Fan: A fan's review

It has been quite some time since Chak De, dear SRK. Almost nine years since that riveting piece of art which underlined the fact that there's more to you than well, you; year after year seeing you plodding your way through senseless piece of garbage in the name of scripts (well films had to make money, and we know good films and minting money have a very low correlation in Bollywood), we were waiting for a turnaround of sorts from you, where you would fearlessly experiment, when you can no longer, without the help of prosthetics, play a college kid. The trailer of Fan had us hoping, so did Raees, and we knew within our hearts, that this would the watershed year.
Fan finally shows that bound with a taut script, minus senseless song and dance numbers and brisk storyline, you can do wonders. One wishes that better sense has prevailed to you before you signed up for Rohit Shetty. But 100 crore club is almost like an ego massage, a hedonistic feeling, to stay abreast of the competition, and who knows competition better than you, staying ahead of them for twenty five years and counting.
On to the movie then, and  Maneesh Sharma movie means the bylanes of Delhi, with joined roofs with a backdrop of the metro. But the new age directors at Yash Raj do manage to paint a newer picture of Delhi everytime. The supporting cast is terrific, with a few recognisable faces from the ad world given a chance and they don't disappoint. SRK playing SRK is bold, unapologetic and unashamed to bring out the dark side of the star, egotistical, moody, brash, but underneath all the paint, a human being after all. But the true revelation of the movie is, you guessed it, SRK as the fan Gaurav. Prosthetic does work its charm, but the mannerism, the acting chops, the rough at the edges attitude, the brash Delhi gait, that's all talent, and boy does he kill it !!! It never sinks in that it's the same person playing both the roles, as the audience roots for the Star to win and the obsessive, bordering on the maniacal, fan to get what he deserves. At just over 2 hours and 15 minutes, it is an often edge of the seat thriller, while the chase sequences will definitely remind the loyalists of the chase sequences in Darr between SRK and Sunny Deol.
This just whets our appetite for what's to come from SRK, the actor as we now await Raees with bated breath. We are sure he will not disappoint his diehard fans, since 'fans nahi to star kuchh bhi nahi'.

The Roast that was never intended...

The asinine, acidic reactions to the AIB roast on YouTube was predictable and on expected lines. It was rather surprising to see the AIB boys release the apologetic video so late after the initial act was uploaded. It would have made more sense had they inverted the ordering of the video uploading. Given the claustrophobic rate at which people in this country get offended, this would have been only apt and intelligent thing to do.

To suggest and test the idea that the sense of humor of this country is changing is a foolish thing to do. After all, one of the biggest unorganized industries in this nation, the film industry is based on the idea of star worship, creating larger-than-life (and often false) imagery of certain persona, to sell the common people that image and mint money out of it. All this creates a sense of false self-importance and ego in the minds of certain public figures. However, it would be wrong to single out the film industry for this egotistical rush. Even the political figures of the country suffer from this illusion, and it is the public who are to be blamed, hero-worshiping a fallible figure that after all is human. The gist is that these people, at the focal point of all this adulation, begin to take themselves too seriously, and hence are easily offended by the slightest jest directed at them.

The role of the media must not be underestimated here. They should be the public voice, the opinion that keeps the people in power from developing this sense of false imagery, to show them the reality. However, the only thing media is capable of doing these days is create false propaganda at the behest of certain powerful entity, often at the exchange of valuable service or preferential treatment to alter public thought process. The recent elections in the country are a scary indication to the changing demography of governance and politics. The landslide margins in West Bengal, Uttar Pradesh, pan-Indian assembly elections and the most recent Delhi legislative assembly elections point out to the worrying factors that emerge. In all the above mentioned elections, the decimation and annihilation of the opposition party has been so absolute that the parliament has been stripped bare of any credible opposition. While many point out that this translates to smooth implementation of reforms and policies, this also gives rise to dictatorial tendencies in the ruling party, as the centralization of power is completely in their hands and no real opposition to pull them back in case they slip up. It’s a classic case of sheep being guarded by wolves. 

Christmas Party on Chicago Streets

Indian movie critics and Indian movie-going public seem to be born out of different mothers. Every 100-crore movie (the new benchmark of an Indian movie’s success) to have been released in the recent times has been unanimously panned by the critics. It seems that they expect an Oscar winning script every time the seventy mm screen flickers to life, and nothing seems to satisfy their palate, unless it receives a nomination to the Oscars. To be honest, efforts like Rowdy Rathore, Raam Leela, Son of Sardar, and not to mention, Grand Masti justify their wrath; they might have been high on the entertainment quotient, but some of them are utter regressive and deplorable in treatment, and some of their dialogues make you cringe. However, that is the whole idea; all an average Indian movie watcher wants is a few hours of wholesome entertainment, paisa wasool if you like it, something that gives them a respite from the dust and grime of daily life, where they can live their dreams and forget their ordeals for a brief moment. So what if it does not live up to the Hollywood counterpart, a dish that the new generation of Indians with high disposable incomes has developed its taste buds for, thanks to torrents and multiplexes? Hinterland India still lives and swears by the creations of Manmohan Desai, Subhash Ghai, Prakash Mehra, Yash Chopra, and recently Farah Khan and Karan Johar.

This is where those movie critics come up woefully short in trying to describe Dhoom-3. I don’t know whether they were expecting Fast and the Furious or Gone in Sixty Seconds type of thrill, or were mourning the lack of bikini-clad Katrina and some other femme fatale; the simple fact is that Dhoom 3 is quite an entertaining movie. It doesn’t indulge in to over-intellectual show-offs of heists, or brain-cell exploding implementation of the perfect plan. It simply showcases the age-old formula of Bollywood in true spirit; one which has stood the tests of time, the Chor-Police cat and mouse game, in unadulterated format. It helps when the criminal mastermind is the greatest actor of his generation.

Abhishek Bachhan in a recent interview had mentioned that Dhoom 3 doesn’t need Aamir Khan. I do not know whether he was in high spirits or doped, but the fact of the matter is that this is an Aamir Khan show. In fact, going by the recent quality of movies to have hit the screens, not to mention Besharam (couldn’t help the jibe), every Indian movie needs Aamir Khan. Without him, this movie would have been just another heist movie, and going by the fate of Players, you do not sincerely need that.

Since this movie is propped on the suspense element, one should not disclose the twists and turns in the plot, although courtesy of spoilers on the social networking sites, it is hardly a secret. However, for posterity’s sake, one would just say, the screenplay is well-knit, taut and keeps you on the hook for the length of the movie. Songs and music in general, are nothing to write home about though, and one expected more from Pritam. Visually, however, the movie is pleasing to the eye, especially the Circus theme and the landscape of the Windy City (Chicago). The aspect where this movie soars over the other movies in the Dhoom series is the emotional quotient, and when you mix it in adequate amount with the adrenaline (read bike chases and daredevil stunts), you’ve got a winner on your hands.

Nothing much can be said of the other actors, as they’re fending for scraps, while Aamir Khan steals the limelight, the punch lines, the show and of course, the money. Katrina should really want to be a part of a 300 crore bandwagon, as there is no other legitimate reason for her to sign this movie. The script reduces her to an item girl, and again, an item girl; but it seemed the audience wasn’t complaining. Uday Chopra is getting too old for the buffoonery, and by way of spending too much time with him, it seems to have rubbed off on the tough cop Jai Dixit (Abhishek) as well.

Dhoom 3 is a must-watch for all those real Indian movie fans who still love to have a good time at the movies, and love to watch them with friends, family and children . At the end of the day, it is what the public wants, and my dear critic friends, Yeh Public Hai Yeh Sab Jaanti Hai.

Hey Ram…Teri Kaisi ye Leela !!!!

If the Late Ramanand Sagar had happened to see the outcome of Sanjay Leela Bhansali’s wordplay with his epic and immortal creation on television, he would have let out a sigh in all probability, mouthing something close to this phrase, if not the exact words. While some dumb-head's PIL in Delhi High Court contesting the release of the movie on grounds of hurting religious sentiments is an over exaggeration, the efforts to call Mr. Bhansali’s latest creation a romantic tragedy can be safely assumed to be somewhat similar.

It’s not that Goliyon Ki Raasleela-Ram Leela (let’s call it GKRLRL) is a poorly-made film. On the contrary, it is resplendent to the eye. The cinematography, as is the case with every Bhansali movie, is breathtaking. Every frame is bursting with vivid colors and shades, and even the barren landscape of the Rann of Kutch appears anything but that. Credit goes to the cinematographer, Ravi Varman, who had earlier introduced many of us to the breathtaking beauty of Darjeeling and Kolkata in Barfi! The opulence in Bhansali’s movies is impossible to ignore, with elaborately designed sets and dance sequences. However, the film falters at the storyline, hardly making any efforts to generate sympathy for the lead couple. Not that it is the fault of the lead actors, and I shall come to that in a bit. But inspired as the storyline is from the much-adapted ‘Romeo & Juliet’ by William Shakespeare, we all know what the film has in store for us; though that could hardly be called a deterrent for the movie-going public. What everyone would be curious to see is the treatment meted out to the story by a director whose specialization lies in tragedies. But what had catapulted Mr. Bhansali to the eminent position of a celebrated director in his first couple of movies, the ingredient of emotion, is sadly missing here. Both Khamoshi & Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam were heartfelt in their emotional upheavals, their abilities to tug at your heartstrings, and to resonate with the audience.

Devdas onwards, apart from Black, Mr. Bhansali seems to have gone overboard with the make-believe, initially with the huge sets, and gradually with the plot. GKRLRL unfortunately suffers from the same malaise, as the love (rather lust) story between the protagonists seems contrived. Their transition from lust/attraction to eternal love doesn’t cut ice with the audience. All we see is the exchange of some groan-worthy PJs in way of sms, some dirty talks over the phone and they are ready to elope for ‘love’. As is the norm in such Hindi movies, much violence, bloodbath and madness ensues the elopement, which manages to entertain the audience for a while; but even for a 2 hours and 35 minutes long movie, the storyline loses its grip midway into the first half, and never quite catches up. Music is pedestrian, which is disheartening for an SLB movie, and apart from Ranveer’s well-oiled six packs in the opening song, there’s nothing to look forward to in this area, Priyanka Chopra’s giddy and gaudy item number notwithstanding.

The supporting cast is strong, however; and holds together the porous script. Supriya Pathak as the dreaded gangster is brilliant with her kohl-lined eyes and cold demeanor. Richa Chadda has been making waves of late with her stupendous acts, and she tries her best to make the most of whatever limitations the script had to offer, as Deepika’s sympathetic sister-in-law. Same goes for Barkha Bisht, playing an identical role on Ranveer’s side, while Gulshan Devaiyah, whom we so fondly remember as a class act from Shaitaan, is sadly miscast as a slimy villain.

Deepika Padukone has hit a purple patch a-la Virat Kohli of late, ever since Cocktail and she continues on her ravishing ways here, despite the script reducing her to a caricature of a lovelorn Juliet. If nothing else, you can spend a good part of the movie, just marveling at her ravishing beauty and confident performance, which lights up an otherwise dim love story. Ranveer Singh doesn’t actually have much to chew on, and one has to accept that after a classic like Lootera, this is a bit of a downer, much like a spoilt raita after a ravishing biryani. The recent trend of showcasing a male actor’s chiseled torso, just for the heck of it, has been growing at a worrisome rate in Bollywood; and at one point, I was sincerely worried about him suffering a wardrobe malfunction with his low-waist dhoti, which served little purpose in a song which was further bewildering; but by then I had resigned myself to the fate.

GKRLRL is worth a watch if you are a fan of those LED television commercials promising you a burst of color in rich format, but offers little beyond that. If the Great Bard would have had the opportunity so view the movie, he would have most likely quoted the title of one of his famous works: Much Ado About Nothing.

Lost in Translation or Style over Substance? It's both and more

We all know the sad story about sequels. It's like the little brother of the celebrity, who's labeled unfortunate even before he's born, from the time he's been conceived. There is that consistent challenge to live up to the elder sibling's achievements, to answer the social expectation on a regular basis, while struggling to carve out a niche of his own. Funnily enough, we've observed many movies in our film industry dealing with this unfair social treatment of blood relations with unequal talent, so to speak. It might have been a father and a son, sibling rivalry or even a husband and a wife. They all had their own versions to tell; so I wonder if ever prequels and sequels had to have a human transformation, what would they have to say, or more pertinently, who would care to listen?

Once Upon A Time in Mumbai Dobaara is not excused from that curse either. Deemed as a sequel of the 2010 hit Once Upon A Time in Mumbai starring Ajay Devgn and Emraan Haashmi, this movie attempts to carry forward the story of Shoaib (played by Akshay Kumar), the bratty and young upstart in the prequel (played with terrific restiveness by Emraan), who has now expanded his empire of fear over Mumbai and the Middle East. Aslam (Imran Khan) is the young protege picked up by Shoaib from the streets,  who grows up to be a trusted lieutenant and devoted disciple to the dreaded Don. Enter Jasmine (Sonakshi Sinha), a struggling actress trying to gain a foothold in the Mumbai film industry, and the equations change forever. Or so we're given to believe.

Now, if we were to judge this movie independently, we might have even deemed it average run-of-the mill Bollywood potboiler, although the pot cools down even before it could simmer. However, being declared a sequel, the audience would most likely compare it with the original, and that's where the problem begins. The prequel had excellent performances from the lead cast, in the form of a charismatic Ajay Devgn, with attitude dripping from every cigarette he smoked, while Emraan with his naked ambition and sly agenda, made no attempts to be the audience favorite. However, the real stars of the movie were the dialogues by Rajat Arora, considered a throwback to the time when Salim-Javed ruled the roost; and the excellent musical score by Pritam, giving it the ideal retro feel.

Given the background, the disappointment with the sequel begins with the fact that the plot is undercooked, to put it mildly, and practically invisible if one wants to be judgmental. There's hardly an effort by the scriptwriter or the director to tie the loose threads together or hold on to the attention of the audience. The dreaded Don that he is, Shoaib hardly seems to have the time to run his empire, choosing rather to bask in the glory of his own reign of fear. The central plot of the movie is expected to be the conflict between the leading men over the lady, and yet the least possible time is dedicated to impress this upon the viewers. There's nothing about Mumbai in this movie, this could have been shot anywhere in Honolulu, Honduras or Hatibagan, save for the occasional scenes shot in South Mumbai, and the mention of Dongri (the cradle of the underworld in Mumbai, everyone knows that !!!!), thrown here and there. It is a movie which tries to take itself way too seriously, without showing the earnestness for it, and the efforts to induce tongue-in-cheek humor intermittently are groan-worthy, to say the least.

The dialogues for the sequel are once again penned by Rajat Arora, and there are some fun ones, but the over-eagerness of the cast for the claps to resound every time they're mouthed, deems them insipid more often than not. Akshay, trying his best to be menacing and cold-blooded, seems to chew every dialogue to his heart's content before delivering them, almost expecting his henchmen to clap in reverence. However, to give credit where it is due, he is the movie's most earnest performer, and impresses beyond the second half, when he's finally given the opportunity to prove his villainous self. Imran delivers his dialogues with an epic flat face, and it's easy to guess that he's not got a clue of what they actually mean or whom they're intended for. The less we talk about Ms Sinha the better; the audience would be gobsmacked, flabbergasted and face-palm every time she opened her mouth, and beyond the interval, every time she appeared on screen. The excellent performance in Lootera seems light years away, and we sincerely hope this is an aberration, although her track record indicates otherwise. As for the supporting cast, some familiar faces thrown here and there do not deserve any mention whatsoever, given their screen time.

If observed from an independent point of view, OUATIM Dobaara is an average movie judged by gracious margins; which might deserve a watch purely on the basis of the second half where Akshay Kumar makes it watchable. However, any reference to the original, and you'd be left disappointed.

P.S: For someone daring to mention that the character of Shoaib is inspired by the actual D-man, he is most probably instructing his counsel right now to file a defamation lawsuit against the makers of this movie.

The Sacrificial Altar that is Real Madrid

I have long admired Real Madrid. Long before the Galcticos Era set in, even before I happened to watch a live game of theirs on TV (cable connection was a luxury in my childhood), I used to read about their exploits on that favourite sports magazine of mine, The Sportstar. the first image still stuck in my memory is that of Predrag Mijatovic rounding off the Juventus goalkeeper (Angelo Peruzzi, if my memory serves me right) to win the Champions League in 1998. Then came that fateful night at Nou Camp in 1999 final, & changed everything, including my allegiance to a colourful Red, forever. Meanwhile the Galcticos came & went, as I shrugged my shoulders at the ridiculous idea of buying a team of Superstars rather than building it, as United, & later Barcelona showed the world. My fondness for David Beckham tilted the balance temporarily towards the white side of Madrid, as the blue-eyed boy of Manchester traveled on to the other side of the English Channel. But the wily old fox in Fergie showed up his trump card in the form of a certain show-off teenager from Portugal, & I was blown away once again. But history has a way of repeating once again, & the successor of the No 7 shirt in the red followed his predecessor soon enough, but not before having the soccer world at his feet for six years.
Meanwhile, Mr Florentino Perez, the then President of the club, had changes his strategy a wee bit, by shifting his focus away from established superstars to promising raw talents. it is this strategy that I hold my grudge against, not because his ambition rides beyond soccer logic & solely on financial clout, but because the rest of the clubs around the world are helpless against it. Time & again we have seen raw talent arrive out of the blue, dazzle us in a mega sporting event, holding our memory of that event, & then disappear into the obscurity through the crowded dressing room of the Los Blancos. The initial Galcticos era had its hapless victims in the form of Michael Owen, David Beckham, Robinho, Claude Makelele (a victim of the reverse flow), Julio Baptista...the list is endless; all established superstars at their erstwhile clubs, before Real Madrid wielded their clout, & they never were to be the same players again.
Three years away from Perez gave the footballing world some respite, before he was back at it again, his re-election riding the wave of another Galactico promise. Sure enough, the wave began, with Kaka from Milan, where he was at the top of his game & Ronaldo from Manchester (sigh). The World Cup in South Africa in 2010 gave us a rare surprise in the form of an attacking, dazzling Germany who promised to gobble up everything in front of them before their famous semi-final jinx did them in again. But Mesut Ozil, Sami Khedira, Mueller & the like held our imagination. Of course, Perez would not be left behind, as he hunted down the famous midfield duo from Germany.
But Barca showed that money cannot indeed buy everything, as they reigned over the footballing landscape since 2006 with a plethora of home grown talent, and pulverized Real Madrid whenever they met, with an odd draw or loss here & there. the arrival of Mourinho did tilt the scales more favorably of late, but with his impending departure in the summer, status quo is expected to be restored.
With the notable exception of Ronaldo, who has only gotten better along the way, the others bought in at the expense of a great deal of money & lucrative personal deals, have been reduced to peripheral figures at the club, while they were stars in their previous clubs. Now that Real has turned their gaze on to Gareth Bale, that precocious winger from Wales & Tottenham Hotspur, I really worry for the future of the lad. It's not often that Britain throws up a real speedster on the wings, not since Ryan Giggs (also from Wales), & this talent needs to be nurtured, not fed to the footballing vultures where they will feed on his career's carcass. He has just begun to show top form, & really come on to his own this season. Real have already bared their fangs for him, offering of course a great deal of money, & another promising talent Luca Modric in return, who ironically they lured away from Spurs very recently, & has been already deemed a failure after half a season. Modric was a real gem in the Spurs midfield, running the show with his creativity & play-making potential, before Real managed to intervene; now he has relegated to the sidelines at the Santiago Bernabeu, hardly getting noteworthy playing time to make an impression. Who is to say Bale won't go the same way next year, when another precocious winger bursts on to the scene, & Bale is abandoned on the sidelines? Confidence is everything for a professional athlete, & if you strip that away from him, he is but only a shadow of his former self. You can't blame the players for it too, as they view it to be the only opportunity in a short life span for professional football, & they would be eager to make the most of it. That is where the strict implementation of Fifa's Financial Fair Play has to be ensured, so that clubs with similar financial clout cannot influence the footballing landscape of the world in a biased manner, pushing the lesser clubs off the cliff. As most of the purchases of such clubs, who are not bankrolled by some Russian or Middle East oligarchs, are done through debt financing, the Financial Fair Play assumes greater significance.

a choice between contentment and happiness

A few days back, a friend had forwarded an article on the difficult times faced by individuals in the twenties. More specifically, it was addressed to the issues faced by the individuals on the wrong side of the twenties, and slowly approaching the thirties, and was curiously called the 'quarter-life crisis'. Although I could not connect with the tone of the article wholeheartedly, (the author sounded too melodramatic and Hollywood-ish in presenting the problem and the circumstances), I could at least identify with the predicament he/she was trying to point out, for people in the twenties, or dare say I, single people in the wrong side of the twenties like me, and many others around me.
Being single, away from home, and living in a big city can be daunting at times. With the initial euphoria, after bagging a job and moving to a new city, dying out, the bubble starts to look a little less colourful by the day. As you try to adjust to the horrors of commuting, the absolutely ridiculous real-estate market, the ever-rising prices of essential items and food articles, the romanticism of living on your own starts to fade away and the grim reality sets in; and that horrific destroyer of many a sane mind, loneliness, starts rearing it's ugly head. The office colleagues start to seem not so nice and genuine after all, and you miss your college friends, and especially your childhood buddies, for they provided you with their unstinting support and unadulterated love and fierce loyalty, a little of which you could have done with it now. But you also know that it is absolutely ridiculous to ask of, from the current set of people around you. It is actually a sad thing, but you have to realise that everyone has crossed that stage which you are crossing just now, and have felt that breach of trust, that loss of faith which have stunted the spread of their concern for fellow people, that extent of a friendly arm to a stranger.
So here he is, the confused, life-lagged journeyman in the late twenties, scuppering for a better deal for his happiness from life, bargaining to the hilt, to scrape off that last bit of satisfaction from the plate life offers to him every now and then. The predicament reaches its peak, if he is stuck at the same job, without any significant change in quality of life, and it gets all the more frustrating if you see friends and acquaintances changing jobs, hopping over to juicier profile apparently at the snap of a finger. It is then that self-doubt creeps in, questioning your abilities, wondering whether oneself is actually that good, and is he actually at the right place, doing the right thing.
Being single doesn't help either, as you long for that companion beside you at times of crisis, when all you needed was a holding of the hand, a tight hug, or a whisper of faith. Yeah, yeah I know, marriage is always an option, but that gamble is too risky, even by the standards of Lehman Brothers. They just went financially bankrupt, and the Fed salvaged them, but when you are emotionally bankrupt, there is no Reserve Bank to resurrect you; the scar heals, but the mark remains forever. An Indian male is always in denial, protecting his masculinity, for that is the way we have been brought up, always taught that "men don't cry", so it's high probability that we shall never say "I'm dependent on you" or "I need you". Mr SRK came in too late to change our psyche, our way of thinking, and we still think twice before wearing our heart on our sleeves, lest they get dirty with the pollution of 'lack-of-love' around.
Therefore the confusion arises, presented by life, whether to choose between contentment and happiness. Contentment essentially implies compromising with your present situation and burying your head inside the sand of delusion like an ostrich, refusing to see the better picture. We often choose contentment over happiness, because that is the safer option, doesn't involve risks not considered worth taking, and most importantly, doesn't drag you out of your comfort zone. But in this ever-shrinking life span, where just a press of a mobile phone's button destroys numerous lives forever and shatters uncountable dreams before you can even say 'BOOM', I guess putting down that resignation paper pending for a long time, opening up that childhood notebook where your most brilliant skill still preserves itself to provide you with enough inspiration, and mustering that courage to say 'I Love You', looking into the eyes of the person who makes you go weak in your knees every time (you know it's not arthritis at this young age, despite your lack of physical activities), makes greater sense; and is a risk worth taking. You can never decide how it begins, but you can always influence how it ends.