La Perouse is a suburb in south-eastern Sydney. It’s also the northern headland of Botany Bay, sitting pretty in Randwick city. In favourable traffic condtions, it would take hardly twenty minutes from the Sydney CBD (Central Business District) to the cliff.
Now, a little bit of history. The penninsula got its name from the French navigator Jean-François de Galaup, comte de Lapérouse (1741–88), who landed on the northern shore of Botany Bay on 26 January 1788, just a couple of days after the British sailor Captain Cook had anchored off the coast. Louis XVI of France had commissioned Lapérouse to explore the Pacific. He departed Brest, France, in command of the Astrolabe and Boussole on 1 August 1785. The French stayed at Botany Bay for six weeks and built a stockade, observatory and a garden for fresh produce on what is now known as the La Perouse. After obtaining wood and water, the sailors departed for France with a hopeful ETA of December 1788. However, the expedition was wrecked a short time later on the reefs of Vanikoro in the Solomon Islands during a cyclone sometime during April or May 1788. The circumstances of the ship wreck remained a mystery for 40 years. In 1826, items associated with the French ships were found on an island in the Santa Cruz group, with wreckage of the vessels themselves discovered in 1964.
The sun drenched beaches of the penninsula are a great lure for visitors as well as the nearby city residents. The lone aircraft among the cauliflower clouds finding its way to the military outpost at Bare Island, and the departing ship from Port Botany next door, as the twilight fades over the ridge would appear quite like a live collage. Then there’s the restaurant overlooking the beach as if inadvertently edited out of a Daniel Craig movie, with the mixed odour of caviar and French wine hanging in the air.
Don’t be fooled by the title. “Marriage Story” should be called “Divorce Story.” That would better prepare you for the highly realistic, yet emotionally draining experience of Noah Baumbach’s latest film, loosely based on his own divorce and amplified by the subtle most performances in recent years from its protagonists.
Not every movie is meant to entertain. Some are meant to capture the harshest of realities. Spend your moviegoing money accordingly, knowing that you are in for dramatic heartache.
Having lived together in New York, where Nicole starred in Charlie’s theatre productions wherein both achieved critical acclaim, she is decamping to LA where a TV pilot awaits. Charlie insists the move is temporary, but increasingly their son, Henry, seems to view California as home. Wherever they go, the couple appear trapped, a quality emphasised by cinematographer Robbie Ryan’s carefully choreographed, Bergman-esque framing, capturing them in confined interiors even while those around them babble about “the space” of Los Angeles.
While the legal procedural thread underwrites the narrative, tonally, Marriage Story slips nimbly between a tender emotional drama and laugh-out-loud screwball comedy. A scene involving the serving of divorce papers turns tragedy into farce, while Nicole’s instruction to her mother to “stop loving Charlie!” provokes laughter and tears in equal measure. There’s even a musical element, with the maneuvering of Stephen Sondheim songs for an unexpected emotional punch, while Randy Newman’s romantic score ensures that our heartstrings are pulled in several directions at once.
What’s extraordinary about Marriage Story is that everyone in this story is right, based on their position in the situation. Charlie is right, Nicole is right and Henry is right. And they are all hurting. Baumbach has come about as close as you can get to telling a wrenching divorce story with devastation but no villainy.
Because Marriage Story is about the terrible process of a bad-math divorce, it would be easy to see in it a bleakness that would make it uninteresting. But the performances are so good and the story is so complex that it is, in the end, startlingly and deeply humane. “Who was in the wrong here?” you might find yourself asking as you get to the end. Neither of them, is the answer, and both of them.
Tail Piece: The producers, Netflix wanted to shake the Hollywood playing ground a little bit, by leasing the Paris theatre in New York City, closed in last August, for premiering their Oscar hopeful Marriage Story. As a matter of fact, the ‘Paris’ has a 71-year history, which was opened on September 13, 1948, with Marlene Dietrich cutting the ribbon. If you have never been to New York and only know it from the movies, it sits in catty-corner to the Plaza hotel and across from the south-eastern entrance to Central Park. Around the corner is Fifth Avenue, where you will find Tiffany & Co and Bergdorf Goodman.
For many, nostalgic chords struck, when the 1969 Neil Diamond classic ‘Sweet Caroline’, was played in Melbourne Park’s Rod Laver arena (AO 2020) during an 8-minute flood lights repair break in the semi-final between Dominic Theim and Alexander Zverev.
(Pls listen in with headphones.)
If only you were there too with all the tennis legends and other celebrities in attendance, most of them swinging to the Neil Diamond rhythm! And the atmosphere had become suddenly electric. I felt happy and sad at the same time, it was a rare moment in history though.
February 6: Kirk Douglas (103) one of the great stars of Hollywood during its golden era is no more. The pix shows him beside the self portrait of the fabled Dutch painter Vincent van Gogh, during the shooting of ‘Lust for Life’ (1956) that fetched him an Oscar nomination.
Kirk Douglas was born Issur Danielovich Demsky to penniless Jewish immigrants in the city of Amsterdam, New York state, in 1916. His father had fled Russia to escape conscription into the Tsar’s army.
One of seven children, he sold snacks to local mill workers to earn enough money to buy food and in his autobiography claims to have had more than 40 jobs before joining the American Academy of Dramatic Arts and realizing his dreams.
Since the 1950s Hollywood establishment was using screen writers and artists, who had alleged communist sympathies, paying them pennies on the dollar, and not allowing them to use their real names. Douglas thought it was absurd. He had enough star power at that point which was why he could make a decision to hire the blacklisted Dalton Trumbo to rewrite the script of his, arguably most popular movie, ‘Spartacus’. He also threw his weight around to make sure Trumbo got the credit he deserved. It was a huge statement making a profound impact on the establishment. The breaking of the blacklist was perhaps the most radical thing that happened in Hollywood’s history.
Way back during my tryst with journalism, Mani sir was my Editor, though my actual mentors were P K Balakrishnan sir, S Jayachandran sir and G Venugopal sir. Even after becoming a fortune hunter in the shifting sands of Gulf, at his insistence I used to write a monthly feature titled “Letter from Gulf” in ‘Kala Kaumudi’ that had ran for quite some time.
Years later, a week after I got married, my father took his daughter-in-law and me before an ailing K Sukumaran sir (Mani sir’s father). As the old connoisseur was trying to find out more about ‘Assumption College’ and some of her teachers from my wife, Mani sir came in with with a double column news print of the next day’s editorial. Before he left Mani sir told my father that all three of us will have dinner at his Kumarapuram home the next day.
While Kasthuri chechi was serving us ‘chappathi’ and ‘veg. kurma’ at the designated time the next day, then-chief minister A K Antony called Mani sir proposing that they meet right away. Apologising, Mani sir left abruptly. However, before he left, he hugged me and blessed my wife placing his palm over her head.
Since then so much of water flowed under the bridge without letting us meet again. May be because he was the eldest, with the true spirit of journalism in his veins, life became harder for him than it was for some of his family members. Lately, among other things, Mani sir was coming to terms with a problem in his vision. Last September when I was speaking with Kasthuri chechi over the phone, he was trying to read the morning newspapers with the help of a magnifying glass. He was one of the last Samurais who didn’t deserve what he got.
Though it was winter, the weather forecast said ‘bright and sunny’. So he set out to conquer the cliff. He felt gratified when he reached the top. He ate, rested for a little while, took a few pix for his wife, who wasn’t comfortable about his stunt that day.
Then he began to descend with the help of his harness and holding tightly on to his climbing rope. Half way through, all of a sudden, it began to snow heavily which made his climb down extremely difficult. Soon, like a huge bear on its hind legs, night fell. The cold was biting. To make matters worse there was no visibility.
Yet, he continued with his downward journey inch by inch. After a while he was completely exhausted. He felt he could not make it any further.
Then he began to pray: O my Lord, please be merciful, and take me to the ground.
A little while later, he heard a voice out of nowhere: Stop holding on to the rope, leave it.
But he thought, how can I do that, and held on to the rope more tightly.
The next morning, people saw a frozen dead man holding on to a climbing rope, just one metre above the ground.
From an anthology of short stories / Published by: Impish Lass Publishing House (Mumbai)
On our return journey from school in the afternoons, by the time the paddy field came into view, my class mates would part ways heading straight, leaving me alone before the green meadow. On the left stood a plateau which one cannot exactly call a hill, but high ground at most. On either side of the ground stretched long rows of sesame hulls, left overs of the actual crop. Once the rainy season has ended, there grows some crop or the other every year. Someone will lease the land for cultivation from the Jama’at committee each year.
At the slope on the other side stood a small building with a dome on its top which served as the primary religious education centre, otherwise known as the ‘othupalli’. Early each morning, before school, children would come to the ‘othupalli’ to read tongue twisting verses from the Holy Book. While the children recited the verses in a chant-like intonation, their teacher, ‘mollakka’, would walk around observing his students closely, as he turned in his hand the soft round surface of the cane over its entire length. ‘Mollakka’ would allow each student a time-frame to learn each lesson. At the end of the cut-off period, each student was expected to recite the lesson he or she had learnt. Oftentimes ‘mollakka’ did not spare the defaulters, nor did he consider giving them a second chance, and the cane would swing into action making an ‘uff’-sound as it whipped the air before it landed on its target. Mollakka’s wife, Pathumma thatha had already borne eight children and awaited the arrival of the ninth. There were hushed whispers doing the rounds among the children in the ‘othupalli’ that Pathumma thatha only had to be sleeping anywhere in the house where Mollakka’s path crossed and the outcome would be evident in nine months.
Behind the ‘othupalli’ lived the ‘boogeyman’ in a make-shift shed outfitted with bamboo poles and braided coconut leaves that stood firm challenging the howling north wind and the heavy downpours. As a matter of fact, Omar kakka was mollakka’s younger brother. The reason why he was referred to as mad-Omar remained beyond my comprehension. Omar kakka was a tall lanky man with a thick crop of salt and pepper hair that he cut himself to the shortest possible length either using a razor blade or a quarter inch narrow, multi-purpose foldable pen knife with a ceramic handle. The slightly angular shape of his frame gave most people in our village the wrong impression that he was a hunch-back.
Even those who knew that he was actually not, later convinced themselves he was one. Omar kakka was always dressed in a thin cotton towel that covered his body from his waistline to slightly below his knees, which also revealed his striped under-garment. He bathed several times a day in the near-by canal wearing the towel he always wore; perhaps that was the only piece of clothing he owned; perhaps he hung it out to dry at night when no one was around. He hardly spoke to anyone and seldom moved out of the area surrounding the ‘othupalli’. But whenever he did, he carried with him a back-pack made of jute. Children spoke among themselves in muted tones that he would drug little children, dump them in his back-pack and sell them to gipsies in far-off places who forced them into begging. Generally, he cooked for himself. His kitchen utensils consisted of three rock splinters of even height, a round aluminium vessel with a narrow neck and a wooden spoon. He prepared everything, from steaming tea leaves to boiling rice, using this paraphernalia. He cooked meat only once or twice a year, a luxury he owed to my father.
As a memorial service to Prophet Ibrahim’s commitment to God by almost sacrificing his son Ismael, every year on Eid-al-Adha, our neighbour Kassim Rawther sacrificed a lamb in his backyard. Eid fell on the 10th day of the month of Dul-Hijjah per the Arabic calendar. From day one of the month until the Eid prayers were over on the 10th day, Rawther would neither manicure his nails nor shave or trim his hair, which formed part of the rituals relating to his intention to sacrifice the animal. After all the children in the neighbourhood had assembled in his backyard to witness the sacrifice, Rawther would tell us that it was only the sanctity of his intention that mattered to God, and not the flesh or blood of the slaughtered animal. Once his brief lecture concluded, ‘mollakka’ would take over by chanting prayers while he approached the sacrificial animal. Rawther’s youngest son, Ajmal, by far the fairest among us all, with wavy brown hair and steel grey eyes, would feed the goat a few jack fruit tree leaves and water, its last breakfast. ‘Mollakka’ would then grab the lamb by its jaw and thrust the sharp blade of the large kitchen knife into its jugular. What fragments of thoughts could have flashed through the animal’s mind, if at all it had one? Would it be able to relate to the fact that its own sacrifice is the noblest way of reaching out for an altruistic purpose? Admittedly, the gush of blood from the lamb’s severed neck was not a delightful spectacle to witness, yet on the morning of every sacrificial Eid, I went to Rawther’s back yard with the other children.
Traditionally, the meat was divided into three portions: one for the poor, one for friends and relatives and the last portion for the family. Later, when our share arrived neatly wrapped in a banana leaf, I requested my father permission to deliver it to Omar kakka. He granted my wish without hesitation with the laughing remark, “Let Omar too celebrate Eid.” He would also press a one hundred rupee bill into my palm and whisper, “Go get some for us from Plamoodan’s slaughterhouse.”
When I’d hand over the offering to Omar kakka, I always noticed that the veiled shadow of anger would disappear from those piercing eyes. Was he feeling obliged, to me, or to my father, or to Rawther or to the sacrificed goat? This life isn’t for everyone, because it is harder on some than it is on others.
At times, some mischievous children would dare Omar kakka by pelting pebbles at him. On most occasions, he did not respond. Whenever the children imagined that he had looked up angrily at them baring his sharp front teeth, they would call out ‘mad-Omar’ and run as fast as they could.
Every morning ‘mollakka’ would give Omar kakka a one rupee coin to cover his daily expenses. It was rumoured that Omar kakka had attended some ‘family planning’ camp in the adjoining state and undergone sterilization. In exchange, he had become richer by three hundred and fifty rupees and a plastic bucket, both of which he handed over to his elder brother. Was the new orange bucket found near the well where ‘mollakka’ and his students performed ‘ablution’ (cleansing process before prayer) been part of the bargain for Omar kakka’s manhood? People gossiped that ‘mollakka’ never did any favour to anyone, not even to his siblings. On most days when I opened the tiffin box that Nachiamma, the maidservant in our house, had packed for me, I felt like puking, as I recalled her short thick fingers and square nails under which were accumulated globs of dirt. But I never complained to my mother. Nachiamma was quite old. She walked with a slight tilt to her left and her eyesight was failing. She formed part of the dowry my mother had brought along after marriage. In her present state of health, it was unlikely that anybody would be generous enough to hire her. Fortunately, I found a culvert with only a couple of loose rocks in place of its long-standing parapets right before I reached the paddy field. On school days the culvert would gobble up my emptied tiffin before I reached home.
Children in the village considered Omar kakka as a boogeyman. Some women even used Omar kakka’s fictitious reputation to intimidate their children when they refused to eat or go to bed on time. However, it did not keep me from being overly curious. When I first prowled the surroundings of the ‘othupalli’ he did not even glance at me. On one occasion I caught him outside, beside a neem tree. He was brushing his teeth with a neem’s stem after his afternoon nap. I appeared to have caught Omar kakka off-guard because children never approached him at such proximity. When he smiled, I noticed his yellow teeth. “Are you not afraid”, I could read his question between his raised eyebrows. When my response was a cautious smile, he too smiled back showing more yellow teeth.
I stopped emptying Nachiamma’s lunch under the culvert. Now that I was familiar with his routine, the next day I arrived early while he was snoring in his nap. I left Nachiamma’s lunch packet beside his rock-splinter-oven. The successful execution of my strategy lasted only two more days. On the fourth day when the sleeping Omar Kakka’s hand extended to reach my arm, I almost screamed, and I felt all the blood from my face had drained out. He had caught me red-handed, yet that broke the ice.
As I became a regular at his lodging, Omar kakka found Nachiamma’s lunch more sumptuous than any meal he had ever tasted. After he’d washed up, he would light a ‘beedi’, or rather a half-‘beedi’ most of the times, and then begin our story-telling sessions. Omar kakka turned out to be a universal storyteller, be it the emergence of Cleopatra out of the carpet-roll before the invading Roman general, or tales of local heroes/heroines, his tell-tale sagas would transport me through unheard of horizons across the vast Arabian and Persian deserts. Among them all, the one I loved most was the story of Sohrab and Rustom. When the story began to unfold through the coarse but unpretentious voice of Omar kakka, the labyrinth of high land, rows of sesame hulls, ‘othupalli’ and the green meadow slowly disappeared from my line of vision. The armies of Persia and Turan were preparing for battle. To avoid massive bloodshed and regain the confidence of the Turan army, Sohrab decides to fight Rustom in single combat. Sohrab knew that his father’s name was Rustom. Yet, he was unaware that the man he was going to wrestle with was his father. The father and son fought each other for what seemed like an eternity, neither knowing the true identity of his challenger. As the bout proceeded it began to wear down the older man. In Persia he was a legend in his own right. Fearful about his reputation, he wanted to end the fight quickly and stabbed Sohrab straight through the heart. It was then that Rustom identified the necklace on Sohrab’s chest: the same necklace that he had given to the princess before he left her kingdom with his missing stallion several years ago. He had also made her promise that if she bore him a boy, she would ensure that the boy wore the necklace as a token from his father. Upon hearing of the untoward fight between the father and the son, Sohrab’s mother rushed to the battlefield; however, she arrived too late. Heart-broken, she could only watch through teary eyes her son lying dead in his grieving father’s arms. Only when Omar kakka’s voice had fallen silent did I return from the castles of sand to the ramshackle living quarter of my storyteller.
When I returned home that evening I felt my entire body burning. My mother found my eyelids were drooping and came close to feel my forehead and throat. She told Nachiamma to prepare some chicken soup for me and asked my father to take me to the indigenous doctor in our neighbourhood. Gopalan kaniyan, diagnosed me with chicken pox.
The following three weeks I was confined to the bed in the smallest room in our house between the master bedroom and the dining area. The only window in the room opened to the pathway that extended to the entrance of our house. I watched people’s feet, cat’s paws, and bicycle tyres moving across through the three-inch rectangular gap at the bottom of our gate. The vesicles on my chest, hands and legs burst as I scratched them with my fingernails, eventually extending the healing period. None except my mother dared to come near me for fear of catching the contagious illness. As I lay alone in the bed staring at the wooden ceiling through the thin grey veil of incense smoke, I thought of Omar kakka. Omar kakka was a lonely soul living all by himself in the wilderness of the high ground. What would he have eaten without being served Nachiamma’s tiffin? Lately, Omar kakka had started standing outside his shed awaiting my arrival. Was it only for the food I brought in the tiffin box or did he secretly cherish the moments of togetherness he had not experienced for a long time. May be he was hoping to reap what he didn’t sow.
On the morning of the first day to school after my illness, I noticed ‘mollakka’ standing with two other men in front of the shed where Omar kakka lived. As I was already late for school I ran off without bothering much about what those men were doing outside Omar kakka’s encampment.
While I was returning that evening I wondered what story Omar kakka would have ready for me. The orange bucket lay on its side beside the well making a hissing noise when the wind hit its broken bottom. As I approached Omar kakka’s house, it appeared deserted. I pulled at the cluster of coconut leaves and bamboo sticks in place of the only door to the shed. It opened wide. But there was no trace of Omar kakka. Except for the empty coir cot and the plain clothing line, the inside appeared neat and tidy, as if Omar kakka had never lived there. Where could he have gone? When I heard approaching footsteps, I turned back to find ‘mollakka’ standing there like a lost child. He was not the cold, unemotional and manipulative man everyone thought he was. I came looking for one and ended up with another. The words tumbled out of his mouth as if he had learned them by rote, “He got chicken-pox, but he didn’t know. He used to take bath morning and evening as usual, and it got worse. Gopalan kaniyan’s tincture did not help, and he died last night. There was no one for whom we should have waited, and we buried him right before noon prayer.”
The sky was seamless, but the orange from the twilight was eating up its blue. With ‘mollakka’ no one could tell, yet from behind those impassive muscles lining his face something sober began melting into his eyes.
I did not know how to respond. I ran across the paddy field towards home. I did not go to the kitchen for the usual banana fry and glass of Horlicks Nachiamma would have kept ready for me. But no one noticed. I threw my books over the small study table and tried to sit there alone for a while. My mother walked past the veranda before the study room. I was afraid she would ask me whether I had had my malt drink. I felt restless. I walked towards the backyard and sat over the wooden plank of the swing hung from the tamarind tree branch. Some people, like flowers, sprouted in your life without you being aware of them. Was endearment a hurtful slip-up? Was happiness evil? I was experiencing the pain of losing what I had liked very much for the first time. It was not that I always got what I had wanted. But until now I had never been in a situation where I lost something that I had treasured so much. It happened so unexpectedly that I felt the soil giving way from under my feet. I hoped that if only the world stopped in its track at least for a second, but it didn’t.
For how long did I sit there looking at the distant skyline through the tamarind leaves, I had no idea. A cool breeze rustled my unruly hair and gently caressed my cheeks. Sometimes one got tired of being strong too. The sun had conveniently chosen to disappear beyond the horizon. The gold in the sky had made way for pink and purple. From above the branches of the tamarind tree, the night was steadily descending like a bear on its hind legs. A pale, but splintered quarter moon showed up in the eastern sky. Was a tear or two threatening to roll down from my eyes? Was that the reason why the moon now appeared in broken bits? I felt drained and fidgety. A rooster crowed from its shelter in Kassim Rawther’s house. I heard Nachiamma calling out my name. I ran towards the house.
About 70 Kilometers South-West of Sydney, past the small town Picton, the Queen Victoria Park and an expanse of pastureland grazed by domestic horses and livestock, is Thirlmere. Close on its heels to the West is the Thirlmere Lakes National Park which has found its place in UNESCO’s World Heritage list (under the area Greater Blue Mountains). Apart from the trekking woods, the main feature of the park is three fresh water lakes – Gandangarra, Werri-Berri and Couridjah. These lakes are thought to have formed around 15 million years ago by geological activity, that cut them off from the local river system. The surrounding habitat is forest, spread out over 6 Sq Kilometers dominated by trees like rough-barked Apple, Sydney peppermint and red bloodwood, ideal for trekking, birdwatching and even barbecues. The Heritage Pump Station also sits about a Kilometer into the woods with a bit of locomotive history. In the not too distant past the Pump Station delivered water to Couridjah to replenish the steam locomotives on the old Southern Railway line after their long haul up the steep grade from Picton. The restored sandstone heritage pump house is the only remaining paradigm of a building of its kind.
Gabriel Garcia Marquez
(6 March 1927-17 April 2014)
The first sentence of One Hundred Years of Solitude has become one of the most famous opening lines of all time: “Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendia was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice.”
Garcia Marquez was born in Aracataca, a small town near Colombia’s Caribbean coast, on March 6, 1927. He was the eldest of the 11 children of Luisa Santiaga Marquez and Gabriel Elijio Garcia, a telegraphist and a wandering homeopathic pharmacist. Right after his birth, his parents left him with his maternal grandparents and moved to Barranquilla to open a pharmacy. He spent 10 years with his grandmother and his grandfather, a retired colonel who fought in the devastating 1,000-Day War that hastened Colombia’s loss of the Panamanian isthmus.
His grandparents’ tales provided grist for Garcia Marquez’s fiction and Aracataca became the model for ‘Macondo,’ the village surrounded by banana plantations where ‘One Hundred Years of Solitude’ is set. “I have often been told by the family that I started recounting things, stories and so on, almost since I was born _ ever since I could speak,” Garcia Marquez once told an interviewer.
Sent to a state-run boarding school just outside Bogota, he became a star student and voracious reader, favoring Hemingway, Faulkner, Dostoevsky and Kafka. He published his first piece of fiction as a student in 1947, mailing a short story to the newspaper El Espectador. Garcia Marquez’s father insisted he study law but he dropped out, bored, and dedicated himself to journalism.
In 1954, Garcia Marquez was sent to Rome on a newspaper assignment. There he studied cinema, a lifelong love. He later moved to Paris, living among intellectuals and artists exiled from the many Latin American dictatorships of the day. Heavily influenced by the work of William Faulkner, he wrote his first novel at the age of 23 although it took seven years to find a publisher.
His flamboyant and melancholy fictional works _ among them ‘Chronicle of a Death Foretold,’ ‘Love in the Time of Cholera’ and ‘Autumn of the Patriarch’ outsold everything published in Spanish except the Bible. The epic 1967 novel ‘One Hundred Years of Solitude’ which took him 12 months to write sold more than 50 million copies in more than 30 languages.
In 1982 Garcia Marquez received the Nobel Prize for Literature. He received praise for the vibrancy of his prose and the rich language he used to convey his overflowing imagination.
In his acceptance speech Garcia Marquez described Latin America as a “source of insatiable creativity, full of sorrow and beauty, of which this roving and nostalgic Colombian is but one cipher more, singled out by fortune.”
In 2006 Aracataca’s mayor made a failed proposal to rename Garcia Marquez’s birthplace after Macondo, the fictional setting for the writer’s most famous work, One Hundred Years of Solitude.
In 2012 Garcia Marquez’s younger brother Jamie said the writer was suffering from dementia. The Nobel prize winner made few public appearances since then and until his death in April 2014.