on rainy afternoons, i am seized by the urge to sit in bed with a soft blanket, a bowl of chips (preferably budhani's cheese flavoured) and read a murder mystery.
i enjoy detective fiction, without pretending that its anything other than comfort-reading. one cannot always mortify the flesh with kafka, can one?
agatha christie frinstance, has so many prejudices, cliches and stereotypes thrown in, that i absorb without a murmur of protest.
but when i see that kind of schtuff ("ineffable twaddle!", as watson once remarked) on stage, i feel angry and cheated.
i just saw a play that i thought was terrible- i'd rather be poked in the eye while listening to britney spears terrible. the acting was poor. and the enunciation vos werry baad. and the chappie's attempt to seem mysterious and evil was for some reason expressed as an irritating snivel. if i was closer to the stage, i'd have thrown a hanky at him- blow your nose man, and continue! and (one last whine) they adapted the upper westside type lines and set the play in jayanagar. but forgot to tell the chap that noone wears suspenders in bangalore! again, if i was closer, i might just have snapped em.
but meelard, as they said in those 70s courtroom dramas, i've watched well acted and produced thriller type plays too (including the mousetrap), and not really enjoyed them.
does one need a movie or a book to suspend disbelief long enough to develop what is essentially an anachronistic, highly stylised genre?
ooh, beeg beeg words.
but i stand by my thesis.