if it's december 1941 in casablanca, what time is it in new york?

THIS POST CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR THE FILM CASABLANCA (1942)

The e-mail from M's aunt came across more like a command than a suggestion.

In the subject field, she had written: Casablanca. As for the text, it was short and to-the-point: Tonight 10pm on okto.

I remember Phenomenon a year or so back saying good things about the film, how Humphrey Bogart was really intense and brooding or something. I was a bit skeptical about that thanks to my mother, who during my childhood had seen fit to name our pet terrapin after said actor (they were both jowly).

But really, I think the reason why I took so long to watch Casablanca was because I thought it would be like Gone With the Wind -- melodramatic gestures, a syrupy soundtrack and lots of cheese (this might be an unfair representation of GWTW: I only caught bits of it when I was younger and thought everything was cheesy). It didn't help that the most famous still from Casablanca is of Bogart and Ingrid Bergman gazing constipatedly into each other's eyes (see above).

But anyway, in the end we did catch it, on Sunday night.

I have not felt this... moved by a movie since I caught Days Of Being Wild more than a year ago (coincidentally also late at night on a free-to-air channel, with a horrid Mandarin dub to boot). I spent the whole of the next day (yesterday) in a kind of half-dream, retaining the mood of the film inside me, my mind wandering every so often to recall certain scenes and quotes.

What surprised me most was how witty the script is. OK, now that I think about it, it's really dumb for me to have been so surprised -- but being a self-important Gen Xer, I had thought cynical asides and clever one-liners in film were invented in, like, the 1990s.

The characters follow certain archetypes (or cliches if you will) -- the tough-as-nails, cynical male lead who is really bleeding inside; his gorgeous, vulnerable love interest; the cool cat, loyal sidekick; the idealistic foil; the amoral civil servant; and a whole host of memorable baddies and bit players.

It is the dialogue and the acting that transforms them into living, breathing people, the most compelling characters of course being Bogart's Rick Blaine and Claude Raines' Captain Louis Renault. The weakest of the major characters I felt was Ilsa Lund, despite the luminous Bergman's best efforts (she gets the bulk of the cheesy lines, like, "I love you so much. I hate war so much." and "Kiss me. Kiss me as if it were the last time.") -- but I guess that's a reflection of the sexism of the time, where women served more as objects of affection/plot devices than characters.

And in the end, each character gets his or her moment of redemption -- some in dramatic, swoony scenes (again, see above), some in frank confessions (Victor Laslow: "Well, I'm also a human being."), and the best in droll, understated statements (Capt Renault: "Round up the usual suspects.").

(Yes, this film is the source of many famous quotes. It's like a Shakespeare play!)

To end my post, here I reproduce some of my favourite quotes (liberally stolen from imdb.com).

The witty:

Captain Renault: What in heaven's name brought you to Casablanca?
Rick: My health. I came to Casablanca for the waters.
Captain Renault: The waters? What waters? We're in the desert.
Rick: I was misinformed.

Major Strasser: You give him credit for too much cleverness. My impression was that he's just another blundering American.
Captain Renault: We musn't underestimate "American blundering". I was with them when they "blundered" into Berlin in 1918.

Major Strasser: We have a complete dossier on you: Richard Blaine, American, age 37. Cannot return to his country. The reason is a little vague. We also know what you did in Paris, Mr. Blaine, and also we know why you left Paris.
[hands the dossier to Rick]
Major Strasser: Don't worry, we are not going to broadcast it.
Rick: [reading] Are my eyes really brown?

Mr. Leuchtag: Come sit down. Have a brandy with us.
Mrs. Leuchtag: To celebrate our leaving for America tomorrow.
Carl: Oh, thank you very much. I thought you would ask me, so I brought the good brandy. And - a third glass!
Mrs. Leuchtag: At last the day is came!
Mr. Leuchtag: Mareichtag and I are speaking nothing but English now.
Mrs. Leuchtag: So we should feel at home when we get to America.
Carl: Very nice idea, mm-hmm.
Mr. Leuchtag: [toasting] To America!
Mrs. Leuchtag: To America!
Carl: To America!
Mr. Leuchtag: Liebchen - sweetnessheart, what watch?
Mrs. Leuchtag: Ten watch.
Mr. Leuchtag: Such much?
Carl: Hm. You will get along beautiful in America, mm-hmm.

Rick: And remember, this gun is pointed right at your heart.
Captain Renault: That is my *least* vulnerable spot.

Captain Renault: Major Strasser has been shot. Round up the usual suspects.

The devastating:

Rick: If it's December 1941 in Casablanca, what time is it in New York?
Sam: What? My watch stopped.
Rick: I'd bet they're asleep in New York. I'd bet they're asleep all over America.

Rick: Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine.

Victor Laszlo: I know a good deal more about you than you suspect. I know, for instance, that you're in love with a woman. It is perhaps a strange circumstance that we both should be in love with the same woman. The first evening I came to this café, I knew there was something between you and Ilsa. Since no one is to blame, I - I demand no explanation. I ask only one thing. You won't give me the letters of transit: all right, but I want my wife to be safe. I ask you as a favor, to use the letters to take her away from Casablanca.
Rick: You love her that much?
Victor Laszlo: Apparently you think of me only as the leader of a cause. Well, I'm also a human being. Yes, I love her that much.

Ilsa: But what about us?
Rick: We'll always have Paris. We didn't have, we, we lost it until you came to Casablanca. We got it back last night.
Ilsa: When I said I would never leave you.
Rick: And you never will. But I've got a job to do, too. Where I'm going, you can't follow. What I've got to do, you can't be any part of. Ilsa, I'm no good at being noble, but it doesn't take much to see that the problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. Someday you'll understand that. Now, now... Here's looking at you kid.

[last lines]
Rick: Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

candlesticks

A few weeks back, I attended a writing retreat. More about that here.

As a warm-up writing exercise on the first morning, we were simply supposed to write about what we had done/thought in the past 24 hours. I ended up writing about Les Misérables, as I had been listening to the musical's soundtrack while trying to get to sleep the previous night (I just wasn't used to sleeping early). Here's what I managed to scribble in 5 mins, slightly edited:

Listening to the Les Miz soundtrack while trying to get to sleep last night reminded me of why I love the story so much. You have a man who, because he committed one wrong act in his life, is condemned by society. Condemned for life, until another man, because of his beliefs, gives him another chance where others would not, even when that means impoverishing himself in the process. The Bishop: My brother, you took the silver but you forgot the candlesticks. Use this to become an honest man.

Because of this one act of belief by another man, Jean Valjean fights against what had seemed until then to be his destiny. It strikes me now that the whole story is about belief – Valjean’s belief that he must change because of the second chance he was given. Javert’s belief that Valjean can never change and that to do his duty, he must hunt down this criminal. Enjolras and the friends of the ABC’s belief that the political system is corrupt and they must start a revolution. Even the Thenardiers' belief in doing all it takes to survive.

The book's Valjean is actually a much darker and wilder beast than the musical’s. At times, he does seek revenge or act out of cruelty, jealousy and fear. But what lights his way back is the memory of the Bishop’s act of grace, the memory of one man honouring his beliefs.

(An English translation of the silver incident here.)

firewalkers

I know how I keep yammering on about how my neighbourhood is the bestest in Singapore, but here's another reason.

This was I think Sunday night/Monday morning, and I was taking one of my company's night transport vehicles home after a long night's work. The night transport vehicle is a small van that usually carries between 2 to 6 employees who live in the same general direction from the company's premises (mine is the "town" van).

Since I lived furthest south (or townward, I guess), I was the only passenger left by the time we got to my neighbourhood. I had also been lucky and gotten the front passenger's seat next to the driver (the seats in the "passenger" portion of the van do little to cushion one from the bumps and jolts of travel), so I had a great view of the lamplit, almost empty midnight streets as we zipped between the skyscrapers of the CBD.

Then we turned onto South Bridge Road, and were met with the sight of hundreds of people lining the street, waiting patiently behind metal barricades as policemen sauntered by, muttering into walkie-talkies. Most, if not all, of those waiting behind the barricades were Indian men. Because of the night sky and the atmosphere of festive yet quiet expectation, I was reminded of Times Square on New Year's Eve, waiting for the ball to drop (OK, I suppose Times Square is supposed to be rowdier, but I remember just numbly freezing my toes off).

I think I emitted some expression of puzzlement, because of course I had no clue what all these people were doing waiting by the roadside in the dead of the night.

"Ahhhh, firewalking!" the driver suddenly said, clearly having just figured it out himself.

It turns out that it was the Hindu Theemidhi Festival, which as I understand it (based on what the driver said as well as subsequent research) is celebrated around the same time as the better-known Deepavali. During this festival, devotees in Singapore walk from the Sri Srinivasa Perumal Temple to the Sri Mariamman Temple (on South Bridge Road), where they then walk on white-hot embers in honour of the goddess Draupadi.

I remember that the queue seemed liked it would never end as our van zipped down the road, every block yielding yet more densely-packed, patiently-waiting people, their presence all the more moving because it felt -- to me -- so utterly unexpected, almost secret. Even after we passed the temple where the queue stopped, a kind of solemn atmosphere remained in the van, a mix of respect and awe I suppose. When we finally reached my place and said goodnight, I'd like to think the driver, like me, felt lucky that we'd witnessed something special that night.

**
From http://www.heb.gov.sg/mainhindufestivals.html:

Theemidhi (Fire Walking Festival)

Theemidhi or Fire Walking Ceremony honours Goddess Draupadi, heroine of the epic poem “Mahabarata” and deified by the Hindus of South India as Draupadi Amman. Legend has it that she had to prove her innocence and fidelity by walking barefoot over hot coals. For weeks before the ceremony, devotees practice strict vegetarianism and fasting rituals in addition to observing austerities.

Every year, Theemidhi is celebrated in the month of October or November. On the actual day, the ceremony starts at 1.00am at the Sri Srinivasa Perumal Temple where the devotees take ritual baths before setting off on a 4km walk to Sri Mariamman Temple.

The highlight of the ceremony is the walk devotees make across a pit of fire. The preparation of the four meter long pit of hot, burning coal that usually takes about five hours is especially important and is preceded with prayer and ritual.

Once the pit is ready, the chief priest of Sri Mariamman Temple would take the first walk across the scorching bed of coals. With intense concentration, barefooted devotees who wish to fulfill a vow make their walk across the pit – completing the challenge miraculously unscathed. Absolute faith, courage and endurance of devotees can be witnessed at this breathtaking ceremony.

boot

Leaving for work today, I slipped on a pair of platform clogs I'd bought years ago, while I was still in college, at (I think) Filene's Basement in Chicago. With leather uppers and good traction, they'd served me well many a Midwestern winter (I wore them with thick socks, like a hippie). But in equatorial Singapore they lay untouched in a corner of my shoerack, neglected in favour of lighter, airier shoes more suitable for our eternal summer.

I wore them today because I thought they would go well with my pinstripe city shorts. As I walked to the train station, though, I began to feel my feet sinking into the thick sole, almost squishy like mud; then whole chunks of the shoe began to break off like soft clay. Fortunately I had my gym shoes with me, so I wasn't left barefoot. I couldn't help thinking, so another part of my teenage self crumbles away.

regular exercise at the gym (3 days a week)

Ran for half an hour in the office gym before going in to work this afternoon, because I've been busy running errands this past week and hence slacked off a little on my night running. I was reminded how much I truly dislike running on the treadmill. What is the point of running if you aren't going anywhere? The hamster-on-a-wheel comparison aside, treadmill running really doesn't prepare you well for outdoor races, where coping with the humidity, dodging obstacles and generally being aware of your surroundings are part and parcel of the run.

What I do like about going to the gym, though, is taking a shower afterwards! Odd, I know, but my office gym has a really big, clean bathroom with hot water aplenty. It is also so pleasant to arrive at one's desk freshly-bathed and feeling faintly virtuous (from the exercise).

I kind of undid all my good work, though, by having a McDonald's cheeseburger meal as my post-workout snack. But it came in a cute Happy Meal box and everything! Anyway, what's the point of exercising if you can't eat whatever you want? =)

monsoon mile

I conclude that the Polar heart rate monitor just doesn't work for me. Tried it again last night, and from the start my heart rate was busting the 80 per cent upper limit. I actually had to SLOW DOWN in order to get my heart rate within the limit, and I'm not exactly Usain Bolt.

The watch also annoyingly beep beep beeeeeps when you stray outside your target limits... I'm probably the first person who has had to constantly slow down in order not to exceed the limit, rather than being inspired to run faster.

There's also the matter of the electrode bar... I still haven't figured out how to wear it comfortably (which could be the reason for the wonky readings). I've already tightened the belt as much as it will go, but it still keeps slipping down when I am sweaty (how fat are the triathletes wearing this thing supposed to be?!). It isn't "zapping" me anymore, but having to keep clutching at it to keep it up isn't doing wonders for my timing.

Anyway, last night it began to pour almost halfway through my run, so I decided to run walk up the stairs of a nearby 30-storey block. The people on the top floors must have gorgeous views of the port. I couldn't take a look myself as the block is so cleverly built that the view is reserved for only the two flats with windows facing south (probably the more expensive flats?).

I also want to say, again, that I really love my neighbourhood. It's one of the oldest neighbourhoods in Singapore and is really central, yet many parts retain a sleepy, neglected air, with old HDB blocks and residential shophouses and a little community centre. Yet it is also home to the underground/gay scene and the artsy fartsy boutiques, chi-chi expat lodgings and high-end restaurants, a thriving illegal red-light district and cheena-pai pubs.

This place is really spoiling me -- it will be hard to live anywhere else in Singapore now, though no doubt the day will come.

i'm not human

Ok, so I tried my new-fangled heart-rate watch (Polar F4F) today... and I am either going to die soon, the watch is spoilt or, most likely, I've screwed up the settings somewhere.

I came in at a pathetic 40min+ for a 5km+ route, though I attribute this partly to the traffic lights and having had to dodge silly drunk people staggering out of the pubs.

It was nice finally being able to get my timing from a stopwatch rather than calculating it from my iPod, which I used to do, but the whole heart-rate thing was less gratifying. First, there's this band with electrodes I have to strap on under my boobs, and while I was running I swear I could feel the electrodes gently zapping me! Ok, it wasn't as violent as I make it sound, but there was a slight... buzzing feeling. Not debilitatingly uncomfortable, but definitely weird.

Then there's the watch. To help calculate your ideal heart rates and all that, you have to key in your gender, age, height and weight. I had stupidly thrown away the letter with the results of the health check my company kindly sponsored a few months back (I was pronounced as being in the pink of health, readings all comfortably within the healthy ranges etc), so I had to guess my height and weight. But since I haven't changed either vertically or horizontally since age 18, my guesses should be reasonably accurate. I also put my age as 27 since that is what I will be in a few months' time.

With this info, the watch calculates your maximum heart rate (in beats per minute or bpm) using the extremely scientific formula of 220-(your age). Hence, my max heart rate is 220-27=193bpm.

Then, you can choose the "target heart rate zone", i.e. how fast you hope your heart beats during your exercise. I chose 60%-80% of my heart rate max, or 116bpm at the lower limit and 154bpm at the upper limit. This is because 60%-70% is supposed to be the "light intensity zone" (fairly easy and FAT BURNING), while 70%-80% is "moderate intensity zone" (improves aerobic fitness).

Thus prepared, I ran. I kept glancing at my watch even though I soon realised I hadn't read the watch manual thoroughly and thus couldn't really make sense of the readings while on the go. Still, that didn't prepare me for the absolutely horrific stats that awaited me when I got back home and had time to figure things out.

I'll just list them here first, the horrific part in bold:

Date 8/26/09

>Biodata
sex: female
weight: 47kg
height: 159cm
age: 27 years

>Heart rate settings
maximum heart rate: 193bpm
high limit: 154bpm (80%)
low limit: 116bpm (60%)

>In run
distance: 5.31km
duration: 41.53min
in zone: 00.34min
average heart rate: 181bpm
maximum heart rate: 202bpm
calories: 394

According to the stats, I was exercising in my desired zone for a measly 34 seconds! Ok, I could accept that if it meant I was under-exerting (I'm lazy, what can I say), but according to this watch, my average heart rate for the duration of the run was HIGHER than my high limit. Worse, my maximum heart rate during the run was HIGHER than my official maximum heart rate! Is that even humanly possible!?!?

I highly doubt I have "cardiac arrhythmia", which the manual says is a possible reason for an extremely high reading, given that my medical check-up results were fine and I've never been diagnosed with a heart problem before. That said, I don't rule out the fact that I could just be extremely unfit. After all, aren't athletes supposed to have amazingly slow pulses while the least exertion gets couch potatoes' hearts all a-pounding?

I think I will fiddle with the watch and strap later and try them out for a few more jogs before seeking professional help (whether in the electronic or medical field).

And I didn't even manage to burn off all the calories (576) in a Big Mac. Without cheese. BAH.