post-world war Russian annexation of the East Europe which shaped his narratives of political disenchantment.

As a direct recipient of war and exile, Milosz became a blend of tolerable cynicism and sober expectation. Writing poetry without intervention into political ideologies in the middle of the century was the most unwanted position. Milosz did not capitulate to the allure of a politics which was partisan and racist. Despair was the prevalent feeling in the post-war Europe. Existentialism as a philosophy at that time also became an expression of the psychologically depleted post-war European nations. Totalitarianism in all forms was lashed by the European writers. In these times of political turbulence and emotional abrasiveness, European novel and drama became the direct source of political call. But Milosz wrote poetry which translated the cruel annals of the history vis-à-vis man's struggle to find meaning in a seemingly purposeless world. To be swayed away by the gloomy post-war realities was the bait many writers took but Milosz's poetry carried the subterranean message of hope and salvation.

Milosz had the courage to juxtapose an idyllic world to the world ravaged by war.

Milosz's spiritual dilemmas drove him to bark at the cruel perpetuators of human degradation but he never lost his artistic privacy and, whenever it was deemed urgent, withdrew in the typical artists' shell. Placed in the position of a symbolic and literal recipient of the Nazi and Russian atrocities, in his poetry he questioned the idea of political engagement and disengagement and often ended in paradoxical disclaimers. Resisting the evil became the central query in Milosz's art. He complicated this question by relating it to issue of salvation and coercion through ideology. Milosz was certain that any form of political coercion paves the way for a legitimate ground for a war of ideas versus the war of weapons.

Milosz was set to witness the whole century in which the stories of oppression unfortunately surpass that of salvation. Communism and Nazism were essentialist ideologies in nature that literally stole upon the individuality of an individual and for Milosz the struggle against any such creed is always on because after the Second World War there is a continuum of violence.

In the gloomiest times of World War II, Milosz came up with a sequence of poems, titled The World, which he also translated in English. The central image of the poems is a child (very much like the novels of Gunter Grass) which evolves into a prototype of innocence -- now snatched by the encroachment of civilisation in the form of war. By way of contrariety, writing about the pranks and the trifles of a child in the midst of war is a typical Milosz response to the hollow political resounding of coercive regimes. Song on the End of the World (Warsaw, 1944) is the most quoted and introspectively poignant poem on the general predicament of the 20th century man:

On the day a world ends

A bee circles a clover

A Fisherman mends a

glimmering net

Happy porpoises jump in

the sea

By the rainspout young

sparrows are playing

And the Snake is

gold-skinned as it should be.

After perceiving the plight of his people in such apocalyptic imagery how could he have remained content with the earth-bound monstrosities of Socialist Realism and the twisted literary aesthetics of Soviet propaganda? In his phenomenal book, The Captive Mind (1953), Milosz lynched the Stalinist manipulations and its enfeebling and lulling effects on intellectuals. This book has been translated in many languages and has become a document of the oppressed. Milosz says, "The philosophy of history emanating from Moscow is not just an abstract theory; it is a material force that uses guns, tanks, planes and all the machines of war and oppression. All the crushing might of an armed state is hurled against any man who refuses to accept the New Faith.''

Afterwards Milosz could not reconcile himself with the Communist ideology and predicted its imminent collapse. He measured the impact of repercussions on a writer consequent upon the total separation of art from politics and went on to renounce the party. In a speech he explained his disillusionment with the Communists: "I have rejected the New Faith because the practice of the lie is one of its principal commandments, and Socialist Realism is nothing more than a different name for a lie."

Much tired and fairly disillusioned with the decadent Western Europe, Milosz left for the USA, obtained citizenship and became an exile within exile. Alternatively, he appreciated the American landscape but often expressed about its alienation. Confronting the European Diaspora in the USA only ignited his long-term bitterness for Communism. He himself became a child of a dismembered band and his poetry acquired a tangible distrust with ideology and politics. He nursed his bruised soul in the religious and spiritual awakenings and the latter poetry is a sedate reflection of a brooding poet who lived to witness all the horrors of the century.

When Communism lost power in Poland, Milosz returned to his land of imagination like a triumphant hero. Much mellowed down by the political vicissitudes and intellectual wanderings, Milosz now celebrates the intuitive urgency to produce a poetry which is the ideal balm for any distress. In 1985, he wrote a poem, titled A confession:

My Lord, I loved strawberry

jam

And the dark sweetness of a

woman's body

Also, well-chilled vodka,

herring in olive oil,

Scents of cinnamon, of

cloves.

So what kind of prophet I

am?

The evocatively romantic imagery of the poem is indeed a clarification that Milosz is a poet of beauty and memory, though much of the time which could have been invested in the apperception of beauty is depreciated by the political conflicts. The years spent in exile were a poetic hiatus, much needed, to preserve and release the personal and impersonal woes. Like Neruda, Milosz also popped in and out of the politics and cannily responded to the imaginative and the real.

Milosz had the courage to own the duties left unattended by the writers, which usually the politicians and ideologues do not have. A noble laureate and recipient of numerous accolades, Milosz died at the much ripe age of 93 (in the year 2004), incorporated all the horrors of the present century but remained prophetic and kept the wick of hope burning.

iWrite: Pakistan's first

academic journal

Editor: Anum Pasha

Publisher: Irfan Amir

Pages: 24

Price: Rs90

The first issue of iWrite was only available online, but after receiving huge fan mail and support, the team launched a hardcopy issue. It is a bi-monthly magazine which constitutes of a blend of college experience reviews and stories from writers of rich academic background. The theme of iWrite de facto encompasses around the English medium academic circle of Pakistan.

The magazine includes studying abroad experiences, advice about applying to college in America and the United Kingdom, articles from alumni of top notch colleges who have become eminent journalists of the day. This coupled with a story of an exchange student who came to Pakistan on an AIESEC exchange programme and also bringing into limelight the pros and cons of studying abroad has made the magazine an amalgamation of coffee table talk topics of typical Pakistani private school students who aim at achieving international higher education.

An exclusive question and answer session with Ali Moeen Nawazish, a Pakistani student who bagged 21 A's in his A levels and with Rumman Ahmed, an entrepreneur and lecturer, a key to write a personal statement have added a diverse angle to the setting of the theme. Omair Rana, the vice president of the debating society of Pakistan, has given an insight into the world of debating in Pakistan in which he has talked about the local debating circuit and has also given the debaters of the Pakistan National Team due recognition as they have done Pakistan proud multiple times by not just achieving high team ranking but also winning the ESL ( English as Second Language) awards.

iWrite has also explored newer avenues when it comes to emphasising on the academic need for learning photography and allowing the children to pursue careers which match their aptitude against the stereotypical doctor-engineer rut. iWrite wraps itself up in the end with a book review. The magazine highlights the achievements of students doing well here and abroad and all the articles in the magazine have an academic theme.

After receiving a degree in mass communication, earning a scholarship to the United States, working at prestigious news agencies and as an admission advisor, Anum Pasha decided to set the trend of a magazine for students in Pakistan along with Irfan Amir, a Karachi-based publisher who runs an advertising agency and also writes.

Pasha's journalistic career commenced when she was only 16. She and the journalist within her grew up to learn the serious dearth of academic literature for students and developed passion for making a difference through constructive journalism coupled with the idea of providing a sound platform to potential writers in order to achieve recognition and with this, iWrite was born.

iWrite can be purchased from bookstores in Karachi, Lahore and Islamabad. A selection of articles can also be read on iWrite's official website. The website is also offering an online subscription and the subscribers will receive free periodic newsletters and other alerts frequently. Also, the team at iWrite is giving out free copies of American journalist Bill Bryon's book Mother Tongue: The English Language to the writers of five most interesting emails to the editor.

About the distribution strategies, Pasha says "the team aims at the distribution of the magazine to all the 54 HEC recognised universities including top retail stores all across the country and we are reaching out to foreign missions and international universities which commonly recruit Pakistani students in order to enhance the reader and the writer circle of iWrite." iWrite has also amassed a lot of brand support in very little time, "as they thought that an academic magazine was something totally new and different so they gave us a lot of support," Pasha adds.

"The magazine is catering to a mass readership but at the same time a contained one." iWrite is just not for the students but also for parents, teachers, professors and educationists" says Pasha. As for future prospects, Pasha says "in the upcoming issues the team wishes to expand on local content and also build alliances with bookstores, schools and universities."

Zia Mohyeddin column

The films which are popular in our part of the world -- and the rest of the world, I daresay, -- are full of blood and gore. The film-makers go for something funky; the hero is a bad boy prone to dissent and violence. This is the smart young mood of today; being bloody is being authentic. And those who disapprove or shudder and turn away form the (heroic) sins are not supposed to be in the flow of contemporary reality. The block-buster films of today are soaked in blood, with the impact of bullets on the flesh, with the fear of imminent death, with agonised writhings.

It would be simplistic to say that it all began with the Bond era, but the Bond-mania certainly had something to do with it. When the makers of Casino Royale proudly proclaimed that the film had cost seven and half million dollars, an astronomical sum even by Hollywood standards in 1967, they knew that their gullible audience could not afford to miss a film that had cost so much. Money begot money, and a rather poor film earned more than any other film that had ever been made.

The Bond thrillers became one of the biggest industries. It was the fantasy fare of the world and it replaced the plush multi-million dollar Hollywood musical. It became the idol of public school boys, Panamanian peons, Calcutta clerks, Arab teenagers, as well as chic society everywhere.

The makers of these films adopted the Bond saga to an older legend -- the Arabian Nights. Each of the Bond stories was pushed so that the mixture of sex, cruelty and wonder remained intact, but technology substituted magic. Mechanical toys and gadgets replaced all the original magical instruments the hero had at his command in an Arabian Nights tale; rockets for winged horses, blimps for flying carpets. The scene in which Bond was given these miracle working gadgets was not unlike Aladdin's fitting out with ring and lamp.

The vaults of Fort Knox (Goldfinger) were but a modern equivalent of Ali Baba's cave. That was not all. The ever-present ingredients were kept intact: the evil enchanter, the captive princess, the soulless siren, the resourceful, cunning hero. Anyone who has ever read the Arabian Night tales could recognise these characters.

As one Bond replaced another, the producers kept on tweaking with the formula until the imagery of each of these films had been reduced to almost as basic as that of a comic strip: Bond leaping into the sky, had more in common with Flash Gordon and Mandrake than the heroes of other spy thrillers. 

The popularising of this technique was just what the "in" artistic people were enthusiastic about. They had a tremendous enthusiasm for comic strip heroes, and Mandrake, the magician, became the most fashionable cult of the new wave.

The majority of young directors from the English speaking world cut their teeth on advertising films. Now what the advertisers wanted was the shortest possible transition from the image of need to the image of their brand name. "The technique of the commercial," said Martin Scorsese "is the jump cut from wish to fulfilment".

Speed eliminated the time for guilt, pity or considering the implications of a given blood-soaked sequence in the post-Bond movies. The implication, if any, was that it was all a huge joke. Illicit impulses and aggression could be enjoyed without pausing to recognise them. The vividness and explicitness of the violence of today must have made the makers of Bond films sit up. The new Bond of today, and there is bound to be one would surely offer us mayhem on a much grander scale.

Films derive their strength -- and their wealth -- from mass distribution. If you make a film costing eighty million dollars (this is not a far-fetched estimate) you have to aim at a very wide audience to recover your cost. The film must have immediate success all over the world; it must appeal in some measure to millions of people of the most widely different taste and intelligence and background.

The producers know full well that they are not likely to recover their money unless the film has an excess of visual thrills and chills interspersed with fireballs that occupy the entire screen. Bloodshed, they know exhilarates in Amsterdam and Amman, just as much as in Ahmedabad. They prepare a scenario in which the rogue-hero, his face bloodstained, performs the most unbelievable stunts in many parts of the world (hence the production cost), outwits a bevy of leather-clad, stiletto-heeled, beautiful women who are experts at jujitsu, judo and karate and are well-trained to handle the most sophisticated futuristic weapons, dodges the wily all-powerful villain time after time -- and survives. Two ingredients are vital: the film must have no intellectual content and it must have graphic, sexy violence.

Even ordinary films which do not have mega stars cannot be made without capital expenditure on a very large scale. This is because you are dependent on large amounts of costly technical equipment and a substantial amount of expensive help in its distribution. This simply means that if you have an imaginative or interesting dramatic idea for a film it is very unlikely that you can make it unless you can be sure beforehand that it will receive a wide distribution. Writers who have been lured by big money to write an original story for a film have seen their work reduced to rubble because of box-office restrictions.

The distributors -- and I am now talking about the third world -- are not interested in interesting or imaginative ideas; they are interested in what they think is a saleable idea, that is to say a pastiche that can appeal to morons and yahoos.

Originality is not a good market proposition. Original ideas are nearly always expressed by economic means and this is why original dramatic ideas have found an outlet by means of the cheaper mechanism of the theatre. The theatre does not demand the services of so many technicians and machinery and middlemen. This is one reason why the theatre continues to be a source and vehicle of fresh dramatic ideas, ideas which both film and television producers borrow later on and, frequently, emasculate.

Thanks to television, we are now exposed to every dreadful film made in America. Violence and its accessories of muscles and guns has become commonplace in all our big cites. You would have to be exceedingly naïve if you do not acknowledge the connection between the screen and the world. I refuse to endorse the current view of Western psychologist that violence on the screen does not affect the younger members of society.

It is strange that we loudly denounce political, social and domestic violence but turn a blind eye towards what we imagine to be fictional violence. Deep down, we all love gratuitous violence.