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Time of India
4 days ago
- Entertainment
- Time of India
How Mollywood's comedy stars are becoming the strongest pillars in serious storytelling – ‘Siddique-Lal gave me a big break with Appukuttan in 'In Harihar Nagar'
Comedy remains one of the most overlooked yet cherished genres in cinema. It undeniably holds a special place in the hearts of moviegoers. In Malayalam cinema, it's no secret that many comedy films owe their popularity not to the lead actors, but to the supporting artistes who brought the humour alive on screen. Icons like Innocent, Salim Kumar , Cochin Haneefa, Kuthiravattam Pappu, Jagadish , Jagathy Sreekumar, Suraj Venjaramoodu , and Indrans are just a few names who effortlessly carried the weight of comedy in countless films. Meanwhile, mainstream stars like Mammootty and Mohanlal often served as the face of the film to draw audiences to the theatres. As with many other film industries, Mollywood too had a tendency to typecast these actors solely in comic roles, often limiting their opportunities to explore other facets of performance. Several of these actors have even spoken openly about being stereotyped and their desire to take on more serious, performance-driven roles. Interestingly, the current generation of actors shows a deep admiration for these veteran comedy legends. Many aspire to emulate their impeccable comic timing while also seeking out diverse roles. For film lovers who grew up in the late 1990s and early 2000s, these actors are etched in memory for their unforgettable contributions to light-hearted cinema. by Taboola by Taboola Sponsored Links Sponsored Links Promoted Links Promoted Links You May Like People Aged 50-85 With No Life Insurance Could Get This Reassured Get Quote Undo Over the years, the tide has turned. Many of these comedy stalwarts have successfully transitioned into serious, performance-heavy roles. Suraj Venjaramoodu, Jagadish, and Indrans, once synonymous with humour, are now captivating audiences with emotionally intense portrayals. This shift in their careers has been both surprising and thrilling for their fans. Yet, beneath this transformation lies a touch of nostalgia. Audiences who once laughed wholeheartedly at their antics now find themselves missing the light-hearted roles that defined a generation. As we explore the journey of these artists from comedic brilliance to dramatic depth, we also reflect on their experiences — from breaking free of stereotypes to still harbouring a fondness for roles that bring joy and laughter. "I'd like to call it a take-off in In Harihar Nagar as Appukuttan" – Jagadish Actor PV Jagadish Kumar, widely known as Jagadish in the Malayalam industry, is still remembered by many as the humorous Appukuttan from Siddique-Lal's In Harihar Nagar. The actor, who once defined comedy for Mollywood lovers, experienced a dramatic shift in his career with films such as Rorschach, Purusha Pretham, Neru, Marco, Rekhachithram, and many others in recent times. Jagadish joins ETimes to discuss how this career shift came about and how he now approaches his stardom. The actor was asked about his thoughts when reflecting on his comedy roles in films such as In Harihar Nagar and Vellinakshatram. "The thing is, once we are introduced to the film industry, the role we portray in the beginning, in those early days, tends to stay in the audience's mind. For example, in My Dear Kuttichathan, I played a comedic cameo, and in my second film, Odaruthammava Aalariyam, I again played a humorous role. So I was typecast. People thought, 'Okay, Jagadish is someone who does comedy roles,' and I started getting a series of such roles, like in Vellanakalude Naadu, and so on. Watching my performances in those films, Siddique-Lal were impressed with my comedic timing and gave me a big break. I'd like to call it a take-off in In Harihar Nagar as Appukuttan. They believed I was the right person to play that character. Appukuttan was another take-off in my career. The character and the film were both super hits. It was Harihar Nagar that made me a hero. I acted as a hero in 40 films simply because Harihar Nagar was that successful — a major hit. Producers and directors gained confidence in casting me as a hero. But I had never dreamt of becoming a hero. I always thought I'd become a college lecturer or professor, doing two or three roles a year. But destiny had other plans. After Harihar Nagar, I was fortunate enough to play the lead in 40 films. Even in those, about 75% were humorous roles — light-hearted roles that suited me as a hero. Not the kind of roles played by Mammootty, Mohanlal, or Suresh Gopi. It wasn't that I was cast because others weren't available. I got lead roles that fit my persona. For instance, consider actors like Bhagyaraj, Amol Palekar, or Mehmood. The roles they portrayed were suited to them. If those roles were given to Rajinikanth or Kamal Haasan, they wouldn't have been as effective — and vice versa. I wouldn't have been able to pull off the roles Mammootty or Mohanlal did, and I'm quite sure of that. In Sthalathe Pradhana Payyans, Renji Panicker and Shaji Kailas crafted the character of Gopalakrishnan — a newspaper boy turned minister — in such a way that even the character admits, 'My voice may not be harsh or strong.' What they meant was, my voice is not like Mammootty's or Mohanlal's. The character was shaped to suit me. He was an ordinary, middle-class man who becomes a minister — not a fierce fighter. I had strong dialogues, but I was asked to deliver them in my own style, not like Mammootty or Mohanlal. What I mean to say is that the roles offered to me were designed for my comfort zone — in my own Jagadish style. Directors told me not to think of myself as a superstar or hero, but simply as Jagadish playing a central character. Not to let the typical 'hero' image occupy my mind. I managed to do 40 films as a lead. In some, I could also perform emotionally well — like Sthreedhanam, Arya, and Welcome to Kodaikanal. These films had strong emotional elements and were successful too. We celebrated 100-day runs for Sthalathe Pradhana Payyans, Welcome to Kodaikanal, and Sthreedhanam — all were super hits. But I also had many average films, and some flopped financially. I should admit that. Even when I was playing lead roles, I was particular about doing supporting roles as well. From the set of Sthalathe Pradhana Payyans, I went to the set of Jackpot with Mammootty, where I played a comedian. Even while playing the lead, I found time to act as a comedian with Mohanlal in films like Butterflies, Manthrikam, and Nirnayam. I played comic roles with Mammootty in Jackpot, Sangham, Hitler. I knew the hero phase would be short-lived. I never expected to bask in the glory of being a hero for long. I was sure of that. So, I gradually moved to character roles — mostly comic. Back then, I wasn't happy seeing actors like Siddique and Sai Kumar already turning into character artistes, while I faced hesitation from directors to be cast in serious roles. I even complained to Innocent, who told me, 'Don't worry, you're still getting good roles. Forget senior and elderly roles — we're there to handle them. When the time comes, the audience will accept you too.' Directors like Lal Jose used to say, 'Jagadish, we can't imagine you as a hero's father. You don't look that old.' That was my problem. I told them, 'I may not look old, but I am old. I may look young, but I'm not young.' But what matters is appearance — and I didn't look like a father figure, so I wasn't cast in such roles. Then came a turning point. Director Ranjith had the courage to cast me in a very negative father role in Leela. I give full credit to him — he transformed me into a character actor, a senior character actor. I may have done character roles earlier, but in Leela, I played the heroine's father — my first significant elderly role. The film wasn't a box office success, but the role clicked. When it was released on OTT and satellite TV, everyone noticed it and praised my performance — especially the younger generation. That gave me confidence. It also gave directors and writers the confidence to cast me in different roles. The next step came with the role of Constable Ashraf in Rorschach. Since then, I've been lucky to land meaningful, varied roles. About Falimy — you can't really call it a serious or humorous role. It's a character role. I performed it seriously, but the impact was comedic in certain scenes — and that worked. I even turned villain in Abraham Ozler and Marco. So, I broke free from my comedian image. That's how I transitioned into a character actor. I've done many kinds of character roles — in Rorschach, Falimy, Garudan, Guruvayoor Ambalanadayil, Ajayante Randam Moshanam, Kishkindha Kaandam, Officer on Duty, and Mohanlal's film Neru with Jeethu Joseph. All these helped my career significantly. Now, I try to choose roles that are different. I'm not concerned with how many films I do — but I want each role to be distinct. In Purusha Pretham, Constable Dileep was a lovely role — I really enjoyed it. I'm also in Krishand's Sambhava Vivaranam Nalarasangham – The Chronicles of the 4.5 Gang, which will stream on Sony LIV soon. I'm playing a writer's role. Right now, I'm working with Krishand on 'Mastishka Maranam: Simon's Memories' — again, a very different role. I'm looking forward to collaborating with these young directors, and I don't mind asking them for good roles. Megastar Mammootty and Dulquer Salmaan offered Namaz on the occasion of Eid Ul Fitr at Kochi When asked whether he misses playing humorous roles now, he said, 'I love to do humorous roles. I love to do comedy roles. I'm fully confident that I'll be able to do comedy — not the comedy of the early stages, but the comedy of the present day. Krishand will tell you how I can adjust to the present situation — present-day films — and how I can transform myself into present-day comedy. I am fully confident. I will be able to. I want to have a role like that. I would like to perform very humorous roles. And I can do it. I can do a role like that. In the present day, I can transform myself into the character. Because if anyone asks me, 'What is your plus point?' — my plus point is my adaptability. Yeah. I can adapt to any type of role. After 10 years… the scenario after 15 years is 'Mastishka Maranam'. You may witness it in 2040. That is what Krishand has to portray in it. Suraj Venjaramoodu starrer 'Madanolsavam' crosses Rs 2 crores in 4 days For example, the roles that Fahadh Faasil is performing now. Whatever. If that character is 50, or 55, or 60 years old — I would like to perform that role. I will not be influenced, or I won't copy Fahadh. I would be very different. What the character of Fahadh is doing — if that character is 50 years of age — then I will definitely be able to do that role. I don't want to do these very young, 30- or 25-year-old characters. I don't. I won't. I won't. The character — elderly, humorous, comedy roles — I would like to perform as a father or as an uncle, as a politician. If it is a comedy role, it doesn't mean that after Marco, people won't accept my comedy roles. Not like that. Even after Marco, I am confident that my comedy roles will click. Because comedy is there in my heart. It is in my blood. It is in my blood. Yeah. And the observation — even now, I'm observing people, observing situations. So the comedy is with me. I love to do comedy. The only thing is — good script. If the script is good, the comedy will be good. Yeah. If not, people would say, 'Jagadish tries his level best to do comedy, but it doesn't work.' Script means everything. Even if it's serious, it's the same. It will be a flop. I'm still confident that the script should be good, and the director should be good. I can do the comedy of Appukuttan in Harihar Nagar. If the director and writer are with me, I am ready to do the comedy of Appukuttan. I would also like to see myself on screen as a person doing comedy roles. I like to play the elderly roles of Amitabh Bachchan and Utpal Dutt.' When asked about the exit of Paresh Rawal from the 'Hera Pheri 3' franchise and how people were shocked and disappointed, Jagadish said: 'If the script is good, people won't be disappointed.' He concluded:'I will be able to excel in comedy roles also. Okay. I want to do all the different genres. Now a director was narrating a story — it was a very serious story. But I will definitely do some comedy roles.' Check out our list of the latest Hindi , English , Tamil , Telugu , Malayalam , and Kannada movies . Don't miss our picks for the best Hindi movies , best Tamil movies, and best Telugu films .
Bloomberg
05-05-2025
- Business
- Bloomberg
This Earnings Season Is a Rorschach Test for Investors
This earnings season is a bit of a Rorschach test: Bulls will anchor to the fact that corporate profits have solidly beaten expectations, while bears will lean on executives' commentary around the costs of tariffs and heightened recession risks. I'll try to split the difference: This is clearly a wobbly corporate environment that will get worse if President Donald Trump barrels ahead with tariffs around the highest in a century. But the corporate sector could yet find its footing if the president backtracks soon.
Yahoo
27-04-2025
- Sport
- Yahoo
Shedeur Sanders' slide shows there's still a gap between NFL Draft's spectacle and reality
Every spring, there are two NFL Drafts. There's the capital-D Draft, the traveling-roadshow spectacle that's a whirlwind of mock-draft specialists and jersey-clad fanatics alike. And then there's the lowercase-d draft, the staffing convention where 32 organizations are looking to make half a dozen strategic entry-level hires. Early on, the Draft and the draft run on side-by-side, if not entirely parallel, tracks. Mock drafters and real drafters alike tend to agree that players like, say, Cam Ward, Travis Hunter and Abdul Carter don't need to get too comfortable in the green room before they get their call to the stage. Advertisement But when draft 'insiders' and actual drafters diverge, well, that's when it gets interesting … and, in some notable cases, embarrassing. Shedeur Sanders was a favorite of the Draft crowd, and it's not hard to see why — he plays the league's marquee position, he possesses notable if not necessarily elite skills, and he's the son of one-man content generation factory Deion Sanders. In the world of high-volume, low-stakes, zero-evidence debate that is the Draft Industrial Complex, Sanders might have been the perfect product: a Rorschach quarterback, one who could in theory be anything you wanted him to be. Turns out, though, that the lower-case-d draft crowd, the ones actually making the phone calls to draftees — the real ones, at least — didn't want Sanders to be anything for them. Teams passed on Sanders four, five, even six times, selecting 143 players — including five quarterbacks — before Cleveland took the plunge. Advertisement Plenty in the Draft world overvalued Sanders as a high first-round talent. (For the record: Yahoo Sports didn't have him going in the first round in our final mock.) That's fine; draft misses happen all the time. First-rounders don't pan out, and undrafted free agents blossom into stars and starters. Draft analysis is like astrology or weather forecasting — nobody expects you to be perfect, but at least be humble about your misses. And that brings us around to the avatar of the 'Draft' world, ESPN's Mel Kiper Jr. Plenty of amateur and professional draft analysts whiffed on Sanders, but Kiper deserves special scrutiny for his embarrassing three-day-long fit of spluttering indignation on Sanders' behalf. 'The NFL has been clueless for 50 years when it comes to evaluating quarterbacks," Kiper declared on Saturday, after Sanders was finally picked. "Clueless. They have no idea what they're doing in terms of evaluating quarterbacks. That's proof. There's proof of that. They can say, 'We know exactly what we're talking about with quarterbacks.' They don't.' He trotted out the classic 'overlooked QB' rationale — did you know Tom Brady was a sixth-round pick? — without noting that in most cases, overlooked quarterbacks are overlooked for a very good reason. Advertisement Users on X, of course, happily pulled receipts on the range of Kiper's quarterback knowledge. Pretty much every journalist has an inflated sense of their own importance — it's a byproduct of having thousands or millions read or hear your thoughts — but Kiper took that to new, embarrassing lows over this draft weekend. He was the loudest and most aggrieved voice, but he wasn't alone. There are lessons in the Sanders story in terms of talent evaluation, but there are also lessons in terms of talent promotion and advocacy, as well. It's worth noting that Sanders' loudest advocates, from ESPN to the White House, didn't exactly help his cause. What team is going to want to deal with constant bloviating, from ESPN and from the Colorado podium, about why Sanders ought to be starting the moment Cleveland's QB1 goes three-and-out? (Aside: We definitely do need a 'Hard Knocks' exclusively focused on the Browns quarterback room of Sanders, Joe Flacco, Kenny Pickett, Deshaun Watson and Dillon Gabriel.) Advertisement The Sanders was story is primo capital-D Draft content, but the NFL made it clear – over and over – that its lower-case-d draft priorities weren't aligned with the spectacle aspect of the NFL. And although the spectacle-and-content crowd may not care for it, the needs of the actual draft trumps the storylines of 'The Draft,' every single time. In the end, it's pretty simple: if 31 in-the-room analysts thought Sanders — the whole package that encompasses Sanders — was a fit for them, they would have selected him. The weather forecasting analogy might just be the best one here; you can tout your draft expertise and your past record, but if the clouds dumped rain when you predicted sunshine, well … the skies speak louder than forecasts. And you don't want to be the guy yelling at clouds.
Newsroom
26-04-2025
- Entertainment
- Newsroom
Anzac weekend short story: Toxic, by Michelle Duff
When she walked dripping into the lounge, hair wet from the shower, she took one look at Hamish and dropped her towel. He was holding her phone. —How long has it been going on for? His blue eyes blazed. She wanted to pluck them out and blow on them gently, cool them off. But the messages were there, and he had read them. It was too late for niceties. —Has what been going on? She was scrabbling around on the ground for her towel. Her hand wouldn't work. She dropped it again, banged her head on the bookshelf, hard. It brought tears to her eyes. Ouch. —Are you alright? He wasn't looking at her. Lovely, generous Hamish, couldn't help being nice even when his slutty girlfriend had taken his heart and ripped it clean in half, then stomped it all over the floor to leave a Rorschach ink splot that read she's fucking crazy, bro. Leave her. —I thought you didn't like Anton? —I don't. —So why are you—wait—so fucking wet for him? Roz felt sick. —Hamish, don't. I'm not. —Aren't you? Because it seems you love it when his dick gets hard for you—or has that changed since . . . last week? Really, Roz? Here, let me remind you . . . —No. Roz put her hand over her face as Hamish pushed the phone towards her, the screen bloated with a giant picture of Anton's erection. God, it was obscene. When he read the texts out loud, they sounded like a child's attempt at Mills and Boon. She really didn't even like Anton. His back was always sweaty and sometimes after sex he smelled like burnt crumpets. It was disarming. And he liked Coldplay. Ugh. Why would she fuck such a sicko? She wrapped her arms around herself, tight. —Ham, I— He had thrown her phone away and was sitting on the couch, his head in his hands. —I can't do this anymore, Roz. She kneeled in front of him, took his wrists. He didn't look at her, but he didn't pull away either. She stroked his forearm. —I'm so sorry, okay? I'm so so sorry. It didn't mean anything. It was just—stupid. It was fucking stupid. You know I haven't been myself lately and— He didn't leap up off the couch. He didn't yell. But when he looked up, the eyes which had once searched her—had told her yes, I believe you hold infinite depths, had held her in their warmth while he filled her emptiness with the length of him, as she dug her fingernails into his skin and begged him to stop, cried out, no, please, yes—had turned to ice. She knew then it didn't matter what she said, and also that she couldn't live without him, she couldn't. The world they'd created together could not just be shattered like this, so easily. —I don't know you. —Don't say that, of course you do. —No, I don't. I've tried to help you, Roz. You think I don't see what you're doing to yourself? I've tried. But I can't keep doing this. —But I love you. I can get better. He ran his hands through his hair, which flopped back into his eyes immediately. God, he looked like such a boy when he did that. When she had first met him, he'd been playing guitar in a corner of the pub. It was hands down like that scene in PS I Love You—or was it Love Actually, or a Marian Keyes novel she read once? Whatever, it was a meet-cute. When they were in bed for the first time a week later, he peeled all her clothes off as if she were a ripe fruit, a guava bursting from its skin, flesh ready for the taking, and just when she couldn't she couldn't she was going to—he whispered in her ear; I saw you. Just that. I saw you. —I honestly don't care anymore, Roz. —What? Yes you do. It's just this job, it's been stressing me out, all this election shit—I think we just need a holiday, both of us. We need a break. She grabbed her phone, swiped blindly. —Look, here's a great place in the Cotswolds. We can go for the weekend, lie in bed, you know (she looked at him, forced a bright smile, he hadn't moved, fuck, say something) get that great cheese from the market, it can be just like last time. She wished he hadn't laughed just then. It sent fear shooting up and down her body so sharply for a moment she mistook it for arousal. She dropped her towel. —Come on then, she said. Her nipples were hard from the cold. —One last fuck. It was the worst thing he had ever said to her, and it must have cost him to say it: —Roz. Those eyes again. —You are fucking poison. Once he left it got easier. She could stay at work until all hours, volunteer for extra shifts, and when they ended it was an easy roll onto the pub for after work drinks, and then easier still to say yes to the little something that was offered, feeling it fizz under her tongue. She'd been working at The Telegraph for two years by then and had been bumped up to the national investigative team after breaking two big yarns in a row—one cracking open a beloved television presenter's sordid past as a wife basher, and the other revealing a Tory MP's taxpayer spend on high-class hookers. They didn't call them sex workers at The Telegraph. —You know they're hookers, I know they're hookers. Why the euphemism? They get paid to fuck. —Well shit, who made you the moral arbiter of women's rights? —Fuck off, you know I love women. Anyway it's true, isn't it? The deputy news editor was tracing around the edges of her bra with his fingers. A bunch of them had been for dinner at Ava Mario, downing bottle after bottle of Spanish red to celebrate Roz nailing a front-page splash about a schoolgirl murder. At some point she'd returned from the bar to find it was just she and Anton left. He had paid for this hotel in cash and she was wrapped in a sheet, with her hair pulled up in the shower cap. She'd put complimentary face masques on both of them. She walked over to the window, saw the Millennium Wheel spin, marvelled at the lights, so many lights. Who had thought of putting them all out there like that, tiny pinpricks in the dark? The world was full of good people, and she was one. Roz was an integral member of the reporting team. She had guts. She had what it took. She didn't understand why some other reporters were so passive. Her mission when she caught the train to Reading was to get the story. She didn't think about failing because she'd never done it. Roz had woken the photographer up at 4am so they could scramble two kilometres across muddy paddocks to arrive at the back door of the farmhouse—quaint as fuck, straight from the Living channel—and get the scoop from the dead girl's mother, who was out the back hanging out the washing when they arrived. She stood shellshocked in floral while Roz probed her gently, helping her with the pegs until she invited them inside. As the door to the house swung open, Roz felt the familiar mix of dread and adrenaline, the internal fist-pump. Afterwards they drove past the rest of the vipers' nest, stuck hanging out at the end of a long driveway out the front. Roz waved to them sweetly with her notebook, enjoying the confusion crystallising to realisation on their faces. 'EXCLUSIVE: Schoolgirl shock: 'We won't stop until our sweet girl gets justice'', the headline read. Roz had written most of the story before she even interviewed the mum, so it was just a case of inserting the quotes and filing from the car. When she got back to the newsroom, she was a star. The editor clapped her on the shoulder, told her what a great get it had been. Don't party too hard, he said. Her next assignment was to chase the father. —Don't worry about him, you know you smashed it. Anton was rubbing his nose aggressively. —I did, didn't I? The girls' family had really wanted to talk, they had wanted to pay tribute to their beautiful lost daughter. The mother had been tripping over herself to drag out the photo albums. Roz had to make her excuses and leave after an hour—she could only hear so many stories about how much little Frances had loved her brothers and sisters, and her smile lit up a room, and she was a talented swimmer and she just loved Rusty, that's the dog, didn't she? He really was her best friend, she was volunteering at the SPCA, we've still got the medal she earned at the dog show. Then all would fall quiet, and the silence bred darkness; it's all just so pointless, she was so innocent, what kind of person would do this, what kind of—the mother couldn't bring herself to swear, she'd sucked in her breath—what kind of creep? Why us? We told her never to walk home that way. It's not safe. Will you put that in? Make sure you put that in. Roz had nodded her head politely, tilted her handbag so she could see her phone. She already had the quotes. Thank you so much, I'm so sorry for your loss, she'd said, pulling her shoes on and closing the door in one movement, before they tried to hug. She wasn't huggable. Anton's eyes were bugged out, black depths. They were entombed in his face, rimmed ghoulishly by the masque. They had work the next day. He had managed to crawl over to her and was pawing at one bra strap. She realised, with frightening clarity, that he wasn't human. That felt right. —Lucky you come free, eh? No catches. If she turned around she couldn't see him, but she still had to grit her teeth. The affair had gone on much longer than it should have. Technically, once Hamish found out, it was no longer an affair, but by then stopping just seemed token. Plus, Roz worked hard. Hamish had never really understood. How could he? He'd never seen death up close. Roz straightened up fresh from her desk to see the editor- in-chief standing above her. On a key to the map of his person the spindly red lines would read: drinks too much, and the gut spilling out over his belt buckle would be indicated by a circle: white male privilege. She knew he cheated on his wife. The celebrity chef. His wife, that is. The affair was with a junior sub-editor. —Roz. We need to talk. She shut down her computer and picked up her handbag preemptively, shoving in two of the four pairs of shoes under her desk. She would miss the heels, which she knew made her calves pop, but she could never wear them without getting blisters so it was all to the good. As she passed the sports desk she threw out a cheery smile to Gav, one of her favourites. His face registered alarm. Sweet, sweet Gav. They were in a glass enclosure in the middle of the newsroom dubbed the fishbowl. She had lost count of the number of people she'd seen storm out of here, crying. She only felt calm, and vaguely horny. His face swam in front of her. —We have to let you go. We've had complaints. The checks on his shirt separated, then put themselves neatly back together. —From who? —I can't say. She knew it was Anton. He'd been eyeing up the new social issues reporter for weeks, and she'd caught them leaving in the lift together a couple of days ago. Not that she cared, but he was exactly the kind of guy who would think she would get jealous and try to punish her for it. —Does Freja know you're cheating on her? —What? —Does Freja know. You know, I saw her just last Friday. She's looking good. Love her new show. —Fuck off, Roz. —I know Anton's been talking shit about me. If you're taking advice from the guy I've been fucking, I can talk to the woman you're not, right? His cheeks were red. Fuck he was fat. —That's enough, Roz. —You know what? It's actually not. I'm your best reporter. I put it all out there every day for you, I throw my life down the drain for you—she was yelling, now, heads were turning behind the glass, whoever designed this shitbox hadn't soundproofed it—and this is how you repay me? You can take your job. Take it, and shove it up your arse. There was a monitor next to her. She picked it up. —Don't— She couldn't remember throwing it. Three days later, she woke with a pounding head, a hectic bandage around one hand, and a letter of dismissal in her inbox, which she deleted before reading. The empty vodka bottles strewn around their (her, sorry, her) apartment and her bank account told her she had drunk everything in the house and snorted everything she could afford. She didn't look at her call log. She transferred some money. She didn't talk to anyone. She booked the next available flight. As the houses around Heathrow dropped, monopoly-sized, beneath her and the airplane wheels thunked up into place reassuringly, she closed her eyes and fell instantly asleep. In Auckland, she hired a car. It had been more than a decade since she'd done the trip, but she was still surprised to find the roads had changed. It seemed wrong that the immutable paths of her memory had been carved up in this way. The new Waikato expressway threw her, and instead of following her nose down the North Island she'd dutifully trailed Google maps into a black spot, where she lost reception. She had been pretty sure this was the fastest way, round the back of the lake, but everything felt foreign. She was fine until the deer. The road was clear and then she was staring directly into two large brown eyes, the creature's silent fear refracting through the windscreen from where it stood, frozen, in the middle of the road. She pumped the brakes and came screeching to a stop, engine idling in the tussock. Every muscle in the animal seemed to twitch simultaneously, and it turned and bolted back towards the forest. Her hands shook on the steering wheel. Bon Jovi sang on. Soon after that, she picked up the hitchhiker. He stood underneath a battered sign outside an old petrol station, which creaked in the wind when she leaned over the seat and pushed the door open. He ducked his head. —Where you headed? —Wellington. —Are you a murderer? —Not that I know of. —Like, you're not a murderer, or you don't know if you're a murderer? He shoved his face deeper into his jacket. A muffled laugh. —I'm not one. —I can take you most of the way. Jump in. He pulled his hood back, arranged his bag at his feet. She snuck a look. He was maybe a bit older than her, thick eyebrows, strong jawline. His fingers when he held his hands out to the heater looked long and graceful. He had an accent. —Man, thanks for picking me up. I'd been waiting for hours. —What were you doing out there? —Some farmer gave me a ride, but I wasn't really listening to where he was going. I thought it would be further. —Ah. Yup. Been there. Roz could still feel the chill from the freezing hours she'd spent outside Rangipo Prison once, after making the same mistake. —Where're you from? —Argentina. You? —I'm from here. It's my first time home for a while. —Yeah? He looked at her. —How long? The Argentinian pulled out his phone. —May I? It was punk; she thought she recognised it. NOFX. He turned it up loud and Roz was glad of the noise. They drove along for a while like that, Roz focusing on the road as the relentless pines tipped themselves into curves and then hairpin bends. —Your country is beautiful. They emerged from the bottom of yet another valley, fronds of native bush, an ancient rail bridge rising on their left. Birds folded themselves into origami in the pale sky. He didn't say much at first and she liked it that way. As the landscape softened around them, they started to talk. It reminded Roz of going out on days-long jobs with photographers, when you only had each other for company. It was harder to be self-conscious when you didn't have to make eye contact. By the time they reached the outskirts of Taumarunui, she knew that he'd been held hostage in the wilderness when working for an aid organisation in Puerto Rico and his parents had split when he was little, when his mum had moved to the States, taking his little sister, who he was close with. He'd moved there too in his early twenties, but by then she'd joined a religious cult and become distant. —I should have gone too. I always wonder if I could have saved her. In Taumarunui they got pies. Back in the car, he turned to her. —You ask lots of questions. —Well, I'm a journalist. It's kind of my job. —Do you ever answer them? A family clambered out of a station wagon. The little girl was wearing a cape, lagging behind. The dad picked her up, carried her high up on his chest. —Sure. I guess. —I don't think you do. —What do you mean? —You're very good at changing the topic. —Am I? She risked a glance. The space had shrunk. He smelled nice. He met her gaze, and for an uncanny moment she felt he was reading her mind. His smile was slow and crooked, and his hand hovered near hers. The air stretched tight between them. She could. It would only take an inch. Roz started the engine. —Maybe I should work on that. He half-laughed, scrunched his pie wrapper in his hand. —Yeah. Maybe. As they drove out of town, the ridges in the distance fell, snow-capped, framed in dusty pink. It did look quite nice with the clouds lit up like that, Roz supposed. It made her heart twist in a way she couldn't quite explain. Later, as she pulled to a stop at the intersection of State Highway One, the hitchhiker bent down to scrawl something on a slip of paper. He gave it to her, with a smile. —I'll be around if you don't find what you're looking for, chica. In the rear-view mirror, he shrank quickly. Roz wound down the window and let the paper flutter past her fingers, out into the fading light. It could have been lonely. In Foxton, she turned off towards the beach. It wasn't the right direction. At school she and her friends used to think the giant concrete water tower was a repurposed UFO, or at the very least, a government spy station. She passed the windmill, chopping lazily at the sky. She passed the bottle shop. She fixed her eyes on the horizon. The only other vehicle was a campervan, down the other end of the car park by the surf club. She lifted the boot, shrugged on her jacket, bent her head against the wind. The sand howled grey, licking at her eyelashes. The last of the sunset bounced off the waves. Still the beach remained, stretching languorously to left and right. Roz couldn't see where it ended, no matter how hard she tried. She could walk to Himatangi, catch an eel in the creek, light a fire under the trees. These were all things she could do. She thought about a story she'd covered around here many years ago, when she was a junior reporter, about a local women's weaving group. I wish I could do that, she'd said, admiring their work. But you do weave, one of the kuia had said. You do it with your words. So. She got back into the car. When her mother, Trish, opened the door, her face registered surprise, and then concern. —Roz? Her gardening shears hung loose at one side, a rose thorny in the other gloved hand. —What are you doing here? How did you— —Hi, Mum. The words had no sooner left her mouth than Trish was sweeping her daughter up in a hug, crushing her close. Roz held her arms out to the side, then patted Trish gingerly on the back when the hug didn't look to be letting up. —Come here. Look at you! Why didn't you call? How long are you here? HENRY! Roz used the opportunity to pull back, tucking her hair behind her ears. Her limbs felt leaden, and her eyes didn't seem to be working properly. When she took a step into the hallway, everything looked smudged. It must be the drive, she thought. The light. In London, it was 7am. Hamish would just be waking up, stretching lazily in bed. He was so tall, or their mattress so short, that he always slept with his spine curved around hers for their bodies to fit. She wondered what he would do with the negative space. She doubted he would have filled it yet. He would have to fall in love again first. Her legs buckled underneath her, and she put a hand out to steady herself. She felt a weight shifting. Trish grasped her daughter around the waist and looked down the hall at her husband, who had just walked in, his words of greeting suspended in the air. She nodded, imperceptibly. He took half a step sideways, and pushed open the door to the spare room. A gentle breeze pulled at the gauze curtain. Outside, the crickets began their summer chorus. Taken with kind permission from the powerful new collection of short stories Surplus Women by Michelle Duff (Te Herenga Waka University Press, $35), available in bookstores nationwide. The author's cast of characters include Jess, the only one in her friend group who hasn't lost her virginity, and Genevieve, who is being held captive with her gymnastics nemesis from 40 years ago.
New York Times
02-04-2025
- Entertainment
- New York Times
In Ed Atkins's World, the Uncanny Is Realer Than the Real
It's awful having a body. It oozes, leaks, spurts. It is unpredictable, uncontrollable, ails, fails, betrays and embarrasses. It's not nice to admit, but you know it, and I know it. The artist Ed Atkins definitely knows it. A major new retrospective of Atkins's work, running at Tate Britain in London through Aug. 25, features human bodies (or digital versions of them) that are anxious, lost for words, exhausted, emotional, apologetic and falling to pieces, sometimes quite literally. Atkins — who was born in Oxford, England, in 1982 and is based in Copenhagen — is perhaps best known for his videos that show CGI avatars in strange states of limbo. They utter disjointed but poetic narratives, or try and fail to perform various tasks — as though struggling to be 'real.' An early film at Tate Britain, 'Death Mask II: The Scent' (2010), alternates between scenes of digital devices, a human head, shot from behind, with short blonde locks bathed in neon light, and close-ups of a fruit from various angles as sticky liquid pours over its eerie skin, which is pocked and freckled like an aged human's. Here, it is the editing process, with jump cuts visible to the viewer, that creates an uncanny tension. In 'Hisser' (2015), simultaneously projected on three free-standing walls that increase in size, we enter a more recognizable environment: a teenage bedroom (remember that kitten poster that urged us to 'hang in there'?), with moonlight streaming through an open window. A man appears on the bed, tossing and turning, and singing to himself. He flips through a stack of Rorschach blots, masturbates to a postcard of a Walter Sickert painting, browses his computer — and then falls through the floor into a giant sinkhole, only to reappear, walking naked and disoriented, stumbling and mumbling through a bright white nothingness. There's a morbid humor to Atkins's work, which puts its avatars — based on the artist's own facial gestures and speech, recorded and mapped using motion capture technology — through excruciating experiences. A wall text by the artist explains that 'Hisser' was inspired by the news story of a man in Florida who disappeared when his bedroom was swallowed by a sinkhole. 'This idea attracted and consoled me,' writes the artist, who also describes the film as an exorcism of sorts, and its characters as 'surrogates' or 'emotional crash-test dummies' who reckon with things that Atkins himself cannot face. And yet they remain imperfect stand-ins, not quite real, if 'real' means convincing, or lifelike. Well, who can blame them? They can, after all, only learn what their makers teach them. They are, we see in Atkins's work, like us: limited. In his world, technology doesn't create utopias; it mirrors who we are, inside and out. This becomes more obvious as the show progresses. Near the end, a video called 'Pianowork 2' (2023) features a digitally generated character who looks just like Atkins, playing an exacting piece by the composer Jürg Frey on an upright piano in a darkened studio. Atkins's avatar grimaces, gasps, frowns, smiles and sighs — and as he struggles with the precise minimalism of the piece, seems to transcend the moment now and again, as performers sometimes can. The Tate Britain show presents Atkins's video work chronologically, but it is surrounded by newer work in other mediums — drawings, sculptures, installations — and the retrospective has a fluid mood, rather than seeming like a linear tour. 'Beds' (2025), features a pair of beds, whose white covers writhe as if possessed by some invisible animating process. In 'Old Food' (2017-2018), Atkins has installed a series of videos between huge racks of costumes borrowed from the Deutsche Oper opera house in Berlin. Screens show a baby, a boy and a man sobbing; thick tears, more like glue than saline — another technological limitation — run down their faces. All around them, velvet robes, starched crinolines and silver dresses hang heavy, like speechless ghosts of dramas past. The most recent works are Atkins's most personal. 'Children' (2020-ongoing) features touching grids of drawings on Post-it notes that the artist put into his daughter's lunchbox. They are colorful, profane, comical, full of 'I love you's and sometimes written in childish scrawl: a record of the tender, fleeting moment of early-childhood parenting. 'Nurses Come and Go, but None for Me' (2024), a collaboration with the poet Steven Zultanski, is also about love, the passing of time and loss. The two-hour film features the actor Toby Jones reading a diary that Atkins's father kept during the six months before his death from cancer in 2009. A room of young people listens. One sobs. They all fidget. We watch their faces, and they are as unfathomable as those of the digital avatars we've scrutinized in previous rooms. At the end of the film, which is the end of the diary, the actress Saskia Reeves mimes an ambulance driver who tries to heal Jones with a series of magical concoctions, before covering his body with Post-it notes scrawled with enigmatic symbols — a game Atkins plays with his daughter. The film allows us to hope, beyond reason, that the diary perhaps hasn't ended, that the pain will dissipate and that everything will be all right again. There's no sinkhole, no cure — there's just life and, of course, art. In Atkins's work, no matter the medium, those forces are realer than real.
