When Priyadarshan claimed he would stop making comedies after Dhol, he was being dead serious. What emerged was Doom Bhulaiyaa - something new not only for this director more at home with slapstick comedy, but a novel movie making experience very alien to Bollywood. Industry insiders claim that Activision, the makers of the famous video game series Doom, considered by most gamers as the Godfather Trilogy of all First Person Shooter video games.
The movie combined this First Person camera angle with a non-violent Indian touch. The protagonists did not carry guns, but had to play the juvenile Indian game of Eye Spy with the monster of the script. An innovative cinematography technique known as jitterbugging, which involves making a sufficiently malnourished cameraman run behind the subjects through 'Ramuly' lit long narrow corridors carrying a movie camera as heavy as the most elusive rocket launcher in the Doom series on his narrow shoulders was used in this movie. I hear the patent is pending.
Akshay Kumar arrives quarterway through the movie to Spy on the monster but the weak script does not do justice to his otherwise excellent comic timing on a regular basis. There are occasional flashes in the deadpan producing a few laugh out loud bullying scenes. Akshay, like Priyadarshan had also promised to explore other aspects of his acting persona. He does exactly that as he expresses his love for small, ahem, marbles and takes a one on one trip with the owner of these while throwing little yellow flowers up in the air a la Rekha in Silsila with a peppy, yet incoherent with respect to the script song playing in the background and playing another juvenile Indian game - musical chairs with little boats.
Look out - spoiler alert! The makers of OSO may be patting themselves on the back after the much hullabalooed 31 star studded item number, but Priyadarshan did another cinematic first as he got a huge (yeah OK, much leaner now) comeback star's self-designed ornament to do an audio guest appearance for his film. In order to publicize her latest film Aaja Nachle, in which she plays the ghungroo of a dancer facing mid-life crisis with irregular bouts of patriotism, Madhuri Dixit's payal plays the role of the monster with great jhanak (indigenous tautology anyone?) and impeccable Bangla pronunciation. Rimi Sen is proud of the latter achievement as she coached the ghungroo after Priyadarshan was impressed with her Dhoom performances, much like Salman Khan took the young unmuscular Hrithik Roshan under his wing before the making of Kaho Na Pyar Hai. Sen muses tangentially on the 'Pay It Forward' quality of the act, and hopes that the ghungroo will perform the favor for another struggling Bollywood actor or piece of inventory in the future after reaching cult status following Aaja Nachle.
Shiney Ahuja looks positively royal, as his character is meant to be, but gets too carried away with the whole Angry Young Handsome Royal image. He was screaming with almost the same regularity as the baby in the hall. I don't really dig horror films. Efforts to scare me end up amusing me, that is efforts involving supernatural beings. However, if the efforts involve deranged varieties of the human psyche, my laughter disappears, because that gives the entire story more of a realistic feel. As Tina knows, the fear quotient of my mind was scratched very early in life during a late night Doordarshan showing of Satyajit Ray's Teen Kanya, so much so that even today, a woman delirious with laughter without any apparent reason sends a chill down my spine. The feeling is exponentially aggravated if she is also unnaturally hot. Looks like Tina's been consulting for Priyadarshan.
Priyadarshan raises the question of belief in supernatural powers effectively, but falters when he attempts to answer that very question, chiefly because of a script inundated with holes that has way too many unnecessary characters (a Priyan signature I know) and thus is intense enough only in parts. However, I am feeling generous and the effort is transparent enough to be worth a slight nod.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Jimmy Boy
They call him Mr. Kiss Kiss Bang Bang in China; Aston Martin, BMW, Omega and major International fabric companies vie against rivals to ensnare him as their brand ambassador; he is licensed to kill. In short, he is every straight and bisexual man's dream idol. Since the readers of this blog also include unmanly men and women (both manly and unmanly I assume), let me go ahead and define what James Bond movies are all about - loads of action and tons of semi-clad singeing women, not always in a mutually exclusive setting.
I don't know if anyone else has got this very homophobic feeling from the most famous of the 00 agents at His Majesty's Secret Service. And, you know what they say about homophobes: they are homosexuals still living in the closet. At this point you are thinking ArSENik has gone mad (or more mad, depending on how well you know me), probably a poor victim of his own poison, but before you email me the directions to the Ranchi penitentiary, let me provide some proof of my claim.
We have had six Bonds so far, and all of them start behaving like a hungry Jerry around cheese, whenever they see any woman. I mean these are able bodied men with Baritones as silky as the fitted suits they wear. You would assume that they can bed any woman in the world, and yet, when anything with a sixth sense walks by, they loose all their five. This act can only be as genuine as Chandraswamy's hermit life.
Think about it. Who is James Bond in reality? He is a 30-40 something British widower. Need I say any more? All the women here will agree that British men are so boring that they make Gujarati men look like Elvis. And these are those rejects of the British society that have passed their 20 something Westlifish pop appeal and Hugh Grantish floppy hair. All they have left are their stiff upper lips, and M only knows what they use them for!
Most heros need sidekicks - Sherlock Holmes had Dr. Watson, Batman had Robin and Amitabh had Shashi Kapoor, but what about Bond? This conspicuous absence of a male bosom buddy is alarming, isn't it? He isn't Superman you know. In the mid-seventies, Felix Lighter of the CIA did team up with him often, but that was because of the hangover of the American producers from the Summer of Love.
A highlight of the Bond movies is the title song as the credits roll. While the British have their flaws (like bland food, thus calling the curry a British dish these days, and weak governments, to name a couple), they can certainly play music like the pyromaniac Nero. Have you ever wondered why great musicians like Elton John, or the members of the band Queen were never approached to write and perform a song for these movies? Yes, the creators of the series were worried about Bond's image and the supposed harm the sexual orientation of these musicians would cause it.
What is the most common pose you have seen any of the Bonds in? Slightly bent over, holding up a long cylindrical gun vertically, with an overtly long silencer attached to the head. I don't know about you, but if I was Bond, I would not go around that way if I was getting so much Love in Russia in the form of Thunderballs and Goldfingers from the Man with the Golden, ahem, Gun with a License to Drill, "Moon"raking for My Eyes Only, even if he was a Spy who Loved me. I rest my case.
I don't know if anyone else has got this very homophobic feeling from the most famous of the 00 agents at His Majesty's Secret Service. And, you know what they say about homophobes: they are homosexuals still living in the closet. At this point you are thinking ArSENik has gone mad (or more mad, depending on how well you know me), probably a poor victim of his own poison, but before you email me the directions to the Ranchi penitentiary, let me provide some proof of my claim.
We have had six Bonds so far, and all of them start behaving like a hungry Jerry around cheese, whenever they see any woman. I mean these are able bodied men with Baritones as silky as the fitted suits they wear. You would assume that they can bed any woman in the world, and yet, when anything with a sixth sense walks by, they loose all their five. This act can only be as genuine as Chandraswamy's hermit life.
Think about it. Who is James Bond in reality? He is a 30-40 something British widower. Need I say any more? All the women here will agree that British men are so boring that they make Gujarati men look like Elvis. And these are those rejects of the British society that have passed their 20 something Westlifish pop appeal and Hugh Grantish floppy hair. All they have left are their stiff upper lips, and M only knows what they use them for!
Most heros need sidekicks - Sherlock Holmes had Dr. Watson, Batman had Robin and Amitabh had Shashi Kapoor, but what about Bond? This conspicuous absence of a male bosom buddy is alarming, isn't it? He isn't Superman you know. In the mid-seventies, Felix Lighter of the CIA did team up with him often, but that was because of the hangover of the American producers from the Summer of Love.
A highlight of the Bond movies is the title song as the credits roll. While the British have their flaws (like bland food, thus calling the curry a British dish these days, and weak governments, to name a couple), they can certainly play music like the pyromaniac Nero. Have you ever wondered why great musicians like Elton John, or the members of the band Queen were never approached to write and perform a song for these movies? Yes, the creators of the series were worried about Bond's image and the supposed harm the sexual orientation of these musicians would cause it.
What is the most common pose you have seen any of the Bonds in? Slightly bent over, holding up a long cylindrical gun vertically, with an overtly long silencer attached to the head. I don't know about you, but if I was Bond, I would not go around that way if I was getting so much Love in Russia in the form of Thunderballs and Goldfingers from the Man with the Golden, ahem, Gun with a License to Drill, "Moon"raking for My Eyes Only, even if he was a Spy who Loved me. I rest my case.
Friday, November 09, 2007
D - The Festival
D is the Indian festival closest to my heart. No, it's not because of countless memories during my formative years, or any sentimental jing bang like that. Nor is it because the great Lord Ram kicked Ravan's ass since he could make out with ten apsaras at the same time dirty south style, aided by the mythological version of the cast of Animal Planet's reality shows. Nor is it because of the new jobs it creates in fire departments all over India every year. Then why is it, you wonder, that godless souls like mine revel in hypocrisy every year-end and wish fellow Indians 'Shubh Deepawali'.
My reason is simple. It's the godfather of all Indian festivals with enormous national appeal. The women love it and so do the men (the only other thing in this world enjoyed by both sexes). In fact, if D was actually a Don, I bet you women would bend over backwards to be made offers they couldn't refuse by D. New clothes, new presents, new coital promises or threats, hardly digestible delights and all the merriment aside, it is an excuse for people to meet and greet each other and show off their thunderous fake laughter and compare the starchiness of their kurtas and sarees.
A very disturbing recent trend in this regard, orchestrated mainly by the fag, I mean tag team of Rituporno Ghosh and Karan Johar has seen that very same maternal dupatta that has historically wiped our tears as we failed board exams or wet our beds, has found its way to cover the abs of many a fine young man today. Call me conservative, but coital promises had no role playing involved back in the day when the virility flouting Ravan hit the Colombo night scene.
Before you get all judgmental on D, let me point out where he scores over all his communalistic little rivals - the Pongals and the Durga Pujos and the Onams and the Bihus and the Guru Padwas and the Karwa Chauts and the Baisakhis. D brings all Indians together. Sure, there are those awkward moments when friends of other faiths wish you a happy D and you just smile silently like your wife's pregnancy has just been discovered. The Prof. after years of research at deca-annual House Pujas, came up with a response last year that stunned all 72 virgins when he handed an unsuspecting Captain the arti thali. Yes, there are the Eids (of various sizes) and the Christmases which are nothing but wannabe D's when we gulp down umpteen bowls of shirkhuma and disillusion the children about a fat old man with a reindeer fetish. These don't hold candles, or rather, phuljharis to D simply because we, the very people who celebrate D, have shown these peaceful influences, over years of loud fireworks (leftovers from the previous year's Chinese New Year's celebrations by the Left) that Might is indeed extreme Right.
My reason is simple. It's the godfather of all Indian festivals with enormous national appeal. The women love it and so do the men (the only other thing in this world enjoyed by both sexes). In fact, if D was actually a Don, I bet you women would bend over backwards to be made offers they couldn't refuse by D. New clothes, new presents, new coital promises or threats, hardly digestible delights and all the merriment aside, it is an excuse for people to meet and greet each other and show off their thunderous fake laughter and compare the starchiness of their kurtas and sarees.
A very disturbing recent trend in this regard, orchestrated mainly by the fag, I mean tag team of Rituporno Ghosh and Karan Johar has seen that very same maternal dupatta that has historically wiped our tears as we failed board exams or wet our beds, has found its way to cover the abs of many a fine young man today. Call me conservative, but coital promises had no role playing involved back in the day when the virility flouting Ravan hit the Colombo night scene.
Before you get all judgmental on D, let me point out where he scores over all his communalistic little rivals - the Pongals and the Durga Pujos and the Onams and the Bihus and the Guru Padwas and the Karwa Chauts and the Baisakhis. D brings all Indians together. Sure, there are those awkward moments when friends of other faiths wish you a happy D and you just smile silently like your wife's pregnancy has just been discovered. The Prof. after years of research at deca-annual House Pujas, came up with a response last year that stunned all 72 virgins when he handed an unsuspecting Captain the arti thali. Yes, there are the Eids (of various sizes) and the Christmases which are nothing but wannabe D's when we gulp down umpteen bowls of shirkhuma and disillusion the children about a fat old man with a reindeer fetish. These don't hold candles, or rather, phuljharis to D simply because we, the very people who celebrate D, have shown these peaceful influences, over years of loud fireworks (leftovers from the previous year's Chinese New Year's celebrations by the Left) that Might is indeed extreme Right.
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
Jab We Met Review
I should have listened to my heart, as the protagonists kept telling each at various parts of the screenplay, and left the theater in the interval. Then the experience would have been nice, for now, as it turns out, the aftertaste left by the second half, reeking too strongly of the age-old funda of the generic Bollywood romantic date movie, is too strong to even loose oneself in the nicely shot peppy song with phirang women in coolie attire, accompanying the end credits.
The first half of the movie is well made. The screenplay is fast paced and manages to hold your attention. Just when you think you have it figured out and start abusing it for doing a DDLJ in 2007, you realize that it is only meant to pay a little homage to the mother of all romantic Indian movies, and nothing more, as can be seen in the subtle differences. Jab We Met shatters the perception of Romeo being the roadside loafer and Juliet the shy little maiden and reverses the roles, which is the case with a sizable portion of real-life couples today.
Kareena is undoubtedly the central character, so much so that, the film could even have been called Geet (her character) and still worked, but 'Jab We Met' is meant to represent the love story of GenX, with their sprinkling of Angreji in the local dialect. Besides, I have a fetish for women with unisex names. She does an excellent job. One of the best scenes, in terms of acting, of the entire movie is when she goes all red as her character is supposed to be embarrassed. Shahid Kapur has a difficult supporting, yet probably meatier role to play. He is very believable and sincere - a huge improvement from his previous performances. Your heart goes out to him when he talks about the broken marriage of his parents since he went through the same thing in life. Their accents sounded authentic enough to me - the Punjabi accent with a little Mumbaiya in it and the Mumbaiya accent with bouts of affected Punjabi. I believed the casting was good till the lips and tongues of the protagonists decided to take the title of the film too seriously towards the end, granted a improvement from their MMS days. I am no Shiv Sainik and have no problems with people displaying their 'laav' for each other in public, but there are few things more disgusting in this world to the bystanding observer than two people making out, especially when you are forced to watch it on a 72mm screen. The actor playing the Anshuman character (who reminded me of the W - physically and otherwise) makes most of the second half tolerable with his matter of fact yet hilarious expressions, especially during moments of personal emotional duress.
The songs are all nice, except the first one, but all of them are unnecessary. I am sure they add to the commercial appeal of the film as the almost 100% seat occupancy for a Tuesday show indicates. A special mention must be made of the diligent Julie Andrews who did the English subtitles, not letting even the 'Sa Ga Re Sa Ga Re' in one of the songs go and turning them into 'Do Mi Re Do Mi Re'. I also learned today that 'Morcha Nikalo' in Punjabi means 'Rock the Party'. Another commercial aspect was the Punjabiness of the film. The color, the loudness and 'Laav' with a capital L of the larger than life Punjabis proved to be the right tonic for my semi-depressed mind - an extension of yesterday's state and helped by a shitty day at work. I was also glad Chhotu went along so that we could take the second half of the film apart with wise-crack first row (aka the rickshaw wallah row) comments. I found myself reminiscing about those Bhangra house parties from half a year back and suddenly had a momentary impulse to join the little ABCD kid with the bling bling 80's light emitting shoes in the front of the theater doing a homosexual rendition of the folk dance.
The most important thing for me was that I left the theater is my usual high spirits, without even consuming any. So, if you aren't depressed, I suggest striking up a deal with the theater wherein you can pay half the price of the ticket and leave by the interval.
PS: 'Goal' had gotten me senti last time I saw the trailer appealing to memories such as solidarity et al with the inspirational music. Didn't happen this time.
The first half of the movie is well made. The screenplay is fast paced and manages to hold your attention. Just when you think you have it figured out and start abusing it for doing a DDLJ in 2007, you realize that it is only meant to pay a little homage to the mother of all romantic Indian movies, and nothing more, as can be seen in the subtle differences. Jab We Met shatters the perception of Romeo being the roadside loafer and Juliet the shy little maiden and reverses the roles, which is the case with a sizable portion of real-life couples today.
Kareena is undoubtedly the central character, so much so that, the film could even have been called Geet (her character) and still worked, but 'Jab We Met' is meant to represent the love story of GenX, with their sprinkling of Angreji in the local dialect. Besides, I have a fetish for women with unisex names. She does an excellent job. One of the best scenes, in terms of acting, of the entire movie is when she goes all red as her character is supposed to be embarrassed. Shahid Kapur has a difficult supporting, yet probably meatier role to play. He is very believable and sincere - a huge improvement from his previous performances. Your heart goes out to him when he talks about the broken marriage of his parents since he went through the same thing in life. Their accents sounded authentic enough to me - the Punjabi accent with a little Mumbaiya in it and the Mumbaiya accent with bouts of affected Punjabi. I believed the casting was good till the lips and tongues of the protagonists decided to take the title of the film too seriously towards the end, granted a improvement from their MMS days. I am no Shiv Sainik and have no problems with people displaying their 'laav' for each other in public, but there are few things more disgusting in this world to the bystanding observer than two people making out, especially when you are forced to watch it on a 72mm screen. The actor playing the Anshuman character (who reminded me of the W - physically and otherwise) makes most of the second half tolerable with his matter of fact yet hilarious expressions, especially during moments of personal emotional duress.
The songs are all nice, except the first one, but all of them are unnecessary. I am sure they add to the commercial appeal of the film as the almost 100% seat occupancy for a Tuesday show indicates. A special mention must be made of the diligent Julie Andrews who did the English subtitles, not letting even the 'Sa Ga Re Sa Ga Re' in one of the songs go and turning them into 'Do Mi Re Do Mi Re'. I also learned today that 'Morcha Nikalo' in Punjabi means 'Rock the Party'. Another commercial aspect was the Punjabiness of the film. The color, the loudness and 'Laav' with a capital L of the larger than life Punjabis proved to be the right tonic for my semi-depressed mind - an extension of yesterday's state and helped by a shitty day at work. I was also glad Chhotu went along so that we could take the second half of the film apart with wise-crack first row (aka the rickshaw wallah row) comments. I found myself reminiscing about those Bhangra house parties from half a year back and suddenly had a momentary impulse to join the little ABCD kid with the bling bling 80's light emitting shoes in the front of the theater doing a homosexual rendition of the folk dance.
The most important thing for me was that I left the theater is my usual high spirits, without even consuming any. So, if you aren't depressed, I suggest striking up a deal with the theater wherein you can pay half the price of the ticket and leave by the interval.
PS: 'Goal' had gotten me senti last time I saw the trailer appealing to memories such as solidarity et al with the inspirational music. Didn't happen this time.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
A Tale of Two Depressions
I am sure you haven't been able to sleep at night for the past few days. I have received many an email, reeking of tears and other bodily fluids, imploring me to post something, anything. I received missed calls at ungodly hours waking me up from surreal dreams. Well, I exaggerated just a little bit there, just like any sincere blogger would, but you get the drift. Comcast (ISP and Cable provider) would like to extend their apologies to you. I came home one day from work to find the W sprawled on the floor looking at the modem like it was a Rubik's cube that was winking at him with its six little lights (LED's for geeks) in random order and the 42 displaying a depressing "There is no service" or something morose like that, which was more suited on a tombstone.
The W went into depression, thus exhibiting the 21st century man's extreme reliance on the World Wide Web, much like an addict's manic craving for a hit during withdrawal. The Internet has trapped the average non-suspecting citizen of society (bespectacled and otherwise) into its Web (Ever wonder why its called Web?). While I was feeling bad about not being able to blog and thus spread yuletide and joy among my readers, as I have come to do in the past month or so, the sadistic mind wanted to see the W writhe in mental agony as he fidgeted from the couch to balcony, and then back to the couch with periodic mutterings of 'Life is so depressing'.
This reminded me of those days back in Calcutta, almost two decades back when we were hit by regular bouts of what was commonly known as "load shedding", when I got breaks from mugging up Bangla chhora (children's poems) about bullock carts in lands that existed only in my reluctant imagination to carefully make my way up to our terrace with the help of a candle to cuddle up next to Amma (my paternal grandmother) and watch the often star studded sky. She loves the sky and actually wanted to christen me Akash (and still refers to me that way in moments of extreme affection) but my parents thought the name was too common and shot the idea down, but that's a whole different family controversy.
An improvement in the economic situation meant that inverters gave us the feeling of pseudo "load sheddings" since only certain lights were allowed to be on but no fans, before we officially broke into the upper middle class with a generator which took away the whole experience altogether. Along with the summer sweat of "load sheddings", also disappeared the romantic charm of the darkness and the clear sky. Net failures are the "load sheddings" of our generation, albeit with a less cooler name. Who knows, maybe I will recite the story of the W and the lost Net to my grandchildren some day when the Internet will be replaced by something stronger, faster and more secure, unless we manage to destroy the world before that.
Came across Anurag Kashyap's blog today (Jai Google!). I have become a fan of the man after watching No Smoking recently. Reading some of the blog postings did nothing to lessen the sentiment. The postings are as honest as his films and his writing, often written after a few pegs have been downed, thus often without apparent regard for grammar. He can come across as bitter and arrogant, but I think he is just angry and frustrated more than anything else, and the reasons he spells out affected me a bit the same way, surprising me.
He talks about the sorry state of independent films in India and being a cinema enthusiast, I could only reflect how empty life would be without delightful little indigenous films like Bheja Fry, Johnny Gaddar and of course No Smoking being made; about how this discourages paranoid people like me who go to bed with film making dreams in their eyes every night to abandon their current semi-luxuriant lives to give shape to their abstract ambitions; about going through life without ever coining the words job and satisfaction in the same breath. I was so absent-minded, I even honked at a pickup that did not turn when the light to go straight turned green.
To make matters worse, right now Born Into Brothels is showing me the half-baked dreams of the unwanted children of the sex workers of Calcutta on the 42. Its showing me hope in their eyes that has a very slim chance of being converted into reality, even with the filmmaker's magnanimous attempts on a relatively small sample space of such individuals. What are striking are the matter-of-factness of some of the children when talking about their dead or socially reclusive parents and some of their artistic talents. The W laughs at my theory that some of the kids are so talented because their fathers are gifted individuals of the high strata of society we reside in. Damn! why did Comcast have to correct their mistake?
PS: Thanks to everyone who had a hand (or should I say n fingers, n being the number of fingers you use to type, assuming no one has this saved in their favorites) to play in making the Number of Visits counter in my blog hitting four figures.
The W went into depression, thus exhibiting the 21st century man's extreme reliance on the World Wide Web, much like an addict's manic craving for a hit during withdrawal. The Internet has trapped the average non-suspecting citizen of society (bespectacled and otherwise) into its Web (Ever wonder why its called Web?). While I was feeling bad about not being able to blog and thus spread yuletide and joy among my readers, as I have come to do in the past month or so, the sadistic mind wanted to see the W writhe in mental agony as he fidgeted from the couch to balcony, and then back to the couch with periodic mutterings of 'Life is so depressing'.
This reminded me of those days back in Calcutta, almost two decades back when we were hit by regular bouts of what was commonly known as "load shedding", when I got breaks from mugging up Bangla chhora (children's poems) about bullock carts in lands that existed only in my reluctant imagination to carefully make my way up to our terrace with the help of a candle to cuddle up next to Amma (my paternal grandmother) and watch the often star studded sky. She loves the sky and actually wanted to christen me Akash (and still refers to me that way in moments of extreme affection) but my parents thought the name was too common and shot the idea down, but that's a whole different family controversy.
An improvement in the economic situation meant that inverters gave us the feeling of pseudo "load sheddings" since only certain lights were allowed to be on but no fans, before we officially broke into the upper middle class with a generator which took away the whole experience altogether. Along with the summer sweat of "load sheddings", also disappeared the romantic charm of the darkness and the clear sky. Net failures are the "load sheddings" of our generation, albeit with a less cooler name. Who knows, maybe I will recite the story of the W and the lost Net to my grandchildren some day when the Internet will be replaced by something stronger, faster and more secure, unless we manage to destroy the world before that.
Came across Anurag Kashyap's blog today (Jai Google!). I have become a fan of the man after watching No Smoking recently. Reading some of the blog postings did nothing to lessen the sentiment. The postings are as honest as his films and his writing, often written after a few pegs have been downed, thus often without apparent regard for grammar. He can come across as bitter and arrogant, but I think he is just angry and frustrated more than anything else, and the reasons he spells out affected me a bit the same way, surprising me.
He talks about the sorry state of independent films in India and being a cinema enthusiast, I could only reflect how empty life would be without delightful little indigenous films like Bheja Fry, Johnny Gaddar and of course No Smoking being made; about how this discourages paranoid people like me who go to bed with film making dreams in their eyes every night to abandon their current semi-luxuriant lives to give shape to their abstract ambitions; about going through life without ever coining the words job and satisfaction in the same breath. I was so absent-minded, I even honked at a pickup that did not turn when the light to go straight turned green.
To make matters worse, right now Born Into Brothels is showing me the half-baked dreams of the unwanted children of the sex workers of Calcutta on the 42. Its showing me hope in their eyes that has a very slim chance of being converted into reality, even with the filmmaker's magnanimous attempts on a relatively small sample space of such individuals. What are striking are the matter-of-factness of some of the children when talking about their dead or socially reclusive parents and some of their artistic talents. The W laughs at my theory that some of the kids are so talented because their fathers are gifted individuals of the high strata of society we reside in. Damn! why did Comcast have to correct their mistake?
PS: Thanks to everyone who had a hand (or should I say n fingers, n being the number of fingers you use to type, assuming no one has this saved in their favorites) to play in making the Number of Visits counter in my blog hitting four figures.
Thursday, November 01, 2007
Shaken Not Stirred
Off late, California has been in the news for all the wrong reasons - first the crazy forest fires in SoCal (as people from there like to call it, making it sound like a capsule you would take for indigestion or some such ailment), then the hurricane again down south, and now finally the mini-quakes that have caused sympathetic vibrations here in the Bay Area. While I don't particularly care about the first two incidents (mainly because I am a localist), the third matters to me since it affects me directly.
The religious among us would ascribe it to the wrath of God, the superstitious would ascribe it to too much sun, and subsequently, sunscreen, but I smell a conspiracy here. Those of you who have seen the Simpsons' movie that was released recently will remember that the President of the country was my near-namesake Arnie. Arnie, having not much to do at work, saw it too and quite liked the idea of him doing the most laid back government job in the country. My theory is that Arnie has a secret pact with the cosmos. His relationship with her goes back a long way to the 70's when he was crowned Mr. Universe. In fact, it is believed in some political circles that he is the illegitimate child of her and the omnipresent and popular Mr. Steroids.
Please note that he has not made any announcements of his candidacy to run for the Office with the other good ol' white Republican boys. I wonder why, oh yeah, that's right, because he is not one of them! He is playing The Protector of all Californians right now, and thus by extension of all Americans since California represents quintessential American anyway - bad traffic, great taxes and a large number of illegal Mexicans, and will swoop in to the Presidential Race right before Judgment Day in the wake of lack of strong (not just physically) Republican candidates.
The people of California are reacting to the quavers in different ways. Stressed out middle-aged Asian software engineers combating the combined forces of the waning of close-range vision and mid-life crisis feel it is good stress relief and provide reasons to laugh (as a colleague told me today). Illegal immigrants from south of the border who have hit puberty are using fear as an excuse to put their unwanted, yet hard-working genes to good use by passing them on. When the author of this post used his two semesters of college Spanish and spoke to the average such specimen on the street, what filtered through the translation was an allusion to the proven theory that man, when threatened with extinction only thinks of continuing his race. It is a corollary to the Survival of the Fittest Theory. I, not being a middle-aged Asian software engineer or a horny illegal immigrant, am definitely shaken, but not stirred, and no, not from the quakes, but from my near-namesake's chess skills. After all, isn't life just an extension of the addictive board game?
The religious among us would ascribe it to the wrath of God, the superstitious would ascribe it to too much sun, and subsequently, sunscreen, but I smell a conspiracy here. Those of you who have seen the Simpsons' movie that was released recently will remember that the President of the country was my near-namesake Arnie. Arnie, having not much to do at work, saw it too and quite liked the idea of him doing the most laid back government job in the country. My theory is that Arnie has a secret pact with the cosmos. His relationship with her goes back a long way to the 70's when he was crowned Mr. Universe. In fact, it is believed in some political circles that he is the illegitimate child of her and the omnipresent and popular Mr. Steroids.
Please note that he has not made any announcements of his candidacy to run for the Office with the other good ol' white Republican boys. I wonder why, oh yeah, that's right, because he is not one of them! He is playing The Protector of all Californians right now, and thus by extension of all Americans since California represents quintessential American anyway - bad traffic, great taxes and a large number of illegal Mexicans, and will swoop in to the Presidential Race right before Judgment Day in the wake of lack of strong (not just physically) Republican candidates.
The people of California are reacting to the quavers in different ways. Stressed out middle-aged Asian software engineers combating the combined forces of the waning of close-range vision and mid-life crisis feel it is good stress relief and provide reasons to laugh (as a colleague told me today). Illegal immigrants from south of the border who have hit puberty are using fear as an excuse to put their unwanted, yet hard-working genes to good use by passing them on. When the author of this post used his two semesters of college Spanish and spoke to the average such specimen on the street, what filtered through the translation was an allusion to the proven theory that man, when threatened with extinction only thinks of continuing his race. It is a corollary to the Survival of the Fittest Theory. I, not being a middle-aged Asian software engineer or a horny illegal immigrant, am definitely shaken, but not stirred, and no, not from the quakes, but from my near-namesake's chess skills. After all, isn't life just an extension of the addictive board game?
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
No Smoking
Just got back from the theater after watching it. It is a fantastic film. Indian cinema has finally grown up. I am so glad films like these are being made in India. Definitely not everyone's cup of tea though, which explains the horrible reviews. Recently read somewhere Karan Johar feels that Anuraag Kashyap needs psychiatric help. As they say, there is a fine line between genius and madness, and not knowing Kashyap personally, I do not know if he is on both sides of the line or not. This surrealistic Alician journey through the Wonderland of one's psyche is punctuated with indigenous humor and bouts of lousy acting by John Abraham, but Ayesha Takia in her bit role is good and Paresh Rawal is just about right. The editing is abrupt, but that may very well have been intentional to capture the true state of the protagonist's mind. The many significant yet little things are subtly showcased to make this a true film connoisseur's delight.
I remember reading an interview of a very frustrated Kashyap some time back. He was saying things like Yash Raj Films are a bully and talking of the double standards in Indian cinema, after Black Friday was given an R rating, releasing after months of squabbling with the Censor Board and Dhoom II with all its semi-nudity spared the label. He concluded the interview saying that he might give up making movies if this continues. I just hope he doesn't give up so easily and deny the 3% or so of the Indian audience that are fans of his work such creative ecstasy.
PS: To add to the whole surrealistic feel, a mini-earthquake shook all the seats in the theater I was watching it in at a critical juncture in the movie and the other eight people in the theater were momentarily shaken, literally.
PPS: The promos of Ashutosh Gowariker's Jodha-Akbar look promising enough to be Indian Cinema's first modern war movie with believable yet exhilarating action sequences. Ash, with a mellow look, portraying the Rajput princess looked less glamorous (effectively) than the hip handlebar mustached Hrithik playing the Shehnshah.
I remember reading an interview of a very frustrated Kashyap some time back. He was saying things like Yash Raj Films are a bully and talking of the double standards in Indian cinema, after Black Friday was given an R rating, releasing after months of squabbling with the Censor Board and Dhoom II with all its semi-nudity spared the label. He concluded the interview saying that he might give up making movies if this continues. I just hope he doesn't give up so easily and deny the 3% or so of the Indian audience that are fans of his work such creative ecstasy.
PS: To add to the whole surrealistic feel, a mini-earthquake shook all the seats in the theater I was watching it in at a critical juncture in the movie and the other eight people in the theater were momentarily shaken, literally.
PPS: The promos of Ashutosh Gowariker's Jodha-Akbar look promising enough to be Indian Cinema's first modern war movie with believable yet exhilarating action sequences. Ash, with a mellow look, portraying the Rajput princess looked less glamorous (effectively) than the hip handlebar mustached Hrithik playing the Shehnshah.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Fall
The source of contents for this post is a set of notes I had written a while back, when in a different zone, for a mocumentary that I never got around to making.
What does the word 'fall' conjure up in your minds, dear readers? The Fall of Man perhaps, the fall of the Berlin Wall, the beautiful fall season with colorful leaves raining down on a couple looking for a little intimacy. But every time the last image has popped up in my mind, the man has been bald, and that is what 'fall' has eventually come to mean for me - the fall of hair.
Dr. Rohit Bal, the foremost of the has-been fashion designers of India, feels that the rise in MPB (male pattern baldness) has its shaky roots in the evolution theory. Monkeys had hair all over their body and man has evolved from monkeys. Most men (yeah OK leave Anil Kapoor out of this) have lesser hair than monkeys. So, logic says that bald men are more evolved than normal men. This is illustrated in their great survival instincts as portrayed by rumors they spread among womenfolk such as causes of baldness being a byproduct of too much testosterone.
A recent survey of randomly chosen individuals yielded interesting results on the outlook of men and women on MPB. While 98% of the men believe that as long as hair lasts till marriage (the other 2% are still trying to pry open the closet), a whopping 98.1% of the women believe that men should have hair till they are old enough to use Viagra (the other 1.9% are blind). Another important fact to result from this survey was the high-handed attitude of the men with receding hairlines with regard to the already bald men. Balaji (name changed), who has a receding hairline believes that bald men are at the bottom of the dating chain and hopes to loose his virginity before he looses all his hair, thanks to the meteoric rise off late of the cult website shaadi.com.
Dr. Bal feels that there is hope for optimists like Balaji. Here are some very practical tips he told us. The number one method used by balding men to hide their less foliated areas is called 'real estate management'. This involves placing the remaining strands of hair in such an arrangement so as to give the scalp as uniform a look as that of the grass on the other side for these individuals. For those optimists who do not wish to wake an hour earlier for work and manage their real estate every day, Dr. Bal prescribes alarming changes in facial hair with regularity to distract female gazes from the scalp. Limited research that is available on the female psyche suggests that women are intrigued by facial hair since 75% of women worldwide lack this luxuriant growth that men boast of. Other techniques include endorsing Baba Ramdev's method of sitting at lunch tables and rubbing fingernails in a group for no less than 20 minutes every weekday. Another technique is in the R&D pipeline at the moment. There is already a drug called Rogaine in the market which is supposed to replenish hair growth. What the scientists at Johnson's Johnson are working on are the blueprints of the design of a cannon for this product, which may be used by retired social workers in public places indiscriminately showering passersby with the drug. Market research only confirms the great demand for the drug all over the world.
Hope is the only universal truth that bonds men with receding hairlines and bald men together. So thank God for hope. At the end of the day, nothing except hope lasts forever, least of all, hair. To quote a George Bernard Shaw with a receding hairline, "He who has never hoped can never despair".
What does the word 'fall' conjure up in your minds, dear readers? The Fall of Man perhaps, the fall of the Berlin Wall, the beautiful fall season with colorful leaves raining down on a couple looking for a little intimacy. But every time the last image has popped up in my mind, the man has been bald, and that is what 'fall' has eventually come to mean for me - the fall of hair.
Dr. Rohit Bal, the foremost of the has-been fashion designers of India, feels that the rise in MPB (male pattern baldness) has its shaky roots in the evolution theory. Monkeys had hair all over their body and man has evolved from monkeys. Most men (yeah OK leave Anil Kapoor out of this) have lesser hair than monkeys. So, logic says that bald men are more evolved than normal men. This is illustrated in their great survival instincts as portrayed by rumors they spread among womenfolk such as causes of baldness being a byproduct of too much testosterone.
A recent survey of randomly chosen individuals yielded interesting results on the outlook of men and women on MPB. While 98% of the men believe that as long as hair lasts till marriage (the other 2% are still trying to pry open the closet), a whopping 98.1% of the women believe that men should have hair till they are old enough to use Viagra (the other 1.9% are blind). Another important fact to result from this survey was the high-handed attitude of the men with receding hairlines with regard to the already bald men. Balaji (name changed), who has a receding hairline believes that bald men are at the bottom of the dating chain and hopes to loose his virginity before he looses all his hair, thanks to the meteoric rise off late of the cult website shaadi.com.
Dr. Bal feels that there is hope for optimists like Balaji. Here are some very practical tips he told us. The number one method used by balding men to hide their less foliated areas is called 'real estate management'. This involves placing the remaining strands of hair in such an arrangement so as to give the scalp as uniform a look as that of the grass on the other side for these individuals. For those optimists who do not wish to wake an hour earlier for work and manage their real estate every day, Dr. Bal prescribes alarming changes in facial hair with regularity to distract female gazes from the scalp. Limited research that is available on the female psyche suggests that women are intrigued by facial hair since 75% of women worldwide lack this luxuriant growth that men boast of. Other techniques include endorsing Baba Ramdev's method of sitting at lunch tables and rubbing fingernails in a group for no less than 20 minutes every weekday. Another technique is in the R&D pipeline at the moment. There is already a drug called Rogaine in the market which is supposed to replenish hair growth. What the scientists at Johnson's Johnson are working on are the blueprints of the design of a cannon for this product, which may be used by retired social workers in public places indiscriminately showering passersby with the drug. Market research only confirms the great demand for the drug all over the world.
Hope is the only universal truth that bonds men with receding hairlines and bald men together. So thank God for hope. At the end of the day, nothing except hope lasts forever, least of all, hair. To quote a George Bernard Shaw with a receding hairline, "He who has never hoped can never despair".
Monday, October 29, 2007
Late
With each passing day, I find myself wishing more and more that I had been born thirty years earlier. Look at me! I hate clubbing and my definition of entertainment is watching movies in a theater, so much so that, my single ambition in life is to wait for every Friday to see which movies the critics have ripped apart with their sharp as bed-edge comments. In the India of the late 60's and 70's, these were the only forms of entertainment. Would have loved to don those bell-bottoms and watched Sholay in the theater.
Now, I will never perform a sit in in a college campus with fellow students, or attend Woodstock. Never pen any political poetry with any meaningful significance. Also, it would have been fun to be a college buddy of my father. From the stories I hear, I think we would have hit it off quite well and terrorized a lot of lesser suspecting individuals. Will never be able to watch all the Beatles live in concert, or imitate the Angry Young Smuggler Bachchan walk without being ridiculed.
Classic rock is pretty much the only music I listen to, which of course has been stopped producing, replaced by its stuttering cousin - Hip Hop. No one writes lyrics like Dylan and Lennon anymore with today's "poets" just advising you to drop it like it's hot and calling out to promiscuous girls. I would have missed the Internet though, and definitely blogging! But then, how can you miss something that you haven't experienced, or anyone for that matter? I rest my case, dear readers, Time handed us a ticket into this theme park called Life a little too late.
Now, I will never perform a sit in in a college campus with fellow students, or attend Woodstock. Never pen any political poetry with any meaningful significance. Also, it would have been fun to be a college buddy of my father. From the stories I hear, I think we would have hit it off quite well and terrorized a lot of lesser suspecting individuals. Will never be able to watch all the Beatles live in concert, or imitate the Angry Young Smuggler Bachchan walk without being ridiculed.
Classic rock is pretty much the only music I listen to, which of course has been stopped producing, replaced by its stuttering cousin - Hip Hop. No one writes lyrics like Dylan and Lennon anymore with today's "poets" just advising you to drop it like it's hot and calling out to promiscuous girls. I would have missed the Internet though, and definitely blogging! But then, how can you miss something that you haven't experienced, or anyone for that matter? I rest my case, dear readers, Time handed us a ticket into this theme park called Life a little too late.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
A Portrait of Greatness
Bengal has been forever known for its arts, and music is probably the most blue blooded of them all. It is no surprise then that over the centuries, the state has produced some of the greatest musicians India has seen, starting from Tansen to the father-son duo of the Burmans (yeah OK they were from Tripura I know, but they were actually Bangali) to Kishore Kumar and finally to one of the greatest musical personas (and I am not just talking about the size here) the world has seen. OK fine, Tansen wasn't actually Bangali, but can you blame me if you decide to show the poor chap some love and bestow upon him a last name, constructed by splitting his bisyllabic name and freeing him from Cher's curse?
Bruce Springsteen may well have plagiarized the nickname of The Boss, but IMO there can only be one Boss in the entire music industry all across the world from the Mongolian monks nursing vows of lifelong silence to sissy little men in English choirs - the one and only (even though he may appear as two or three) Bapi Da!. Growing up in the blind lanes of Calcutta, Lahiri learned to wear dark glasses early in life. Contrary to popular belief, the blind lane theory is the actual reason for the progressive fashion statement, to be fortuitously popularized by Black rappers in America in the mid-80's. No, he does not wear them to keep the bling off his jewelery from affecting his foresighted vision.
When he took the Myers-Briggs test at an age when most of his friends were idolizing Gavaskar and Vishwanath, little did he know that the analysis report that classified him as a SNIP (Sensing iNtuition Introversion Perceiving) type personality was to be proven prophetically true as he sensed the niche market for Disco music in iNdia. The introversion was more forced than voluntary since his ideas were way ahead of their times. He perceived the appeal for the rise of Disco music in the late 70's in the US and just cut (snip) and pasted what was being produced there on to the Indian musical horizon.
In exclusive interviews to the author of this post, Lahiri has confessed that the music in the Indian Film Industry in his formative years lacked enthusiasm and the aura that he ultimately provided it. However, the humility of the man came through as he grudgingly expressed respect for monotonous yet popular singers of the era such as KL Sehgal and Mukesh. He has gone on record to say that the work of these artists was too melodious for the bad boy image the protagonist of Indian cinema was evolving into in the 80's. The Naxalbadi movement in Bengal, which included in its folds the most intellectual of Bengal's sons and daughter's sparked the fire in Lahiri's huge belly. This violent sentiment is reflected in the super duper title song of "Gunmaster G9". However, with the death of Marxism, Lahiri evolved as a person and as a composer, churning out such hits as "I am a Disco Dancer" stressing on individualism and leadership. Like a shepherd leading a set of disillusioned lambs, he led the revolution of moving over to the other side of Marxism by calling out to the average Jimmy with "Jimmy Jimmy Jimmy Aja Aja Aja", relying on brilliant repetitive techniques. His work with the sex workers of Bombay is documented in his ode to them - "Rambha Ho Ho Ho" and is rumored to have catapulted him into running for next year's Nobel Peace Prize (I mean c'mon Gore just cares about the environment, not people and he gets a Nobel!)
No piece on Lahiri will ever be complete without a mention of that other thespian of the alternative movie watching experience - Mithun Chakraborty. Industry insiders, who do not wish to be named confirm that Lahiri was losing his way in his career after a promising start with lackluster songs such as the Kishore sung "Chalte Chalte" before Chakraborty arrived on the scene with "Disco Dancer", giving Lahiri's career as effective support as the wonderbra. As Ralph Waldo Emerson said, "Nature never sends a great man into the planet, without confiding the secret to another soul." And how fortunate we are that soul turned out to be the angel, known to the world as Mithun Chakraborty.
Bruce Springsteen may well have plagiarized the nickname of The Boss, but IMO there can only be one Boss in the entire music industry all across the world from the Mongolian monks nursing vows of lifelong silence to sissy little men in English choirs - the one and only (even though he may appear as two or three) Bapi Da!
When he took the Myers-Briggs test at an age when most of his friends were idolizing Gavaskar and Vishwanath, little did he know that the analysis report that classified him as a SNIP (Sensing iNtuition Introversion Perceiving) type personality was to be proven prophetically true as he sensed the niche market for Disco music in iNdia. The introversion was more forced than voluntary since his ideas were way ahead of their times. He perceived the appeal for the rise of Disco music in the late 70's in the US and just cut (snip) and pasted what was being produced there on to the Indian musical horizon.
In exclusive interviews to the author of this post, Lahiri has confessed that the music in the Indian Film Industry in his formative years lacked enthusiasm and the aura that he ultimately provided it. However, the humility of the man came through as he grudgingly expressed respect for monotonous yet popular singers of the era such as KL Sehgal and Mukesh. He has gone on record to say that the work of these artists was too melodious for the bad boy image the protagonist of Indian cinema was evolving into in the 80's. The Naxalbadi movement in Bengal, which included in its folds the most intellectual of Bengal's sons and daughter's sparked the fire in Lahiri's huge belly. This violent sentiment is reflected in the super duper title song of "Gunmaster G9". However, with the death of Marxism, Lahiri evolved as a person and as a composer, churning out such hits as "I am a Disco Dancer" stressing on individualism and leadership. Like a shepherd leading a set of disillusioned lambs, he led the revolution of moving over to the other side of Marxism by calling out to the average Jimmy with "Jimmy Jimmy Jimmy Aja Aja Aja", relying on brilliant repetitive techniques. His work with the sex workers of Bombay is documented in his ode to them - "Rambha Ho Ho Ho" and is rumored to have catapulted him into running for next year's Nobel Peace Prize (I mean c'mon Gore just cares about the environment, not people and he gets a Nobel!)
No piece on Lahiri will ever be complete without a mention of that other thespian of the alternative movie watching experience - Mithun Chakraborty. Industry insiders, who do not wish to be named confirm that Lahiri was losing his way in his career after a promising start with lackluster songs such as the Kishore sung "Chalte Chalte" before Chakraborty arrived on the scene with "Disco Dancer", giving Lahiri's career as effective support as the wonderbra. As Ralph Waldo Emerson said, "Nature never sends a great man into the planet, without confiding the secret to another soul." And how fortunate we are that soul turned out to be the angel, known to the world as Mithun Chakraborty.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
400
I am obviously not talking about Sachin Tendulkar's record of most ODI's or guessing the title to the sequel of the cult film '300' where in a mood of gay merriment on having won the war, the soldiers interbreed and thus increase their population by 33.33%. This is about someone bigger than Tendulkar or the six-packed cast of 300 can ever aspire to be - me. I am talking about fulfilling my recent aspiration of burning 400 calories in 30 minutes on the Cardio machines in our gym.
Ever since I was a kid, I had a platonic fascination for long legs in straight leg blue jeans, preferably ending in dirty boots. The very first influence was undoubtedly the countless Spaghetti Westerns I was exposed to very early in my life, thanks to my father, who is a huge fan of one of the most stylish men ever to occupy screen space - Clint Eastwood. So, I became a fan too as I watched him walk his famous walk and shoot dirty Mexicans (looks like Dubya is a fan too) from under his shawl while squinting and moving his cigar around in his mouth. Then there was the Marlboro man with his horse and cowboy hat, riding through the dusty heartland of America. And finally, much closer to home, was our very own Jaggu Dada with his red Ramboesque cloth and ragged beard swooning women and me in "Hero".
Papa gave me a good head start in my quest by donating me long legs through his genes. Now it was up to me to tone them perfectly for those skin-tight, circulation hindering jeans. Mind you, I have no ambition to pump iron and grow muscles like our Bollywood heroes of today. That is child's play as has been proved by every Tom, Dick and Harry Bollywood male (and some female) aspirant, but maintaining the right amount of fat in your leg is the stuff of legends. One has to restrict the body to a complex state of balance and restraint rather than go overboard and have a six pack.
That momentous evening is still as fresh as dew that causes outfielders to misfield, in my mind. It was quite late by gym going standards. I had been forced to work late, but little did I know that I would channel my anger thus in achieving such great heights in working out history. The silence in the gym was punctuated by the whirring of the rotating table fan while a group of fat (oh, I mean big, with all the political correctness in the world today) people fought it out on the TV overhead to be crowed the 'The Biggest Loser'. With determination that would have made Rocky Balboa proud, I told myself that I had to show these sore (from working out) losers tonight who was indeed the biggest loser. And then I started.
Concentration was never a quality I could boast of, but I wish all those Swamijis who prescribed a few hundred different concoctions of different indigenous spices and a million expensive stones for me in order to induce that quality and still failed, could have seen me go on that poor machine that night. Sweat was trying to impede my vision, but it was as if Superman had himself flown down and lent me his X-ray vision for that half an hour, so that the figures on the machine never left my sight.
In the last five minutes, with victory peeking out at me like a new bride at her groom on the wedding night before this corrupt culture of dating before arranged marriages was in place, I could not stop. For my father, for all those Clint Eastwood westerns, for the Marlboro man and most importantly, for all the losers on the TV climbing some 400 feet building, I had to go on. And go on I did with sounds that would have made Jenna Jameson blush. As the thirty minutes were finally gone, and I fell on the floor with exhaustion and ecstasy, I was looking around for some admiring female glances by PYT's in pretty small things, but alas, there was not a soul there except for the bushy-mustached janitor, playing the Chariots of Fire tune on his harmonica.
I would like to take this opportunity to extend a leaf of gratitude to Jenna and all her fellow sisters who share the same profession as her. It was their creative verbal utterances in countless pieces of their work, that gave me ideas as I was beginning to see the white light of fatigue, and helped me maintain my stamina. It is not like I am receiving a plaque for my momentous achievement like that little man did, nor am I receiving pats on the back(side) from sensuous slim feme-fatale fingers, but like all great men, I am satisfied in my modesty. Who would have thought that I, from my chubby beginnings, would one day see 400 in all its low-fat 2% beauty. Where do I go from here? To quote the Little Ba!@#$%, 400 is just a number (in weak unmanly voice).
Ever since I was a kid, I had a platonic fascination for long legs in straight leg blue jeans, preferably ending in dirty boots. The very first influence was undoubtedly the countless Spaghetti Westerns I was exposed to very early in my life, thanks to my father, who is a huge fan of one of the most stylish men ever to occupy screen space - Clint Eastwood. So, I became a fan too as I watched him walk his famous walk and shoot dirty Mexicans (looks like Dubya is a fan too) from under his shawl while squinting and moving his cigar around in his mouth. Then there was the Marlboro man with his horse and cowboy hat, riding through the dusty heartland of America. And finally, much closer to home, was our very own Jaggu Dada with his red Ramboesque cloth and ragged beard swooning women and me in "Hero".
Papa gave me a good head start in my quest by donating me long legs through his genes. Now it was up to me to tone them perfectly for those skin-tight, circulation hindering jeans. Mind you, I have no ambition to pump iron and grow muscles like our Bollywood heroes of today. That is child's play as has been proved by every Tom, Dick and Harry Bollywood male (and some female) aspirant, but maintaining the right amount of fat in your leg is the stuff of legends. One has to restrict the body to a complex state of balance and restraint rather than go overboard and have a six pack.
That momentous evening is still as fresh as dew that causes outfielders to misfield, in my mind. It was quite late by gym going standards. I had been forced to work late, but little did I know that I would channel my anger thus in achieving such great heights in working out history. The silence in the gym was punctuated by the whirring of the rotating table fan while a group of fat (oh, I mean big, with all the political correctness in the world today) people fought it out on the TV overhead to be crowed the 'The Biggest Loser'. With determination that would have made Rocky Balboa proud, I told myself that I had to show these sore (from working out) losers tonight who was indeed the biggest loser. And then I started.
Concentration was never a quality I could boast of, but I wish all those Swamijis who prescribed a few hundred different concoctions of different indigenous spices and a million expensive stones for me in order to induce that quality and still failed, could have seen me go on that poor machine that night. Sweat was trying to impede my vision, but it was as if Superman had himself flown down and lent me his X-ray vision for that half an hour, so that the figures on the machine never left my sight.
In the last five minutes, with victory peeking out at me like a new bride at her groom on the wedding night before this corrupt culture of dating before arranged marriages was in place, I could not stop. For my father, for all those Clint Eastwood westerns, for the Marlboro man and most importantly, for all the losers on the TV climbing some 400 feet building, I had to go on. And go on I did with sounds that would have made Jenna Jameson blush. As the thirty minutes were finally gone, and I fell on the floor with exhaustion and ecstasy, I was looking around for some admiring female glances by PYT's in pretty small things, but alas, there was not a soul there except for the bushy-mustached janitor, playing the Chariots of Fire tune on his harmonica.
I would like to take this opportunity to extend a leaf of gratitude to Jenna and all her fellow sisters who share the same profession as her. It was their creative verbal utterances in countless pieces of their work, that gave me ideas as I was beginning to see the white light of fatigue, and helped me maintain my stamina. It is not like I am receiving a plaque for my momentous achievement like that little man did, nor am I receiving pats on the back(side) from sensuous slim feme-fatale fingers, but like all great men, I am satisfied in my modesty. Who would have thought that I, from my chubby beginnings, would one day see 400 in all its low-fat 2% beauty. Where do I go from here? To quote the Little Ba!@#$%, 400 is just a number (in weak unmanly voice).
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Pot Pourri
The day started really really early, but very very well, thanks to Bhajan, Gambhir and Uthappa. Times of India managed to crack me up after the game with a headline that read 'India crush Aussies to maintain supremacy' or something to that effect. Yuvraj made 2 lakhs for three dives and two heaves. Rohit Sharma still didn't get to bat in front of his home crowd and the God Joginder Sharma, actually offered his fanatical followers (like yours truly) a little smile and provided teammates with insightful analysis of the game, mainly through hand gestures. Uthappa kissed the Aussies goodbye on live TV with a wink and smile, before Gambhir played an innings reminiscent of the Ganguly of the 20th century - the flamboyant timing and the consistent effective negating of spin. What's with Bangalore folks and their infatuation for Ponting's cheeks (remember the 'gentle'man at a recent charity auction) Shahrukh Khan was there, obviously neutral, since he didn't want to upset his Aussie fans who may have shed a tear or two while watching Kal Ho Na Ho. Oh wait, that was set in New York City, but who cares, all white people look the same anyway.
I had been converted from an Atheist to a Mithunist a while back by GreatBong, but today I actually got a darshan of Prabhuji in all his glory in the cinematic classic 'Gunda'. Thanks to a great rishi I met yesterday, who showed me this path of righteousness of the Lord. Needless to say I went into a fit and maybe, just for two hours, but I think I felt God inside my head (and don't believe people who say it's like an orgasm. It's a much more satisfying experience, I can assure you). He wrote white trousers and gyrated his hips like Basanti's Mausi's chakki. This extreme religious experience was preceded by some kirtan by that other great (aesthetically speaking, Sith) Lord - BapiDa. The W and I decided to convert some of our neighbors and provide some clarity into their mundane religious lives as we rolled the windows down of the Blue Lady to the beats of such classics as 'Gunmaster G9', 'Jimmy Jimmy Jimmy Aja Aja Aja', 'Rambha Ho Ho Ho Ho Ho', 'Everybody Dance with Mama' and of course our anthem - the evergreen 'I am a Disco Dancer'. Most notable conversions were those of a couple (the guy needed support from his better half as he almost slipped down the stairs they were climbing) and a young kid and his mom (we like to catch them young). We did receive a little infidelity from the mom's gaze, but who can deny the power of the kirtan?
Watched Wes Anderson's 'Darjeeling Limited' in the evening. My only background information on the guy was that he had made 'The Royal Tenenbaums', which I thought was one of those weird, but good comedies. Needless to say, I was surprised to hear Satyajit Ray's music playing in the background pretty soon after the start. I was also surprised by Owen Wilson's receding blond hairline, but that's a totally whole different story. And it wasn't just one tune, there were many from the melodious collection of his movies, and the ode to the great man was confirmed in the last scene when Anderson placed a portrait of Ray in a train called the 'Bengal Legacy' amid signs of the Royal Bengal Tiger (no, not Dada, the actual Tiger). This was a huge compliment since the Darjeeling Limited (their previous train) had a portrait of the Mahatma (who I think was a dude, in any case, he is probably India's most recognizable face internationally). Also, reminiscent were numerable train scenes from 'Sonar Kella'. This movie is unique since it is a road movie, and yet it is not. Anderson presents the very concept he actually pokes fun at. It is almost as if he is trying to prove the old age adage of 'It's the journey that matters and not the destination' very literally in a very unorthodox way. Irrfan Khan is wasted in the movie though, apart from a random Hindi abuse.
PS: People buy new clothes for Pujo, but coincidence sprung a fast one on me as I found myself buying some brand new underwear in Wal-mart today. Anyway, Shubho Bijoya dear readers.
I had been converted from an Atheist to a Mithunist a while back by GreatBong, but today I actually got a darshan of Prabhuji in all his glory in the cinematic classic 'Gunda'. Thanks to a great rishi I met yesterday, who showed me this path of righteousness of the Lord. Needless to say I went into a fit and maybe, just for two hours, but I think I felt God inside my head (and don't believe people who say it's like an orgasm. It's a much more satisfying experience, I can assure you). He wrote white trousers and gyrated his hips like Basanti's Mausi's chakki. This extreme religious experience was preceded by some kirtan by that other great (aesthetically speaking, Sith) Lord - BapiDa. The W and I decided to convert some of our neighbors and provide some clarity into their mundane religious lives as we rolled the windows down of the Blue Lady to the beats of such classics as 'Gunmaster G9', 'Jimmy Jimmy Jimmy Aja Aja Aja', 'Rambha Ho Ho Ho Ho Ho', 'Everybody Dance with Mama' and of course our anthem - the evergreen 'I am a Disco Dancer'. Most notable conversions were those of a couple (the guy needed support from his better half as he almost slipped down the stairs they were climbing) and a young kid and his mom (we like to catch them young). We did receive a little infidelity from the mom's gaze, but who can deny the power of the kirtan?
Watched Wes Anderson's 'Darjeeling Limited' in the evening. My only background information on the guy was that he had made 'The Royal Tenenbaums', which I thought was one of those weird, but good comedies. Needless to say, I was surprised to hear Satyajit Ray's music playing in the background pretty soon after the start. I was also surprised by Owen Wilson's receding blond hairline, but that's a totally whole different story. And it wasn't just one tune, there were many from the melodious collection of his movies, and the ode to the great man was confirmed in the last scene when Anderson placed a portrait of Ray in a train called the 'Bengal Legacy' amid signs of the Royal Bengal Tiger (no, not Dada, the actual Tiger). This was a huge compliment since the Darjeeling Limited (their previous train) had a portrait of the Mahatma (who I think was a dude, in any case, he is probably India's most recognizable face internationally). Also, reminiscent were numerable train scenes from 'Sonar Kella'. This movie is unique since it is a road movie, and yet it is not. Anderson presents the very concept he actually pokes fun at. It is almost as if he is trying to prove the old age adage of 'It's the journey that matters and not the destination' very literally in a very unorthodox way. Irrfan Khan is wasted in the movie though, apart from a random Hindi abuse.
PS: People buy new clothes for Pujo, but coincidence sprung a fast one on me as I found myself buying some brand new underwear in Wal-mart today. Anyway, Shubho Bijoya dear readers.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Pujo Blues
As I was driving back home from work today, I could hear drumming in the background of the Blue Lady's engine's usual humming. It took a moment to sink in that these were dhaak (traditional Pujo drum) sounds. Maybe it was this post by GreatBong that I had read earlier in the day that shoved my mind into the bright corridors of nostalgia. I pulled up to the makeshift pandal and relived my secret fantasy of referring to a stranger as 'Dada' with the excuse of asking about the Pujo in my probashi Bangla.
I rushed back after a quick shower, going for the semi-Bangla look of Kurti and Jeans. I felt I should hold back my total Bangla look of Pajama-Punjabi for Sunday since the average working class Bangalee may not have been ready for it, just like Zoolander's Magnum. The idols weren't bad with the colorful watery background and fake flame. I was admiring them silently when an obviously non-Bengali gentleman surprised me from behind with 'Do you know why they have dressed up that object like a woman's figure in a white saree with a red border?' I did not. So, told him the first creative believable thing that I could think of and moved away to admire the little stalls trying to emote the hullabaloo of Calcutta pandals.
The food was a huge let down. I had come expecting delights such as telebhaja, beguni and piyanji. What I found was a Sardarji serving what has come to define Indian food in this country, and I imagine all others except the motherland - your generic naan and some vegetarian sabzi. Where was the Phees Phry? Crestfallen, I was searching for solace in the faces of the Devis roaming around me. However, only a couple of them matched my definition of a Devi (which included wearing a flamboyant saree this evening), which I grant is very stringent off late since the Sharmila of Amar Prem and Chupke Chupke has been bothering me in my dreams.
Jhaal Muri seemed the closest thing to the culture since the guy selling CD's and DVD's did not have my request of Kishore's Rabindrasangeet (there were a lot of Anandamelas and other Bengali magazines, but I am not into them. I heard a gentleman joking with the seller that he would only pay the quoted price in Calcutta). The snack was very authentic and stung my nose like those countless jhal muris eaten on train journeys back home. Just as the sleepy voice on the jukebox was beginning to annoy me, an announcement was made that the evening would conclude with dhaak playing. Just like earlier, the quality was very good, but what surprised me was the main dhaak player. He was an ABCD (well not apparently C) teenager. The performance was so good that I found myself aspiring to do a dhunuchi dance to the beat. So, the evening was about to end on a good note, when I realized I was the only one there standing alone in a corner and not participating in adda with the average short, round, dark, bespectacled member of the crowd with shiny hair and that my only interaction with them had been to click photographs of couples with alien cameras while making sure the idols were "visible in the background", before disappearing into the night.
I rushed back after a quick shower, going for the semi-Bangla look of Kurti and Jeans. I felt I should hold back my total Bangla look of Pajama-Punjabi for Sunday since the average working class Bangalee may not have been ready for it, just like Zoolander's Magnum. The idols weren't bad with the colorful watery background and fake flame. I was admiring them silently when an obviously non-Bengali gentleman surprised me from behind with 'Do you know why they have dressed up that object like a woman's figure in a white saree with a red border?' I did not. So, told him the first creative believable thing that I could think of and moved away to admire the little stalls trying to emote the hullabaloo of Calcutta pandals.
The food was a huge let down. I had come expecting delights such as telebhaja, beguni and piyanji. What I found was a Sardarji serving what has come to define Indian food in this country, and I imagine all others except the motherland - your generic naan and some vegetarian sabzi. Where was the Phees Phry? Crestfallen, I was searching for solace in the faces of the Devis roaming around me. However, only a couple of them matched my definition of a Devi (which included wearing a flamboyant saree this evening), which I grant is very stringent off late since the Sharmila of Amar Prem and Chupke Chupke has been bothering me in my dreams.
Jhaal Muri seemed the closest thing to the culture since the guy selling CD's and DVD's did not have my request of Kishore's Rabindrasangeet (there were a lot of Anandamelas and other Bengali magazines, but I am not into them. I heard a gentleman joking with the seller that he would only pay the quoted price in Calcutta). The snack was very authentic and stung my nose like those countless jhal muris eaten on train journeys back home. Just as the sleepy voice on the jukebox was beginning to annoy me, an announcement was made that the evening would conclude with dhaak playing. Just like earlier, the quality was very good, but what surprised me was the main dhaak player. He was an ABCD (well not apparently C) teenager. The performance was so good that I found myself aspiring to do a dhunuchi dance to the beat. So, the evening was about to end on a good note, when I realized I was the only one there standing alone in a corner and not participating in adda with the average short, round, dark, bespectacled member of the crowd with shiny hair and that my only interaction with them had been to click photographs of couples with alien cameras while making sure the idols were "visible in the background", before disappearing into the night.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Memorable Memories
Recently, I have had way too many conversations with close friends about college days. So, a little blib about those magical days seems appropriate. What's strange though, is at the time they didn't seem so magical, but then again, magic is only apparent when you admire something from a distance, and in this case, time. Unlike the sale season at Mor Furniture, those days will never come back. It's not like you can go back to college and relive the times because chances are not more than 5% of your core gang will do the same at the same time, and let's face it, the only thing that mattered in college life were the memories created with those unsocial beings (like yourself) you befriended in the first year.
Georgia Tech hardly gave us the time to realize that Atlanta was a city that included places besides the campus. So, whenever I found myself not starting on a project due within the timespan between the commencement of labor and childbirth, I made my way to the infamous Third Floor of Matheson Dorm, which was usually as dirty as any Third World Country, and yet I loved it as much as I love a certain Third World Country. In the last semester it was the posher quarters of the ULC and fights over the PSP WWF game had substituted for cricket in the corridors of Matheson and breaking the overhead lights, thus showing a collective elevated standard of living as a result of the coops, internships and various on-campus jobs. There are a million such memories crystallized in the corridors of my memory, and I don't feel like trivializing them by talking about them here.
Georgia Tech hardly gave us the time to realize that Atlanta was a city that included places besides the campus. So, whenever I found myself not starting on a project due within the timespan between the commencement of labor and childbirth, I made my way to the infamous Third Floor of Matheson Dorm, which was usually as dirty as any Third World Country, and yet I loved it as much as I love a certain Third World Country. In the last semester it was the posher quarters of the ULC and fights over the PSP WWF game had substituted for cricket in the corridors of Matheson and breaking the overhead lights, thus showing a collective elevated standard of living as a result of the coops, internships and various on-campus jobs. There are a million such memories crystallized in the corridors of my memory, and I don't feel like trivializing them by talking about them here.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Never Go to Lunch with ...
- Creatures who consider you part of the menu.
- Only Software people.
As I was appearing to look cool while tearing off the cheese from my pizza at the cafeteria, I got momentarily distracted from the innocuous table conversation about something inconsequential to livelihood by a new non-hideous female face. When my mind strayed back to the conversations, suddenly I was hearing words like 'vectors' and 'garbage collection'. In keeping with the theme of this post, I will just say that my mind found itself stuck in an infinite loop.
After bearing these stalactite-like sharp words, like some misdirected racial slur, for almost five minutes, the mind revolted through the tongue. As if to appease my hardware self, these code warriors suddenly started talking about that one course they had taken in college that involved wiring something together. Now, the eyes were searching for faces again fast - hideous notwithstanding, female notwithstanding. But alas, the ears were trapped and before I knew it, I had this choking feeling inside me as every pair of spectacled eyes in the cafe were on me as if reading me like a piece of code. And that is when I passed out, or should I say performed an Ungraceful Shutdown.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Lab Adventures
Both highlights of the day happened in the lab at work today. Before the luncheon intermission, I managed to bump my head very badly on the razor-sharp blades of one of the testers. Great men leave their legacy in some form or another. In my case, they were in the forms of three strands of my not-so-luxuriant hair on the bloodied blades. A narcissist trip to the restroom showed me that the tester had indeed sindoorofied me with the original sindoor, unlike the sissy version used by most Indian wives. Of course, the 'ritual' was followed by KK asking me the usual "What have you been smoking?"
The other event happened when there was not a soul there. My friends on the east coast were probably smugly in bed, and here I was, trying to figure out which directory a certain file was in. Unfortunately, only one soul in the entire cosmos knows the secret location. So, I had to disturb him probably from his nice homely family dinner with my SOS signal. But, alas, I do not speak Vietnamese English yet, and so after umpteen attempts at linguistic analysis over the phone, I gave up, hung up the phone and shouted obscenities to an empty room, that echoed them back to me, yeah in English.
PS: And the day ends brilliantly as Orkut announces to me as nonchalantly as possible that today's fortune for me is: Behind an able man, there are always other able men.
The other event happened when there was not a soul there. My friends on the east coast were probably smugly in bed, and here I was, trying to figure out which directory a certain file was in. Unfortunately, only one soul in the entire cosmos knows the secret location. So, I had to disturb him probably from his nice homely family dinner with my SOS signal. But, alas, I do not speak Vietnamese English yet, and so after umpteen attempts at linguistic analysis over the phone, I gave up, hung up the phone and shouted obscenities to an empty room, that echoed them back to me, yeah in English.
PS: And the day ends brilliantly as Orkut announces to me as nonchalantly as possible that today's fortune for me is: Behind an able man, there are always other able men.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Hollywood Weekend
George Clooney caused a lot of grief to three twenty somethings who paid him for what seemed like 5-6 hours of their Friday evenings. No, he didn't make a house call for us. I am alluding to his new movie that hit the theaters this weekend - Michael Clayton. It is probably the worst movie I have seen in a theater. Even the leather jacket over the arm rest of the seat, serving as a makeshift pillow refused to allay the pain. The editing was pathetic with the movie having substantial substance only in the last 45 minutes or so. There was also no trace of a funny dialogue in the entire movie.
As a result of this catastrophic movie watching experience, I was shuddering as I put in Clooney's Three Kings into my DVD player. And this movie was the complete compliment of his last caper I had watched. I am not usually a big fan of war movies (though my all time favorite movie is Apocalypse Now), but this one combined humor and adventure very well. True to his name, Ice Cube turned in a calm and composed performance, complimenting Mark Walberg's usual brilliant intensity very well. I later learned that he actually got himself electrocuted in one of the torture scenes, while watching the documentary about the making of the film. It is really a heist film in the backdrop of war. Clooney played a good leadership role in the whole sand adventure like in the Ocean movies.
Finally overcame my laziness and made the call to Prof. So, now my 42" is mounted on the wall and there's space to walk around in the apartment without any threat to any of the toes. Also placed the dwarfs (the little speakers of the home theater system) in acoustically strategically proven positions so that they look like little snipers perched at high altitudes. This dash of activity mainly resulted from watching Star Wars Episode I on my cousin's 52" plasma LCD and Bose home theater system. Needless to say the whole experience was awesome. My already great amount of respect for Anakin Skywalker increased exponentially as a I learned he was hitting on elder women since he was a kid. I was also glad Kita, my 6 year old neice loved the movie. The three of us (Didi, Jijjajji and I) may very well end up succeeding in our common yet silent dream of turning her into one of us - a geek!
If you are a fan of the Western genre and one of your biggest regret is not seeing Clint Eastwood on the big screen, go watch 3:10 to Yuma. I am not saying it will erase the regret, but you are guaranteed to have a good time. It's got it all - great intense acting by Christian Bale, some bona fide bad ass-ness by Russel Crowe, who didn't have to act too hard I guess, some inspirational climactic Western music and a great cameo by Ben Foster as the notorious Charlie Prince. He actually stole the show in my opinion. However, the movie does take on the role of Morality Professor towards the end and you get a little pissed off as it takes some of Crowe's bad ass-ness away.
As a result of this catastrophic movie watching experience, I was shuddering as I put in Clooney's Three Kings into my DVD player. And this movie was the complete compliment of his last caper I had watched. I am not usually a big fan of war movies (though my all time favorite movie is Apocalypse Now), but this one combined humor and adventure very well. True to his name, Ice Cube turned in a calm and composed performance, complimenting Mark Walberg's usual brilliant intensity very well. I later learned that he actually got himself electrocuted in one of the torture scenes, while watching the documentary about the making of the film. It is really a heist film in the backdrop of war. Clooney played a good leadership role in the whole sand adventure like in the Ocean movies.
Finally overcame my laziness and made the call to Prof. So, now my 42" is mounted on the wall and there's space to walk around in the apartment without any threat to any of the toes. Also placed the dwarfs (the little speakers of the home theater system) in acoustically strategically proven positions so that they look like little snipers perched at high altitudes. This dash of activity mainly resulted from watching Star Wars Episode I on my cousin's 52" plasma LCD and Bose home theater system. Needless to say the whole experience was awesome. My already great amount of respect for Anakin Skywalker increased exponentially as a I learned he was hitting on elder women since he was a kid. I was also glad Kita, my 6 year old neice loved the movie. The three of us (Didi, Jijjajji and I) may very well end up succeeding in our common yet silent dream of turning her into one of us - a geek!
If you are a fan of the Western genre and one of your biggest regret is not seeing Clint Eastwood on the big screen, go watch 3:10 to Yuma. I am not saying it will erase the regret, but you are guaranteed to have a good time. It's got it all - great intense acting by Christian Bale, some bona fide bad ass-ness by Russel Crowe, who didn't have to act too hard I guess, some inspirational climactic Western music and a great cameo by Ben Foster as the notorious Charlie Prince. He actually stole the show in my opinion. However, the movie does take on the role of Morality Professor towards the end and you get a little pissed off as it takes some of Crowe's bad ass-ness away.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Inside every Modern Cricket 'Fan' lives a Showman
Falling objects fascinated Newton, electricity fascinated Edison, relativity fascinated Einstein and in 2007, one thought fascinates me to no end. Why do cricket 'fans' suddenly start looking delighted when the camera focuses on them and start cheering and waving their 4 and 6 signs, no matter what is happening on the pitch. I mean, their respective team could be in danger of losing their Test status after being 9 wickets down to Papa New Guinea, but these people who call themselves fans of the game, suddenly forget everything in the glare of the camera and pose with enthusiasm that would put nubile college girls in Girls Gone Wild videos to shame.
It's no hidden fact that the cameraman usually focuses on the game if the quality of the cricket is good, unless of course he is Henry Blofeld's partner in crime (remember the guy who always focused on the taboo ears of Sharjah women back in the days when India winning a match there against Pakistan on a Friday was as common as an Indian female fan flashing?). So, obviously when the quality of the cricket is questionable and assuming Michael Clarke is batting but the cameraman is straight, of course he will be focusing on the crowd! And the crowd oblige with expressions that can give Shakti Kapoor a complex. Big difference from the days when the 'gentleman's' game was enjoyed exclusively by starchy old men in starchy old suites over cups of tea, not tilted more than 2.5 degrees and served in the finest of china, sitting on picketed lawns as green as Saba Karim's envy at his fellow Bihari's success, no?
It's no hidden fact that the cameraman usually focuses on the game if the quality of the cricket is good, unless of course he is Henry Blofeld's partner in crime (remember the guy who always focused on the taboo ears of Sharjah women back in the days when India winning a match there against Pakistan on a Friday was as common as an Indian female fan flashing?). So, obviously when the quality of the cricket is questionable and assuming Michael Clarke is batting but the cameraman is straight, of course he will be focusing on the crowd! And the crowd oblige with expressions that can give Shakti Kapoor a complex. Big difference from the days when the 'gentleman's' game was enjoyed exclusively by starchy old men in starchy old suites over cups of tea, not tilted more than 2.5 degrees and served in the finest of china, sitting on picketed lawns as green as Saba Karim's envy at his fellow Bihari's success, no?
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Flickr
Discovered this new website called Flickr from a friend. It's a haven for exhibitionists like me. Here's a little self advertisement.
Dhamaal Batura!
Broke the world record for the fastest eaten piping hot Chana Baturas (two) today evening and in the process destroyed the roof of my mouth (once again). It wasn't hunger or the taste of either the Chana or the Baturas, but I had a ticket for Dhamaal at 8 and the waiter brought out the food at 7:51 with a smile that seemed to say "Good luck mate. On your marks, set, GO!". For the next eight minutes, the other "patrons" at the restaurants let their food cool down as they simply watched me go. Damn! Should have laid out my handkerchief (yes, I still carry one of those at all times in this country!) next to me and collected the finances for the entire evening.
Dhamaal's second half was too funny for words. Sure, the movie had its incredulous moments and some borrowed ones from Bean and Road Trip, but the camaraderie of the central cast showed in their fantastic comic timing. Hilarious cameos by Vijay Raaz and his fellow actor (from the Krack Jack commercials) had me laughing continuously for almost a minute and a half. The movie ended with a great message and a few seconds of fantastic varied acting by Javed Jaffery and Arshad Warsi.
PS: Saw trailers of Saawariya. I think Bhansali is going for the whole musical feel from the looks of it. He has a greater probability of scoring with the Indian audience than Coppola did with an American one with his One from the Heart.
Dhamaal's second half was too funny for words. Sure, the movie had its incredulous moments and some borrowed ones from Bean and Road Trip, but the camaraderie of the central cast showed in their fantastic comic timing. Hilarious cameos by Vijay Raaz and his fellow actor (from the Krack Jack commercials) had me laughing continuously for almost a minute and a half. The movie ended with a great message and a few seconds of fantastic varied acting by Javed Jaffery and Arshad Warsi.
PS: Saw trailers of Saawariya. I think Bhansali is going for the whole musical feel from the looks of it. He has a greater probability of scoring with the Indian audience than Coppola did with an American one with his One from the Heart.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Scandalous Notes on Amar Prem
The only reason a movie like Amar Prem ended up on my Netflix list was because it had Sharmila looking like the goddess Durga. Needless to say, I was watching it with the same mindset as I would watch a reality show on baboons on Animal Planet - to mock what unfurled on the screen. This is probably why I was pleasantly surprised by the director Shakti Samanta (who is a family friend I am told) and more by Rajesh Khanna.
The only movie I had liked Khanna in before this was Namak Haram, and maybe his communist character had subconsciously appealed to my genes. Who knows!? While most critics rate his performance in Anand as one of his best, I thought he was annoyingly loud and bugging in the movie. Yeah, I know the character was like that, but I think he took it a tad too far. Having said all that, I think it was fantastic casting him as the perpetually drunk Anand Babu in Amar Prem. His nuances looked cool suddenly, so much so that, I started respecting him! The line that steals it for me is "Arrey Dost, Aadmi poora di kaam karke ghar waapas aata hai to woh kuch chahta hai, aur agar use woh ghar mein nahin milta, toh woh use baahar dhoondta hai."
PS: I was also very impressed with Om Prakash telling a supposedly conservative middle class Indian audience of 1972 that it is OK to indulge in ménage à trois, and here I was giving Austin Powers all the credit along with his Japanese companions. If Om Prakash was around before Sanjay Leela Bhansali's Devdas was made, he could have given Jaggu Dada some useful tips on Bangla pronunciation as well.
The only movie I had liked Khanna in before this was Namak Haram, and maybe his communist character had subconsciously appealed to my genes. Who knows!? While most critics rate his performance in Anand as one of his best, I thought he was annoyingly loud and bugging in the movie. Yeah, I know the character was like that, but I think he took it a tad too far. Having said all that, I think it was fantastic casting him as the perpetually drunk Anand Babu in Amar Prem. His nuances looked cool suddenly, so much so that, I started respecting him! The line that steals it for me is "Arrey Dost, Aadmi poora di kaam karke ghar waapas aata hai to woh kuch chahta hai, aur agar use woh ghar mein nahin milta, toh woh use baahar dhoondta hai."
PS: I was also very impressed with Om Prakash telling a supposedly conservative middle class Indian audience of 1972 that it is OK to indulge in ménage à trois, and here I was giving Austin Powers all the credit along with his Japanese companions. If Om Prakash was around before Sanjay Leela Bhansali's Devdas was made, he could have given Jaggu Dada some useful tips on Bangla pronunciation as well.
Monday, October 08, 2007
The Rollercoaster of Love and Anger
Today I went through what is an actor's delight, or should be anyway - a range of emotions...well it was actually just two, but they were way off one another. So, I fell in love again today after lunch while watching Sharmila toying with Rajesh Khanna's (and indirectly my) heart in AmarPrem. More notes on this very very forward for its times (IMO) movie to follow. And I say that, not because they show prostitutes to be beautiful inside too. There are more subtle things I discovered that would prompt Spike TV to make Rajesh Khanna their brand ambassador in a heartbeat. I am not promising any boring reviews, but I'll write about Khanna - the Alpha Male angle. This of course is news to me since I used to consider him the predesissy of Gayrukh Khan, following in the footsteps of Gaylip Kumar.
Call me Shallowness Personified but Sharmila was so stunning that I was able to completely ignore her annoyingly naka dialogue delivery. Incidentally, the nakamo is the only reason she is number three on my all-time list. After the W pointed it out, I realized he was right, at least with respect to her at that time of her life. So he feels that if you disregard her Bong eyes, she looks decidedly Mediterranean. She had a very sexy tan in the film, probably thanks to a sunny honeymoon with the Nawab. I also noticed remains of the tan in Chupke Chupke, even though the movie was released three years after Amar Prem.
And then, just now, Endulkar has caused a lot of anger to well up inside me, and those who know me well, will agree that is a Goliathan task given my stoical tendencies. When I heard the team for the game, I was irked with the BCCI for selecting the three old men. However, I must say I was appreciative of Dada and Dravid for even attempting to up the rate. Endulkar, though, just amazes me with every passing game. I am sorry if this sounds harsh but it looks like the man is just playing for records now and doesn't really care if Team India wins or looses. What was even more frustrating was Uthappa's late blitz, just proving the BCCI's madness in choosing age over youth. I think one of the fans summed it up pretty nicely when he held up a poster that said "Sachin, this is not a test match".
Call me Shallowness Personified but Sharmila was so stunning that I was able to completely ignore her annoyingly naka dialogue delivery. Incidentally, the nakamo is the only reason she is number three on my all-time list. After the W pointed it out, I realized he was right, at least with respect to her at that time of her life. So he feels that if you disregard her Bong eyes, she looks decidedly Mediterranean. She had a very sexy tan in the film, probably thanks to a sunny honeymoon with the Nawab. I also noticed remains of the tan in Chupke Chupke, even though the movie was released three years after Amar Prem.
And then, just now, Endulkar has caused a lot of anger to well up inside me, and those who know me well, will agree that is a Goliathan task given my stoical tendencies. When I heard the team for the game, I was irked with the BCCI for selecting the three old men. However, I must say I was appreciative of Dada and Dravid for even attempting to up the rate. Endulkar, though, just amazes me with every passing game. I am sorry if this sounds harsh but it looks like the man is just playing for records now and doesn't really care if Team India wins or looses. What was even more frustrating was Uthappa's late blitz, just proving the BCCI's madness in choosing age over youth. I think one of the fans summed it up pretty nicely when he held up a poster that said "Sachin, this is not a test match".
Saturday, October 06, 2007
Ekla Chalo
There's a certain mystic coolness about going to the movies alone without letting anyone know. For those couple of hours, you are lost to the world - off the radar of your loan sharks (just kiddin' of course). Thoughts such as 'if an alien ship abducts me right now, near and dear ones will be going mad with worry and grief in a couple of hours and running around, making frantic calls without much clarity' can do strangley good to your self-esteem. And like a man eater who tastes human blood for the first time, I am beginning to enjoy this socially unacceptable ecstatic feeling. And what enhances the feeling is if there are hardly any other people in the theater. Of course, the movie and the show times play a great hand in this. And here in the US, with accessibility to one's own space not posing a problem, you don't even have smooching couples disturbing you from your solitude from dark corners with their Acapella soundtrack.
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
No Gaddari to 'Johnny Mera Naam'
As I was watching 'Johnny Gaddar', one thought kept haunting me - if Mukesh had worked out a bit and tried his hand at acting, he may well have been the greatest showman in Bollywood. His grandson Neil Mukesh, who looks a lot like him, can be described in two words - Pretty Boy. OK OK...maybe I am being a little harsh. After all, I think his acting and especially his expressions, apart from his dialogue delivery were pretty subtle and effective, though we would never know if the subtlety was intended or accidental. Logic, though, says that a debutante probably hit subtlety by accident. However, casting him in this role was a very smart move, reinforcing the concept of the baby-faced killer that has sent chills down our spines time and again. Mukesh seems to suit the part of the urban street smart chokra with an unbelievably low amount of GQ (guilt quotient).
Apart from the protagonist's dialogue delivery, I would say that the first half of 'Johnny Gaddar' is near perfect. The second half isn't bad, but the halves seem warped. The script has way too much comedy in the second half for a thriller, when compared to the first one, and in my mind, a thriller's script should be like a staircase, with the end culminating in the climax. I must mention here that the elderly lady sitting in front of me probably thought I was an illegally emigrated truck driver from some remote Punjab village the way I was guffawing every time Dharam Paaji said anything in English, which was way too often mind you. They kept reminding me of the suicide scene from Sholay.
Visually, this is certainly one of the best films I have seen since Amelie. C.K. Muraleedharan's use of color is really commendable considering the entire movie has an urban setting and he did not need escapist song sequences shot in Switzerland or Kashmir to showcase his talent. Some of the easier but nice shots include those taken on the Mumbai-Pune Expressway. He shot the entire train sequence very smartly, also rendering the Indian Railways a posh look, only rivalled by its European counterparts.
Shankar Mahadevan does not overuse his music. Just as the audience begins to loose interest in the songs, director Sriram Raghavan fills in some action to hold the audience's attention. Before watching the movie, only the title track had attracted me. After watching the movie, I can safely say that it was picturized even better. Raghavan uses the lyrics to express the protagonist's guilt very effectively.
Zakir Hussain is fabulous and manages to outshine even the ever dependable Vinay Pathak. His histrionics don't look over the top even for a single second. Govind Namdeo is fantastic in his short bursts. Rimi Sen seems to have improved since I last saw her on celluloid. Dharam Paaji is alright except when he is speaking Angreji or trying to die a la Amitabh style in Nirupa-ji's arms, but of course you expect more from such an experienced actor.
Raghavan turns out to be a revelation. His last film was also good, but tended towards darkness, intended I am sure. While this films also deals with a dark topic, it has its light moments and the script mentions hope in passing through Rimi and Neil's search of a better life, and the treatment of the film reflects this. A couple of scenes were unnecessarily bloody, but probably made as homage to Tarantino and his fascination for showing blood and gore on screen. The credits are also done in a way that is novel to Indian cinema as far as I know. The film is stylish, and yet, it doesn't loose its focus in all the action, like 'Kaante', a film of a similar setting. His immense eye for detail comes through in little facts like showing the old-fashioned Dharam Paaji character using exclusively one of those large telephones you could kill a man with even though the story is set in 2007 when almost nobody uses landlines, let alone giant phones.
I like Raghavan the script writer more than Raghavan the director. The script is very honest and openly acknowledges films like 'Parwana' and 'Johnny Mera Naam' and the work of James Hadley Chase. The films starts out with dedications to Vijay Anand and Chase - great influences on Raghavan's formative mind I am sure. Almost every scene in the movie is related to the plot in the script. An interesting point to note is that the mystery does not lie in the fact whether Neil is the bad guy, but whether he gets caught or not. Maybe the plot had one too many twists, but I'll give Sriram the benefit of the doubt. Without giving away much, I just want to say that the end dishes out irony in true Shakespearean style. I will gladly give this film an 8/10 and actually feel a little bad about watching it at a discounted price.
Apart from the protagonist's dialogue delivery, I would say that the first half of 'Johnny Gaddar' is near perfect. The second half isn't bad, but the halves seem warped. The script has way too much comedy in the second half for a thriller, when compared to the first one, and in my mind, a thriller's script should be like a staircase, with the end culminating in the climax. I must mention here that the elderly lady sitting in front of me probably thought I was an illegally emigrated truck driver from some remote Punjab village the way I was guffawing every time Dharam Paaji said anything in English, which was way too often mind you. They kept reminding me of the suicide scene from Sholay.
Visually, this is certainly one of the best films I have seen since Amelie. C.K. Muraleedharan's use of color is really commendable considering the entire movie has an urban setting and he did not need escapist song sequences shot in Switzerland or Kashmir to showcase his talent. Some of the easier but nice shots include those taken on the Mumbai-Pune Expressway. He shot the entire train sequence very smartly, also rendering the Indian Railways a posh look, only rivalled by its European counterparts.
Shankar Mahadevan does not overuse his music. Just as the audience begins to loose interest in the songs, director Sriram Raghavan fills in some action to hold the audience's attention. Before watching the movie, only the title track had attracted me. After watching the movie, I can safely say that it was picturized even better. Raghavan uses the lyrics to express the protagonist's guilt very effectively.
Zakir Hussain is fabulous and manages to outshine even the ever dependable Vinay Pathak. His histrionics don't look over the top even for a single second. Govind Namdeo is fantastic in his short bursts. Rimi Sen seems to have improved since I last saw her on celluloid. Dharam Paaji is alright except when he is speaking Angreji or trying to die a la Amitabh style in Nirupa-ji's arms, but of course you expect more from such an experienced actor.
Raghavan turns out to be a revelation. His last film was also good, but tended towards darkness, intended I am sure. While this films also deals with a dark topic, it has its light moments and the script mentions hope in passing through Rimi and Neil's search of a better life, and the treatment of the film reflects this. A couple of scenes were unnecessarily bloody, but probably made as homage to Tarantino and his fascination for showing blood and gore on screen. The credits are also done in a way that is novel to Indian cinema as far as I know. The film is stylish, and yet, it doesn't loose its focus in all the action, like 'Kaante', a film of a similar setting. His immense eye for detail comes through in little facts like showing the old-fashioned Dharam Paaji character using exclusively one of those large telephones you could kill a man with even though the story is set in 2007 when almost nobody uses landlines, let alone giant phones.
I like Raghavan the script writer more than Raghavan the director. The script is very honest and openly acknowledges films like 'Parwana' and 'Johnny Mera Naam' and the work of James Hadley Chase. The films starts out with dedications to Vijay Anand and Chase - great influences on Raghavan's formative mind I am sure. Almost every scene in the movie is related to the plot in the script. An interesting point to note is that the mystery does not lie in the fact whether Neil is the bad guy, but whether he gets caught or not. Maybe the plot had one too many twists, but I'll give Sriram the benefit of the doubt. Without giving away much, I just want to say that the end dishes out irony in true Shakespearean style. I will gladly give this film an 8/10 and actually feel a little bad about watching it at a discounted price.
Of Déjà vu and Telepathy
If on that cloudy momentous day, back in 1998, when I bid adieu to a veritable opponent, somebody had told me that my nemesis would be back to bite my on the rear nine years later in another continent, I would have laughed harshly on their face. I had just finished the final exams in class VIII and was feverish with the erotic thrill of meeting a new sensual seductress called Ms. French who would be substituting old bushy-mustached Mr. Hindi. However, life has a funny way of serving you lemons repeatedly, sugarcoating it in amorous French (ah, that still makes my heart skip a beat) – “déjà vu”.
So, yesterday I found myself sprawled in a stranger’s living room squinting through the Hindi script of ‘Iss Kambakht Sathe ka kya Karen?’ and acting like I was following, it when all I was doing was waiting for my cue to practice my false laughter, of which I got a lot of practice, I must admit. I can actually imagine my class VIII Hindi teacher, given up on dying her hair now, pointing her index finger at me and guffawing on her rocking chair, which is creaking in unison. Of course, that is assuming she is an avid reader of this blog, which by any stretch of imagination is as incredulous as Abhishek Bachhan getting the 'Dancing Hero' tag.
The language barrier apart, I am quite satisfied with the group. At least, it will give me something to do other than listen to the W drone on about Californian laziness, maturity et al. Read some interesting notes of Sriram Raghavan’s ‘Johnny Gaddar’ here by Jabberwock. My interest is piqued and so, will take advantage of Naz’s discounted Tuesday movies offer for the first time.
Since I am talking about déjà vu, let me slip in what happened at lunch today – telepathy. Just like the smell of cheese can mobilize Jerry like Keanu Reeves in the Matrix, any sort of Piscean being near a grill can do the same to me. So, needless to say, I got the grilled trout with extra rice instead of the veggies (I am mentally allergic to most of them), and I was thinking to myself, ‘Geez, how Bong is that?’ I am sure both my great grandfathers were smiling down from the heavens, or wherever they are, as I was enjoying my maach-bhaat along with some UEFA cup action on the plasma in our cafeteria. Sure, there was salsa instead of jhol and some stupid teams called Manure and Coma instead of the great Mohun Bagan and a little lesser great East Bengal, but I could very well have been sitting in the Salt Lake stadium having Ileesh in a to-go box. Suddenly, a manger commented ‘Wow, that’s typical Bengali food’. I flashed one of those dumb ‘You are so smart. Gimme a promotion now’ smiles and passed the equally dumb ‘Salsa for Curry’ joke and was momentarily distracted from the insipid game by the polite laughter that resulted.
PS: I hope the randomness of this post will impress a certain critic.
So, yesterday I found myself sprawled in a stranger’s living room squinting through the Hindi script of ‘Iss Kambakht Sathe ka kya Karen?’ and acting like I was following, it when all I was doing was waiting for my cue to practice my false laughter, of which I got a lot of practice, I must admit. I can actually imagine my class VIII Hindi teacher, given up on dying her hair now, pointing her index finger at me and guffawing on her rocking chair, which is creaking in unison. Of course, that is assuming she is an avid reader of this blog, which by any stretch of imagination is as incredulous as Abhishek Bachhan getting the 'Dancing Hero' tag.
The language barrier apart, I am quite satisfied with the group. At least, it will give me something to do other than listen to the W drone on about Californian laziness, maturity et al. Read some interesting notes of Sriram Raghavan’s ‘Johnny Gaddar’ here by Jabberwock. My interest is piqued and so, will take advantage of Naz’s discounted Tuesday movies offer for the first time.
Since I am talking about déjà vu, let me slip in what happened at lunch today – telepathy. Just like the smell of cheese can mobilize Jerry like Keanu Reeves in the Matrix, any sort of Piscean being near a grill can do the same to me. So, needless to say, I got the grilled trout with extra rice instead of the veggies (I am mentally allergic to most of them), and I was thinking to myself, ‘Geez, how Bong is that?’ I am sure both my great grandfathers were smiling down from the heavens, or wherever they are, as I was enjoying my maach-bhaat along with some UEFA cup action on the plasma in our cafeteria. Sure, there was salsa instead of jhol and some stupid teams called Manure and Coma instead of the great Mohun Bagan and a little lesser great East Bengal, but I could very well have been sitting in the Salt Lake stadium having Ileesh in a to-go box. Suddenly, a manger commented ‘Wow, that’s typical Bengali food’. I flashed one of those dumb ‘You are so smart. Gimme a promotion now’ smiles and passed the equally dumb ‘Salsa for Curry’ joke and was momentarily distracted from the insipid game by the polite laughter that resulted.
PS: I hope the randomness of this post will impress a certain critic.
Monday, September 10, 2007
English Arani – an American Story?
As I finished the last few pages of “English, August, an Indian story”, I found myself feeling exactly as I would during the twilight hours of a great high. I didn’t want it to end, yet I couldn’t stop to keep it for later, all the while without the luxury of rehashing on the same influence in the future. It was turning into a tragedy but ended on a rather pleasant note, which seems a little abrupt if you are not distracted from the surprise. The fact that I have been reading this book for quite some time now, as companions ready to hear out my ‘Augustian’ rants would attest to, is a testimony to the consistency of brilliance that Upamanyu Chatterjee has managed to produce in his virgin novel though not always through a consistency of mood, as was the desired effect, I am sure.
The first time I heard of this book during adulthood was when a friend copy pasted a particularly funny excerpt from the book in an email that he sent a couple of people. To this day, I do not know whether I was in subconscious depression at the time, or whether the erstwhile planet Pluto had aligned itself to my birth planet. Whatever the reason, I decided to buy the book based on that excerpt. Those who know me well, would be extremely surprised by this very unmiddle-class like act which mainly involves buying second hand books and selling them right back. In hindsight, it was a good decision shattering my initial apprehension of doing a book report for fun.
From the very first few pages, I started identifying with the protagonist – a city boy newly instated in the Indian Administrative Service having to move to a smaller town which was a mecca of loneliness. Our worlds were poles apart or at least on the surface. Here I was – a gulf kid still reveling in the hangover of his liberation during the latter two years of college packed away into the heart of the American landscape. Maybe I was reading more into what truly was real, with what I like to refer to as the lovey dovey audience syndrome, and the only things common between us was really our last names and our first initials. Not that it matters, but his mother was Goan Catholic and my Mum is a probashi Bangali having grown up in
What I really liked about the book was whenever Chatterjee dealt into heavier philosophical wonderings; he always preceded and followed such sequences with those with uncanny humor. There is no place for political correctness in ‘English, August’, which is probably what endears it to most of its fans, trapped in a politically correct world. He shamelessly uses August to tell us that it is okay to fantasize about your boss’ wife or to fib a little about yourself with respect to needless details to people who only exist for a few trivial minutes in your life. Chatterjee never preaches, but uses more subtle techniques to speak his mind through August, thus running the risk of appearing crazy to his readers. I quite like his idea of giving the otherwise silently rebellious August ‘conservative’ interests such as affinity to the mainstream Bengali Rabindrasangeet and Nazrulgeeti (thus an affinity to his Bengali roots) and an interest in the Geeta to go hand in hand with Ella Fitsgerald and Marcus Aurilius. Even though he seems to criticize the policies of the Naxal movement showing them under the glow of pseudo-intellectualism at times, there is an underlying, almost grudging respect for the same and the work they have done with the tribal people of
Taipei
8/18/2007
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Pirates of the Caribbean: At Patience’s End
You know how people with a malignant cancer await death to put them out of their misery, or search for the silver lining in the form of a human hand overcome by euthanasia? I felt precisely that way as I sat through the movie waiting for Johnny Depp to rescue the movie along with the “damsel in distress” (Orlando Bloom), and as it became increasingly clear that that wouldn’t happen, I broke out of my atheistic state and started praying for a Miltonesque fire to burn down the theater.
Kiera Knightly looks adequately spunky with her high cheekbones sufficiently tanned and matching her fiery attitude throughout the movie. Unfortunately, the damsel in distress, Orlando Bloom’s attitude was as pale as the sand in some of the beautiful locations the film was shot in. Verbinksi went a step further than his mentor Johar in order to embody twenty-first century feminism in this epic two hour forty minute Rajdhani journey by showing an aggressive female lead and a homosexual (err, weak) male one.
Johnny Depp delivers comedy very effectively through some abstract backdrops in the movie, making you wonder whether they would have been better off being just single acts on Saturday Night Live. The actors playing members of his crew are funny as their great chemistry is justified after three movies together. Bill Nighy is accurately disgusting as usual as Captain Davy Jones. Chow Yun Fat overacts most of the time in a role which is totally different from anything else he has done in his career. Naomie Harris as Calypso has hardly any screen presence, leave alone that of a goddess, and Stellan Skarsgård as Bootstrap drags his acting, much like the movement of the starfish stuck to his face. Keith Richards makes a powerful entry in the movie and is good, till Verbinski, again as a sign of homage to his mentor – the great Karan Johar, makes him strum a classical guitar in a Victorian Romeo style. The world council of pirates are hilarious, especially Mistress Ching with her mannerisms and the Sikh Bhangra pirates.
Geoffrey Rush steals the show from Johnny Depp in this one. He strikes the right combination of villainy, comedy or aggressiveness as the inimitable Captain Barbosa, and I am glad they actually brought his character back to life in the second movie. Tom Hollander is also very good as the ruthless and stone cold Lord Beckett.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Slackers United
Those who know me even remotely are aware of my extreme attraction to inactivity. And those who know me well probably share the same attraction, except for a few blood relations that fall on the other side of the genetic spectrum. I must mention that this is very common amongst Bangalees who even have a term called ‘gentomi’ loosely translated at mental laziness. I hear that Goans too have something similar called ‘shusheghaat’, though I am still ignorant as to its exact meaning. Maybe this ‘condition’ stems from generations of eating fish – both kinds – river and sea water fishes since Bangalees hunt the former with as much fervor as Bangalees can muster while Goans are the main reason for the extinction of the latter. I had read some theory once which said that we are so similar because apparently we migrated from Kashmir. I find that hard to believe just because of the immense travel involved (not that travel has become easier. I mean think of the numerous pieces of clothing you have to remove at the airport security checks and how far you have to walk between terminals in bigger airports). Assuming that is true, geography tells us that Bangalees are lazier as they stopped moving a lot earlier than the Goans. Why do you think unemployment is so high in Bengal? I guess it is no surprise then that Agastya Sen, the protagonist of ‘English, August’, the epitome of this quality (I consider him a personal guru, which means I have a fictional guru, which makes me crazy, which is still better than being active) was a product of the combination of these two great cultures.
We are the denizens of society who accompany teams to nearby cricket tournaments not to play with our enthusiastic fellow riders but just so that we can laze around on the grass under a shy sun shining down with timidity and producing what photographers call ‘diffused light’. We are the people who do not correct newspaper journalists when they get our fellow player’s last names comically wrong wondering as to the point of the whole publicity stunt in the first place. We are the people who drive around downtown Salt Lake City admiring the architectural magnificence but not stopping to take out our cameras to capture them. We are also probably the only drivers in the world who start a journey on a sports car on cruise control and then curse every time there is a curve in the road. It’s not that all of us love to sleep. Personally, there is nothing more satisfying than lying at an angle of 135 degrees on my La-Z-Boy and doing nothing. Maybe read a little sometimes, but that too can be taxing after five pages or so. As the protagonist of ‘Office Space’ puts it so effectively, “I would just do nothing if I had a million dollars.”
So, it is needless to mention that we are agitated more than active (abnormal) people when we ‘google’ for a South Indian restaurant, find the directions on Mapquest and drive the Goliathan (yeah yeah, tautology) distance (relatively speaking of course) to find it closed on Sundays. Then there are dilemmas in life like is it better to go all seven floors down (yeah, I know there was an elevator, still) to the hotel Jacuzzi and spend a couple of hours basking in the taboo thrill of watching beautiful Morman women in bikinis, or whether the bed in which you are lying in considering this will suffice. The latter situation always wins. We are also the only people in the world who don’t touch wood when talking of bedpans, and hail the remote control as the greatest invention of the last century. We grow our hair not to make a fashion statement but till the time we realize that combing the damn mane is actually more work than making our way to the nearest Great Clips. We criticize the Nintendo Wii for the realistic feel it brings to video games because the whole point of this sport is to only move the tips of a couple of fingers up and down. Right now you are probably wondering the reason for the randomness of the order of the contents of this post. I would go ahead and read it and organize it, but then I would rather sit back, zone out and increase La-Z-Boy Inc.’s share prices.
We are the denizens of society who accompany teams to nearby cricket tournaments not to play with our enthusiastic fellow riders but just so that we can laze around on the grass under a shy sun shining down with timidity and producing what photographers call ‘diffused light’. We are the people who do not correct newspaper journalists when they get our fellow player’s last names comically wrong wondering as to the point of the whole publicity stunt in the first place. We are the people who drive around downtown Salt Lake City admiring the architectural magnificence but not stopping to take out our cameras to capture them. We are also probably the only drivers in the world who start a journey on a sports car on cruise control and then curse every time there is a curve in the road. It’s not that all of us love to sleep. Personally, there is nothing more satisfying than lying at an angle of 135 degrees on my La-Z-Boy and doing nothing. Maybe read a little sometimes, but that too can be taxing after five pages or so. As the protagonist of ‘Office Space’ puts it so effectively, “I would just do nothing if I had a million dollars.”
So, it is needless to mention that we are agitated more than active (abnormal) people when we ‘google’ for a South Indian restaurant, find the directions on Mapquest and drive the Goliathan (yeah yeah, tautology) distance (relatively speaking of course) to find it closed on Sundays. Then there are dilemmas in life like is it better to go all seven floors down (yeah, I know there was an elevator, still) to the hotel Jacuzzi and spend a couple of hours basking in the taboo thrill of watching beautiful Morman women in bikinis, or whether the bed in which you are lying in considering this will suffice. The latter situation always wins. We are also the only people in the world who don’t touch wood when talking of bedpans, and hail the remote control as the greatest invention of the last century. We grow our hair not to make a fashion statement but till the time we realize that combing the damn mane is actually more work than making our way to the nearest Great Clips. We criticize the Nintendo Wii for the realistic feel it brings to video games because the whole point of this sport is to only move the tips of a couple of fingers up and down. Right now you are probably wondering the reason for the randomness of the order of the contents of this post. I would go ahead and read it and organize it, but then I would rather sit back, zone out and increase La-Z-Boy Inc.’s share prices.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Kabul Express Review
I think we are currently in a phase of the Indian Film Industry (steering clear of the menial “Bollywood”) that film historians will write about as revolutionary times in the years to follow. I say this because of the shift from candy floss garbage movies we were making during the turn of the century. The fact that films like Yahaan, Khosla Ka Ghosla, Black, Black Friday etc. are being made and appreciated, even if, by a small section of the audience, bears testimony to this.
One such film is Kabul Express, made by Kabir Khan, an erstwhile documentary film-maker. The story revolves around a few days in the lives of two Indian journalists, played decently and superbly by John Abraham and Arshad Warsi, respectively. The movie begins with a chopper dropping the protagonists off somewhere within the borders of
The main plus point of the film is Khan’s use of local people for the fringe roles and the liberal use of the local language by the same, and casting actors from their respective character’s background. As far as the characters go, Abraham’s Suhel is not bad, but doesn’t stand out, especially next to the perfect comic timing of Warsi’s Jai, which cuts the tension in the film as successfully as a good actor like Warsi can, making good use of catharsis. However, I must mention Abraham’s one scene, the one in which he stands up for Indian Muslims and gives Salman Shahid’s Imran a pat reply to his under the belt blow. However, both Abraham and Warsi are completely overshadowed by Shahid. He plays the loyal veteran Pakistani Army officer to the hilt. In fact, I am really curious as to what he is like without the whole get up and the Pushtoon accent. Hanif Hum Ghum manages to convey the anger the Mujahideen feels towards the Taliban with aplomb. Linda Arsenio has no major role, and is only in the film as a source of sex appeal, and reaction from the other characters.
Anshuman Mahaley’s cinematography is very good, justifying that you do not need architecture to beautify a place. Very early in the movie, he wakes you up in case you were drowsy, with a scene where Suhel invites an angel-like kid to exercise with him only to find that the kid has only one leg. I guess the credit should really go to the director Khan, but Mahaley manages to capture the emotion of the moment with his camera very effectively. The bright blue sky against the yellowish dirt brings back memories of Ray’s shots of the desert in Sonar Kella, and also conveys the pointlessness of the whole Mujahideen-Taliban conflict. I think the Buzkashi sequence could have been shown better, like in Rambo III, but maybe that was done on purpose, so as not to come off as flashy. The scene where Imran is showered with Pepsi cans serves as a humor element and is beautifully shot, and also shows off the clout of the huge corporation in style.
The lack of substantial music in the film had its pros and cons. While I agree that songs would have been redundant and unnecessary, a stronger background score would have been effective, especially in shots when our adventurers are scampering across the country in the Kabul Express. Like most modern films, it has a song that is not in the movie – a peppy number called Kabul Fiza.
In totality, a good film, barring a couple of holes in the script, such as the sudden arrival of Khyber on the scene and his (as far as I can tell better that mine) Hindi and the fact that Suhel and Jai spend a few days in the remains of a castle when it gets pretty cold at night without any apparent blankets or even Jai’s unending battery supply for his camera. It makes a very slight bow to Coppola’s Apocalypse Now in that the protagonists have to undertake an adventurous journey, but one of the big differences is that the larger than life character travels with them, unlike in Apocalypse Now, where the protagonist undertakes the journey to meet the demigod. I would recommend this movie to all off-beat film lovers, and being one myself, will give it a 7.5/10.
Succumbing to sub-conscious Forces
A very good friend is leaving town, and I am not exaggerating when I say that life at this place will loose some of its color. The decibel levels in corridors at work seem to have gone down. You don’t hear Japanese, albeit pseudo, conversations anymore, or hear of any broken fingers as a result of exchanging punches against each other’s fists, or the sound of dislocated shoulder bones because of the very unique shoulder high fives that were common. No one walks with exaggerated skips anymore, or matches the pink shirt I wear sometimes. Certain pundits on the ways of bedding women have lost their keen (to the unobservant eye) audience. No one swears 30 times in a minute at the lunch time anymore, and hence the atmosphere there is almost as bland as the food.
Let the rant in the previous paragraph not be misconstrued as “senti” crap. At the end of the day, I realize that humans have to constantly seek greener pastures, and if you add the human ambition quotient to the equation, it just justifies something very clichéd – the only thing permanent is change, thus explaining the human tendency towards Brownian or random motion. Ergo, humans, some more than others, are governed by random, or impulsive actions. So, for the most part, humans are impulsive. So, wait, Chief’s decision to go to business school is impulsive? How can a process, that is at least 6-8 months in the least, be impulsive?
Another reason, besides ambition, can be the boredom of doing the same thing over and over again day after day. Here I admire government servants who hold the same post for the best part of a quarter of a century or more, or even a school teacher. So, why is it that they don’t get bored? Is it a lack of exposure to the many other options they have? This raises a very serious question as to whether a lack of exposure results in occupational satisfaction.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
More than an Average Middle-class Down to Earth Mustang Rider
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Mani Ratnam is definitely the Guru
Last weekend I was fortunate enough to be able to watch Guru. I think it is a fascinating story of a fascinating man told in a fascinating way. After all it is a Mani Ratnam film, a name that we have come to associate with excellence in Indian cinema for more than a decade now. You notice his eye for detail in the very beginning of the film when Guru’s childhood unfolds on the screen. The actor cast in the role to play the young Guru is tall with big eyes, with an uncanny resemblance to Abhishek Bachhan.
The scenes shot in
From then, the movie flows at a very nice pace, correctly showing the pace in which Guru progresses though the business world and though life. The songs are picturized very well even though most of them are not necessary in the film, and tend to drag the film. Ravi Mennon’s use of color filter in the solo dance sequence enhances the viewing experience and its refreshing to hear Bappi Lahiri’s voice.
The main strength of the film lies in the acting by its carefully chosen cast. Mithun is very effective in short bursts as the righteous enemy. Most people say that Vidya Balan is wasted, but I disagree. I think she has a very important and difficult role, though not necessarily a meaty one. Madhavan is wasted in his role as the young firebrand journalist, though he excels in the romantic scenes with Balan. I am not sure whether the editing floor is responsible for his meager role, or whether Mr. Ratnam lost his character in the midst of the other heavyweights. Arya Babbar plays the ineffective brother-in-law very effectively.
Aishwarya Rai gives a solid performance, just proving that an effective director can really bring her acting abilities to the screen (like Rituparno Ghosh in the past). In any film where the title of the film is the name of its primary character, there is a fear of the protagonist overshadowing the other characters, but Ash more than holds her own, being a rock of support for Abhishek throughout the film. Also, she looks ravishing in the first half, and resembles Kokila Ben almost a 100% in the second.
This is by far Abhishek’s best performance to date. I would put this above his performance in Sarkar, when he was still growing as an actor. He has done his homework very well on Dhirubhai, as can be seen by his nuances with his right hand, putting on weight for the role and a subtle Gujarati accent. Also, the pouting of the lower lip brings a certain credibility to the character. A special mention must be made of the scene when Guru has a heart attack. It looks so real that you actually want to call an ambulance. The court scene is very moving and inspiring though you can see a little bit of his father in him.
Overall an inspiring film and like all Mani Ratnam films, technically very correct, fulfilling the long due call for biographical movies in the Indian film industry. In his illustrious career, I would rate this film a notch lower than Vellunayakan and give it an 8.5/10.
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