Save the whales... and Opal Mehta

The whole controversy around Kavya V and Opal Mehta which has been spreading through the blogosphere like a bad case of dysentery: leads one to ask - what exactly is plagiarism?

I used to read a lot of Enid Blyton back in the days when I had a waist: I used to really like the stuff. Maybe it was the subtly colonial, Rule Brittannia-esque undertones, or just the fact that you could go through reams on the Famous five without any mention of the fact that George was actually a girl and therefore might have breasts?

Maybe some of that comes out in what I write - the stuff that isn't mindless bilge, that is. Most of it is probably unconscious ... but could the critics care less? No.

A small example - and I'm not looking to stir up a controversy here: consider the following line from one of Kingsley Amis' works: ."His mouth had been used as a latrine by some small creature of the night, and then as its mausoleum."

Then consider the following line from a novel (#1 bestseller back when it was published) by one of the most successful authors in recent times (sorry - no names): " His mouth felt like it had been used by a baby dragon as a potty chair."

Sound familiar? Is that plagiarism? This might be construed as a case of accidental plagiarism, ie "using the source too closely when paraphrasing." Chances are, the author of the second piece read Amis when HE had a waist (if he has similar eating habits to mine, that would be around 10), and it stuck somewhere in the recesses of his mind. So - does that take anything away from someone who has churned out more bestsellers (not to mention the movie adaptations) that anyone in recent times? My guess? - NO. But the owlish critics obviously have a different take on things.

Critics be damned. Let's remember that there is a subtle distinction between 'Freedom-to' and 'Freedom-from.' In laying down the ground rules for plagiarism, let's not blur that divide. Before we know it, there'll be a mad rush to copyright words like arse, paycheck and pepperoni. And then where would we be?

Cruise control: Victory Lane

There were around 350 people in the darkened theatre, and I can wager each and every one of them - including the ones who were cuddling in darkened corners behind the camouflage of Vue's extra-large popcorn - missed a heartbeat when Seymour Hoffman's Owen Davian pulled the trigger on IMF super-cop Ethan Hunt's wife. As her head slumped to one side, we stared, mesmerised at the man strapped to the chair: torn, battered and bruised...tears welling in his eyes... and that all too familiar expression on his face as it made the seamless transition from disbelieving, utter pain, through nerve-freezing numbness , to the iron-resolve that we know all too well. You could almost hear that immortal phrase (MI: 1) echoing in the innermost recesses of your mind: " You've never seen me upset."

This is the man they call Tom Cruise . This is the man who cheated on Elizabeth Shue and threw his life away to get her back in Cocktail; the man who flew 'by the seat of his pants', flirted with his instructor and enemy pilots with equal ease and came out on 'top' in Top Gun', this is the simple yet passionate drag-racer romancing the brain surgeon (a dauntingly tall Kidman) in 'Days of Thunder' as he grits and grimes his way through to victory lane at Nascar; this is the razor-sharp, show-me-the-money sports agent who grew a conscience and found love and friendship in the time of Superbowl in 'Jerry Maguire'; the ambitious Harvard-grad determined to force life to stand and deliver in 'The Firm' ; the happy-go-lucky genius lawyer who keeps his tryst with the truth against a hostile system and the most unheard-of odds in 'A Few good men', the down-on-his-luck stolen-car salesman who ransomed his brother and then threw away a fortune to make peace with his conscience and his childhood in Rainman; and finally - agent Ethan Hunt: 10 years on from his first reality-defying capers as the perennially clean-shaven super spy, and Mr Cruise still keeps us on the edge of our seats. The skin is a bit rougher, the gleam in his eyes has dulled a mite, and the years have spun a wrinkly cobweb around the eyes. But he still has the 1000 watt smile. And when he smiles, the world smiles back.

Let's face facts Monsieurs and Mesdames... this man's name will probably never be uttered in the same breath as a Brando, a De Niro or a Pacino. Critics will not wax eloquent about his genre-defining performances as they will about a Denzel or a Penn. He'll never appear on Actor's studio and talk about his 'early days of method acting.' And there won't be entire lexical rainforests dedicated to his coming (and going) of age, as there have been for the likes of River Phoenix and James Dean, though for whom staying alive was obviously not part of a 5-year plan.

But that takes nothing away from his sheer ability to entertain. A 250-mn $ one-man show, whose unsurpassable ability to make us sigh, blush, shudder, wince, laugh and cry in the same breath - will be as much a part of our generation's growing up as sliced bread and wet dreams.

And that's why every time he stands up in a half-knotted tie holding out a goldfish in a baggie and asks' Who's coming with me, besides Flipper here...'we'll stand up and say 'Me.' Because you complete us, Mr Cruise.

As the reluctant fans tramped out of the Hall, I wondered how many of them were thinking what I was thinking. That in a Hollywood where a Hanks lends the tone, a Denzel the timbre and a Pacino the grace - this man provides sure as hell supplies the colour. And that Tom Cruise, must live for ever.

How not to lose your way

This is my first blog. Ever. I've been wanting to start one since like 1991, but I trashed the idea since it seemed kinda 'out of the times' then. SINCE THEN, someone has gone around and done moi and the rest of the world a huge favor by discovering this techno-freudian marvel.

When someone first told me about it, I thought it was a b-movie sequel to a trashy creature movie. I stand corrected. I now know that 'Sepia Mutiny' is not a remake of a Marlon Brando movie featuring Bridgette Nielsen, and that the shortest distance between the heart and the paper, is no-longer the pen. For me - the keyboard works just fine.

Obviously, I'm so excited I can hardly contain myself: which probably accounts for the little puddle at the base of my chair. Most of my life, I've subscribed to the Calvinesque philsophy of procrastination and rationalization, which has served me well, but left me somewhat handicapped when it comes to keeping up with life. So, in true Shakespearian style: Out damn'd spot.

Let the healing begin.