"Defecation" otherwise known in the vernacular as "sh*tting." It's something that we all do, and that's about as comprehensive a "we" as you can get, going beyond mammals, to most every order of fauna that we know of. Biologically, that which we need to live is always enmeshed in other substances that during its digestion is eventually eliminated by some form of "excrement." As humans form societies, and then strata among them, this process is usually something to be hidden, both in act and acknowledgment in polite society. One "goes to the bathroom," without any further details of why, and what is hoped to be achieved in this place. Potty Humor is probably the earliest genre among children, as they have learned about this early taboo, and how breaching it can get a reaction of some kind. It's cutting edge stuff among two year olds.
I remember a lecture years go, where the speaker for some reason described the rectum as "the most intelligent sphincter that we have." She explained that it has the ability to determine whether to release gas, liquid or solid, and can do so selectively. Wow, just visualizing what she was saying, and realizing that she was right, yet the street term for this brilliant organ has became a "fighting word" epithet. Thinking about this amazing work of evolution - or very intelligent design-- makes me smile to this day. (This site has both a layman's and profession version of the rectal-anus organs so I won't continue along this vein) This is about a movie, made in India, that has become a world wide hit, which is very much about a life-long problem of the father of the eponymous character, Piku. You see, the father, a lively outgoing character has been had a life long struggle for what to him is close to nirvana, the perfect "motion" that process that most of us do unconsciously, taking a relaxed and satisfying sh*t.
The film is not shy about dealing with his problem, as it is the central motif, that I can say without fear of contradiction, has never been so much the focus of a film ever before, in any language or culture. My wife and I watched it at home streaming from Netflix, and very quickly realized this was exceptional, in the story line, the dialogue and the brilliant acting -- spoken in Bengali and English, bi-lingual as were the main characters. I don't use the word "comedy" as that implies this was written for laughs, rather than that the amusement was part of the unfolding of events.
I write this for a rather personal reason, one that also gives a flavor of this amazing film. As I was watching it, both of us enjoying it immensely, I was getting tired of the old man's problem, how he seemed to always be thinking about his bowel movements, the exact position of posture during the act that had been modernized with the adoption of western commodes among their strata. I wasn't shocked, or offended, but somehow it bothered me.
When the film ended we gave it our five stars, and it was time to go to bed. This morning was a regular day, waking early reading the paper, catching up with email and then breakfast. I had left time to do what I had to do before driving to the tennis courts, but there was a delay, one that I hadn't anticipated. Dear reader, indulge me now, since this gets personal. I had been blessed for my entire life with not having issues such as Piku's dad had. I would sit down, maybe reading a paper, and then with the lack of appreciation that we all have when our body is working, I would have achieved the goal, and flushed away the evidence.
But not today.
I realized that the process was not working. And worse, there was no connection between my will to make this work and that organ, that rectum-anus complex that must sense and then coordinate a muscular system that rids the waste of our sustenance. Now, since at least the last several thousand times that I evacuated, this has not been a problem; so it's fair to say that based on stochastic statistical analysis I can objectively conclude it was the discomfort I felt in watching this film that, although unconsciously, was the cause of my problem. It had made me just aware enough of this organ to interfere with the unconscious process, that once thought about, impedes this coordination of muscles of this most vilified organ of excretion.
I tell this story, as part of a review of this film, one that has garnered praise around the world without my help. It is about film, cinema and maybe the broader effort of the expressive arts. What can be conveyed as entertainment, at its best, touches on the parts of us that we are unaware of. Maybe it's our need for affection, for mutual caring that is shown under circumstances that connect on a certain wavelength. So, in this film it was that Pika's dad was so real, so human, that I internalized his distress and actually felt it. It never went to the cognitive parts of my brain, but directly to the autonomic system controlling my anal sphincter.
Not to dismiss the delightful realism of the other aspects of the movie, maybe it was the creators deciding to build a plot around this one mans un-achievable desire that provides a metaphor of much of art. This time, for me, it was a temporary dysfunction of something that must be unconscious to work as intended. How much of the richness of life is what we can only feel, a natural part of living that we are better not to ponder?
I remember a lecture years go, where the speaker for some reason described the rectum as "the most intelligent sphincter that we have." She explained that it has the ability to determine whether to release gas, liquid or solid, and can do so selectively. Wow, just visualizing what she was saying, and realizing that she was right, yet the street term for this brilliant organ has became a "fighting word" epithet. Thinking about this amazing work of evolution - or very intelligent design-- makes me smile to this day. (This site has both a layman's and profession version of the rectal-anus organs so I won't continue along this vein) This is about a movie, made in India, that has become a world wide hit, which is very much about a life-long problem of the father of the eponymous character, Piku. You see, the father, a lively outgoing character has been had a life long struggle for what to him is close to nirvana, the perfect "motion" that process that most of us do unconsciously, taking a relaxed and satisfying sh*t.
The film is not shy about dealing with his problem, as it is the central motif, that I can say without fear of contradiction, has never been so much the focus of a film ever before, in any language or culture. My wife and I watched it at home streaming from Netflix, and very quickly realized this was exceptional, in the story line, the dialogue and the brilliant acting -- spoken in Bengali and English, bi-lingual as were the main characters. I don't use the word "comedy" as that implies this was written for laughs, rather than that the amusement was part of the unfolding of events.
I write this for a rather personal reason, one that also gives a flavor of this amazing film. As I was watching it, both of us enjoying it immensely, I was getting tired of the old man's problem, how he seemed to always be thinking about his bowel movements, the exact position of posture during the act that had been modernized with the adoption of western commodes among their strata. I wasn't shocked, or offended, but somehow it bothered me.
When the film ended we gave it our five stars, and it was time to go to bed. This morning was a regular day, waking early reading the paper, catching up with email and then breakfast. I had left time to do what I had to do before driving to the tennis courts, but there was a delay, one that I hadn't anticipated. Dear reader, indulge me now, since this gets personal. I had been blessed for my entire life with not having issues such as Piku's dad had. I would sit down, maybe reading a paper, and then with the lack of appreciation that we all have when our body is working, I would have achieved the goal, and flushed away the evidence.
But not today.
I realized that the process was not working. And worse, there was no connection between my will to make this work and that organ, that rectum-anus complex that must sense and then coordinate a muscular system that rids the waste of our sustenance. Now, since at least the last several thousand times that I evacuated, this has not been a problem; so it's fair to say that based on stochastic statistical analysis I can objectively conclude it was the discomfort I felt in watching this film that, although unconsciously, was the cause of my problem. It had made me just aware enough of this organ to interfere with the unconscious process, that once thought about, impedes this coordination of muscles of this most vilified organ of excretion.
I tell this story, as part of a review of this film, one that has garnered praise around the world without my help. It is about film, cinema and maybe the broader effort of the expressive arts. What can be conveyed as entertainment, at its best, touches on the parts of us that we are unaware of. Maybe it's our need for affection, for mutual caring that is shown under circumstances that connect on a certain wavelength. So, in this film it was that Pika's dad was so real, so human, that I internalized his distress and actually felt it. It never went to the cognitive parts of my brain, but directly to the autonomic system controlling my anal sphincter.
Not to dismiss the delightful realism of the other aspects of the movie, maybe it was the creators deciding to build a plot around this one mans un-achievable desire that provides a metaphor of much of art. This time, for me, it was a temporary dysfunction of something that must be unconscious to work as intended. How much of the richness of life is what we can only feel, a natural part of living that we are better not to ponder?