It was a moment she had not anticipated ever. Romantic novellas were her bedtime treat when the burr bugged her brain: but they were soporific tranquillizers, not real books. So it was that in her declining years, she imagined stories of romantic trysts for herself, imagining a time when life would begin again, and when she would regress to a start-up twenty. Nice. Almost as tranquillizing as the books that dished them out.
Very often she would try to imagine, wonder, if that ‘chemistry’ that kept the romance together in the books happened to her in real life what she would do. But it was an imagination that she could not fathom. She gave up, since it was beyond the realm of the real and in books of course, it strung the poor thread of a plot together to the inevitable end.
But it happened, and when it did, she could not believe it. “It is in my imagination,” she thought to herself. Deprived of the oxygen of a life, she was beginning to imagine reality in unreal situations. Or so she thought.
But she could not have imagined the first look. The first pull of something that told her this was ‘the’ zing. The something that made her look at his face again to wonder why it made her look again. Not a handsome face, but a pleasant one. Not certainly tall, dark and handsome – for he was a bit stocky, fair and light-eyed to boot.
And then it happened again. The fine thread that made the link was getting clearer by the minute. This was something more. There was electricity in two hands that came close to touching but did not. There was a buzz in the smiles and the conversations. The fine thread that was almost transparent began to acquire form and a steady shape – it was a line that connected and each time the connection was made, there was a zap. It could not be ignored anymore.
She put down the book which had lost its lustre and tried imagination. This time, it just wouldn’t work. There were no stories or situations that would fit this one. For there it was, moments and moments in time, of a link, an electricity and a puzzled acceptance of this happening.
Once the acceptance came, she shrugged and relaxed. There was nothing, truly nothing she could do about it. For he was a twenty to her thirty-five and there would be plenty others he would surely connect better with, perhaps of his own age?
As she brooded, he came up to where she was seated, at the lounger by the poolside and smiled. The electricity crackled and their eyes met. “May I join you?” he asked.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Extreme beauty
Extreme beauty does that to you. Makes you dissatisfied. Having returned from a tryst with true Nature: no faux 'close-to-nature' resort in the sun - there seems nothing left for you back here.
The need to return pulls. If only I were born in another time. Perhaps two decades later.
The need to return pulls. If only I were born in another time. Perhaps two decades later.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Bollywood special with imported bombshell
The film begins well enough. You have a charming but unscrupulous hero who earns his moolah mainly by wedding young women looking for a green card. The scene is of course, Vegas. Then you have the illegal Spanish immigrant, once again, out for the money, but is fairly plain about her intentions. Both of them are in relationships for what they can get out of it to make their lives easy.
So you have a casino, it’s wealthy, ruthless owner(Kabir Bedi in a wasted role), his son(affianced to the hyped Barbara Mori) and daughter(played by Kangana whom Hrithik pretends to love for the lucre). Then there is a bit of the past where Hrithik has had a wedding with Barbara to help her get a green card and him the cash.
All very well. Stage is set for some interesting encounters and plenty of chemistry you think, when this whole bunch meet at the beach house of Kabir and family for the engagement of son to Barbara. There is much exchange of looks and pursing of lips and the premise for an illicit tryst is set between the lead pair. And then… I think I missed the kite. And so does the director.
Where earlier Natasha(Mori) was a delicious gold digger, the second half shows her soppy and giving up her earlier ambitions for ‘love’! So too with J(Hrithik). Then what? Well… there is nothing you can do when the first half of the storyline cannot even connect with the second. The lead pair show no justification for their change of heart. There are plenty of hide and seek thrilling chase scenes; many many scenes of romance(yawn) with significant exchange of looks and the poster lead pair posing against glorious backdrops. And then… some more story, where there is no Kabir Bedi or Kangana, but only the official villain weekly gnashing his teeth and chasing the lead pair to the end.
Someone has had fun writing the first half, while another writer went wild with the second – that’s the way the script seems.
Makes you feel sorry for poor Hrithik who has made the effort to look gorgeous and act some part - someone please tell Barbara that showing teeth and tongue between teeth cannot constitute acting.
Meanwhile, there is enough craft in this beautifully well-shot movie to make you think what could have been done with this story had they stuck their necks out to make a proper movie and not a Bollywood love story special with an imported bombshell.
So you have a casino, it’s wealthy, ruthless owner(Kabir Bedi in a wasted role), his son(affianced to the hyped Barbara Mori) and daughter(played by Kangana whom Hrithik pretends to love for the lucre). Then there is a bit of the past where Hrithik has had a wedding with Barbara to help her get a green card and him the cash.
All very well. Stage is set for some interesting encounters and plenty of chemistry you think, when this whole bunch meet at the beach house of Kabir and family for the engagement of son to Barbara. There is much exchange of looks and pursing of lips and the premise for an illicit tryst is set between the lead pair. And then… I think I missed the kite. And so does the director.
Where earlier Natasha(Mori) was a delicious gold digger, the second half shows her soppy and giving up her earlier ambitions for ‘love’! So too with J(Hrithik). Then what? Well… there is nothing you can do when the first half of the storyline cannot even connect with the second. The lead pair show no justification for their change of heart. There are plenty of hide and seek thrilling chase scenes; many many scenes of romance(yawn) with significant exchange of looks and the poster lead pair posing against glorious backdrops. And then… some more story, where there is no Kabir Bedi or Kangana, but only the official villain weekly gnashing his teeth and chasing the lead pair to the end.
Someone has had fun writing the first half, while another writer went wild with the second – that’s the way the script seems.
Makes you feel sorry for poor Hrithik who has made the effort to look gorgeous and act some part - someone please tell Barbara that showing teeth and tongue between teeth cannot constitute acting.
Meanwhile, there is enough craft in this beautifully well-shot movie to make you think what could have been done with this story had they stuck their necks out to make a proper movie and not a Bollywood love story special with an imported bombshell.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
The Chase Legacy
‘One Bright Summer Morning’ is one of James Hadley Chase’s best books I think. This prolific and wonderful story teller had his books marred by skimpy babes on the rather lurid covers. One reason why your hand extended to pick them up; one reason why you hesitated to hold them aloft while reading them as a teen.
Yet, his books have been the most captivating, delving deep into criminal minds, their impulses and of course, mostly always they got their just desserts. But the story telling and the plots were without exception masterly and Chase is an un-anointed classic story teller about the darker side.
Last week at my friendly neighbourhood bookshop, ‘Words and Worths’ I stumbled upon these books with lurid covers, with production values akin to pirated versions that you see on pavement vendor’s shelves and uneven, uneasy fonts/production values.
Curiosity got the better of me (the same curiosity that helped me discover and buy Ashok Banker’s ‘Ten Dead Admen’/’The Iron Bra’ and ‘Murder & Champagne’ as a set of three for a sum of Rs.50 many years ago), especially since the author of these obviously crime novels with was Dr. L. Prakash, the doctor who is counting his time behind bars in a pornography case. Below his name is the blurb “India’s Most Prolific Author” attributed to Outlook.
The back covers are very candid. They carry his photograph as well as a brief profile and his life imprisonment and the fact that he ‘scribbles away’ his novels in Puzhal Prison. And his publisher? – Banana Books based in Triplicane.
Curiosity won. The books were expensive, for their kind of quality, close to about Rs.200 each. I fell into ‘Tangled Web’ a narrative about a new kid in town, the murder of a starlet and a whodunit that echoed a ‘Chasey’ feel. Curiously, the language was clumsy, but the plot and narrative held together in a strange atmosphere of suspense. Words were used wrongly in contexts; crème substituted cream in one place and automotive substituted automobile. But in our very Indian way, one understood the substitutions and went on with it. The plot stood the test of suspense and held on to the very end. You even kind of empathized with the hero, who actually is not very likeable; hoping he would get out of his entanglement. All very evocative (mind you nowhere near the class or the mindgames that Chase novels depict) but somewhere, I should say reminiscent.
I have just begun his next ‘Maybach Maiden’(yes, that is the title) which unsurprisingly is about a Gutka/Paan Masala tycoon who gifts his daughter a Maybach – rings a bell?
The point of this blog actually, is that all this made me curious about James Hadley Chase. Now Dr. Prakash’s understanding of crime and criminals in his novels one supposes, were enhanced by his time in prison. Making you wonder if Chase himself had a brush with the law? Or was he ever in law enforcement? How else could he figure out a Riff and a Chita or a Helga Rolfe?
I googled – he seemed to have been a very reclusive writer. One interesting fact I found is that some part of his young life he spent in Calcutta.
Now only his books with the dated babes on the cover stand out. Btw, invariably the babes are the only sex that the books see. Chase’s novels invariably are clinically criminal.
Yet, his books have been the most captivating, delving deep into criminal minds, their impulses and of course, mostly always they got their just desserts. But the story telling and the plots were without exception masterly and Chase is an un-anointed classic story teller about the darker side.
Last week at my friendly neighbourhood bookshop, ‘Words and Worths’ I stumbled upon these books with lurid covers, with production values akin to pirated versions that you see on pavement vendor’s shelves and uneven, uneasy fonts/production values.
Curiosity got the better of me (the same curiosity that helped me discover and buy Ashok Banker’s ‘Ten Dead Admen’/’The Iron Bra’ and ‘Murder & Champagne’ as a set of three for a sum of Rs.50 many years ago), especially since the author of these obviously crime novels with was Dr. L. Prakash, the doctor who is counting his time behind bars in a pornography case. Below his name is the blurb “India’s Most Prolific Author” attributed to Outlook.
The back covers are very candid. They carry his photograph as well as a brief profile and his life imprisonment and the fact that he ‘scribbles away’ his novels in Puzhal Prison. And his publisher? – Banana Books based in Triplicane.
Curiosity won. The books were expensive, for their kind of quality, close to about Rs.200 each. I fell into ‘Tangled Web’ a narrative about a new kid in town, the murder of a starlet and a whodunit that echoed a ‘Chasey’ feel. Curiously, the language was clumsy, but the plot and narrative held together in a strange atmosphere of suspense. Words were used wrongly in contexts; crème substituted cream in one place and automotive substituted automobile. But in our very Indian way, one understood the substitutions and went on with it. The plot stood the test of suspense and held on to the very end. You even kind of empathized with the hero, who actually is not very likeable; hoping he would get out of his entanglement. All very evocative (mind you nowhere near the class or the mindgames that Chase novels depict) but somewhere, I should say reminiscent.
I have just begun his next ‘Maybach Maiden’(yes, that is the title) which unsurprisingly is about a Gutka/Paan Masala tycoon who gifts his daughter a Maybach – rings a bell?
The point of this blog actually, is that all this made me curious about James Hadley Chase. Now Dr. Prakash’s understanding of crime and criminals in his novels one supposes, were enhanced by his time in prison. Making you wonder if Chase himself had a brush with the law? Or was he ever in law enforcement? How else could he figure out a Riff and a Chita or a Helga Rolfe?
I googled – he seemed to have been a very reclusive writer. One interesting fact I found is that some part of his young life he spent in Calcutta.
Now only his books with the dated babes on the cover stand out. Btw, invariably the babes are the only sex that the books see. Chase’s novels invariably are clinically criminal.
Tomorrow is another day
Faith makes no connections
My good friend and designer is lucky in his BSNL connection. I keep telling him that. He speaks of his broadband, its speed and the fact that it has so far, not let him down. I keep reiterating that he is lucky and now I know – he is lucky.
Now most of us, for sheer value of getting some reaction if not service for money’s worth, do prefer to engage with the private sector. So it is that my broadband and the mobile connections of various family members are from private operators. While I am not saying that their service is fantastic, a combination of low expectations and the fact that some amount of threat (“I will go to consumer court.”) or coaxing (“Please, please… er… that’s begging) can get some reaction out of them.
Try that with the EB/BSNL/etc and you will know what I mean. So it is better to give them a wide berth or so one thought. But of late, my private operator’s undersea cables, poor guy, is giving him problems, and of late has been a good three weeks. One working day saw the internet down, another saw it slow, and so on and so forth. Not a good thing, since our life’s revenues these days are driven on the net, and in hindsight, perhaps an alternate source of internet would be good as standby, was the thought that drove my next move. I mailed back a BSNL franchise who had sent me a mass marketing mail (after deep thought, of course – for one knows that service or what I call reaction, cannot be that bad, can it, esp. since the marketing blitz that one sees with the svelte Deepika on TV and newspapers).
So reacting to the marketing mail of the BSNL franchisee in T. Nagar, I mailed – they came after two weeks after a little bout of reminder calls. No big deal, since we are used to begging for service anyway (the fact that we pay for such favours has nothing to do with it). After my gentle reminders, a gent called saying he needed two passport photos and two documents, one verifying that I was indeed who I claimed to be and the second, that I lived where I claimed to live. Since all this ID verification has now become part of our existence, I had the stuff ready when he arrived and proceeded to fill up one of the boxed forms that are now the norm.
Once that was done, he gave me the particulars and then… hold your breath… asked for cash. I said crossed cheque or no deal. This confused the gent a bit who made a flurry of calls and then decided that he wanted my money after all, no problem if the bank got it straight. He alertly reminded me that I will not get my object of desire until my money is in the franchisee’s bank. Whatever, I said, but tell me how it goes and deliver my USB modem and post paid connection.
About three days later, checking my online resources thanks to good ol’ SBI, hurrah! I discovered that the franchisee had got his monies, but as usual, his memory was a bit weak. So I made my gentle reminder call and the person in charge, of course was not available, until my voice got a bit sharper, and then of course he was there apparently and he came on the line.
I explained and he was kind – if the money has come in, the USB should be with me that very evening. No issues I said equally kindly, but time, we all know does get a bit elastic and it was the next day evening that the thing actually made its tired way to my home. How exciting. They gave me what looked like a DVD case with a nice blue background and a pretty Deepika Padukone surfing on some laptop wearing a net or crocheted top. Pretty cool.
It’s all done and ready, said the chap who delivered. The seal in the box was broken and the modem loaded with the SIM - we check it before we give it to you, said he. After verifying my identity(my driver’s license this time), it was time for the big logon!
The modem looked sleek and I was keen to do a Deepika. (Do remember it’s thanks to BSNL that she delivered some baby in the back of boondocks in some advert, so it felt all very positive.) Besides, the top of the box said in nice bold letters – BSNL 3G, a generation ahead. I plugged in the USB and feeling all generation ahead, installed it. Very efficient. All things done, I pressed ‘connect’.
This was the beginning of a long series of disappointments. While the thing behaved very positively saying ‘port opening’ and then ‘authenticating’ and then… dial in failed. Being completely a citizen of my country and of course, therefore, not unused to working my fingers off for every facility that I pay for, I tried and tried. Then, I turned the box over to look for a helpline number. Na da.
Never mind. I had my local BSNL number and the trusty chappie answered, giving me the helpline number. Helpline said that my SIM had not been registered and gave me some steps to do (don’t want to bore you now, if this, like a formulaic Bollywood hit hasn’t bored you already), and asked me to try a couple of hours later.
Na da.
Another call.
Chappie says, your SIM is not registered.
I say I have BSNL receipt.
He says na da. So he says where buy?
Franchisee.
Oh, they can’t sell you post paid.
But they did and I have Bharat Sanchar Nigam receipt no so so.
I don’t want your receipt number, go to nearest BSNL.
Check your system.
Ask your franchisee.
All the above conversation is in Tamil.
He is determined not to let go of the fact that it is not his duty.
Of course, I am the customer and it is my duty to give up.
I duly do so.
Then he switches to English and says,
Anything else ma’am.
Now I get a bit sarcastic. What else would I want I ask him.
It doesn’t register with the parrot.
He says in well modulated English,
Thank you for your call madam,
Have a nice time.
I laugh out aloud but he is impervious. Happy with a job done, he disconnects.
Oh well.
Tomorrow is another day.
Scarlett was so right.
My good friend and designer is lucky in his BSNL connection. I keep telling him that. He speaks of his broadband, its speed and the fact that it has so far, not let him down. I keep reiterating that he is lucky and now I know – he is lucky.
Now most of us, for sheer value of getting some reaction if not service for money’s worth, do prefer to engage with the private sector. So it is that my broadband and the mobile connections of various family members are from private operators. While I am not saying that their service is fantastic, a combination of low expectations and the fact that some amount of threat (“I will go to consumer court.”) or coaxing (“Please, please… er… that’s begging) can get some reaction out of them.
Try that with the EB/BSNL/etc and you will know what I mean. So it is better to give them a wide berth or so one thought. But of late, my private operator’s undersea cables, poor guy, is giving him problems, and of late has been a good three weeks. One working day saw the internet down, another saw it slow, and so on and so forth. Not a good thing, since our life’s revenues these days are driven on the net, and in hindsight, perhaps an alternate source of internet would be good as standby, was the thought that drove my next move. I mailed back a BSNL franchise who had sent me a mass marketing mail (after deep thought, of course – for one knows that service or what I call reaction, cannot be that bad, can it, esp. since the marketing blitz that one sees with the svelte Deepika on TV and newspapers).
So reacting to the marketing mail of the BSNL franchisee in T. Nagar, I mailed – they came after two weeks after a little bout of reminder calls. No big deal, since we are used to begging for service anyway (the fact that we pay for such favours has nothing to do with it). After my gentle reminders, a gent called saying he needed two passport photos and two documents, one verifying that I was indeed who I claimed to be and the second, that I lived where I claimed to live. Since all this ID verification has now become part of our existence, I had the stuff ready when he arrived and proceeded to fill up one of the boxed forms that are now the norm.
Once that was done, he gave me the particulars and then… hold your breath… asked for cash. I said crossed cheque or no deal. This confused the gent a bit who made a flurry of calls and then decided that he wanted my money after all, no problem if the bank got it straight. He alertly reminded me that I will not get my object of desire until my money is in the franchisee’s bank. Whatever, I said, but tell me how it goes and deliver my USB modem and post paid connection.
About three days later, checking my online resources thanks to good ol’ SBI, hurrah! I discovered that the franchisee had got his monies, but as usual, his memory was a bit weak. So I made my gentle reminder call and the person in charge, of course was not available, until my voice got a bit sharper, and then of course he was there apparently and he came on the line.
I explained and he was kind – if the money has come in, the USB should be with me that very evening. No issues I said equally kindly, but time, we all know does get a bit elastic and it was the next day evening that the thing actually made its tired way to my home. How exciting. They gave me what looked like a DVD case with a nice blue background and a pretty Deepika Padukone surfing on some laptop wearing a net or crocheted top. Pretty cool.
It’s all done and ready, said the chap who delivered. The seal in the box was broken and the modem loaded with the SIM - we check it before we give it to you, said he. After verifying my identity(my driver’s license this time), it was time for the big logon!
The modem looked sleek and I was keen to do a Deepika. (Do remember it’s thanks to BSNL that she delivered some baby in the back of boondocks in some advert, so it felt all very positive.) Besides, the top of the box said in nice bold letters – BSNL 3G, a generation ahead. I plugged in the USB and feeling all generation ahead, installed it. Very efficient. All things done, I pressed ‘connect’.
This was the beginning of a long series of disappointments. While the thing behaved very positively saying ‘port opening’ and then ‘authenticating’ and then… dial in failed. Being completely a citizen of my country and of course, therefore, not unused to working my fingers off for every facility that I pay for, I tried and tried. Then, I turned the box over to look for a helpline number. Na da.
Never mind. I had my local BSNL number and the trusty chappie answered, giving me the helpline number. Helpline said that my SIM had not been registered and gave me some steps to do (don’t want to bore you now, if this, like a formulaic Bollywood hit hasn’t bored you already), and asked me to try a couple of hours later.
Na da.
Another call.
Chappie says, your SIM is not registered.
I say I have BSNL receipt.
He says na da. So he says where buy?
Franchisee.
Oh, they can’t sell you post paid.
But they did and I have Bharat Sanchar Nigam receipt no so so.
I don’t want your receipt number, go to nearest BSNL.
Check your system.
Ask your franchisee.
All the above conversation is in Tamil.
He is determined not to let go of the fact that it is not his duty.
Of course, I am the customer and it is my duty to give up.
I duly do so.
Then he switches to English and says,
Anything else ma’am.
Now I get a bit sarcastic. What else would I want I ask him.
It doesn’t register with the parrot.
He says in well modulated English,
Thank you for your call madam,
Have a nice time.
I laugh out aloud but he is impervious. Happy with a job done, he disconnects.
Oh well.
Tomorrow is another day.
Scarlett was so right.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Ode to a regressive Salman, by Salman
Nothing Veer about it. Lots of Mel about it, and yes, it’s Gibson we are talking about. The hero and his family spend plenty of time thumping biceps, getting dunked in wells while an inanely smiling Nina Gupta looks on, over-dressed in some Lambadi or Rajasthani clothing. The Pindaris(prideful, brave, nationalistic, brave clan, we are told – history said something else: but we shall revisit to give Salman the benefit of doubt), in the meanwhile, spend their time looking tough, uncouth, drinking some obviously alchoholic stuff from ceramic beer mugs, dancing to the strains of Russion or European sounding string instruments in European-looking wooden barns, wearing fur-lined(er… yes) fur-lined waistcoats, capes, etc. in what is THE MOST ORIGINAL take on Indian history certainly.
Cause there are villainous Englishman, a villainous-looking raja played by Jackie Shroff with a golden arm that was cut off by Veer’s(Salman’s) dad Mithun Chakraborty(sadly misused and miscast) in a battle that was to change all their lives forever!!!!
Whatever, Veer’s a script that’s nothing new, not even in the Karina Kaif(minus the size zero) look-alike who is supposedly a Rajasthani princess and daughter of Jackie but who appears in badly-stitched Western gowns and gloves in purple-mauve or buttercup yellow, and who, in the trite regressive thinking of badly made cinema, correctly appears in a neatly draped saree only in a moment of Indian-sadness and widowhood. Her claim to ‘acting’ is pricelessly parted trembling lips that could, at a pinch be interpreted as ecstasy, happiness, love, sadness, tragic… a la Barbara Cartland – the liberty is yours dear viewer depending on how you feel at that particular moment in the movie.
So what was Salman thinking when he made this movie where Jackie Shroff looks more impressive than the duh Veer who relies on stock expressions to get through the film? The Englishmen depicted in the film seem even more moronic and flat. Not a single character stands fleshed out in this cinematic attempt full of paper tigers. Puru Rajkumar looks promising, but I suppose Salman-Veer, recognising the challenge to his non-acting from that particular quarter, shoves him atop a sharp spike?sword? and finishes him off. So, that’s that and the rest of the film is soooooo blah the only thing missing are the kabutars. With Puru gone and Jackie relegated behind the curtains of history only to be brought back in order to be killed towards the end, there’s nothing for you to look forward to except cringing when Salman makes a hash of everything else trying to be Mel G - swagger and expressions. But the immaturity shows.
Ideally, I should begin my take on the movie speaking about the breathtaking sweep of the narrative and the story that spans the deserts of Rajasthan(?) and a very cardboard-cutout London(hark to the days of painted backdrops) where everyone looks at Salman with doe eyes despite him looking like a barbarian with outlandish clothes(nothing Indian about them thank you). He even has a dream song set there.
Story in a nutshell:
Pindaris attack train. Salman sees Katrina clone. Falls in love. Comes to London aided by some random Padre, as part of a Brit mission to educate natives and make them think like them!!!! And… pls. don’t bother to hold your breath – there he bumps into Katrina-clone on the street in a carriage; runs about like a madcap looking for her, when he should not have bothered because surprise of surprises, she is studying at the same school/college as he.
Katrina-clone is most un-patriotic and swans about togged in Brit-apparel and our patriotic-Veer finds it offending not.
The other parts of the Veerdom are random takes on oaths to finish enemy raja(who is also Katrina-clone's dad(yawn)) who is cozying up to the Brits and who once betrayed the Pindaris. Never mind. You can imagine the rest but what I promise you that what you cannot imagine is the ending, which is sheer brilliance of Bollywood invention when the well of ideas falls dry.
Makes you wonder:
Is Salman still living in Maine Pyaar Kiya when the rest of Bollywood is fast catching up with the rest of the world? Not all brilliant films certainly but Bollywood is on the ball with some interesting storylines, original characterisations and out-of-the-box thinking…
Even a Dance pe chance, or was it a Chance pe dance? – was slickly made, well-edited with fair characterisations despite a trite and wafer-thin storyline. It did not cast aspersions on our very intelligence by pretending to be what it is not.
A self-indulgence indeed, narcissistic to boot – and the bottomline is, don’t believe all those polls that bill you as the sexiest or most good looking guy on the planet. Everything is subject to the intelligence of the viewer, not merely their hormones.
Made all the more difficult since the ‘hero’ in question is shadowed by a personal past so wasteful it make you wonder if there is a thinking public out there at all – alleged to have hunted and eaten a blackbuck(a protected species, so how ‘heroic’ does it sound to hunt and eat one?) and alleged to have mowed down sleeping pavement dwellers in a nightly caper.
Can’t popular art throw up some real heroes please, and let’s not call him Veer.
Cause there are villainous Englishman, a villainous-looking raja played by Jackie Shroff with a golden arm that was cut off by Veer’s(Salman’s) dad Mithun Chakraborty(sadly misused and miscast) in a battle that was to change all their lives forever!!!!
Whatever, Veer’s a script that’s nothing new, not even in the Karina Kaif(minus the size zero) look-alike who is supposedly a Rajasthani princess and daughter of Jackie but who appears in badly-stitched Western gowns and gloves in purple-mauve or buttercup yellow, and who, in the trite regressive thinking of badly made cinema, correctly appears in a neatly draped saree only in a moment of Indian-sadness and widowhood. Her claim to ‘acting’ is pricelessly parted trembling lips that could, at a pinch be interpreted as ecstasy, happiness, love, sadness, tragic… a la Barbara Cartland – the liberty is yours dear viewer depending on how you feel at that particular moment in the movie.
So what was Salman thinking when he made this movie where Jackie Shroff looks more impressive than the duh Veer who relies on stock expressions to get through the film? The Englishmen depicted in the film seem even more moronic and flat. Not a single character stands fleshed out in this cinematic attempt full of paper tigers. Puru Rajkumar looks promising, but I suppose Salman-Veer, recognising the challenge to his non-acting from that particular quarter, shoves him atop a sharp spike?sword? and finishes him off. So, that’s that and the rest of the film is soooooo blah the only thing missing are the kabutars. With Puru gone and Jackie relegated behind the curtains of history only to be brought back in order to be killed towards the end, there’s nothing for you to look forward to except cringing when Salman makes a hash of everything else trying to be Mel G - swagger and expressions. But the immaturity shows.
Ideally, I should begin my take on the movie speaking about the breathtaking sweep of the narrative and the story that spans the deserts of Rajasthan(?) and a very cardboard-cutout London(hark to the days of painted backdrops) where everyone looks at Salman with doe eyes despite him looking like a barbarian with outlandish clothes(nothing Indian about them thank you). He even has a dream song set there.
Story in a nutshell:
Pindaris attack train. Salman sees Katrina clone. Falls in love. Comes to London aided by some random Padre, as part of a Brit mission to educate natives and make them think like them!!!! And… pls. don’t bother to hold your breath – there he bumps into Katrina-clone on the street in a carriage; runs about like a madcap looking for her, when he should not have bothered because surprise of surprises, she is studying at the same school/college as he.
Katrina-clone is most un-patriotic and swans about togged in Brit-apparel and our patriotic-Veer finds it offending not.
The other parts of the Veerdom are random takes on oaths to finish enemy raja(who is also Katrina-clone's dad(yawn)) who is cozying up to the Brits and who once betrayed the Pindaris. Never mind. You can imagine the rest but what I promise you that what you cannot imagine is the ending, which is sheer brilliance of Bollywood invention when the well of ideas falls dry.
Makes you wonder:
Is Salman still living in Maine Pyaar Kiya when the rest of Bollywood is fast catching up with the rest of the world? Not all brilliant films certainly but Bollywood is on the ball with some interesting storylines, original characterisations and out-of-the-box thinking…
Even a Dance pe chance, or was it a Chance pe dance? – was slickly made, well-edited with fair characterisations despite a trite and wafer-thin storyline. It did not cast aspersions on our very intelligence by pretending to be what it is not.
A self-indulgence indeed, narcissistic to boot – and the bottomline is, don’t believe all those polls that bill you as the sexiest or most good looking guy on the planet. Everything is subject to the intelligence of the viewer, not merely their hormones.
Made all the more difficult since the ‘hero’ in question is shadowed by a personal past so wasteful it make you wonder if there is a thinking public out there at all – alleged to have hunted and eaten a blackbuck(a protected species, so how ‘heroic’ does it sound to hunt and eat one?) and alleged to have mowed down sleeping pavement dwellers in a nightly caper.
Can’t popular art throw up some real heroes please, and let’s not call him Veer.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
How creative can you get?
Creativity in our country has no value. As in, you could create something and unless you really, really are smart or got some good legal work on what you have done in advance, your work stands for nothing.
‘Borrowing’, ‘being inspired’, ‘adjusting’ and downright unapologetic flicking takes place constantly in every field or genre of work. Why else would we see ‘copies’ of everything else under the sun, be they big brands or just pirated film DVDs? We care naught for the original thinker – we are past masters in taking the original thought and twisting it to suit our purposes and needs… and then we are creative as you please in justifying the act. Period.
No wonder the non resident Indian achieves distinction in academics, research only once he or she is non-resident. Then of course, we are quick to claim that he is one of us, not once wondering why this achiever had to fly out of the country to achieve what he or she has.
Actually there is no use playing the blame game in finding out who the culprit is; or passing on the buck. We appear to be a nation of sycophants, largely led by the medium of cinema, reading to digest and spew all that the screen and the stars show us. So every icon in our everyday lives is from some part of cinema, either Bollywood, Kollywood, Tollywood or Mollywood or whatever – which of course, even drove our political decisions. We never paused to think that just because someone ‘acted’ like they were a saviour of the masses, the image powerfully held up in technicolour, that would they in real life, without the greasepaint be actually capable of running a state or a nation? Do successful corporations employ film stars to lead their businesses?
And as for our legal systems – let’s not even go there.
The current ‘3 idiots’ controversy is what set off this particular rant. Yet, we are continually seeing ‘inspiration’ – very creative indeed. Like Salman’s Mel Gibson Braveheart look is being defended stoutly as reverse inspiration(http://movies.indiatimes.com/News-Gossip/News/Salman-Khan-trying-hard-to-be-Mel-Gibson/articleshow/5285330.cms); or Big B’s Johnny Depp inspired look(http://movies.ndtv.com/gallerydetails.aspx?id=4065&category=Movies&picno=5§ion=Bollywood&ShowID=0#BD) – all this is masala for the media yet ultimately no one stands up to ask the big question – why are we only inspired?
And as for ‘3 idiots’ – I have not seen the film but have read the book. It’s not in my view the best of Chetan’s works(I think his '2 states' is crafted better) but what’s more important is that it is an original work and set the tone for a different kind of an Indian writing that would reach out empathetically to a mass audience, in the time of its publication. It opened the doors for many new young writers of a different sensibility sans the heaviness and the angst that had been showcased internationally before.
Now, I am not sure I want to see the film.
And ultimately, we the audience will be the ‘idiots’ for we will forget and not care for the real issues that need correction. All we need is another film, another star… more panaceas. We are truly a people who don’t wish to look at ourselves in the mirror.
‘Borrowing’, ‘being inspired’, ‘adjusting’ and downright unapologetic flicking takes place constantly in every field or genre of work. Why else would we see ‘copies’ of everything else under the sun, be they big brands or just pirated film DVDs? We care naught for the original thinker – we are past masters in taking the original thought and twisting it to suit our purposes and needs… and then we are creative as you please in justifying the act. Period.
No wonder the non resident Indian achieves distinction in academics, research only once he or she is non-resident. Then of course, we are quick to claim that he is one of us, not once wondering why this achiever had to fly out of the country to achieve what he or she has.
Actually there is no use playing the blame game in finding out who the culprit is; or passing on the buck. We appear to be a nation of sycophants, largely led by the medium of cinema, reading to digest and spew all that the screen and the stars show us. So every icon in our everyday lives is from some part of cinema, either Bollywood, Kollywood, Tollywood or Mollywood or whatever – which of course, even drove our political decisions. We never paused to think that just because someone ‘acted’ like they were a saviour of the masses, the image powerfully held up in technicolour, that would they in real life, without the greasepaint be actually capable of running a state or a nation? Do successful corporations employ film stars to lead their businesses?
And as for our legal systems – let’s not even go there.
The current ‘3 idiots’ controversy is what set off this particular rant. Yet, we are continually seeing ‘inspiration’ – very creative indeed. Like Salman’s Mel Gibson Braveheart look is being defended stoutly as reverse inspiration(http://movies.indiatimes.com/News-Gossip/News/Salman-Khan-trying-hard-to-be-Mel-Gibson/articleshow/5285330.cms); or Big B’s Johnny Depp inspired look(http://movies.ndtv.com/gallerydetails.aspx?id=4065&category=Movies&picno=5§ion=Bollywood&ShowID=0#BD) – all this is masala for the media yet ultimately no one stands up to ask the big question – why are we only inspired?
And as for ‘3 idiots’ – I have not seen the film but have read the book. It’s not in my view the best of Chetan’s works(I think his '2 states' is crafted better) but what’s more important is that it is an original work and set the tone for a different kind of an Indian writing that would reach out empathetically to a mass audience, in the time of its publication. It opened the doors for many new young writers of a different sensibility sans the heaviness and the angst that had been showcased internationally before.
Now, I am not sure I want to see the film.
And ultimately, we the audience will be the ‘idiots’ for we will forget and not care for the real issues that need correction. All we need is another film, another star… more panaceas. We are truly a people who don’t wish to look at ourselves in the mirror.
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