Bshin - GOST Project Reflection

Brennan Shin

English II

Ms. Hume

4-12-17

God of Small Things Film: Reflection

The film is purely focused upon the caste system. In God of Small Things, the caste system plays a role in the story/novel. A huge part in which the caste system is recognized is the relationship between Velutha and Ammu. How their relationship should never see the light of day purely due to Velutha’s status in India. Yale and I have decided to show the certain “caste system” in Los Angeles, our hometown. The caste system in America is mostly different from the one in India. In India, once born into a certain category, you stay there for the rest of your life and can not earn your way out of that status.

We mainly seeked to focus our attention upon the socio-economic class differences within one city. The main focus was to show the contrast between the “rich” and the co-called, “poor.” In one end of the spectrum we were greeted by enormous houses, luxury cars driving by, and primarily white people greeting us as we walk by them. On the other side of Los Angeles near Koreatown, it gets very different as it is not an area littered with multi million dollar homes, but rather littered with actual trash. The streets were lined up full of Spanish speaking street vendors infuriatingly bargaining with primarily hispanic consumers. Tents scattered around the area with men and women covered in tattoos and grime emerge out of them. Yale and I started to feel uncomfortable and decided to start filming in the car.

There was a very peaceful and tranquil quality when on Lombardy Road. The birds chirped as though it was the break of dawn, there were barely any cars, and it seemed as though we walked through the neighborhood’s personal botanical garden. When in the car and filming the external world of the “poor” neighborhoods, we were actually afraid. We were afraid of what these people’s reactions would be. I surprised myself when I had these thoughts of, “what if that man is high on drugs?” or “What if that guy throws a beer bottle at our car for filming them?” What I gained from making this film and immersing ourselves into a foreign neighborhood with a background from well off families, is that we understand the caste system. We understand the caste system in God of Small Things due to us experiencing what it’s like looking down upon people of lower “status”. We experience what the characters are feeling and thinking, when they constantly do have to think about their status and how their relationships with people affect their image. There was also a contrast between the rushed and zen vibes between the two parts. We can understand what the characters and what Roy was trying to convey. When in the opening it starts off as a very tranquil type of scenery, to when she starts to speed events up when trying to tie in new elements that make the story even more compelling, yet sad. I am tying the idea of feeling rushed with the poor, and elements in the novel that make the story sad. For example, in my own experience reading the scene of Velutha’s death, it was a small paragraph. The description lasted around 8 sentences, instead of providing an in-depth descriptive and grueling image of his bashed head, Roy decided to immediately get it over with. Thus, making the reader feel rushed.

Coming from a family that has been fortunate enough to have vacations at multiple luxurious resorts, attend a school that is highly prestigious, and live in a neighborhood where movie stars live. I can safely say that I have never outright experienced the real world. The world that hurts, kills, schemes against you, and seeks to put you down. This project truly opened my eyes to the world as a whole. It opened my eyes to the hardships of the people in Roy’s story. I can safely say that I understand what is going on in Roy’s mind as well as the character’s minds for I have dipped my toe in the waters of their world. Immersed myself into the Los Angeles equivalent of the low caste status.

Below are the narrations written by Yale and me for the video:

The Rich

- Goal was almost to make it satirical yet realistic

The room is calm, lifelessly still as though it were frozen in time. The setting sunlight flows through the clean glass windows in the study, illuminating the floating dust like drifting fireflies. The book on the dark oak shelf closest to me, Aesop’s Fables, fills my head with tales of crows and frogs, learning lessons one is supposed to learn that many don’t. Its gilded lettering spills from top to bottom, an El Dorado waterfall. I rise, and walk into the hallway, greeted by silence, struck by silence. The rug under my feet is knotted, rough, tired. I run my hands along the recently cleaned walls, feeling the cool, refreshing bite of marble. Down the stairs I glide, blinded by the glaring crystals suspended in the dizzying swirl of steps. Failing to catch the last step on my descent, I trip, slipping on the recently mopped floor. Sliding on my hands, I feel the sting of a burn, the first pain felt in days. I slowly walk to the kitchen, through the sun room, through the dining hall, through the reading room. Each blessed by the scent of freshly cut flowers, delivered from the florist, delicate and bought to be replaced by the next batch, next week. Grabbing the bactine under the chrome sink the road rash is cleaned and covered with a tan Band-Aid, just the right size. To the leather couch, to the remote, to bliss. Plunged into the tanned, skinned cow, slaughtered for pleasure. To fall asleep on the couch, bathed in moonlight and the BBC’s coverage of the suffering of others. What a gift. We slept softly that night, serene brick, marble, and maple houses dotted the street, all with enough room to be comfortable on their grass beds. No cars, no people, no worries. Nothing but the sounds of silence.

Poor

Mom says don't go out of the house without company. Dangerous people, harmful opportunities, bad influences. But outside is never as bad as inside. One bathroom, one bedroom, one living dining room, one kitchen, four people. Mother and father sleep in the bedroom, grandma and I get the living room couch and floor. In the bedroom, stained, dirty white sheets fall, slumped over on Mom’s side. On Dad’s side, the springs are shot, creating a prolonged use pit. I hear a shrill shout beckoning me to the kitchen, so I rush, careful not to stub my socked toe on the corner of the stucco wall. I duck under the doorway and the sticky heat of boiling soup fills my lungs, choking me until I can regain my bearings. Grandma stands at the small linoleum counter cutting celery with a dull knife and scarred hands. Lit by white-blue fluorescent tube lights, she asks me to take the trash out back. Tying it up, the smell of wilting vegetables and neglected tendons hits me like a truck, the shockwave smacking me with rancid vigor. The second I leave the kitchen, the cold becomes apparent. Beads of moisture condense on my radiating skin. I miss the sweaty steam of the kitchen. The back door opens, squeaks, and shuts, shouting it's second to last breath for the day. Dogs bark and street lights buzz. The city shines in the distance blocking out the stars with a light blue glow. The city never truly going to rest, the stars never truly waking. Stuck in a dirty limbo, stuck in a dirty life. Struggling to be better, thrusted down by the better. Clawing to never be worse, mauled by the worst.