Ragini no MMS

In the recently released film by Ekta Kapoor, Ragini MMS, the seemingly experimental form and content of new budget cinema, with focus on young adults and their (sexual) desires, fails to challenge the space of the “alternate”. The issue of morality continues to be the driving sub-text, not living up to the seemingly revolutionary potential of the title or of the film's publicity. The film is shot in grabbed footage style, reminiscent of Paranormal Activity, and addresses the issue of sex-taping and circulating by way of MMS. Other films like Dev D and LSD (by more experienced and nuanced directors) have shaken the received understanding of techno-sexuality, without offering a moral imperative, especially in the case of young adult female sexuality. Whereas Leni accesses and articulates her desire to perform sex and record it, Ragini is cast firmly in the victim mode. As a young female she is allowed to desire but not with satisfying consequences. Just as she gets into the act with her boyfriend paranormal activity begins to take over the house and they are locked in. In an attempt at kinky play she is literally handcuffed to the bed which makes her movement, and most importantly her escape, extremely challenging. Even after agreeing to a weekend of sexual fun with her boyfriend, she is coy about recording their most intimate moments and asks him to turn the handheld off. Little does she know that the entire house is bugged with video cameras, and it is only in the throes of possession that she realizes her boyfriend had set her up. He turns out to be a coward while she screams out her betrayal. she has to endure watching the boyfriend kill himself (he's possessed by the evil spirit) while she remains chained to the bed post with the key no where in sight. In her moments of pain and anguish she remembers and calls out to her mother to help her out of the spot, before she realizes that she had lied to her about where she was going and deliberately left her phone in the car parked well outside the compound of the farmhouse. The only other people who knew about the place are her friend Pia and her boyfriend Vishal, who are both found dead (killed by the same spirit) well into the climax of the film. (Pia and Vishal are shown to be engaging in sexual play, with a more desirous Pia, so their killing becomes justified). Ragini soon realizes that no one is going to come to save her and calls out to her mother to somehow get her out of this. She “repents” her behaviour, promising to “reform” her errant ways and become an honest and respectful (read non-desiring and sex-less) daughter. At the end of the film she does manage to survive (perhaps because of her repentance?), and the recorded videos of the act (the titular “MMS”) somehow make their way out of the haunted house and on to the internet even before she is rescued. The paranormal, in fact, can be read as an under-text of the moral code: Ragini's thoughtless transgressions lead to her suffering, and yet she is allowed to live because of her extraordinary will power and desire to make amends of her life, whereas all the other people involved in or around the act in the farmhouse end up dead.

Dabbling in Cliches

The next time someone comes up to me to ask what I do, I won't say I'm an academic, let alone an aspiring one. They don't get it. All I basically do is read, write papers, and teach in a college they may have heard of if they are from my city. Besides, it's not as cool as being a graphic artist, an event consultant, a designer, a musician or even a computer engineer. The city by the sea dabbles in money, and the ability to live it out and live it up. It's a city of numbers.

Maybe the next time I will tell them that I am a writer. What would this sound like? Vague, perhaps vogue-ish. Struggling? But you cant be a serious one in a shirt like this. Oh wait, these ingenius chappal-floaters can betray the un-fashionly artsy-fartsy-ness of me. Haha. Really?

Ok, so what have you published? Uh... Nothing really, yet. So what do you write? I don't write much. I haven't written in quite some time... in fact, I haven't written seriously in years. But I'm still a writer.

And here I am in a haute cafe, sipping cheap bear, and spelling beer wrong. I'm a writer with very little imagination, zero inspiration and no skill of observation. But don't get me wrong, I am not a failed writer. nor a pseudo one. I'm writing this, aren't I?

I could write a story of love, that should be simple enough. But successful love (whatever that is) does not make for a good plot. Failed love, difficult love? I should be inspired, this city manufactures it by the dozen every single day. What more, it is sitting right across from me. This man can be my muse, my testament. But I'm too close to him, I know him too well. I can't write his story. I'd have to fictionalize him, give him a new name, give him motive, give him direction. But will I be able to face him after I pass judgement on him?

I would do better to write about how people meet in cafes. It could be Friends in maximum city. Or vague women in the capital. It could be a love story in any case. Like the guy sitting on the stool there, making eyes at me. I could smile at him and he could come over, and we would connect... and live happily ever after. Alright, alright. It's not about originality anymore, it's about intertextuality, dude. Besides, I'd talk over beer not coffee.

(I may be a little drunk by now.) Since my inventive tap is all but running dry, I may be in need of more powerful intoxicants. Calling all the pains of sleep! And... wait, my pen is slipping... I have to write, before I wake up to a headache, emptying the non-opiates to the drain. I don't want to fly back to answering questions about my academic existence. I still need to tell you what I do...

[2 Feb '11]