No one killed Jessica - A review

'No one killed Jessica' is an onscreen adaptation of the infamous Jessica Lall murder case that rocked the news time and again a few years ago. The title of the film was taken from a news article that appeared in the Times of India in 2006. Of course, it seems to be an apt characterization of the highly corrupt and ineffective judiciary system our country is gaining quick reputation for.

So we are shown the murder where Jessica is shot point blank by Manish Bharadwaj when he and his buddies are refused alcohol in an upscale party where she is bar tending one night. What follows is the usual power play of Manish's rich and influential daddy trying to pull every string possible to ensure his son walks a free man. Fighting against this is Jessica's defiant young sister Sabrina Lall (Vidya Balan) who is turning every stone possible to ensure witnesses maintain their integrity and help her get justice. But as would be expected from our reliable system, justice isn't delivered. Manish and co. walk out unharmed as Sabrina, understandably, loses all faith in the system and tries to move on with life.

Enter firebrand reporter Meera (Rani Mukerjee). She is being celebrated as the powerhouse journalist who captured the goings on in Kargil just about the same time Jessica's case was making news. Being the arrogant scribe that she is, Meera ignores the Jessica case as being an 'open and shut' case given the abundance of evidence only to find out, years later, that the news headlines reads 'No one killed Jessica'. This, despite the presence of hundreds of witnesses. She then heads out to set things right through a barrage of sting operations and tape leaks thus reigniting the case with fresh energy.

'No one killed Jessica' had all the makings of a brilliant film that could have been a benchmark. Yet, in the heady preparation to create something as inspiring and 'cool' as 'Rang De Basanti', Rajkumar Gupta (the guy who made 'Aamir') unfortunately makes way to some loud clichés. For one thing, he gives Rani a pretty free hand with her performance which turns out slightly counter productive. In a bid to showcase her character as a tough no nonsense journalist, Gupta instead lets her turn out to be a potty mouthed stereotype. He needlessly shows us that she indulges in casual sex and is fond of calling herself (and others!) a bitch every time she gets a chance. How this was relevant to the plot is something we are supposed to decipher. Now, I am no media professional, but I felt the whole act put up by Rani was just too contrived and didn't come out as convincing. Letting her be a journalist with her heart in the right place would have sufficed aplenty but apparently Indian cinema these days needs a generous dose of expletives and rude gestures to make it a box office success.

Then there is Vidya who is possibly the only reason anyone would want to go back and watch this movie a second time. She delivers an extremely convincing performance with her restraint coated silence. Established stars find playing the victim sometimes an open invite to ham their way through it. But Vidya instead chooses to do the right thing and zip up her emotions until when they are required to be exhibited. In fact, I have no qualms in stating that it is her portrayal as the wronged citizen that helps avoid this movie from being yet another painting determined to get preachy about words like nainsaafi and andha kanoon. If you had to, do watch it for her.

The supporting cast is consistent too, primarily Rajesh Sharma (corrupt Gunjaal from Khosla ka ghosla) who plays a cop with very clear gray shades. He has no problems confessing he took a bribe not to smack around the arrested rich kid but he also cares about justice and wants to do what he can to make the truth win. It comes out as a portrayal that stays true to the reality on the ground of how authentic policemen behave in India.

Stories such as these need to rely heavily on the sensitivity of how such untimely and shocking incidents cripple the common man in India. They need to weave their narration around the subtle nuances that form the complex fabric of human emotions. Even though Gupta achieves that in a few select scenes, by and large the narrative, sadly, sticks to commercial formula. On a brighter side, it does remind us once again that people power still matters in democracies. A reminder that will hopefully serve us well as more multi-crore scams are unearthed each year in the glorious nation of ours that is still known as a 'developing' one. For this, I'd recommend giving 'No one killed Jessica' a watch.

Phas gaye re, Obama! - A movie review

One of the biggest troubles Hindi movies (both commercial masala wallah types and the 'off beat' non-profit sort of ventures) have had is to dish out genuine comedies. Either they end up trying too hard using 'inspired laughs' from popular streams or they go over the top and plug in superhuman antiques lacing it with inane slapstick. Having, unfortunately, seen Golmaal 3, Dabangg and its kind recently, I was quite skeptical about 'Phas gaye re Obama' (PGRO) purely because of its blatant effort to somehow link the story to Barrack Obama. And of course, also that it had Neha Dhupia. She is certainly one of the best eye candies out there but I've never associated her with the concept of humor. But nevertheless, being the optimistic that I tend to be at times, I decided to give it a look-see.

The story unfolds in two separate tracks. One, that of an NRI (Rajat Kapoor) who has settled well with a wife and kids in the United States for the last 15 years and is shown to have been a successful businessman. Now, with global recession making its way into every possible financial crack, he is on the brink of bankruptcy and sees no other option than to sell off an ancestral home in his hometown in rural India. The second track, is that of a motley assortment of low budget gangsters who live in the same town. These men are traditionally into kidnapping and extortion but are facing immensely tough times with no money to even buy bullets. The two protagonists, hence, are brought together by fate. The kidnappers, not realizing the NRI's money situation, kidnap him and dream that his family in the United States will shell out a good amount of dollars to get him back. It takes an actual conversation with his wife in America for them to realize that he is as broken as they are. It is then, that the businessman's money minded brain and the ambitiousness of one of the gangsters starts mushrooming into a series of events where they come up with a nearly fool-proof scheme where everyone wins. It is in this merry go around of changing hands, that the hilarity of the movie becomes evident.

The premise is quite original. Showcasing the organized crime that takes place in the inner towns of India while juxtaposing it against a more global concept like recession is indeed a feat one should congratulate director Subhash Kapoor for. Add to it the simplicity of the small town India where people link everything American automatically to Obama and the FBI and the circle is complete. It is in such naivete and blissful ignorance that a crime as serious as kidnapping takes a more comic turn. If there is one reason why I'd recommend a definite one-time watch of this movie, it would be for such an accomplishment.

Performances belong to pretty much everyone with, again, Neha Dhupia standing out slightly as the odd woman out. I say woman because of her hate-all-men mantra as Gabbar Singh inspired Munni gangster(minus the Zhandu Balm,thankfully) avatar in the film. Sanjay Mishra is quite convincing as the aging and broke kidnapper kingpin who nurtures dreams of making it as a politician and breaking chairs in the Parliament. Manu Rishi (from Oye Lucky!) is back with his genuine dialog delivery and sincere yet effortless Dilliwallah style acting. Rajat Kapoor, however, takes the cake in this mixed bag of cronies playing the calm and collected NRI who is always a step ahead of the rest of the gang despite having had no prior experience with scheming kidnapping agendas. Just goes to show why an educated crook is much more dangerous than an illiterate one.

The film is devoid of needless songs (except a refreshingly welcome one as the credits roll) and stays focused on the plot the whole time. The pace tends to be a tad inconsistent at times but that could've been avoided with a tighter screenplay. The oscillating drama is stripped off of 'keep your brains at home' sort of humor and yet isn't a 'dark comedy' either. It runs a fine line between these two extremes by keeping itself simple and sane. A task most movies these days have absolutely no idea how to achieve without coming off as nonsensical. It is the subtleties that save PGRO from becoming contrived in its execution. A lesson, perhaps, for folks attempting comic reliefs in the future.

Recommendation: Go watch it. Yes, you can.

Rakta Charitra - A movie review

RGV seems to have made what Shakespeare said in Macbeth, 'It will have blood, they say; blood will have blood', his guiding light in his latest offering 'Rakta Charitra' (RC). Now, historically we've always seen an excess of blood and gore in RGV flicks (Satya, Company, the Sarkar series et al). But with RC, he officially stops pretending that his fixation with capturing blood on screen goes beyond semantic needs. Here, blood isn't just a inevitable necessity; it's the actual lead protagonist.

RC traces the life of Pratap Ravi (Vivek Oberoi) who goes from being a college going lad to a gang leader competent enough to control the entire goonda network. After the brutal murders of his father and brother, Pratap submits himself to the vendetta that needs the avenging of their deaths with his rivals Narsimha Reddy and Nagamani Reddy. As he continues the campaign of red soaked mayhem, Nagamani Reddy's son – Bokka Reddy (Abhimanyu Singh) gets into the frame as the sexed up, irreverent, extremely violent nemesis who Pratap has to vanquish. As the two men get ready with their plots to outdo one another, enter Shivaji Rao (Shatrughan Sinha), the famous actor turned politician (no points for guessing who this character was based upon) who sees a useful ally in Pratap. The movie is infused with some temporary respite from the blood bath as Shivaji Rao starts to groom Pratap into a prim, moustachioed, quintessential politico who you can tell has had a violent past just from the size and shape of his mustache. As Pratap's power grows, so does the demonic rage in Bokka who is put behind bars for killing a woman cop (Ashwini Kalsekar in a curiously miscast role) with aplomb. The first installment of RC ends with the quick introduction of Suri (South star Surya in his first Hindi appearance) who seems to have an agenda of his own to get rid of Pratap. A deliciously poised tale indeed.

What holds our attention through the severed limbs, the mounds of gore and the fountains of blood are the well designed performances of the main cast. Vivek is back in his 'Company' avatar as the brooding, scowling, smoking chap who's been wronged. It is his consistent act that becomes the coherent spine in a world that is otherwise engulfed in sheer chaos. Abhimanyu Singh needs special mention here as the sex-crazy womanizer who makes no exceptions in how to deal with his rivals. I had admired him immensely in 'Gulaal' and his role as Bokka here only confirms my feeling that he is an actor who can go a long way if he continues to make his choices carefully. The rest of the cast lend support as appropriate including Radhika Apte who plays Pratap's wife and Shatrughan Sinha who appears in a refreshingly new clean-shaven version as the father-figure politico supreme. As mentioned earlier it was Ashwini Kalsekar who couldn't convince me that she was a police officer stationed in what is clearly an extremely violent region. Had her role been a bit more meatier I'd have totally recommended Seema Biswas in it as she'd always make the perfect cop to be placed amongst rural evil.

Despite it all, RGV still hasn't reached the same affluence as, say, Quentin Tarantino or even Martin Scorsese in documenting violence as a human emotion. He got nearer to it with Satya but I can't say I've seen anything since which can seriously send a chill down your spine when blood is spilled. I would disagree that this movie has anything spectacularly different in action choreography than what we've already seen in his earlier flicks. So, to avoid the movie fearing this would seem unnecessary. Also, he repeats his classic act of smearing important verbal exchange with shlokas and mantras in Sanskrit to give it a more sinister feel. I think its about time he goes easy on those and puts in a few more lines of coherent dialog. I am tempted to say that its the lack of anything creative there which makes him plug in scathing background scores to avoid coming off as cheesy. Camerawork is consistently RGV as usual with his large frame zoom outs and up close and personal zoom ins. The film has the same texture and feel as the Sarkar series so it could be that RGV hasn't yet exhausted himself of that hue palette.

Bottom line? Watch RC if you are the kind who needs a break from pop corn romances and feel good family dramas. I for one certainly look forward to the next edition as Surya takes the driver's seat.

The con of man

I have started re-reading Narayan sir’s classic “The Guide”. Despite having read the tale almost half a dozen times, I always find each renewed attempt a fresh encounter. Over dinner, last night, my wife and I were discussing Narayan sir’s life and works and how, in a bizarre twist of fate, Dev Anand and co. ‘misguided’ the novel’s original content in their Hindi adaptation which went on to become Navketan productions’ biggest milestone. As I continued going through the days of a hero with shades of humble villainy (or vice versa?) called Raju today, I was taken back to the time my family and I, back home in India, had visited our community’s matha.

Now, for the uninitiated in the Brahmin ways, a ‘matha’ essentially is a religious establishment which has, as all good ashrams do, a guruji and a very strict code of protocols to adhere to. That these protocols sometimes can be flexible, despite what the house might claim, is another issue. But nevertheless, my thoughts ran back to that day when I was taken there by my parents to submit our respects to the aged guru.

I had never really been to many mathas before. Considering I don’t really think of myself as an extremely religious person, I hadn’t found the need to periodically go to a place where I had to fall at the feet of another man. As ‘Railway Raju’ puts it (I mentioned I am quite into ‘The Guide’ these days didn’t I?) only the Almighty deserves such reverence and no human. If I ever were to add the only exceptions to that thought, it would be a teacher and a mother; the only two extraordinary humans who always give more than they receive. For them, I shall forever bow.

Apart from these exceptions, I don’t see myself intentionally getting down on the ground and saluting the feet of another mortal. But given the fact that respect in India as I know it is more out of fear than anything else, I decided to follow suit and stood in line to accept the holy water from the 90+ year old gentleman who had taken a bath for the 15th time that morning. His conviction to such rigorous rituals, I thought, was truly worth commending even if I still don’t technically understand the scientific concept behind it, if there is one. When mom’s turn came to accept the holy offering she chose to cleanse her hands with what she thought was the first serving of the water. Seeing his ‘gift’ disrespected thus, the aged guru immediately snapped. He mumbled a few words of rage and yelled at my 65+ year old mother for not knowing how to accept offerings of such divinity. He, of course, did go on to give her a second serving, but with a lot of obvious and visible rage and contempt.

As I reflected on the sermons that Raju comes up with in the book, I couldn’t help think back to that day. This was probably why once I reached the ‘age of reason’ (as George Carlin would say) I had decided never to consciously go to any matha and try to please a complete stranger into blessing me with a miracle I probably didn’t deserve in the first place. For one thing, such blessings are meaningless since the swami doesn’t really know who I am. And for another, they usually don’t work. What really bothered me though was how my mother was treated by that ill tempered swami who was more worried about the water than the faith mom was bringing to his presence. This suddenly made the whole thing seem like one giant void. A farce. A namesake. A street play.

I read each day of fake gurus getting caught with either a woman or a wonder of another kind. Yet I see people continue to seek their blessings and sit through their hymns and endless speeches. Up until recently I was convinced it was the gurus who were the real conmen in such scenarios. Those wile cunning creatures who had somehow figured out the right formula to combine worthless philosophy with homebody ingredients to serve up a new dish each day. But now that I think about it, maybe it’s not them after all. It is our faith, as humans and as creatures capable of basic empathy, which is the real con. It is here, that faithful followers have possibly managed to cheat their beliefs into thinking that they are inferior creatures who need the divine light held bright by the enlightened men in saffron robes (and a few dozen BMWs and Mercs parked outside his ashram for divine interventions and such).

I find all of this very confusing. ‘The Guide’ was written back in 1958 by Narayan sir. At such an early age in our land’s post British history we had already been given a brilliant example of how faith can be such a lethal potion if served in the right cups. But I guess even after 52 years we still aren’t done being conned. I do not deny that there are indeed spiritual leaders in India who are doing some excellent work in the societies they live in, but I somehow suspect the ratio of our Nityanandas and Chandra Swamis is definitely an overwhelming majority. Nothing else can explain why in a land of such ‘overwhelming wisdom’, we are still talking about illiteracy and poverty as being our immediate concerns. Maybe our ‘Railway Rajus’ were the only ones who managed to read Narayan sir’s book. If so, then somewhere up in heaven, Narayan sir is shaking his head in great disappointment.

Udaan - A movie review

Historically, Hindi movies have mostly either oversimplified the complex pangs of adolescence by either peppering it with abundant sexual innuendos or by packaging it as an 'out and out' love story with goons, fights, screams and oh yes – songs. Every decade has its share of such tales that are carefully choreographed to capture, what the makers are convinced, the right vein with today's Indian youth. With time, hence, such movies have either become 'Jaane Tu Ya Jaane Na...' or 'Rockford'. Two extreme categories with its own audience lapping up whatever appeals to them.

With such a preface to this midway cinema, as it were, I began watching Anurag Kashyap's productorial[sic] debut – Udaan. Considering I am a huge AK aficionado (Black Friday, Paanch, Dev D, Gulaal) I had managed to carefully avoid reading any reviews that might influence my viewpoint before I got a chance to see the flick. Given the fact that anyone and his uncle who has access to the Internet is a reviewer these days (present company included), the best way to judge a movie, as I have experienced, is to just watch it. And watch Udaan, I did.

One of the first things I noticed in Udaan was the minimalistic use of the background score. Nothing kills a movie more quickly than an ill timed piece of audio during a scene that is designed to be sensitive. Also, Udaan is almost entirely shot using a hand held camera (not the offbeat YouTube/LSD style though) sans the 'Bourne vibration'. A blessing indeed. Every expression – silence, melancholy, regret and rage – is captured at the right distance and in the right shade. When narrating a tale of a boy's coming of age, I think these two paramaters – distance and color – plays an extremely critical role. Too much or too less of it, of course, will kill the narrative instantly. Udaan scored big points in this department right from the get go.

The second thing I found endearing in the movie was the obvious lack of B-City's prescribed emotions. Despite the rage that is bubbling inside the teen protagonist (etched into justice by Rajat Barmecha) the restraint he offers consistently almost confused me into questioning myself - 'Wait...why is he behaving like I would? Isn't this supposed to be a movie?' This is a reaction I have rarely found myself expressing during a Hindi movie. Notwithstanding the shades of an 'American Beauty' like relationship the male protagonist and his father share, the context in which the tale unfolds is very authentic. A small city single parent who has no patience or comprehension of love wants to bend his free spirited son to his will. An extremely relatable scenario in middle class India. Udaan cuts through the cow manure of over the top emotional frenzy and keeps it simple. It is in such echoing moments of naked reality, that it finds apt redemption. The characters speak volumes by just a casual glance here, a friendly pat on the shoulder there. A subtle smile here, an abrupt pause there. An art form that hasn't found complete mastery in our cinemas but has some brilliant examples dotted along its century old time line. Udaan proudly joins the ranks of such a genre where despite the look and feel of something supposedly 'filmy', the treatment it eventually gets makes it shed all the fake skins until the bones are exposed.

What also makes Udaan work the best – apart from the points above – is the transition the protagonist makes from being a wayward son to a responsible parent figure. A transformation that goes through a natural metamorphosis without the contrived instances of the illogical that burns, distills and clarifies his soul through a series of fortunate and not so fortunate events. What makes it even more appealing is the liberal use of some fine and well placed poetry to drive home the point. If I'd recommend Udaan for something, it would be to experience this mode of story telling that is such a critical need of the hour.

My regards to the team of Udaan for maintaining the tradition of serving us some bitter yet refreshing lime in a market that is so eager to cater to us the deep fried yet nauseating clichés. Looking forward to the next serving.

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Raavan : A movie review

Ever since Subhash Ghai’s ‘Khalnayak’, there has been much said about the villain in a story. Notwithstanding the painfully obvious hint in such titles of apparent glorification of the stereotypical ‘villain’ of a tale just waiting to be exaggerated, there are, I have always believed, more creative ways to narrate a story which mixes up the definitions of a hero and his nemesis. Ways so beautifully meshed with the complicated lives of simple humans, that the glow in which they glisten is always a grand tribute to their creator – the director. Such a genius he has been, this down to earth South Indian man called Mani Ratnam. Hidden in his unassuming mannerisms and genuine smiles was this awe inspiring vein of realism that consistently struck a chord with us lesser mortals. Be it in the poetic renditions of Iruvar where friendship and love are held as beautiful hostages in a cage of brilliant screenplay. Be it in the looming silences of Nayagan where a self declared Godfather’s eyes moisten at hearing his estranged grandchild’s voice for the first time. Or be it in the innocence of a little girl’s subtle yet helpless rage on being reunited with her long lost, now militia, mother in Kannathil Muthamittal. Yes – Mani’s genius was never in the mindless cacophony that has ruled the roost in Indian cinema. His craft was in using his keen eye for detail and pecking out those few but memorable moments where life’s complexities get refreshingly redefined each time.

With such an impressive record to back him up, I began viewing ‘Raavan’ hoping that despite his mixed track record with making Hindi films he would still pull out a masterful trick from his seasoned hat. Alas, I was woefully wrong.

What doesn’t work for ‘Raavan’ is the nonsensical title. Considering the posters are plastered with faces of Abhishek Bachchan as ‘Raavan’, it takes no imagination to connect the rest of the dots in this mixed tale of the painfully obvious. Every kid in India is taught the story of the epic Ramayana before being potty trained so to attempt such an old wives’ tale in itself highlights Mani’s lack of a clear vision with this movie. And so, not surprisingly, we have almost everyone labeling it, rather crudely, as the ‘modern Ramayana’. What makes it worse is Mani’s pathetic attempts at playing to the galleries by smearing the story with laughable mentions to characters from the epic. Govinda jumping from one tree to another. Hmm. I wonder who he is! Priyamani is dragged by the nose to the police station by the hero’s junior police official. Wow – who could she (and he!) be playing! Villain’s brother comes to hero’s den to offer an olive branch. You see where I am going with this. It is in such cliché that Mani suddenly seems like just another director going through a bizarre mid-life crisis. A crisis so intense, that he doesn’t even attempt to make the proceedings a tad more original. Utterly and absolutely shameful.

What makes ‘Raavan’ more painful to watch are the performances. It was as if each character was given a collection of 1-3 expressions and told to keep repeating it throughout the movie. Vikram (yes, as Rama) has one standard scowl from frame 1 to n. Aishwarya’s only job is to stare with reddened eyes and scream like an animal when needed. And Abhishek? He is given the same license to ham as Shah Rukh was given in ‘Raam Jaane’. He seems more like a person with a serious anger management issue and a psychological disorder rather than a nemesis who has the wit and the gut to challenge the hero with something more creative than kidnapping his wife. Mani sir – come on! ‘Raavan’, thanks to such self indulgent caricatures and a lousy storyline successfully converts a brilliant pool of opportunities into a messy pit of over hyped mediocrity. Tragic.

There is enough mention about the brilliant cinematography which, I must admit, is possibly the only high point of the movie although I cant say I saw anything that made me hold my breathe. Music? Let’s just say Rahman shouldn’t have received an Oscar for what is arguably a very ordinary song at best. It seems like he has let that success, while earnestly pretending to still be the ‘musician next door’, go not only to his head but also to his ears. Nothing else can explain the noise and shrieks in an alien tongue he decided to call music for this overwhelmingly boring feature. Maybe its time Mani sir goes back to working with the true maestro Illayaraja and dumps this over marketed boy wonder who seems to be losing his exaggerated finesse rapidly.

I remember reading a comment somewhere on one of the forums that a more practical movie on highlighting the true shades of a stereotyped villain would be to portray Gandhi as a crafty Gujarati lawyer working as an agent for the British while a true patriot, Ghodse, takes on the entire country to fight a cause he is convinced is the truth. I, for one, would certainly pay to see that movie. It is indeed a shame that Mani could not see such blatantly obvious rationale before manufacturing this dish called ‘Raavan’ that eventually reached our ill-fated noses and eyes. But as Mani has always said through his movies – it is all about hope. Hope in humanity and more importantly, hope with oneself. And in that same spirit, here’s hoping that we get back the real Mani Ratnam with his next venture.

Go on, Mani Ratnam sir. We eagerly await yet again.

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Magadheera - Re-defining 'inspiration'

One of the many effects Hollywood has had on the world has been the oft misused instance of the word ‘inspired’. Almost every other flick, particularly from a craze-maze hotch-potch called (in somewhat un-Shakespearean way) Bollywood, is being quoted as being a remake of a product from that mountain city in the United States. And sadly, so wrapped are we with Bollywood that we rarely pay attention to the magic being woven in regional cinema. True – not all of us Indians are blessed with either the resources or the time to sit through those select few that filter past the much revered National Awards or the more drooled after yet eternally scoffed at Academy Awards. But nevertheless there is no denying that there is some serious work being done in our regional territories to up the standards of traditional cinema making over the last decade.

One among them – with all due respect to my home ground Karnataka where cinema has somehow lost its way in a bizarre forest infected with cannibalistic mediocrity – is the South Indian cinema scene. It is no secret that Bangalore possibly has more Tamil and Telugu cinema goers than Kannada cine-aficionados. And yes – there is no denying that the kind of stories written in Tamil, Telugu and Malayalam have forever been rich sources from where our hapless Kannada film makers have continued to pour themselves generous buckets of words from. Hence, being a fellow who enjoys good, entertaining cinema regardless of language, I have indulged in non-Hindi, non-English, non-Kannada cinema several times too. I have seen movies in International tongues like Spanish, Polish, Hungarian, German et al and regional ones like Tamil, Marathi, Bengali to name a few. The one language I somehow never managed to see many movies in has been Telugu. The only two movies I can recall, not including Magadheera, are Shankarabharanam and Bommarillu.

And so – to increment my Telugu movie counter, I decided to take a gamble on the 2009 release of mega-star Chiranjeevi’s son Ram Charan Teja’s flick – Magadheera. I had heard rave reviews about how brilliant this movie was last year and so it was only apt that I leapt at the first Blue-Ray version that came my way.

First things first – Magadheera isn’t a brilliant movie. It is an AWESOME movie. And no – not for the storyline which is as old as the gorgeous yet fake hills that stand majestically in the backdrop of its sequences. Magadheera is a benchmark in Indian cinema purely because it shows the other film makers what exactly ‘inspired from’ means. It is a slap on the faces of those beer bellied producers whose only homework would have been to pour some scotch and come up with the magical equation…

Known hero + Hot girl + Rain dance + Love story + Family sentiment + Needless songs + Cliché fights + Cheesy dialogues + Mandatory rape attempt + Revenge saga + x = SCRIPT

The ‘x’ is usually the variables that go into making another hackneyed desi version of what was probably a decent original in Hollywood or elsewhere. What Magadheera does successfully is convert what could easily have been another run-of-the-mill love story into an epic. And how? By converting what could be termed ‘copy’ into the right meaning of the word ‘inspiration’.

The story of Magadheera is that of rebirth. Yes – as I mentioned there is nothing new in this bottle of tales. And hence, the story unfolds in two separate time periods – 1600 and now. Needless to say, if you have seen the publicity material for the movie, you’d have guessed that the warrior look for the hero is from the former period. So in this dish of recurring love, recurring enmity, recurring friendship and reappearing memories, we have a pretty straight forward story to narrate. But there – right there – is the difference as clear as that of an apple and an orange. I can safely say I have never seen such a flawless execution of visual effects and 3D imagery in Indian cinema before. It has artwork that can be easily put in the same column as visual masterpieces like '300' and 'Lord of the Rings'! The breathtakingly gorgeous ravines and valleys, the giant statue of Lord Shiva on Mount Bhairava, the shots of Udaigarh and the royal palace interiors and game ground, the white sand deserts that lay for hundreds of miles on the outskirts of the city - every detail simply oozes with master strokes. It is clear that the director, S.S.Rajamouli, not only understands international cinema but also knows how to translate it to fit our local needs.

Some brilliant scenes come to mind –

- The opening credits where paintings are used to capture the mood of the movie.
- The opening scene which starts by the depiction of the last few moments of what appears to have been a gruesome battle.
- The way our hero, in his former life as a royal guard, kills exactly 100 men from barbarian King Sher Khan’s shaitaan ki fauj on Mount Bhairava. Very reminiscent of '300' where murder was more an art form rather than a violent act of crime. Spectacularly shot.
- The scenes depicting the royal palace in Udaigarh and its exotic interiors.
- The scene on Mount Bhairava with a jaw dropping view of the Aravali mountains in the backdrop. Phew – the list goes on.

Having written enough reviews highlighting the story, music, performances, action and direction, I thought it was time to talk about a movie that works so well just for its sheer presentation quality, that even if at times the other departments feel a tad jaded, there isn’t much harm done. Here’s a grand round of applause to the technical team of Magadheera for finally cutting the BS between mundane ‘copy paste’ and true inspired work.

Well done folks! Hopefully now we will see some serious attention given to the word ‘inspiration’ in our Indian cinematic circles before being bandied about recklessly.

Love,Sex aur Dhokha : A review on reality

Love,Sex aur Dhokha:

Blurring the difference between the camera and the director

India has never been as innocent as it consistently claims to be. If you are, however, one of those naïve citizens sitting behind a veil of ridiculous reasons who actually believes this, then I couldn’t feel sorrier for you. In fact, if you pay closer attention to reality, you might never look at our beloved nation the same way again. One simple Google search and you will find an alarming amount of voyeuristic material of folks in brazenly compromising positions peppered all over the Internet. And no – it isn’t just those light headed, dizzy for that fifteen seconds of fame teens or fellers in their early 20s who are churning out these clips either – no. A good amount of it comes from middle aged, aging, and even ancient crisis-ridden junta who are desperate for some sort of thrill in their otherwise mundane and excruciatingly cliché-laden lives that contains nothing more than mindless work.

With that preface done with – let us now focus on Dibakar Banerjee’s latest offering ‘Love, Sex aur Dhoka’ (LSD). I am sure enough spice has already been generated thanks to the extremely obvious hint in the title itself of a dozen saucily executed romp scenes just waiting to tease your aphrodisiacal senses. And yes – this will also take a good amount of our sex-starved nation’s goggle-eyed wannabes to go see the flick too. But that’s when the fine line between those who went into the cinema expecting a popularized version of a badly edited B-grade mallu movie type sleaze-fest and the ones who walked in expecting a new way of storytelling becomes quite apparent. A divide, I am hoping, will have more fans in the latter category.

After watching the 1 hour 40 something minute dish called LSD, one thing is certain. Dibakar is one of those refreshingly cocky bunch of film makers who are quite unperturbed by what the mass populace has to say as long as his distinct tone of message is sent across without fear of judgement or ridicule. It is in this essence of movie making, that Dibakar scores points in my book. Come what may, he seems to say, I will show you my vision the way I want you to see it. It is in this raw, unedited, low-light/night-shot array of frames that the much needed breaking of stereotypical shackles Indian cinema is bound with can be heard – loud and clear. If only, of course, you are willing to listen. If only, of course, you are willing to acknowledge.

LSD is completely shot via handheld digital cameras, security cameras installed in public places and hidden spy cams tucked away in not-so-obvious spots. The tale unwraps with three distinct stories of Love, Sex and Dhokha – as is obvious in the title. What is not so obvious is the way Dibakar stitches the characters in each of them so craftily that the moments where their connections become apparent are truly memorable. The minimalist usage of background music layered with the brave attempts at showcasing emotions in their true and blue nature emanating from nameless faces is truly a new attempt in Bollywood. Actually it is quite new to Indian cinema too.

My take on the execution part of LSD has more to do with technique and philosophy rather than the stories themselves. Sure, the plots have their moments but they aren’t anything we haven’t already heard of or seen. Some of the scenes are overdone and there are even characters that let you down by actually ‘acting’. So, in my humble opinion, walking into LSD to expect it to sweep you off the feet with the narrative could be a tad misleading. What I would hope you pay special attention to is how the fine line between fiction and reality gets blurred without you even realizing it. There came a point in the film when my wife turned to me and said ‘This is nonsense! It just seems like they have stitched together some clips from YouTube!’

Notwithstanding her disapproving conclusion on the film, I must say, that is exactly what Dibakar was trying to achieve. Fading out that line where you forget these people are actors and that they do realize there is a camera somewhere recording their actions.

My deduction with this attempt, then, is the following. LSD will have two clear opinions. One - folks who loved the piece and understood the intentions with which Dibakar shot the flick and narrated the tale the way he did. And two, a majority from what I can tell, who absolutely hated the movie and found it annoyingly ambitious and contrived in its bizarre Hollywood-style-pretentiousness like approach executed in a rather disturbing and amateurish fashion. Either way, LSD will evoke a reaction that will stay with you long after having left the cinema.

My recommendation then? Go watch it. Not just to love it immensely or hate it profusely, but to be part of a threshold that has never been tapped on before. To be witness to a milestone in Indian film making where the director is absent from the scenes. To be an audience to a movie where the camera is calling the shots. Just for this, LSD to me will be a unique movie watching experience. And yes – do also watch it before a dozen more remakes flood the market claiming to be better than the original.

Movie Review: Road to Sangam

Road to Sangam:

An attempt at demystifying grass root Islam

It somehow seems like every other unconventional Hindi movie these days is aligned to either showcase Mumbai's undeniable spirit as a city that has seen the heights of mass peril or to herald a pro-Muslim message to those who might not already have heard it. Of the two, if we take a look at that rather colorful array of movies that have attempted to paint Islamic fundamentalism in a shade more palatable to the untrained layman palette, some great examples ('Aamir','Sarfarosh'), some decent instances ('Anwar','Yeh Hai Mera India','Yeh Hai Mumbai Meri Jaan') and some Herculean debacles('My name is Khan', 'Kurbaan') come to the foreground. Whilst all the aforementioned movies had varying degrees of success with portraying the life and times of an ordinary Muslim in today's India, there has never really been an attempt to juxtapose the Muslim community against Gandhi's backdrop. For that, 'Road to Sangam'(RTS) has my respect.

Now, I am not a hardcore Gandhian. I have read abundant material on the man, exhaustive literature on his legend and certainly seen a dozen variations of his mantra in recent celluloid years. Notwithstanding my personal views of the Mahatma, I was getting a tad frustrated at how almost every movie that used him as the nucleus, would invariably get so sugary at one point that one could die instantly from that lethal injection of diabetic shock. His message of global peace, non-violence and inter-communal brotherhood would be echoed way beyond the subtle reality it so desperately needed. Thus, making an erstwhile honest attempt, seem preachy and philosophical.

What makes RTS more authentic in such a stereotypical scenario is how it attempts to demystify the reasons why Maulwi saahibs and other patriarchal Muslims are screaming from atop mosque enclosures and what the everyday worker is hearing sitting in front of them, convinced that they know more about what being a true Muslim is. RTS dissects that so neatly that it takes your breathe away.

The premise revolves around Hashmatullah (Paresh Rawal), a renowned mechanic and a devout Muslim, who works out of his grease stained garage in Allahabad. He is the general secretary of his community's organization which is headed by one time friend Mohammad Ali Kasuri (Om Puri) and the local Maulwi Maulana Qureshi (Pavan Malhotra). Hashmat is a non-threatening fellow who sits in on rhetorical meetings spilling with the irate and cranky Maulwi's never ending rants about how Muslims are being targeted each day in today's India. Despite his ideology that are slightly different from that of his peers, he does not see the need to voice his philosophy in their presence. He nods his head, joins in their hymns and plays his role to the T.

And then one day a bomb goes off. A few prominent Muslims are arrested by the police and this sends shocks of rage across the community. They unanimously agree to shut down their businesses in protest of what they are convinced is a racist act. Hashmat, without a choice, reluctantly joins in not realizing that a recent project that has come his way, of fixing an age old Ford's rusty and dead engine, is in fact of the same vehicle that had once carried the Mahatma's ashes after his death in 1948. This, for a reason he cannot completely fathom, changes Hashmat's priorities.

On the one hand he does consider himself a true follower of the Koran and a blue blooded supporter of his organization. On the other, there is his conscience that continues to prick him into the confession that his little deed of helping the Mahatma's final bounty of ashes to be submerged into the Triveni Sangam (a spot where the rivers Ganga, Yamuna and Saraswati meet), somehow seems like a more justified statement of Muslim being a faith of peace, rather than shutting off work and listening to a radically inclined Mullah each day. Thus, aware of the respect he knows he needs to pay to the man who was assassinated for being an open supporter of the Muslims, Hashmat prepares to face the wrath of his own kin by reopening his shop to fix the engine. Hashmat's personal journey of awareness lit brightly by the knowledge of the true meaning of Islam culminates with the Mahatma's final journey into the rivers of the country he fought so hard to liberate.

RTS is no average emotion-heavy movie that is high on religious jingoism without a clear degree of practicality. In fact, it is the most mature movie I have seen on the subject after 'Aamir'. If 'Aamir' was the attempt to present the true anti-thesis of a Jihadi, 'Road to Sangam' paves the way for more clarity on the difference between blind fanatic adherence to one's faith and the need to see the bigger picture. That bigger, brighter, and more appropriate picture.

I would definitely recommend a relevant film like 'Road to Sangam' purely because of the honesty with which it unfolds its theme.

RATING: 4 out of 5

[MNIK REVIEW] : My Name is Khaaan't

So after a thousand fears and a million tears Mr. Johar Jr.'s latest flick 'My Name is Khan' (MNIK), not surprisingly, opened to packed houses across the world on Friday. Being the kind who had already been pushed to the edge of desperation to try and prove my point about this being another molehill of cliches (DH Blog 'My Name is 'Clueless'), I decided to take a deep breathe and plunge into this whirlpool of what would undoubtedly be peppered with large chunks of 'glorified Joharism'. And my O my! I could not have, sadly, been more right. Something I was interestingly disappointed with.

There is no denying that this movie stays clear of some of Johar's popular stereotypical inclusions thus far– gays and humor based on them, unedited ranting by the protagonists (usually the female lead), abundant references to familial unity and previously successful SRK movies, a chatty maasi and a disturbing bouquet of song and dance rituals and so forth. Instead, it steps into more global stereotypes of the 'Umreeki' kind. If there ever was a seriously miscued pro-Muslim agenda based movie, then MNIK is it.

But lets start with the basics. Rizvan Khan (SRK with a serious hangover of Hoffman from 'Rainman' but with neither the legendary touch nor the convincing seriousness) is a man suffering from Asperger's Syndrome. (It is curious how after 'Taare Zameen Per' almost everyone wants to herald a 'major message' by using the physically and mentally challenged as a protagonist and an unknown disorder to back it up. It disgusts me that these so called 'master story tellers' cannot narrate the same story with a person who is just a common Jack trying to meet the end of the working day. Weird.) He has a clearly secular mother (Wahab in a decent role) who has taught him that there are just either good or bad people in the world. Something, as we all know, just isn't true but then considering the already complicated personality of Rizvan, Mr. Johar decides to dumb it down to 'his level'. Tragic.

He then arrives in You-Yes-Yeah following his bizarrely irreverent brother (Jimmy Shergill in a role that never quite manages to find ground) to sell cosmetics for his company. So far, interestingly, things chug along evenly. Steady storyboard and all that. Bam! Mandira enters (Kajol in her usual indulgent self as evidenced in her groupie's directorial flicks) and things start getting 'Bollywood-ized'. The cliché rain begins. Rizvan almost instantly breaks into 'Tere Naina Tere Naina' and a few frames later asks her to marry him. She, a divorcee with apparently a seriously troubled past, gives him a mundane task (watch the film for this one) so that she may 'consider' marrying a guy she recently met. Even if I looked past the cinematic liberties here, the fact that she actually agrees to marry him raises serious questions about her character's conviction. A single mother who is just moving to a new place in a country like United States might, umm well, think twice before remarrying and that too with, ahem, a person with a clear form of autism. But not Mandira – no no – she is all for it in a blink. Heck, it is even hinted that they have sex on their first night thanks to 'Intercourse for dummies'. Made me think a lot of Indian men probably need that book too.

Now to the nucleus of this tale – 9/11 and its affects on innocent Muslims in the US. Whats that you say? That was almost a decade ago and people might find this theme a tad overused now? Well not according to Mr.J's yarn since we have random rednecks flipping off shopkeepers just because they wear a white cap, we have unnamed yanks smashing windows of desi motel owners and heck, we even have kids at school smashing that 'Paki' kid since his skin is brown. Yaaawn. How many movies have already dealt with this over the last decade? I lose count now.

And so Mr. Khan embarks on this supposedly iconic journey (much like the 'run' Hanks did in Gump which brought the entire nation to him. Remember that?) to meet the Prez and tell him – 'Mr. President. My name is Khan and I am not a terrorist.' And for what? Just because the love of his life – Mandira – told him to. I wonder what he would have done had she told him to go say 'Stop it man! You are making us all look bad!' to Osama bin Laden?

And so during this journey, Khan meets an array of people who apparently don't really have a problem that he is a muslim. The best part of the movie in terms of ridiculousness is when Khan finds himself in a church with a dozen African Americans and tells them ( (in Hindi of course, since it is the second language in all American schools and so everyone there knows it!) that Mandira's son was his 'best friend'. Not one scene existed when the kid seemed remotely interested in what was going on in either his mother's life or with stammering Khan who randomly gifts him shoes for no reason. This is where I lost all possible interest in the rest of it considering the climax became so obvious.

My instincts about this movie being a giant load of cheesy performances and over the top 'Umreeki' reactions were bang on. Not only do we have an American cast just waiting to be salvaged from their racial ignorance by an autistic Indian muslim, but he is also shown as some sort of messiah who becomes an inspiration for other Americans to help their own kind. Any ounce of credibility this story might have managed, gets vaporized at this spot when a crowd lead by his brother and sister-in-law leads a handful of Americans to aid in rescue efforts of a disaster area. The rest of the story is seriously predictable from this point on so I will let you waste your hard earned doe in experiencing this 'magic'.

What aches me most about a movie like MNIK is that Johar decides to voice each and every thought Rizvan gets in his head. This, because he once again assumes his audience are so dumb, that they cant even digest this high school essay of a story. So while we have to put up with SRK's never ending, almost annoying, portrayal of a man with a serious disorder, we also have to contend with Kajol's wide eyed histrionics that oscillate from meaninglessly irrational to just plain absurd. I look around me and find leading websites announcing this as SRK's finest till date and it hurts me. How can they possibly call this a performance that overtakes 'Swades' or 'Chak De'? Is it because this is the first movie where he plays an 'unconventional' hero with a medical condition? Puhleez. Anyone who cites this as the reason isn't qualified to be a reviewer.

Anyway. I was forced to pen my reactions on MNIK only because of the meaningless hype it had created ever since its announcement. If the audience who watches this so called 'movie about peace in Islam' that only highlights racial stereotypes calls it a successful attempt then surely it is a sad day in Indian cinema. I would prefer the movie 'Aamir' ten times more just because it was honest in its statements instead of choosing to design its script based on newspaper articles from a decade ago.

My recommendation – skip MNIK. There are much better films out there that convey the peace of Islam in more mature ways than this.

RATING: 2 out of 5 (1 star to SRK for keeping the hamming to a minimum and 1 star to Johar for spending more than 15 minutes shooting in India.)

Why did Rai become Raaj?

The first random emotion that blurted out of me when I read the news piece was an intense wave of uncontrollable guffaw. After I had recovered from this bizarre bout of seemingly unprecedented laughter riot, I began seeing the reasons behind it. The premise was simple – one more round of National awards had been handed out for cinema. Good. Being the kind of person who doesn’t think much of the Filmfare or other sorts of cliché coveted regalia, I do attach a great deal of respect to the National awards since I want to believe there still exists some ounce of genuine acknowledgement of equally honest performances in this channel. Nevertheless, what had me roaring in laughter this time around was the fact that Prakash Raaj (previously known as Prakash Rai in the Kannada tele-circuits back when entertainment was still decent) had bagged the prestigious best actor award for ‘Kanchivaram’ – a Priyadarshan feature. Notwithstanding the obvious interest this movie will now receive from commoners like me who won’t even sniff a rose unless told it contains mystical powers, something obvious made me hysterical. Prakash and many more like him are basically from Karnataka. But the hilarious irony is that they are being honored today for their contributions and finesse in non Kannada movies! Could there be a better slap on the mediocre covered chutzpah that pledges its allegiance to painfully stereotypical and over hyped ‘superstars’ of Kannada movie industry? I guess not! Not only did our esteemed state not utilize this wonderful performer’s extremely talented self, but they have the gall to sit around and ban other language cinemas from being released in their neighborhood! Gosh!

The ridiculousness of this affair doesn’t end there. Day in day out Kannada cinema keeps churning out only 3 major kinds of movies – boy meets girl love stories with rains and umbrellas thrown in for good measure, ‘macchu’ (a long sickle like weapon) based senseless action sagas where blood is spilled around like water and village based melodrama where it is almost mandatory that the hero be an underdog and the villain have an evil glare. Oh wait! There is that oh so ignored type too – remakes! Heck, we are terrible at even that since most remakes these days are falling flat on their face.

What aches me about all this is the historical vein that Kannada cinema had once upon a time. Having grown up on a strong diet of Kanagal, Nag, Phani Ramachandra and Nagabharana, the state of today’s Kannada movies is purely pathetic. I was recently reading an admittedly shoddy review of ‘Raj – the Showman’ where the author goes on to say this is a blockbuster! The premise then unfolds that the leading girl, an actress in the movie mind you, has an issue saying ‘I Love You’ on camera! I couldn’t help giggling in pain since a girl who has no issues dropping her clothes for a song overseas seemingly has a problem mouthing words that teens today throw around like cigarette smoke! Where has the brain for such a ‘wonderful plotline’ come from? That person has my respect!

With things looking this medieval and almost every movie assuming the status of a bad Mithun da starrer, people like Prakash have rightfully held up their palms and submitted their final respects to this industry that has nothing more to offer except borrowed tales and copied plots. I patiently wait for the day all this mediocrity is burnt out alive and some fresh stories with a mature and creative mind behind finally makes it way to the national arena.

Until then, well done Prakash! Stay cool, mate.

Holy Smoke!

My gut notion that the most ridiculous item in the world always makes it to the front pages of Indian newspapers is an aptly placed one. For those who insist on viewing these columns with mislaid jingoism and meaningless rhetoric are welcome to do so. Heck, they do it regardless of the well aimed interventions. But even after thumping each other on the back and giggling feverishly from behind weird clinical masks (thank you Swine Flu!) on the 63rd Independence Day of our blessed nation, we Indians continue to fuel the absurd day in day out with shameless aplomb. 63 years, just imagine, and we are still covering preposterous news pieces on our front pages!

Now, I think of myself as some sort of a Bollywood fan. I say ‘some sort’ since that definition is fast losing meaning. From keeping a regular tab on every release every Friday I think I am becoming somewhat allergic to Hindi movies. Actually it has been over a year since I bought a ticket and walked into the desi cinema here in Copenhagen. Jaya insists that she wants to see a Hindi flick soon so maybe we will go there after all. But until that gun is put to my head I’d like to avoid it with my own mask! Either way, when it comes to Bollywood I don’t really have any demi-Gods to worship since after moving out of the nation and removing my tear soaked ‘love goggles’ for these over hyped brats and ‘cosmetically re-engineered self proclaimed’ queens, I have learnt to call a spade a spade. And so with these buzzers around me, I opened the daily a few days ago. Shock of shocks! The mighty multi-million dollar worth SRK was frisked by American police at some airport in the states and the fellow is going around calling it ‘irrelevant’ and is giving press reports ‘sharing his ordeal’ and giggling like a school girl about the slightest implication that it might be a ploy to get some well timed publicity for his sagging cheeks, I mean career. And to add some ‘context’ to this ‘horrifying tale’, he says he was detained since ‘My Name is Khan’. Hmm…does anyone else smell some good old spicy BS here? Isn’t that the name of the next over rated LEGO play-set that kid Johar is planning to unleash on our sinful souls? Tch tch. Bollywood never had any class after the good old 80s but heck, they are not even creative at making up BS! Jeez. That’s just pathetic.

Fine. For the sake of pure jingoism, let us assume our pal SRK is burping out the truth from behind designer goggles and effeminate seeming scarves. Even so, given the celeb-derriere kissing that 'fans' that our countrymen are everyone is showcasing this ‘story’ and saying US needs to go easy in their checking policies. I felt like roaring in laughter when I read this piece. Are these guys for real? Who on Earth is this SRK and why the hell should that policeman at the US airport care who he is? There was also another report right about the same time that the legendary Bob Dylan was whisked away by two cops for not having an ID card on him. Did you read that news anywhere? I guess not since in the American viewpoint, everyone is the same in the eyes of the law and no one gets extra press. Not even Dylan! What I don't get is why these irrelevant (Ah! Irrelevant – the only word SRK used that had any worth in his mirage of page 3 vocabulary) desi celebs be seen as absolutely harmless creatures overseas? Heck, according to me they are the most harmful ones given the amount of broad day looting they do of our precious money with their gibberish performances and clichéd cesspools of song and dance routines in the name of ‘entertainment’ each week! If anything they need to pay us, the customers, tax for putting us through the torture they call 'blockbusters'.

Ah well. Call it the perfect coincidence which was so well laced with the Holy Smoke of this fellow being a Muslim or the fact that he plays one in his next movie (for a change!) and just ‘happens to have a last name’ that matches his real one. Whatever the case, the desi notion that anything Bollywood is beyond horse dung is absolutely ludicrous. I always read news items about major Hollywood glitterati being fined or getting imprisoned or some such for straight forward things like traffic violations and drunk driving! And then we have clowns like SRK who prance around like sissies calling US ‘unrealistic’! What a joke! One can't blame him either since Sanjay Dutt for all the hooplah that was made about his involvement in the Bombay blasts still roams free with his new 'khaadi' linen. So little surprise then that these people feel they are beyond the law in and out their sad little nation.

When I began following SRK’s career I had a lot of respect for this guy for being the only authentic self made superstar after Big B and maybe Rajesh Khanna. But in the past decade (and after having joined his ‘Holy Hands’ with Farah Khan and that Johar fellow and others in that circus tent) he has seriously lost all major regard I once had for that young, charming, hard working and passionate performer who grew out of the middle class and made a name for himself. Nowadays he comes off as just another overfed celeb who is cashing in on our nation’s hopelessly star struck public who are nothing more than drones when it comes to these jokers.

Alright, I am done with this absurd item. Let me stop now before I start throwing up like one of this fellow’s millions of misguided fans. And as far as those fellows who stopped SRK and questioned him are concerned – Well done guys! I honestly hope you nail every Indian celeb who crosses your borders without regret since we will never dare to do so ourselves. We are too busy constructing temples and crashing coconuts for these chaps here! What to do? We have two centuries of white stained guilt to wash away no?

Sigh.

Want justice in India? Get raped by a celeb.

Hypocrisy and India are like illegitimate children sprung from an awkward consummation between two diabolic parasites. The moment the sub-continent got cut at its umbilical cord in ‘47, so did the sense of everything else that once made any sort of sense. Among them, was our understanding of who gets noticed and why. Even if it means in a context as grotesque as violating a woman’s honor. This, from a land that can’t stop going blue in the face with incessant browbeating about it being that cultural nest where ‘woman is God’. Bah! What a load of steaming fresh horse dung!

Take the lackluster (pun intended!) fate that a certain ‘Shiney’ B-City chap is currently going through. No sooner had the victim of his wile libido (or so we are told!) sniffed her way into the police station with her tears emerging from behind moist lashes laced with atomic hints of a certain famous film wallah’s climactic essence, the entire nation was rubbed in the face with unprepared seeming nervous correspondents standing in front of garishly audacious bungalows screaming speculations into their microphones. Amid this horrid cacophony laced with the humdrum of loud human emotions was buried that O-too-obvious query – Why? For the sake of all that is good and pure…why?

Why was it that a crime that the country has witnessed since time immemorial was suddenly being shouted into deafening loudspeakers just because a known face was involved? Why is this victim more important than those tens of thousands of nameless faceless and, now, honor-less (some lifeless!) girls who lost the toes on their feet to the frostbite that ate into them by the administration’s frozen attitudes? Is it not shameful that such a heinous crime becomes front page news just because it has a known name attached to it like an unwanted finger? This – right here – is where India can never claim to be a ‘developed nation’. A classic case of misplaced ideologies sits bare like the shame of that unfortunate woman right here. This moment, this sentence. A point in time where the governing bodies burp out regulations to the commoners who go to hell and back while feeding fresh strawberries to the ‘alleged famous’ while telling the world – ‘O but they are being treated like the rest! Like common people!’

Are they? If they were then why is this rape incident major news? Should it also not have disappeared in that minuscule five line small print in the seventh page of that unknown daily with minimal readership? If they were then should not the reporters make this a spicy Page 3 item and brush it off as just another part of their hedonistic lives where they get to play the divine role of choosing what is worth our ears and what is not? If they were then shouldn’t this ‘Shiney’ chap be roaming around trying to find a good lawyer to fight for him so that he doesn’t get his derriere rammed into in the darkness of the rat infested prison cells haunted by the memories darker than the night? Given the coverage he has received in the last 48 hours, it is suffice to say – there is nothing ‘common’ about it. Never has been. Never will be.

It is in this deep seeded double standard that the difference between the India that is and the India that the world is being told about stands naked like a wailing orphan next to a canine friendly garbage mound. The stink it raises here is far too obvious to our trained nostrils. It is here that we frown, nod our heads disbelievingly and say ‘BS! Had this fellow not been a poster boy for so long then none of this would have even reached the ear of his own neighbor. Let alone the entire nation.’

I really don’t care what happens in this case. At the risk of being portrayed as someone who doesn’t care for a girl’s honor (Shame! Blasphemy!) my real concern is with the extremely skewed context behind this mess. Is the girl telling the truth? Did he really do it? Or is he the victim of some bizarre ploy and getting pounded meaninglessly amid two dozen photographers trying to take a picture of his innocent eyes? Or is this all a disgusting set up to get him into the public eye just before the release of his next B-City venture? I don’t give a damn. My trouble is that I suddenly feel shortchanged that I belong to a country where being raped by a celebrity is the only way to get anything remote to ‘justice’.

Sick.

Misplaced Arrogance : The SRK-KKR saga

A giggle happy crowd mills around a deep ditch. People from all races, creeds, origins and intellectual levels nudge each other, in an almost perverse sense of guilty pleasure, and coax each other to fling another one. Another well aimed stone that will sail across the grim air and land on the bleeding head of the injured one. The one who does not look up anymore to blow kisses from behind dimpled cheeks or wave generously from behind a curtain of expensive cigarette smoke. No. His still and downcast body only shivers occasionally in the heat of the impact each misshaped stone makes against it. But for a brief capsule in time. And then it is over. The perversity has ended, the injured still lies where he is and the crowd disperses guffawing at one another only to return at another ditch, a day later, and fling a few more.

The reason I chose to portray the situation the much esteemed “King Khan” finds himself in today was because I cannot help but be part of that crowd. Sure, I may choose not to strike his head with a mass of verbose intellect but then there I am. Still standing with the rest and looking down upon a man who, for some reason, actually had my respect for his cocky self-confidence for quite a while. Be it from the eager-to-please-the-masses days of “Deewana” or the eager-to-scratch-his-creative-conscience ensemble of “Swades”. Yes, I was there for most of them. Whenever he would make a witty remark in a press conference or giggle, albeit shallowly, at a movie’s premiere, I always felt he had his head on his shoulders. After all being “someone” in the B-City isn’t easy without a Godfather or two, now is it? That said I have always admired people who have cut through the BS and made it big on their own. And yes, that aspect of it might make me slightly inclined to label him “King” since we have a lot of genuine kingmakers in India and not as many genuine kings anymore. So here was, a king in both the figurative and literal sense. Fair enough.

And then came the Indian Premiere League’s second offering. I had not followed the first one since I wasn’t really sure I wanted to see traditionally famous rivals pat each other’s backs on getting another fellow countryman out. Say, for instance, Shoaib Akhtar getting Sachin out and getting appreciative hugs from Ganguly. Sorry, despite the basic nuances of team spirit and camaraderie on the field this essence of sweetness between two teams whose matches shut down an entire nation just didn’t go down my old school honed system. And so I didn’t want to be witness of such, for the lack of another expression, absurd friendliness. But that somehow changed this year. Maybe it was because our famous rivals were not part of it, I don’t know for sure. But I decided to follow IPL 2. Sure, I didn’t have any “favorites” but given that my personal connections now span across three cities – Bangalore (where I am from), Mumbai (where my fiancé is from) and Chennai (where my future in-laws’ are from) – it became quite pertinent that I keep a tab on these three teams.

Now let us stitch this into context. Given the eye blinding glitz and jaw dropping oomph that IPL provides, it was only a matter of time before cricket started sliding into the backseat. Sure, we do see some insanely wonderful shots all over the park, but more often that not it lacks technique. Wham! And the ball sails into the stands. Wham! And the ball goes between the stumps. Hence the meaningless factor of aforementioned “Wham!” Nevertheless, I still watch it. But what has happened now is I also watch matches that have the Kolkatta Knight Riders (or is it just Knight Riders now?). Reason? Well, just because I think with every defeat they are pounded with (and boy are they being pounded good!) something convinces me that justice is still part of today’s world. Ordinarily I wouldn’t have cared less for KKR hadn’t SRK given his infamous “go get your own team if you want” snip at Sunil Gavaskar. Sure, Sunny is no saint. I have seen him walk out of matches because he didn’t think he was out even if the umpire did. But notwithstanding that outrageous past he has, the last person to tell him what to do when it comes to cricket would be SRK.

I never understood this – how can someone who has never played even one international cricket (and this applies to everyone standing above the ditch awaiting their turn to fling one in) have any idea what it is like to win/lose an international game? How does that even work? Even when I read Herculean blogs about people recommending strategies and writing convincingly about what the captain ought to have done…I can’t help but nod my head in disbelief. How can any of us know what managing an international team (with players stuffed with egos larger than their mansions) can be like? Hence, even if it means one has come up in the B-city on his own and has more money than all of middle class India, he still needs to zip it. It is like a man opining about a woman’s menstruation cycle or childbirth. Sorry dude…just doesn’t count.

So here I am. No stone in hand yet glad that SRK’s much needed reality check is finally happening. I know it is probably inhumane to side someone’s downfall, but sometimes even “Kings” need to get down to our humble levels and feel the same heat as we do day in day out. Only then, maybe then, they can actually remind themselves about how honest and straightforward they used to be some years ago. For that, I can be part of any crowd over any ditch any day.



..ShaKri..

Before the rains : a review

IT WAS DURING MY SEARCH for other works by Nandita Das that I came across ‘Before the rains’. Ordinarily I probably would have given it a go-by but considering it had Rahul Bose in it too and was directed by the talented Santosh Sivan, it seemed worth giving a chance. In the first few frames itself the movie had me wrapped. The breathtaking locales of an enchantingly wooded Kerala make for a perfect backdrop to this tale of epic proportions. When Sivan’s roving eye breezes past serene looking tea plantations and gorgeous gorge’s carved out of nature’s immaculate knife, one can easily see why he is considered one of the finest cinematographers in the country. Add to this the mix of warm locals buzzing around making small talk in Malayalam while keeping the prim houses of the English sahibs clean and you have an interesting concoction of stories ready to spill over.

‘Before the rains’ starts off by exposing us to the core plot right away. That of the illicit affair between British spice baron Henry Moores (Linus Roache) and his housekeeper Sajani (Nandita). They nuzzle into each other’s arms under the very roof that feeds her while collecting fresh honey from friendly beehives in the woods. Their seemingly hush-hush cozy little venture, though, has a silent confidant – T.K. Neelan (Bose), a handyman who works with the Englishman. He shares Henry’s vision of cutting through the mountains to make that much awaited road that will transform the tea plantation into a full blown spice manufacturing unit rich with cardamom and pepper. Of course, this has to happen before the monsoon rains so that the road can sustain it. TK does not completely condone what Henry and Sajani share but he understands what love is. Given his adherence of friendship and loyalty to Henry he doesn’t find it relevant to keep this a secret from Sajani’s husband Rajat and her brother Manas. People he grew up with playing in the very forest that Sajani now spends her awake time enjoying Henry’s indulgent kisses and hugs.

Rajat is a tough guy who has no patience for Sajani’s lies and deceit. Despite the lack of any concrete evidence against her, he knows something is amiss and suspects TK of being the guilty one. With things looking like this in walks Henry’s wife and son one day. Much to Sajani’s disappointment and frustration, her way out of her abusive husband’s life seems to be by bridging the cultural divide that separates her and Henry. Things don’t necessarily pan out this way when Sajani is beaten senseless one night and is forced to escape from her husband’s heavy handed clutches. She runs to Henry’s house (where TK also lives in an outhouse) and confesses her need to never have to face her husband again. Henry panics. This is a situation that he had not expected given the highest level of secrecy (and possible bottom line triviality) he had given the case thus far. It is then, on being rejected from Henry at such an important juncture, that Sajani, using TK’s gun, shoots herself dead right in front of their bewildered eyes.

‘Before the rains’ picks up momentum after this incident. The question of what is the right thing to do and who, more importantly, will do this becomes the focus. Will TK be the scapegoat for a murder that was inspired by Henry’s lack of character? Or will TK go out of his way to tell everyone that it was Henry who was the cause of Sajani’s untimely demise? What will be his true calling at such an hour – his ethics or his loyalty? Will Henry own up to his mistake and risk his spice project, and needless to mention his family’s respect, altogether? Will the gora sahib pull his strings to come off unscathed in a time when it is so easy to do so? These are questions that the movie addresses as the frames pass by.

Sivan’s understanding of local sensitivity in a place like Kerala (pre-Independence) is obvious in every frame. Right from the attire the people wear to the ‘Bharat Chodo’ slogans that ring out across the quiet town in tropical Kerala is straight out of history’s dusty pages. His bold showcasing of the flawed English colonialism sits bare as the one tragic incident stands to threaten an entire community. The subtle yet prominent mention of the price passion has to pay despite the odds being against a culturally diverse couple is very well showcased.

Performances belong to almost everyone in the movie. Right from Bose, who plays the silent yet defiant Malayali foreman of the English sahib to Das, who plays the victimized and misdirected mistress whose fate eventually does her in. Each character in the movie does justice to a plot that, despite its simplistic way of handling the most complicated of situations, exposes the shocking hues with which the Raj worked in colonial India. At a time when most of the movies coming out of India lack that much needed strand of human emotion, ‘Before the rains’ stands out like a breathe of fresh air that underlines only one basic human emotion – conscience.

..ShaKri..

Watch the trailor of the movie below