Polis Evo

Last week I bucked the trend. I watched a movie at a movie theatre! It was a Malay movie with a thoughtless title: Polis Evo.

The last time I watched any movie at any theatre was in 1984, when I was a student in upstate New York. That movie was the original slasher "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre". I couldn't enjoy the movie. A lady seated right behind me screamed every time the freak with the chainsaw came on.

Don't get me wrong. I like movies. I even have my own list of "movies to see before you die", which I can show you if you're interested. Just ask. The first movie I watched at a theatre was a P Ramlee comedy flick "Madu Tiga" in 1964. It was truly a magical experience for me. Big screen, big crowd, big sound, in complete darkness. And P Ramlee, man, what a genius. When I came out, I just couldn't find my way in broad daylight and almost fell over. My elder sister had to steady me.

I watched a lot of movies during my hostel days at Tiger Lane. The school showed one movie a week, every Friday, free. Half of the films starred Jack Palance. He wasn't exactly a pretty sight, but he was 100 times more popular than our head boy. Whenever we had a new guy operate the projector, the jerk would, against all odds, start with the last reel and give away the whole plot. In my eight years there, I must have watched at least 300 movies. But if I rope in the movies I watched with friends in Ipoh town, I could've easily racked up 400 in total, including the epic Haathi Mere Saathi (twice). I'm not sure what's the industry standard, but 400 seems a lot.

Now back to Polis Evo. Even with complimentary passes in hand, I was initially quite reluctant, and even offended by the mere suggestion. It's a 32-year old record, remember? If I went ahead, I'd have to start all over again and I can only equal this record in 2047, when I'm 94. And what if I got found out by my Whats App groupies? These zealots have been posting all sorts of scriptures urging old and unsuspecting classmates to contemplate and repent and abandon all worldly pleasures. Watching Polis Evo is hardly a way forward.

But it's common curiosity that finally won the day. The film had been heavily marketed on all Astro channels and Rapid buses. The box-office collections had broken the RM10 million mental barrier in just two weeks. It's a lot of money, even at the current exchange rate. Some half-brain punks on H Live were raving with a rating of 11 out of 10. It's a Van Persie moment, and the curious little boy inside had to make the call. I finally relented. So there I was with wife and my two girls Aida and Sarah at GSC Summit USJ. The theatre, or Cineplex, nowadays is actually very small, much smaller than the old Lido cinema in Kota Bharu where I watched Madu Tiga and even smaller than the Tiger Lane school hall where I watched Jack Palance.

Polis Evo is technically not a Malay movie. At least not the one I watched. Half of the dialogue was in Terengganu tongue, the other half in deep Kelantanese. It had been bandied about as an action-comedy, with a tired formula that borrows heavily from Lethal Weapon, Bad Boys or even Rush Hour franchises. It fell flat. It flopped real hard. It's a waste of time and unworthy of any serious review or rating.

The premise and plot were outrageous and insulting all at the same time. Cliched and corny at every turn, with non-existent sub-plots to speak of. The movie was set and actually shot in Kuala Terengganu, and how's that for a mindless non-starter. Kuala Terengganu? Can you believe it? Tripadvisor has rated Kuala Terengganu way behind Puchong as a destination for tourists or retirees. In real life nothing actually wants to happen in Kuala Terengganu. And now suddenly car chases, shootings, explosions, meth labs, drug running, hostages. What can be more implausible and improbable than this? It even showed Pasar Payang so that nobody would mistake it for some place else.

As to why Malay films have sunk to such depths of desperation is beyond me. It's about time we round up David Teo and everybody who talks like him and frame them for undermining our economy and our prime minister. DAP won't mind. 

The performance of the lead cast was patchy and contrived even by my pathetically generous standard for Malay films. Give me Ahmad Yatim any day. The problem with all pelakon Melayu is that they try too hard and it shows. They come across as dysfunctional, farcical and altogether ineffectual. In Polis Evo the characters who really delivered were the bad guys who looked and spoke Kelantanese to the core.

Terengganu diction is dark and twisted and is never easy on the ear, but why let a non-Terengganu cast mangle it further? All of which begs the question as to why weren't real and able Terengganu persons used? Nobody (except Zizang) is good enough in the whole state of Terengganu Darul Iman? My daughter-in-law is from Manir and I think she's talented enough to walk into that sister part (Normally I'm owed a big dinner for saying something like this).   

All this has left me with only one viable verdict: that how hard Zizang tries to market his home state, Terengganu just doesn't have it.

Like most bad movies, Polis Evo did have its bright moments. Two actually, both in Kelantanese. One, the part when Zizan pulled off an elaborate clownish routine, and the baddest of the baddies wasted no time in cautioning him "Bo la buak bodo nyoh, takuk jjadi bodo sungguh". Brilliant. Zizan would be wise to take that seriously. Two, when the same guy took Zizan's sister as hostage and he warned Zizan "Aku keno ambik adik mu buak koletero (Collateral)". Koletero! Hahaha. Sounds like cholesterol.

Any of you reading this, there's still time to change your mind. Don't fall for the hype and vibes. Better never than late.

    

                           

Thai Story

                                           
                                                    

 

On 17 August, Bangkok was once again rocked by bomb blasts. Whatever was the idea behind this barbaric act, collateral damage was grim: 20 dead, 125 injured.

Apparently explosives were planted at a shrine in Erawan, a popular tourist area in the heart of Bangkok. Violence and strife have been breaking out with almost predictable regularity in Thailand. But Bangkok continues to lure more tourists than Paris does, thanks to its go-go girls.

Normally I'd react to news of Bangkok bombs with an air of detachment or resignation. But not this time.

I'm very familiar with Erawan area. During my final years in Petronas, I made regular trips to Bangkok, about every other month. Petronas had founded a company (Petronas something Ltd) to look after its 200 service stations in Thailand. My last trip was in June 2009 for a meeting with Thai Oil, our local supplier. Whenever I'd to be in Bangkok for meetings, I'd put up at Hyatt in Erawan area. In fact the official name of the hotel was Grand Hyatt Erawan (pic above, glass broken).  The shrine was right outside the hotel.

So when I heard the news and watched the sad footage, my heart sank. I've to thank God that nothing like this happened when I was there. I've lost count of how many times I walked past the temple on my way to Chit Lom Sky Train station or nearby Central World Plaza. There's a couple of shops just across with a fine collection of Thai silk. I'd to navigate my way through the temple throng whenever I'd to get Thai silk for dear wife. I'd go back and forth at least three times as part of my bargaining strategy.

I always remember my sweet stays at Hyatt Erawan. It wasn't the very best hotel in Bangkok because no wayward English writer had ever slept here, but still it was lush and luxurious, with all the facilities you need and didn't need, available 24 hours. Its breakfast was a gastronomic galore. I'd spent more than an hour every morning trying out every variety of bread.   

I still remember the night I couldn't sack out and went down for a round on the treadmill and was shocked to discover that the gymn was full. I thought I'd be alone. It's three in the morning.

Petronas finally quit the Thailand market as good sense reigned. Good money was chasing bad money. We were technically subsidising the Thai motorists while half of Kelantanese households were coping without running water. With so much cash pile to burn, Petronas had developed this habit of going on misguided safaris here and there only to come out licking its wounds. Nobody got rapped for these ego trips, of course, as Petronas ruled with unfettered impunity. The generous dividends and taxes repatriated into government coffers had clearly gone all the way. Malaysians are a forgiving lot.

Even today I'm still in touch with a couple of Thai friends I worked with in Bangkok - Mukhdawan and Pipop. (One was a lady. Guess). These people were quietly convinced they knew the market better, and KL staff should only come to Bangkok to visit crocodile farms. Whenever we met we'd sit down and argue and have dinner by the Chao Phraya. And then we'd argue again. Man, I how I miss the good times.

It was the height of the Red Shirt/Yellow Shirt standoff in Bangkok. I took the opportunity to hit Pipop and Mukhdawan whenever the Red and Yellow shirts took to the streets of Bangkok to face each other down. I'm not sure what colour these two guys were. But I was less than subtle with my digs and jibes. I'd message:

"Khun Mukhdawan, hahaha Yellow and Red on the streets again? Hope you're OK. Stay safe now".

Mukhdawan would reply with a short "Thanks. Don't come to Bangkok now".

On 31 August (last month), one day after Bersih 4, I received a message from Mukhdawan:

"How are you, man? Hope you are OK. Stay safe now"


                                                                 Thai Story 2

I was in Hat Yai recently to attend a nephew's wedding in nearby Songkhla. For those who still think Ottawa is the capital of Japan, allow me to enlighten. Songkhla is about 30 km from Hat Yai, and Songkhla or Singgora (its Malay moniker) is the name of both the Thai town and the province bordering Kedah and pseudo-state Perlis.

Songkhla and Kedah were once a single Malay kingdom with an Indian name and a Thai ruler. It only became a firm Thai province after a 1900 treaty where the British gave up slow Songkhla in exchange for the more colourful Kelantan. Revisionists have surfaced recently with claims that the British were drunk at the time: it should've been the other way round.

Anyway, Hat Yai is bigger and livelier than Kota Bharu and Alor Star combined, with its own international airport and floating market (not as big as the one in Bangkok, but it floats). I couldn't help but notice the city now crawling with Malaysians who'd come in busloads to escape Malaysian monotony and paranoia.

Now back to my nephew Azri. He's my elder sister's son, one of her nine children. Nine. His bride, who goes by username Fern (I can't recall her longer name offhand), is a Thai.  She was born into a Thai Muslim family who still live in Songkhla and speak, well, Thai (Hahaha, sorry. What do you expect?). Azri and Fern both work in Petronas. More than 50% of Petronas staff now are married to each other or one another or whatever and, at this rate, it should hit 100% by 2019. Azri was 33 or 34 and Fern was so fair and so much prettier than Azri. It's certainly worth the wait.

Weddings as an event have long ceased to motivate me due to their lack of imagination and creativity. I'd try to avoid mostly the laboured Saturday evening weddings, you know, the staple part where they bring on grainy clips on bride's and groom's early years and a scripted banter on how they, for some unknown reason, met and liked. What passes for speeches are mostly delirium in disguise. All this while Manchester City is bullying and bamboozling Chelsea on Astro.

But I've been looking forward to this wedding since it was announced early this year. It's already exciting and imaginative because it's in Songkhla, and not, say, Gombak.  So I flew all the way with wife and Aida and Sarah to Hat Yai. For a bit of romance, we decided to stay in Hat Yai and commute with the locals by mini bus to Songkhla for the two-day do. The short rides were pleasant and the fare (RM3.60 per person) was so affordable even with the  ringgit as it was (you choose the word).

The akad nikah on the first day got a little complicated because I'd to wear complete baju melayu, with sampin, socks and all. (Me and wife both had peach numbers. In hindsight, it wasn't a bad idea, I mean, we actually looked hot even at a combined age of 120 years. Hey). Otherwise it was a straight-forward affair, starting with a moving Quran recital, and it was all over in under an hour. Azri and Fern were proclaimed husband and wife. Just what they'd asked for.  

And the wedding the next day, I didn't quite get half of it, I mean the Thai half. A real pity because I actually took a one-semester Thai language class during campus days and got an honest A. All I could muster now was one word "mai". But I could feel the energy and atmosphere. Unmistakably festive and upbeat. The noise level was a notch higher but really nothing not to like. Thai people are decidedly a happy and expressive lot.

Both sets of parents watched and wept. Nothing was said between them. I guess joy and jubilation needs no language.

Finally the proverbial moment of truth. Speech by Azri's father. Haha. He swaggered up the stage with Mourinho's nonchalance and sprang the tactical masterstroke - the speech was in Thai. I wasn't prepared for something like this. And I thought this part alone was value for the good money I'd given Tony to come here. I didn't understand it one bit, but what the hell. It was brave, creative, inspired. I could hear Fern's crowd cheering on. He must've nailed it.

Thai language is fun. My Thai teacher cautioned us that a Thai word may vary in meaning with its tones. One note higher, it could mean the opposite. The word "klai" means far and near in different tones! "Kai" means chicken. One note lower, it's egg. You don't speak the language, you sing it. "Mai mai mai mai mai" spoken in five different tones would roughly translate as "new wood doesn't burn, does it?"

The flight back was brisk, but long enough for me to reflect on how well things had panned out. The wedding was nothing short of memorable, something to look back on fondly later. Songkhla was still part of Thailand. And Azri's father had hit the right notes and nuances when he actually said, in Thai, that Azri and Fern are "new" husband and wife. Not "wooden" husband and wife ! Hahaha.......

My best wishes to Azri and Fern.