2S
Techie. Writer. Photographer.
Archive for movies
April 6, 2008 at 8:27 pm · Filed under bollywood
I’m not blind - I admit, Kareena Kapoor is one of the hotter women I’ve seen out there, but whether that new firmly-toned body of hers really merits a tattoo on Saif Ali Khan’s hand - or any other part of his body - is questionable. I, for one, would have little space left on my relatively larger frame if I were to tattoo the names of the women I’ve loved, love, and will love in the foreseeable future.
But the question that’s eating me is this: is it just me, or are others too wondering if Kareena Kapoor and Saif Ali Khan have timed this just before the release of Tashan, where they both star together? Does a movie require painful body-art - and a love story attached to it - to gain traction? Isn’t the fact that Tashan is a Yash Raj production good enough for publicity? The very same Yash Raj who gave a movie like Chak De, and a movie flickshit like Jhoom Barabar Jhoom last year?
So, before we digress too much, tattoos. I’m all for it, I mean, what better way than to inscribe her name on a limb (or a rear) and dedicate it for the love of your life. But one must question the wisdom of Saif Ali Khan here. To begin with, Kareena Kapoor has demonstrated in her past relationships that she is as loyal to men as leaves are to trees in autumn. Not that Saif has the best track-record either, so considering these factors, a tattoo might just be going too far.
And please do consider that Bollywood is so seduced by numerology these days. If people do krazzy things, like make moviees - named Karzzzz - add ‘e’ in their names, then what’s the guarantee that the name won’t change? What if she takes a leaf out of SRK’s Darr performance and calls herself Kkkkareena? If they could do that to Kkusum, they could do it to her too, right?
While on the subject, I personally think the position of the tattoo is important. A tattoo on the hands, for instance, expresses support. A tattoo on the chest might reflect where the guy keeps his girl, in his heart. It might get interesting: a tattoo on the back would mean the girl is piggybacking on him, and a tattoo on any of the rears would mean, well, never mind.
Yesterday, I went to this store to get a new arrowhead that would sit in the old piercing, and I came across this guy who had a tattoo all over his neck that sprouted onto his back, of a snake. I’m starting to believe in this, really. I think in the rare event that I build a Godlike body for myself, I might actually end up tattooing a name on it. Atleast, I’d do it for the girl, and not for a movie.
So I’ve decided. I’m getting a tattoo done the day I get a great body and a steady girlfriend, both of which currently seem remote. While on the lookout for the girl, I’ll of course try my best to look for a North Indian, or a Maharastrian. No, Raj Thackeray hasn’t brainwashed me (yet) but atleast the names of the women in that part of India are short and sweet. Anu, Ria, Pooja. Come down south and you have Jayalakshmis to Bhanupriya, Bhagyashree or Bhanuwati. Or - gulp - Priyadarshini. To make that tattoo would, um, hurt.
Well, atleast I don’t live in Colombo, if that’s some relief. Spare a thought for Chaminda Vaas’ lovelife’s name if she were to do such an absurd thing. With all due respect to her frame, I highly doubt if ‘Warnakulasuriya Patabendige Ushantha Joseph Chaminda Vaas’ would fit.
Highly, highly, doubt it.
December 25, 2007 at 11:50 am · Filed under fiction, movies
Statutory warning: If you haven’t seen The Departed and/or The Independence Day, the back button beckons. If you have, this post is strictly for audiences ages 18 and above.
Dean Devlin wrote this brilliant speech from ‘The Independence Day’ - the video is here.
Good morning. In less than an hour, aircrafts from here will join others from around the world. And you will be launching the largest aerial battle in the history of mankind. “Mankind.” That word should have new meaning for all of us today. We can’t be consumed by our petty differences anymore. We will be united in our common interest. Perhaps it’s fate that today is the Fourth of July, and you will once again be fighting for our freedom … Not from tyranny, oppression, or persecution… but from annihilation. We are fighting for our right to live. To exist. And should we win the day, the Fourth of July will no longer be known as an American holiday, but as the day the world declared in one voice: “We will not go quietly into the night!” We will not vanish without a fight! We’re going to live on! We’re going to survive! Today we celebrate our Independence Day!
When President Thomas Whitmore is done, I had the hair standing in pride, occidentalism notwithstanding. Forget the oil, this speech touched me, impeach Bush and bring Pullman on. Moved me, it did.
But, just wondering, what if Marty made the flick instead of Roland Emmerich? And what if William Monahan wrote the dialogue? And, what if Mark Wahlberg was President? Here’s a potential Scorsesian touch.
Good morning, ladies. In less than one fucking hour, aircrafts from all around the fucking planet including this shithole will unite like a million dicks up an alienwhore’s ass. We’ll be shoving a few missiles up the bitch mothership. This is gonna be the largest fucking battle in history. No, we ain’t taking any fucking shit from any dipshits no more. It’s about time you guys wake the fuck up and get your asses and acts together. And hey, bitches, today’s the fourth of fucking July, you Irish lace-curtain motherfuckers? We’re fighting for our freedom. It ain’t from fucking tyranny, oppression, or persecution - nope - but from fucking annihilation. For our right to fucking live. To fucking exist. We won’t let aliens fuck us through our own fucking planet. No fucking way. And should we smoke those motherfucking alien bastards today, the Fourth of July will no longer be known as a fucking American holiday, but as the day the fucking world declared in one fucking voice: “We will not let our dicks go limp and pee into the night! We’re going to live on, you alien fucksticks! We’re going to fucking survive! Today we celebrate our fucking Independence Day!
Let’s nuke the bitch. And if you think I’ll screw up like I did in Iraq, blow me.
Yes, dear reader, I just needed an excuse to curse. Merci, really, for bearing with the profanity. I’ll stop fucking with you.
December 1, 2007 at 12:11 pm · Filed under bollywood
First things first, Madhuri Mads is back. The smile-evoking-smile is still there - mercifully - but the lady returns with a few added wrinkles and pounds.
The other lady that steals the show, clearly, is Vaibhavi Merchant. Her flawless choreography stands out, and with Madhuri swinging it, there’s genuine intensity in the performance itself.
Dia (Madhuri Dixit) is a choreographer in the States, the kinds who respond to an emergency phone-call with a ‘If it’s an emergency, ask them to call 911′. Unless, of course, the emergency is a dying guru. A flashback beckons - Dia is a dance fanatic learning the moves at Ajanta Theater in Shamli under the able guidance of Dada (Darshan Jariwala in a cameo). And while she’s at it, an American photographer - NatGeo to be precise - comes along and clicks images of our dame with his Nikon. And - yes - she falls in love with this random guy, who can’t have a bite of pakodas - with a generous dose of mirchi, I might add - nor can he ensure his photographs remain in focus. But the girl is all convinced, and - get this - leaves her parents, her mandap and the town to go all the way with the camera guy. Don’t even bother worrying about the entry permit to the States.
And after all that, they divorce.
Dia returns and finds her Guru dead, but not before he recorded - on a projector, mind you - his farewell message. ‘Save Ajanta’, he says. No marks for wisdom, one would think. Dame finds a firang, ditches all of Shamli, her parents leave the town in shame. Fine. She returns in designer jeans with an accent and a kid who questions the purity of ‘drinking’ water. And this - urgh - NRI, is expected to save the theater?
Sounds far-fetched? It is.
‘Save’, incidentally, means that she needs to stop them from bringing down the theater. ‘Them’ include the folks in town who want a mall in place of the excuse for a ‘mecca of kala’. MP Uday (Akhsaye Khanna) is a Raja. The kinds who hangs out at his palace in an apron and denim, and makes his own pizza. Armed with the best lines in the flick, the bloke brings wit, lending some entertainment.
He gives her two months in which she must come up with a performance that all of Shamli enjoy, which - incredibly - would mean that the theater can stay, and no mall will be built.
Dia promptly begins auditions for a Laila-Majnoo musical. The sub-plots are now thrown in, as are the rest of the cast (read: Kunal Kapoor, Konkona Sen Sharma, Jugal Hansraj, Vinay Pathak, Ranvir Sheorey, Divya Dutta). The rest of the flick taps into her ’struggle’ to make the show happen, and redeem Ajanta from the wrath of an evil businessman (Irrfan).
If only the director paid a little more attention to the details, and filled in the gaps with more meat. Instead, the end product is not just predictable, but lacks depth. Very little thought has gone into developing the characters, and if truth be told, the honest performances are the only ingredients that could keep this afloat. And, of course, the drama itself. I haven’t seen a better Laila-Majnoo musical depiction.
The performances are the only worthwhile mention. Madhuri is fab, she’s awesome, and she hasn’t gone rusty on her charm one bit. It’s pretty much her show, all throughout, as the support cast execute their bits with sincerity. Kunal Kapoor’s transition from a stone-hearted thug to a romantic hero takes its time and is rather convincing, as is Konkona’s tomboy-to-babe act. Vinay Pathak is absolutely hilarious in the little screen time alloted to him. Ranvir and Yashpal Sharma are brilliant as a duo. Not a lot of screen time there, but enough to add respectability. If it weren’t for the teeny bits of wit that these guys bring, Aaja Nachley would evoke more yawns than smiles.
In spite of all its flaws and loopholes, this is worth a watch if you’re a Madhuri fan. Expect little, and don’t forget to leave your analytical thinking at home.
And I want my old Madhuri back, the girl who would mumble “dance”, and it sounded like “dance”, and not “Dan’s”. Lose the accent, sweetheart.
November 30, 2007 at 11:25 am · Filed under bollywood
I was looking at this rediff report and, if you are the guy who wrote it, you need therapy. Seriously.
First things first, what’s this whole ‘battle’ about? Aamir Khan didn’t enjoy Black, and Mumbai Mirror tells us all about it:
I didn’t like the film. I found it very insensitive, it sends out very wrong signals. It was extremely manipulative. I could see the effort in the manipulation, and the art of the director is in not letting you see the manipulation. Most importantly, it was about a child who had these problems, an alcoholic person comes and says you have to leave her alone with me for forty days, and he slaps her around. I don’t know of any parent who’d agree to that.
Agreed, he has a point. But, Aamir, to be honest, an alcoholic teaching a blind child is a lot more convincing than a terrorist making out with a blind woman in Delhi. You have your take on things, and I have mine. My point is, opinions are like the human rear: everyone has atleast one on offer for the taker.
And that’s where it ought to end. A sane man, or a woman too (just in case this blogger gets bludgeoned for suggesting that women aren’t sane) would simply put the matter to rest and move on with life. No big deal, honestly. The guy who works his butt off all week, sweats bullets at the workplace, earns his daily bread and saves it up for Friday night doesn’t really bother with this ‘battle’.
But, pray tell me, why is rediff doing what I hoped they wouldn’t? Their piece uses terms like ‘battle’ and ‘adversary’, making it sound like they’re at each other’s throats. Hello? A didn’t like B’s flick, and B thinks A’s being dumb. Period.
I thought the writer was trying to be funny. Until I read this bit and did a double-take:
With such industry stalwarts fighting this bitterly, we must ask: whose side do you take? Tell us.
Oh, hell yeah, I mean - we must! How can we possibly go on with our lives without taking sides? Guys, give me a break. This is in all certainty TWI material.
So, a word of advice to my dear folks out there on rediff: think of better ways to increase your ad impressions. This is, with all due respect, lame. Not a lot of respect due there, eh? Tell you what, really, it doesn’t matter. Come December 21, and nearly all the guys who swore by Bachchan will queue up at the box-office for TZP.
- - -
On a lighter note, Mister Bachchan, would you please stop running into issues with the Khans? First SRK, now Aamir, what next, Salman? And then? Why leave the mini-Khans (read: the Fardeens, the Zayeds) or the micro-Khans (read: Jiah - a ‘micro’ if there ever was one)?
November 24, 2007 at 12:04 pm · Filed under bollywood
To be honest, I didn’t really expect much from this director’s flick ever since he gave us Chocolate, which is probably the biggest rip-off in the history of Bollywood, I might add, not just the Usual Suspects bit, but the entire album is testimony to Pritam’s thieving capabilities.
But Vivek Agnihotri surprises me with Goal. Indeed, there are factual errors. Yes, it’s dramatic. And it might be the worst football flick to hit Bollywood. But - credit be given where it’s due - it somehow works, without evoking many yawns.
The plot is rather similar to Harimohan Paruvu’s ‘The Men Within’, except that - and this is an act of cinematic bravery in Bollywood - it’s based on football and not cricket, and based out of UK. Shaan (Arshad Warsi) is the captain of the Southall United Football Club, in a community that’s as British as the Old Pakistani Consulate area in Dubai. Yes, they’ve got Pakis, Bongs (east-Pakis?) and Indians who come together to unite in their passion for the game. Asians in the UK. Supposedly, victims of racism - or so we’re made to believe. Well, atleast that’s the driving force behind Southall’s thirst to win. It’s not about football - make no mistake.
And we thought, they were actually trying to save the ground. The Southall Chairman, in an ‘emotional’ moment, dies of an attack while Shaan is driving him home. Shaan sees the body go still, stops the car, the corpse’s head turns around, and the smart-ass midfielder is absolutely convinced that the man is dead. He didn’t feel the need to check the wrist for pulse, or anything of the sorts. Just breaks into tears, the director screams ‘cut’, and the next scene - the funeral - is already halfway through. Wow. How convenient.
Suddenly, the folks realize that they need a coach. Enter Tony (Boman Irani), who - for some ‘inexplicable’ reason - is trying to hide his identity. He agrees - after a few minutes of persuasion - and gets to work immediately.
So Shaan’s family is small and content. Wife Jenny runs a restaurant that fries Kababs, although spice has little place in the joint. Sister Rumaana (Bipasha Basu) is rather attractive, just out of college, a medical degree, and the new physio for the Southall team.
What the team need, however, is a striker. So, Coach promptly walks across to Aston and throws in a desi carrot or two, nearly saying ‘join us son, for here is where you belong’. To whom, you ask? Why, Sunny (John Abraham), of course, who is ridiculed - or he thinks he is - because he’s called a Paki. That’s bad enough for him to throw a few punches. But the striker isn’t joining yet, he needs a team, not a circus, he says. And that’s that.
Until, of course, Aston pick their team and Sunny’s name doesn’t figure. And folks capitalize on the racism issue. Colour. Coach makes the kid sweat for about 10 minutes in the rain, and he’s convinced. Southall it is.
Right, so with the new striker in place, Southall start winning. Football is a team sport, I heard? So one, good striker makes it a winning team? Heck, whatever. Marks to Agnihotri for making this ridiculous idea look a tad convincing on screen, and more marks to John and Arshad for making the viewer believe it all. All in all, worth a watch.
And the flaws, criminal ones they are. If only Goal had remained a ‘football flick’, we’d have loved it. Instead, there are shitloads of factual errors. Professional footballers, for the record, do NOT get drunk every night. Man United’s dressing room isn’t open to the general public, and is certainly not open to a Old Pakistani Consulate Southall soccer team. Paki girls don’t call their brothers ‘Bhaiyya’ as much as they’d call them ‘Bhaijaan’. A hairline fracture to the nose doesn’t result in fatality.
And hey, what was that? A tournament that lasts atleast seven months? Because - at the start of the it - Mrs. Warsi goes, “I’m pregnant”. She watches the finals with a stomach and a half. Right. And I’m President.
Yes, there is the typical Bollywood overdramatization too. Background score sets it up, Coach mumbles a few ‘inspirational’ words, and everything was done to evoke patriotism minus Vande Mataram going off in the background.
And the dilutions. A Qawalli, as absurd as it gets. The sub-plots. The father-son-relationship that ‘drives’ the climax. Chak De was that subtle recipe which had the right amount of ingredients, blended together extremely well. Goal, in contrast, is EVERY possible ingredient chucked in.
In spite of the drawbacks, if you are still recovering from the OSO-Saawariya trauma, then go watch Goal, atleast to bring back some faith in cinema. For the men, there’s the option of watching how Bollywood makes a mockery of soccer. For the women, there’s John and there’s testosterone.
Maybe it’s wrong to compare Goal with Chak De, but I will - sue me - and I tell you, while Boman-SRK comparisons can be made - because the Parsi actor has dome brilliantly well - the overall product is a couple of notches below Shimit Amin’s masterstroke. Arshad’s honest performance and John’s eye-candy help it along, but a hit it’s not.
And Bips, as she rightly self-proclaims, is very sexy. Ergo, watchable.
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