I guess all of us have our own favorite stories about teachers destroying the English langauge. Indeed, anecdotes of 'open the windows; let the air-force come in' and such are commonplace by now. Here I present a few of my own favourite college anecdotes:
This happened during my MCA, in my juniors' class. This was a new prof (for Networking, of all things), and the students were understandably a bit cagey, not sure of what to expect of this new chap. The prof, dressed impeccably, strutted up and down the class, doing the usual introduction session. Then he asked for the class-rep and walked down to the blackboard. 'Tommorow, I want some charcoal in this class!', the prof thundered.
'Charcoal !!', wondered the flabbergasted students. The hapless class-rep threw some panicked glances toward the class-toppers, but they seemed equally bewildered. So the poor guy ventured an incredulous 'Charcoal, sir ?'. The prof, by now beginning to get quite impatient with the inability of this class to take in a simple command, reiterated in an ominous tone 'Yes, yes, charcoal!'.
By now, it was clear to everybody that the guy was a hopeless nut. One of the guys threw caution to the winds, and asked the prof: 'What do you need charcoal for, sir ?'. The highly irritated professor exclaimed, 'What do you mean, what for? I want to maintain a daily bulletin !'. By now, it had dawned on the prof that he was cursed with a class of imbeciles, and a peculiar calm descended on him. He took pity on the gaping students and said: 'Of course, all of you have to contribute to make this a success'.
The class-rep finally had an inkling of what the prof wanted by now. He ventured a guess: 'Sir, do you mean thermocol by any chance ?'. 'Exactly, you hit the nail on the head, my dear boy !', exclaimed the by-now beaming professor. Needless to mention, the story was out within hours, and was the subject of much hilarity for at least a week.
There were lots of other incidents with this prof, but this one became truly famous in campus. Of course, the guy was christened 'Charcoal' ever after. The strange thing was that at times he would speak coherently, and then he would go and utter something really wierd, which would have everybody around him in splits.
This was during one of those infamous model-exams that we had every semester. The girls were writing furiously, as if their lives depended on it. Some of the guys were copying desperately, while some of the others (including me) just couldn't be bothered. The teachers (invigilators, so to speak) in charge of that particular hour were a couple of new guys.
Now, these guys were really peculiar - they moved around as if they were Siamese twins. I mean, you just couldn't spot one without the other. They also dressed sorta alike - cream/white shirts, khakees and a smear of ash on their foreheads. And neither of them could use more than two words of English in a sentence.
The pair almost caught a girl copying; she managed to get rid of the chits just in time, and staunchly denied it, of course. The duo proceeded to ask the one question that every person getting caught copying at exams should be asked: 'You true or false?'. Now, we were final-years, and not really in a mood to write exams and all that. As a result, this ingenious question threw the class into hysterics. The poor girl, whom the question was directed at, was gaping at the guy like a goldfish in a bowl. Unfortunately, while laughing the loudest little did I know that I was the next bakra in line (all of us think they were asking the girl whether she was saying the truth or lying, but to this day we are not sure!).
The exams were getting over, and everybody was slowly getting up. The new teachers meticulously collected everybody's papers, and asked for the class-representative (me). Then they asked me: 'Who hand?'. Startled at this sudden question directed at me, it took a moment for me to process the meaning. After a moment of speculating whether he meant Maradona's 'Hand of God' or something like that, I politely (as politely as I could manage) said that I did not understand. They tried to make things clearer: 'Paper who hand?'. The class was once again in hysterics, and I was trying hard not to smile myself. I thought they wanted to know who to hand over the answer-sheets to, and asked them whether that was what they meant. They nodded in unison: No!
By now, the entire class wanted to go, and began shouting out suggestions. A brainwave struck one of my friends, and he shouted out truimphantly: 'Who handles this paper! They want to know who is handling this paper!'. Looking at them for confirmation, both of them were nodding their head approvingly. Mightily relieved, I told them the name and ran away from there.
But seriously, I often wonder how such candidates get through interviews. After all, isn't at least a minimal conversational ability in English a must for a teacher (that too, at a post-graduate level)? Some of the teachers we have been forced to endure wouldn't get past the first stage of an interview of one of our IT firms (which is probably why they have opted for the teaching profession, I suspect).
Just to make things clear, I have had some great teachers during my college life, and I remain grateful to all of them. However, I have also had to endure many insufferable and incompetent teachers purely for the sake of internal marks (which they keep reminding you of whenever they suspect you are getting a bit superior). Isn't it time we get rid of the much-revered guru-shishya model (where a student is supposed to respect and adore his teacher irrespective of whether (s)he is good, bad or ugly) and adopt a more professional approach of evaluating our teachers based on students' feedback?
Monday, July 31, 2006
Sunday, July 30, 2006
Before Omkara, there was Kaliyattam (M)!
I have not seen any new movies. But I do want to see Vishal Bharadwaj's 'Omkara' - for several reasons. Both 'Makdee' and 'Maqbool' made for some engrossing cinema (though I did find the former a tad amateurish, but the director more than made up for it in the latter), and IMO Vishal is certainly a talent to watch out for. In his latest venture, the director has managed to assemble a bunch of talented actors (yes, I do believe Kareena is talented - watch her in 'Chameli' and 'Dev', for instance). Most of all, I want to know whether Vishal surpasses one of my own favourite movies - 'Kaliyattam', an attempted by ace director Jayaraj (who is no staranger to Shakespeare adaptations, btw).
A bit of history about the title first: the Malayalam word 'kaliyattam' is actually the name of an art-form that is often refered to as the predecessor of Kathakali (which, I hope, needs no introduction). Kaliyattam is a temple art-form performed in front of temples - mostly owned/managed by celestal homesteads in the time this art-form used to flourish - as an inaugural function, and also as a kind of annual pooja for social and/or familial safety. Each character is the staging of a kaliyattam is called a kolam (form). To distinguish between the type of character (heroic, wicked, comedic), each kolam employs special styles of face-painting. Of course, being a temple art-form, the chief kolam is usually the god/goddess of the temple. Rumour has it that at the time of performing the kaliyattam, the spirit of the god/goddess enters into the person assuming the kolam. Hence the person who assumes the lead kolam, so to speak, has rigorous processes to follow and is held in great esteem by everybody.
Jayaraj places Shakespeare's 'Othello' into this religious & artistic milleu. Othello, of course, is the person who enacts the chief 'kolam'. In a masterly performance, Suresh Gopi enacts the insecurities of Othello with masterly command. However, Lal (a popular director, forced into acting by Jayaraj in what would prove to be a stroke of genuis) as Iago steals the honours right from under Gopi's nose. As the scheming, ingratiating and evil Iago, Lal gives a performance of a lifetime. Manju Warrier plays Desdemona straight, with none of her usual quick repartees that the audience of Kerala had come to love by then (indeed, IMO she is one of the finest young actresses to have graced the Indian screen). The rest of the cast perform competently.
I read in a recent interview with Vishaal that he had opted not to put in the song that Desdemona songs on the night that she is killed. Bad decision, I think. In the Malayalam version, this is a beautiful number that goes ennodenthinu pinakkam...(Why are you upset with me...) that has gone on to become an immortal song for Kerala cine-goers. Bipasha's items numbers currently blaring on screen haven't really impressed me much, but let us see whether Vishal manages to upstage Jayaraj.
Update: There is now an article 'Kaliyattom' on Rediff. Click here to read it.
A bit of history about the title first: the Malayalam word 'kaliyattam' is actually the name of an art-form that is often refered to as the predecessor of Kathakali (which, I hope, needs no introduction). Kaliyattam is a temple art-form performed in front of temples - mostly owned/managed by celestal homesteads in the time this art-form used to flourish - as an inaugural function, and also as a kind of annual pooja for social and/or familial safety. Each character is the staging of a kaliyattam is called a kolam (form). To distinguish between the type of character (heroic, wicked, comedic), each kolam employs special styles of face-painting. Of course, being a temple art-form, the chief kolam is usually the god/goddess of the temple. Rumour has it that at the time of performing the kaliyattam, the spirit of the god/goddess enters into the person assuming the kolam. Hence the person who assumes the lead kolam, so to speak, has rigorous processes to follow and is held in great esteem by everybody.
Jayaraj places Shakespeare's 'Othello' into this religious & artistic milleu. Othello, of course, is the person who enacts the chief 'kolam'. In a masterly performance, Suresh Gopi enacts the insecurities of Othello with masterly command. However, Lal (a popular director, forced into acting by Jayaraj in what would prove to be a stroke of genuis) as Iago steals the honours right from under Gopi's nose. As the scheming, ingratiating and evil Iago, Lal gives a performance of a lifetime. Manju Warrier plays Desdemona straight, with none of her usual quick repartees that the audience of Kerala had come to love by then (indeed, IMO she is one of the finest young actresses to have graced the Indian screen). The rest of the cast perform competently.
I read in a recent interview with Vishaal that he had opted not to put in the song that Desdemona songs on the night that she is killed. Bad decision, I think. In the Malayalam version, this is a beautiful number that goes ennodenthinu pinakkam...(Why are you upset with me...) that has gone on to become an immortal song for Kerala cine-goers. Bipasha's items numbers currently blaring on screen haven't really impressed me much, but let us see whether Vishal manages to upstage Jayaraj.
Update: There is now an article 'Kaliyattom' on Rediff. Click here to read it.
My World This Month
Blogging has hit a severe roadblock; the organization I work for has decided to block every single site in the world. Wonder why we have the Internet, after all - the org might as well remove all connectivity, for all the good that being connected does us. IMO, if the purpose of such mass-blocking of sites is to increase productivity, then they certainly have their policies all wrong.
Anyway, due to such hindrances at work I decided to opt for a broadband connection. But the Airtel customer-service being what it is, I truly do not know when I will get a connection (a visit to the Airtel office has already proved futile).
It's been an eventful month, certainly. On the personal front, hectic wedding preparations are going on. And of course, this has not been the quietest of months otherwise either. First we had the RD (Reader's Digest) survey on rudeness (which, it appears, was really a survey on courtesy) which hit the news. There were a lot of Mumbaikars vehemently protesting against the methods of survey, against the results and even recommending 'ruder' cities. The last I heard, the Shiv Sena were planning to burn all shops that sell RD (hopefully, they won't really do it; I am just kidding!).
And then we had the Mumbai blasts. Of course, for all our government has done about it, the blasts might never have happened at all. I remember what happened when there was an attack on Parliament; military operations on the border were instantly escalated, and remained intensified for a couple of months. Moral of the story, I guess, is that our government will act against terrorists only they are targetted personally. Wah, government ho to aisi!
Many people also praised the 'spirit of Mumbai', and remarked that this was an apt rejoinder to poor RD. The poor Mumbaikar attempts to get on with his life as best as he can, and even that is politicised. Could people please stop talking about this indomitable spirit, at least at this time? Any other city in the world would have responded in the same way in the face of such devastating tragedy (e.g. NY during 9/11, the affected areas during the tsunamis etc). Instead, hit out at our inability to do anything about this continual terrorist threat.
For all our criticism of America's policies on terror, remember one thing: they have not had another terrorist attack on their soil. I am sure thay'd rather take on all the criticism than face another 9/11. Most unfortunately, our government seems to believe in the reverse - hence the sorry state of affairs.
Anyway, due to such hindrances at work I decided to opt for a broadband connection. But the Airtel customer-service being what it is, I truly do not know when I will get a connection (a visit to the Airtel office has already proved futile).
It's been an eventful month, certainly. On the personal front, hectic wedding preparations are going on. And of course, this has not been the quietest of months otherwise either. First we had the RD (Reader's Digest) survey on rudeness (which, it appears, was really a survey on courtesy) which hit the news. There were a lot of Mumbaikars vehemently protesting against the methods of survey, against the results and even recommending 'ruder' cities. The last I heard, the Shiv Sena were planning to burn all shops that sell RD (hopefully, they won't really do it; I am just kidding!).
And then we had the Mumbai blasts. Of course, for all our government has done about it, the blasts might never have happened at all. I remember what happened when there was an attack on Parliament; military operations on the border were instantly escalated, and remained intensified for a couple of months. Moral of the story, I guess, is that our government will act against terrorists only they are targetted personally. Wah, government ho to aisi!
Many people also praised the 'spirit of Mumbai', and remarked that this was an apt rejoinder to poor RD. The poor Mumbaikar attempts to get on with his life as best as he can, and even that is politicised. Could people please stop talking about this indomitable spirit, at least at this time? Any other city in the world would have responded in the same way in the face of such devastating tragedy (e.g. NY during 9/11, the affected areas during the tsunamis etc). Instead, hit out at our inability to do anything about this continual terrorist threat.
For all our criticism of America's policies on terror, remember one thing: they have not had another terrorist attack on their soil. I am sure thay'd rather take on all the criticism than face another 9/11. Most unfortunately, our government seems to believe in the reverse - hence the sorry state of affairs.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
To Read Or Not To Read - Is That A Question?
Not to me. From childhood, ever since a teacher (bless her) thrust a well-worn Enid Blyton book at me, I have never been without books. Despite my mom's best attempts to coerce me away from books at least at mealtimes, the habit has persevered. Indeed, I am quite the laughing-stock at several restaurants in Chennai, for plonking myself on an unoccupied table and reading away to abandon. IMO, the excietement of reading a thriller is paramount when you are either eating, or in the loo (yeah, I am wierd, I know!). I am so wierd that in our house every loo has inbuilt bookshelves!
Some of the books that I have read over the past few months have been quite interesting, and some others have been outright trashy. Here I describe a few of the interesting ones:
'We need to talk about Kevin' by Lionel Shriver is a humdinger of a book, though morbid at times. The book worked for me at several levels: as a commentary on society's perceived notions of the mother, as an interpretation of the possible motives that compel a teenager to kill his peers and most of all, the more-than-ample suggestions that the narrator may not be presenting an entirely unbiased account. The book is about Kevin Katchadourian, who kills 10 people at his school when he is just 15. The tale is narrated by Eva, Kevin's dysfunctional mom. To the author's credit, neither Kevin nor Eva ever descend to being merely stereotypical characters - they are complex, difficult (even hateful) characters sometimes, but on the other hand even Kevin is endearing sometimes. For those of you who enjoy serious reading, this is an amazing read.
'The Poisonwood Bible' by Barbara Kingsolver is an interesting read, but IMO falls short of being great. The book narrates the tale of a fiery evangelist who tears his family away from everything they are used to, and hauls them away to the politically volatile Congo. The story moves forward through the viewpoints of the preacher's daughters. Despite a great plot, the book really fails to propel itself to a modern classic. Kingsolver failes to bring alive the Congo, the way Wilbur Smith used to bring alive Africa in some of his earlier works (or as Khaled Hosseini did Afghanistan so eloquently in the wonderful 'The Kite Runner'). Also, one of the protagonists - Rachel - has no character graph at all. I did enjoy all the biblical references, though (I am a big fan of all biblical fiction).
'The Pilot's Wife' by Anita Shreve is highly overrated, IMO. I could foresee where the book was going almost from the beginning; was almost like one of those cheesy 80's Jeetendra-Rekha-Jayaprada potboilers. I did like the way she conveyed the way the family copes with the sudden tragedy, but the other-woman-angle (sorry!) was uncalled for. Recommended only for staunch followers of Danielle Steele and the like.
'Like Water for Chocolate' by Laura Esquivel is more like a re-telling of a legend (like somebody narrating the Ramayana, for instance), and less of a conventional novel. Once this fact was firmly entrenched in my mind, I was absolutely entranced by this novel. First of all, the book follows a unique, rivetting format: every chapter begins with the recipe of a dish that Tita is currently preparing, and then dissolves into the actual plot. And the Mexican recipes (especially the quail in rose-petal sauce one) sound really yummy, I have to admit (but my being a glutton has nothing to do with the quality of the book!). This is a great, great book - just have to see the movie version too.
I am currently reading:
'Hangman's Journal' by Shashi Warrier: This boasts of a plot that seems (at least in the initial stages) similar to Adoor Gopalakrishnan's latest masterpiece 'Nizhalkuthu' (Interplay of Shadows). The books got some good reviews, and Shashi Warrier has written some decent stuff before ('Night of the Krait', 'The Orphan' etc).
Some of the books that I have read over the past few months have been quite interesting, and some others have been outright trashy. Here I describe a few of the interesting ones:
'We need to talk about Kevin' by Lionel Shriver is a humdinger of a book, though morbid at times. The book worked for me at several levels: as a commentary on society's perceived notions of the mother, as an interpretation of the possible motives that compel a teenager to kill his peers and most of all, the more-than-ample suggestions that the narrator may not be presenting an entirely unbiased account. The book is about Kevin Katchadourian, who kills 10 people at his school when he is just 15. The tale is narrated by Eva, Kevin's dysfunctional mom. To the author's credit, neither Kevin nor Eva ever descend to being merely stereotypical characters - they are complex, difficult (even hateful) characters sometimes, but on the other hand even Kevin is endearing sometimes. For those of you who enjoy serious reading, this is an amazing read.
'The Poisonwood Bible' by Barbara Kingsolver is an interesting read, but IMO falls short of being great. The book narrates the tale of a fiery evangelist who tears his family away from everything they are used to, and hauls them away to the politically volatile Congo. The story moves forward through the viewpoints of the preacher's daughters. Despite a great plot, the book really fails to propel itself to a modern classic. Kingsolver failes to bring alive the Congo, the way Wilbur Smith used to bring alive Africa in some of his earlier works (or as Khaled Hosseini did Afghanistan so eloquently in the wonderful 'The Kite Runner'). Also, one of the protagonists - Rachel - has no character graph at all. I did enjoy all the biblical references, though (I am a big fan of all biblical fiction).
'The Pilot's Wife' by Anita Shreve is highly overrated, IMO. I could foresee where the book was going almost from the beginning; was almost like one of those cheesy 80's Jeetendra-Rekha-Jayaprada potboilers. I did like the way she conveyed the way the family copes with the sudden tragedy, but the other-woman-angle (sorry!) was uncalled for. Recommended only for staunch followers of Danielle Steele and the like.
'Like Water for Chocolate' by Laura Esquivel is more like a re-telling of a legend (like somebody narrating the Ramayana, for instance), and less of a conventional novel. Once this fact was firmly entrenched in my mind, I was absolutely entranced by this novel. First of all, the book follows a unique, rivetting format: every chapter begins with the recipe of a dish that Tita is currently preparing, and then dissolves into the actual plot. And the Mexican recipes (especially the quail in rose-petal sauce one) sound really yummy, I have to admit (but my being a glutton has nothing to do with the quality of the book!). This is a great, great book - just have to see the movie version too.
I am currently reading:
'Hangman's Journal' by Shashi Warrier: This boasts of a plot that seems (at least in the initial stages) similar to Adoor Gopalakrishnan's latest masterpiece 'Nizhalkuthu' (Interplay of Shadows). The books got some good reviews, and Shashi Warrier has written some decent stuff before ('Night of the Krait', 'The Orphan' etc).
'A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian' by Marina Lewycka is next on my list. This too has been heavily recommended to me, and is supposed to be a damn good read; let's wait and see!
P.S.: Excuse the bastardization of the great Bard's work!
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Benevolent Bhaji
The lady stood by, crestfallen, as the entire Indian team went by without even looking at her. Dissapointed, and more than a little pissed-off, tears of anger and frustration clouded her eyes. Just as she prepared to work her way out of the ground, a a gentle voice beckoned her:tusi ro rahe ho? You no cry. I give what you want!
It was our own Bhaji, whose tender heart could not bear the sight of the misty-eyed foreigner. Apna Turbanator promptly proceeded to give her his own autograph, and was promptly rewarded by a 100-watt smile.
Of course, the clothes (sic!) had nothing to do with it!
(Image Courtesy Cricinfo)
Monday, July 03, 2006
My Big Fat Mallu Wedding - Part I (Invitation Cards)
After the engagement hungama, now its time to begin fussing about the marriage itself - aug 26 sounds ominously proximate, darn it!
Now, being the bridegroom, I find myself in the fortunate position of having to do almost nothing! One of the few things that I did need to take care of was choosing a decent invitation card . Upon making some 'discreet enquiries', I was convinced that my choices in Chennai boiled down to either 'Menaka Wedding Cards (Kodampakkom)' or 'Olympic Cards (Parry's)'. Now, I just knew that Kodampakkom is somewhere close to the dreaded Panagal Park zone, that area in Chennai where even the most seasoned drivers venture into only with trepidation. However, emboldened by my friends' comments on how the traffic was 'much better nowadays', I made the foolhardy decision of trying to reach the damn place on my two-wheeler.
Several hours and half a dozen flouted traffic rules later, I finally found myself weary and drained at the entrance of Menaka Cards. The showroom itself offered a bewildering array of choices, not exactly a reassuring sight to somebody who had just drained himself by participating in traffic that seemed straight out of a Matthew Reilly book. For reasons best known to the proprietor(s), they did not have an organized catalog of wedding cards; instead they just had the huge collection displayed on the walls, whose texture and text you could personalize. The kahani mein twist, however, was that these displayed cards could apparently be switched daily (randomly). I mean, if I'd chosen a card and come back the next day with my fiancee to show her the card of my choice, there's have been the distinct possibility that I'd have driven myself crazy hunting for the damn card. Seems to me an extremely inefficient and inorganized way of doing business, but then they are the biggest suppliers of wedding cards in Chennai; so I guess their friggin' system works, after all. Anyway, due to this queer idiosyncrasy, I found myself in the rather unenviable position of having to make a second trip to the bloody place, this time with Smitha in tow (she wanted around 100 cards too), so that we could choose a template and give the order.
This time around, I wisely keep my bike at a friend's place, and continue the journey by an auto (Chennai autowallahs are not exactly paragons of virtue, but anybody who can navigate through that kind of traffic for a living has earned his money alright, IMO). After several breathtaking kamikaze moves (through which Smitha has her eyes tightly shut), the auto-driver gets us to the above-mentioned cardshop within 20 mins. I tip the guy, who's puzzled face suddenly breaks into a beatific grin. He asks me whether he should wait. I tell him not to ride his luck too hard, and venture inside the cardshop for the second time in the week.
To tell you the truth, they do have an awful lot of good cards. I was rather keen on a wonderful card with MGR on the main-page, with a stamp-sized beaming Jayalalitha on the right-bottom corner (it had red-gold borders too), but unfortunately my fiancee did not quite see things my way. Neither of us wanted the huge newspaper-style cards, and hence we desisted from even going near that section of the store. The card that we chose finally was pretty decent, after all (in spite of me, I should say). My only grouse was that the card had one Ganpati too many, but I was quickly overridden and hushed up, so the Ganpatis stay, I guess! We studiously avoid all those horrible cliches - 'Compliments, beloved sister Nimmie', 'Ensure presence & avoid presents' and other such crap.
A week later, I am back at the store - this time to collect the cards (by auto again, of course). I am horrorstruck to note that the cards are not in their respective envelopes - drat it! I guess I have a couple of hours of folding to do too - makes me think we could have avoided the envelopes, but what the heck!
P.S.: This is my 100th post on this blog - wow!!!! I do hope there has been some improvement in the quality as well!!!
Now, being the bridegroom, I find myself in the fortunate position of having to do almost nothing! One of the few things that I did need to take care of was choosing a decent invitation card . Upon making some 'discreet enquiries', I was convinced that my choices in Chennai boiled down to either 'Menaka Wedding Cards (Kodampakkom)' or 'Olympic Cards (Parry's)'. Now, I just knew that Kodampakkom is somewhere close to the dreaded Panagal Park zone, that area in Chennai where even the most seasoned drivers venture into only with trepidation. However, emboldened by my friends' comments on how the traffic was 'much better nowadays', I made the foolhardy decision of trying to reach the damn place on my two-wheeler.
Several hours and half a dozen flouted traffic rules later, I finally found myself weary and drained at the entrance of Menaka Cards. The showroom itself offered a bewildering array of choices, not exactly a reassuring sight to somebody who had just drained himself by participating in traffic that seemed straight out of a Matthew Reilly book. For reasons best known to the proprietor(s), they did not have an organized catalog of wedding cards; instead they just had the huge collection displayed on the walls, whose texture and text you could personalize. The kahani mein twist, however, was that these displayed cards could apparently be switched daily (randomly). I mean, if I'd chosen a card and come back the next day with my fiancee to show her the card of my choice, there's have been the distinct possibility that I'd have driven myself crazy hunting for the damn card. Seems to me an extremely inefficient and inorganized way of doing business, but then they are the biggest suppliers of wedding cards in Chennai; so I guess their friggin' system works, after all. Anyway, due to this queer idiosyncrasy, I found myself in the rather unenviable position of having to make a second trip to the bloody place, this time with Smitha in tow (she wanted around 100 cards too), so that we could choose a template and give the order.
This time around, I wisely keep my bike at a friend's place, and continue the journey by an auto (Chennai autowallahs are not exactly paragons of virtue, but anybody who can navigate through that kind of traffic for a living has earned his money alright, IMO). After several breathtaking kamikaze moves (through which Smitha has her eyes tightly shut), the auto-driver gets us to the above-mentioned cardshop within 20 mins. I tip the guy, who's puzzled face suddenly breaks into a beatific grin. He asks me whether he should wait. I tell him not to ride his luck too hard, and venture inside the cardshop for the second time in the week.
To tell you the truth, they do have an awful lot of good cards. I was rather keen on a wonderful card with MGR on the main-page, with a stamp-sized beaming Jayalalitha on the right-bottom corner (it had red-gold borders too), but unfortunately my fiancee did not quite see things my way. Neither of us wanted the huge newspaper-style cards, and hence we desisted from even going near that section of the store. The card that we chose finally was pretty decent, after all (in spite of me, I should say). My only grouse was that the card had one Ganpati too many, but I was quickly overridden and hushed up, so the Ganpatis stay, I guess! We studiously avoid all those horrible cliches - 'Compliments, beloved sister Nimmie', 'Ensure presence & avoid presents' and other such crap.
A week later, I am back at the store - this time to collect the cards (by auto again, of course). I am horrorstruck to note that the cards are not in their respective envelopes - drat it! I guess I have a couple of hours of folding to do too - makes me think we could have avoided the envelopes, but what the heck!
P.S.: This is my 100th post on this blog - wow!!!! I do hope there has been some improvement in the quality as well!!!
Friday, June 23, 2006
Wham! Bam! Thank You...
My previous post - a review of the disastrous Fanaa - gave me an idea for this post: well-known lovemaking scenes from Indian cinema. As I'd mentioned in the previous post, for a country that is obsessed with sex (I mean, we make such a big deal out of it - bans, fatwas, lawsuits and what-not. And then, of course, we have the small matter of our population) we are curiously squeamish about depicting lovemaking scenes in our movies - surrogates like two flowers touching each other, two horses (one black and the other white at that; I have always wondered what the colors signified) galloping, two butterflies tittering over a flower, two birds perched on a branch, a spilt pot of milk (for chrissakes, I mean) - the list is endless!
This post lists down the few actual lovemaking scenes that come to mind. Please do note that this list is not in any particular order - titillation-value, aesthetic-sense etc - I am just writing them down as and when they come to mind. You are welcome to contribute!
a. Kamal Hassan and Rani Mukherjee in 'Hey Ram':
One has to admit, Kamal Hassan is one lucky bastard. Wielding the directorial helm, Kamal does a fair imitation of a dog with a bone - he paws poor Rani, slobbers all over her face, and even bites her butt. However, when it comes to the actual scene, Kamal goes back to the old bedsheet-covered demure Indian woman cliche.
b. Mallika Sherawat in 'Murder'
Oh-man. This truly showed us 'what lies beneath' alright! Mallika's ample 'screen-presence' reduced even Emraan Hansini, the serial kisser of our times, to a mere spectator on the sidelines. i suspect even a suggestion of a bedsheet would have been pooh-poohed at by Mallika.
c. Rahul Khanna and Nandita Das in '1947: Earth'
Rather elegantly picturized, this one. The good-looking Rahul and the dusky Nandita sizzle in the background as the villain of the piece, Aamir, shows us the turmoil in his mind.
d. Kamal Hassan and Vasundhara Das in 'Hey Ram'
Hey, our man ain't done yet! After Rani is bumped off, Kamal 'discovers' Vasundhara, a demure yet intelligent Brahmin lass. Kamal is unnaturally controlled in the first few frames. However, after some bhang, Kamal unleashes himself on an unsuspecting Vasundhara; natural order is restored.
e. Anil Kapoor and Dimple in 'Janbaaz'
Feroz Khan's Janbaaz features a love-making scene shot with the hero and heroine romping around in hay, probably to camouflage the hairy Anil Kapoor. Remember, this was the shot that prompted Dimple to label Kapoor a barber's delight, probably in jealousy of him usurping her own 'crowing glory' tag.
f. Vinod Khanna and Madhuri Dixit in 'Dayavaan'
Feroz Khan directs this one as well. Or rather, mis-directs it, considering that he flicked almost every scene of the Mani Ratnam-Kamal Hassan classic 'Nayakan', and yet produced such excreable stuff. Featuring a teenaged Madhuri (and a teenaged Ramya Krishnan as well), this movie is still remembered only because of this love-making scene. Vinod Khanna exhibited a marked enthusiasm for the scene, that was noticeably lacking in several other scenes. Well, I guess one can't really blame him!
g. Manisha Koirala and some kid in 'Tum'
One of the most horribly picturized love-making scenes ever, in most probability. Manisha sprawls uninvitingly on a bed, looking more like a blue-whale trapped in a net and less like a desirable woman with every passing second. The poor kid, trying hard to simulate some semblance of passion, struts his stuff while Adnan Sami sings some nonsensical song in the background. Truly tragic, this, especially when one remembers the likes of '1942...' and 'Khamoshi'.
h. Madhuri Dixit and Anil Kapoor in 'Parinda'
Loudmouth though he is, Vidhu Vinod Chopra is one of the more sensible directors around. 'Parinda' features an elegantly shot love-making scene, with Anil Kapoor thankfully not showing much of his hairy self. The scene interperses with shots of a manic Nana Patekar (in a brilliant performance)furiously in search of them, and the suspense is built up skilfully.
i. Mallu love-making scenes - featuring Shakeela, Maria, Reshma and others of ther ilk
This post lists down the few actual lovemaking scenes that come to mind. Please do note that this list is not in any particular order - titillation-value, aesthetic-sense etc - I am just writing them down as and when they come to mind. You are welcome to contribute!
a. Kamal Hassan and Rani Mukherjee in 'Hey Ram':
One has to admit, Kamal Hassan is one lucky bastard. Wielding the directorial helm, Kamal does a fair imitation of a dog with a bone - he paws poor Rani, slobbers all over her face, and even bites her butt. However, when it comes to the actual scene, Kamal goes back to the old bedsheet-covered demure Indian woman cliche.
b. Mallika Sherawat in 'Murder'
Oh-man. This truly showed us 'what lies beneath' alright! Mallika's ample 'screen-presence' reduced even Emraan Hansini, the serial kisser of our times, to a mere spectator on the sidelines. i suspect even a suggestion of a bedsheet would have been pooh-poohed at by Mallika.
c. Rahul Khanna and Nandita Das in '1947: Earth'
Rather elegantly picturized, this one. The good-looking Rahul and the dusky Nandita sizzle in the background as the villain of the piece, Aamir, shows us the turmoil in his mind.
d. Kamal Hassan and Vasundhara Das in 'Hey Ram'
Hey, our man ain't done yet! After Rani is bumped off, Kamal 'discovers' Vasundhara, a demure yet intelligent Brahmin lass. Kamal is unnaturally controlled in the first few frames. However, after some bhang, Kamal unleashes himself on an unsuspecting Vasundhara; natural order is restored.
e. Anil Kapoor and Dimple in 'Janbaaz'
Feroz Khan's Janbaaz features a love-making scene shot with the hero and heroine romping around in hay, probably to camouflage the hairy Anil Kapoor. Remember, this was the shot that prompted Dimple to label Kapoor a barber's delight, probably in jealousy of him usurping her own 'crowing glory' tag.
f. Vinod Khanna and Madhuri Dixit in 'Dayavaan'
Feroz Khan directs this one as well. Or rather, mis-directs it, considering that he flicked almost every scene of the Mani Ratnam-Kamal Hassan classic 'Nayakan', and yet produced such excreable stuff. Featuring a teenaged Madhuri (and a teenaged Ramya Krishnan as well), this movie is still remembered only because of this love-making scene. Vinod Khanna exhibited a marked enthusiasm for the scene, that was noticeably lacking in several other scenes. Well, I guess one can't really blame him!
g. Manisha Koirala and some kid in 'Tum'
One of the most horribly picturized love-making scenes ever, in most probability. Manisha sprawls uninvitingly on a bed, looking more like a blue-whale trapped in a net and less like a desirable woman with every passing second. The poor kid, trying hard to simulate some semblance of passion, struts his stuff while Adnan Sami sings some nonsensical song in the background. Truly tragic, this, especially when one remembers the likes of '1942...' and 'Khamoshi'.
h. Madhuri Dixit and Anil Kapoor in 'Parinda'
Loudmouth though he is, Vidhu Vinod Chopra is one of the more sensible directors around. 'Parinda' features an elegantly shot love-making scene, with Anil Kapoor thankfully not showing much of his hairy self. The scene interperses with shots of a manic Nana Patekar (in a brilliant performance)furiously in search of them, and the suspense is built up skilfully.
i. Mallu love-making scenes - featuring Shakeela, Maria, Reshma and others of ther ilk
Now, these are genuinely funny, and form an entirely different category by themsleves. Most of these women are 40+, and look it too. Plus, they are all massive. For instance, the last emotion one would feel upon the sight of Shakeela on a bed would be lust (except in the case of a male hippopotamus, perhaps!); she is absolutely gigantic. The others are not much better either. And as for the actual scenes, they are so ludicrous that one can't help laughing out aloud. I will not attempt to describe them here, they are absolutely beyond words!
P.S: I think Kamal Hassan should form an entirely different category by himself too. I mean, hey, just count for yourselves: Hey Ram, Nayakan, Chachi 420, Virumandi, and still counting) but I'm a big fan of his movies, and hence I shall desist.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Fim Review: Fanaa
What does one say of a director who manages a casting coup of sorts (Aamir Khan and Kajol are, arguably, Hindi cinema's best leading actors at the moment), and yet screws it all up by making a shoddy excuse of a movie? Kunal Kohli, who after torturing us with the disastrous 'Mujhse Dosti Karoge' - yeah, sadly I watched that too - opted to play safe by doing a desi version of 'When Harry Met Sally' (i.e. 'Hum Tum') minus the fabulous orgasm-scene, botches it up yet again. Everybody knows the story by now, I guess; for those who don't, its a dumbed-down, badly directed version of 'Dil Se'. Anyway, the movie is so sick I just had to write about it, so here goes:
An chinky-looking tourist guide (Aamir Khan, with more wrinkles than Jackie Chan) tries hard to woo the visiting Kashmiri lass (Kajol). IMO, one of the few intelligent things about the screenplay was making the girl blind; its sorta hard to imagine anybody else falling head-over-heels in love with this particular sicko shayari-spouting guide. To cut things short (and avoid umpteen shayari-bantering scenes), he flirts, she responds, he backs off, she becomes horny, they make love and lo - the inevitable happens: the babe-in-the-woods is now pregnant.
Now, Kajol does try to call her parents for advice before hopping into bed for what would be her first desi love-making scene (you know, the kind where the people making love are all cosily wrapped up inside satin bedsheets so that only their shoulders are visible, and the enthusiastic actors try to comepensate & enliven the procedure by furiously necking) on screen. Her mom Kiron Kher hogs the call, not allowing poor li'l fat daddy Rishi to talk to darling horny beti. Now, I am sure he wanted to talk about safe sex to his horny daughter, but because Kiron did not give the phone to him, Kajol did never realize the vritues of safe sex, and she became pregnant. Public Message 1: So all ya Kashmiri gals visiting Delhi, make sure you listen to your respective dads!
Well, getting back to the story (hic!), Aamir now takes Kajol to a bald doctor speaking in some strange wacko accent, who provides what seems to be Public Message 2: keep visiting your doctors, as medical science is progressing by leaps and bounds, and anything may be possible tommorow. Of course, the hefty consultation fees are but a minor incovenience. I bet the director's dad was a bankrupt doctor or something - any takers for this theory? But I digress: after delivering the public message, the bald doc promises a sucessful 'retinal transplant' and wheels off poor Kajol to what is presumably the OR. When she wakes up, hey presto: she can see! But by this time Aamir is AWOL, and presumably dead (Kajol acts well in this scene). But then comes the proverbial twist in the tale: Aamir is very much alive, and is in fact a dreaded international terrorist (a much trimmer and better-looking terrorist at that), who happened to fall in lust (sorry, love) with the blind Kashmiri lass. And then there's poor Tabu, a hotshot member of some obscure (well, given that the only other hotshot member seems to be Sharad Saxena, I bet it has to be pretty obscure) anti-terrorist squad - she must have been in need of some desperate money to have even given a moment's thought at this role.
The post-interval events are, in comparison, more entertaining; cliched and hackneyed though they may be. The terrorist organization now (that is, after 7 years) has a nuclear bomb, and Aamir has infiltrated a militray base to get his hands on the last piece (the 'trigger'). But then, Tabu's hot on his heels, and after a Bond-like chase sequence Aamir is injured badly enough to take shelter in a house (who else, but Kajol's). But of course, Kajol doesn't recognize Aamir (she was blind then, duh!). Possibilties of yet another love-making scene, where Kajol would recognize Aamir by the 'feel' of him, did cross my mind; but the director resorts instead to the antakshari phenomenon for the oh-my-gawd-its-him scene (I thought shayari would have been more appropriate, considering all that speil in the first half, but never mind!). Aamir and Kajol manage to make this stupid scene work, and that's quite a herculean task, believe me. Oh, and before I forget, there's the mandatory cute-as-a-button kid as well: the result of Kajol not listening to her 'experienced' dad. Rishi, I suspect, probably did the movie for all the free Scotch whiskies he was seen gulping throughout the movie.
An chinky-looking tourist guide (Aamir Khan, with more wrinkles than Jackie Chan) tries hard to woo the visiting Kashmiri lass (Kajol). IMO, one of the few intelligent things about the screenplay was making the girl blind; its sorta hard to imagine anybody else falling head-over-heels in love with this particular sicko shayari-spouting guide. To cut things short (and avoid umpteen shayari-bantering scenes), he flirts, she responds, he backs off, she becomes horny, they make love and lo - the inevitable happens: the babe-in-the-woods is now pregnant.
Now, Kajol does try to call her parents for advice before hopping into bed for what would be her first desi love-making scene (you know, the kind where the people making love are all cosily wrapped up inside satin bedsheets so that only their shoulders are visible, and the enthusiastic actors try to comepensate & enliven the procedure by furiously necking) on screen. Her mom Kiron Kher hogs the call, not allowing poor li'l fat daddy Rishi to talk to darling horny beti. Now, I am sure he wanted to talk about safe sex to his horny daughter, but because Kiron did not give the phone to him, Kajol did never realize the vritues of safe sex, and she became pregnant. Public Message 1: So all ya Kashmiri gals visiting Delhi, make sure you listen to your respective dads!
Well, getting back to the story (hic!), Aamir now takes Kajol to a bald doctor speaking in some strange wacko accent, who provides what seems to be Public Message 2: keep visiting your doctors, as medical science is progressing by leaps and bounds, and anything may be possible tommorow. Of course, the hefty consultation fees are but a minor incovenience. I bet the director's dad was a bankrupt doctor or something - any takers for this theory? But I digress: after delivering the public message, the bald doc promises a sucessful 'retinal transplant' and wheels off poor Kajol to what is presumably the OR. When she wakes up, hey presto: she can see! But by this time Aamir is AWOL, and presumably dead (Kajol acts well in this scene). But then comes the proverbial twist in the tale: Aamir is very much alive, and is in fact a dreaded international terrorist (a much trimmer and better-looking terrorist at that), who happened to fall in lust (sorry, love) with the blind Kashmiri lass. And then there's poor Tabu, a hotshot member of some obscure (well, given that the only other hotshot member seems to be Sharad Saxena, I bet it has to be pretty obscure) anti-terrorist squad - she must have been in need of some desperate money to have even given a moment's thought at this role.
The post-interval events are, in comparison, more entertaining; cliched and hackneyed though they may be. The terrorist organization now (that is, after 7 years) has a nuclear bomb, and Aamir has infiltrated a militray base to get his hands on the last piece (the 'trigger'). But then, Tabu's hot on his heels, and after a Bond-like chase sequence Aamir is injured badly enough to take shelter in a house (who else, but Kajol's). But of course, Kajol doesn't recognize Aamir (she was blind then, duh!). Possibilties of yet another love-making scene, where Kajol would recognize Aamir by the 'feel' of him, did cross my mind; but the director resorts instead to the antakshari phenomenon for the oh-my-gawd-its-him scene (I thought shayari would have been more appropriate, considering all that speil in the first half, but never mind!). Aamir and Kajol manage to make this stupid scene work, and that's quite a herculean task, believe me. Oh, and before I forget, there's the mandatory cute-as-a-button kid as well: the result of Kajol not listening to her 'experienced' dad. Rishi, I suspect, probably did the movie for all the free Scotch whiskies he was seen gulping throughout the movie.
The logical (a misnomer if there ever was one, I know) culmination follows: Aamir recuperates and even bathes the child (this is not the damn climax, ok!). But then Tabu (yeah, she was thinking all this time) has the bright idea of sending out televised warnings about a diminutive but dangerous man, and Rishi & Kajol get the picture. So Aamir bumps off Rishi, and Kajol bumps off Aamir. From a flying helicopter, Tabu shoots down the head of the terrorists, who is in yet another helicopter enough! Whew !!!
The sad part is that despite the hackneyed plot, the screenplay does have its moments (especially in the post-interval portions). For instance, Tabu argues briefly about a referendum on Kashmir, a topic hitherto left unexplored in cinema. There is also a subtle undercurrent of animosity between Tabu and her colleague, which remains unexplained and unexplored until the end (compare this to how well the relationship between the characters of Aamir and Mukesh Rishi was conveyed in 'Sarfarosh'). In the climax (clearly 'inspired' from Ken Follet's 'Eye of the Needle'), Aamir displays a fanatic steeliness to his character that could have made for cinema in the hands of a competent director.
Kajol, appearing on screen after a brief hiatus, is effective. Her character is essentially a repeal of her meek, obedient, docile sister-act in 'Dushman' and 'Kuch Khatti, Kuch Meethi' (yeah, I know, I am entirely jobless!). Oh, she's Kashmiri, so she dutifully throws in an 'abbu' and 'ammi' every few sentences - must be due to all the hard work that Kunal Kohli put in researching the Kashmir ethos, you know. Still, Kajol looks as radiant as ever, and her sheer presence is infectious. She plays a large role in salvaging this crappy movie.
Aamir Khan, whose new-year resolution seems to be to become this generation's Manoj Kumar (there's Sunny Deol in the fray too, but that's another story), plays the terorist, who is also supposed to be a master-of-disguises. Well, his first disguise was certainly very effective; in the pre-interval portions Aamir looks OLD and sorta plump as well. However, in the second half of the movie he looks as young and active as ever. On the emoting front, he is competent; however the absence of a strong screenplay jars.
Tabu is convincing. Rishi looks the part. Kiron Kher is fast becoming the female Alok Nath, which would be a shame given her considerable talent. Sathish Shah and Shiney Ahuja appear have miniscule screen time, and are roped in for the sole purpose of illustrating how ruthless Aamir is.
Verdict: Give this one a miss!
Friday, June 16, 2006
Why do they call it 'Rush Hour' when nothing moves?
That's a Robin Williams quote, if I am right. Quite true, though - 'rush hour' is quite the misnomer, if there ever was one. Here, I narrate a couple of my experiences over the last month:
Chennai: Mon to Fri
Now, I work on the 'IT Corridor' in Chennai; yeah, the same general area where the proposed six-lane highway is going to come up by the end of the year (optimistic, aren't they!). Irrespective of lanes and highways, I hope they think of repairing the roads sometime before the end of this decade. Riding a bike on OMR (Old Mahabalipuram Road) would be easier if you have ever played a bike-racing game; the potholes, traffic and terrible driving sense would make this a truly memorable experience.
Now, there is this particular junction called SRP Tools on this road; a month ago, the traffic jams here looked like the release of a Rajnikanth movie. Honking, screaming cars with their bonnets angled in every possible direction; hapless two-wheelers trapped between the maze of cars with no way out, with their drivers' eyes darting left and right through the helmets, looking for the slightest opening; far-sighted (literally!!) two-wheelers giving this whole chakravyuha a wide berth, encroaching upon the oncoming vehicles in a desperate bid to reach the other side; abuses hurled galore - we had it all. Of course, needless to add, there is no traffic signal here! Most importantly, not one driver had the simple courtesy of giving way; everybody was bent on inching forward centimeter by centimeter, at the same time. A deadlock that would have had even Dijkstra tearing out his hair in frustration, I am afraid.
From the beginning of this month, I was pleasantly suprised to find able policement patrolling this junction to make sure that such hopeless traffic-jams do not occur. Things are much better than they were before, although the roads are still horrible and people still have horrible driving-sense. The cops have their job truly cut out, and they are doing some fine work in this highly congested area. A big thanks to them, and to the administration for acting in time.
Mumbai: A Weekend last month
I was in Mumbai for my aunt's 25th wedding anniversary celebrations, and the stifling heat as well as the overpowering dust put me off immediately. Trust me, Chennai and Bangalore seem nowhere as hot and dusty as Mumbai was (that particular weekend, at least!). Needless to say, I don't plan to return anytime soon.
But during the way back to the Mumbai airport, I had a whiff of what everybody talks about: the indomitable Mumbai 'spirit'. The roads were hopelessly jammed, with all kinds of vehicles blocking each other. And not a policeman in sight, to boot; I was resigned to the fact that I'd miss my flight (even accounting for the hopeless ineptitude of the Mumbai airport, but that is another story altogether!). But then, I'd not bargained for the resilience of some citizens (a Marwari, another guy who looked like a chauffeur, and a couple of others) who came out of their vehicles and forced the jammed vehicles to back off - one by one, inch by inch. Cajoling a lady on a scooty, berating a truck-driver who tried to inch forward while everybody else was backing off, exchanging good-natured banter with the auto and taxi-wallahs - they did all this and more with an easy familarity.
The junction (with no traffic signal, of course) was finally cleared, and the volunteers (for want of a better word) stayed at the junction to ensure that all the vehicles cleared that junction smoothly. This is something I have seen in no other Indian city before, and I have been to many cities in South India. Indeed, if somebody tried the likes of this in Kerala, he'd have probably got hit for trying to act too smart (and there'd have been a Communist bandh as well as a Congress bandth too). I was really, really impressed (and needless to add, thankful for saving me my 5000 bucks!).
As Govinda would put it, it happens only in India :).
Chennai: Mon to Fri
Now, I work on the 'IT Corridor' in Chennai; yeah, the same general area where the proposed six-lane highway is going to come up by the end of the year (optimistic, aren't they!). Irrespective of lanes and highways, I hope they think of repairing the roads sometime before the end of this decade. Riding a bike on OMR (Old Mahabalipuram Road) would be easier if you have ever played a bike-racing game; the potholes, traffic and terrible driving sense would make this a truly memorable experience.
Now, there is this particular junction called SRP Tools on this road; a month ago, the traffic jams here looked like the release of a Rajnikanth movie. Honking, screaming cars with their bonnets angled in every possible direction; hapless two-wheelers trapped between the maze of cars with no way out, with their drivers' eyes darting left and right through the helmets, looking for the slightest opening; far-sighted (literally!!) two-wheelers giving this whole chakravyuha a wide berth, encroaching upon the oncoming vehicles in a desperate bid to reach the other side; abuses hurled galore - we had it all. Of course, needless to add, there is no traffic signal here! Most importantly, not one driver had the simple courtesy of giving way; everybody was bent on inching forward centimeter by centimeter, at the same time. A deadlock that would have had even Dijkstra tearing out his hair in frustration, I am afraid.
From the beginning of this month, I was pleasantly suprised to find able policement patrolling this junction to make sure that such hopeless traffic-jams do not occur. Things are much better than they were before, although the roads are still horrible and people still have horrible driving-sense. The cops have their job truly cut out, and they are doing some fine work in this highly congested area. A big thanks to them, and to the administration for acting in time.
Mumbai: A Weekend last month
I was in Mumbai for my aunt's 25th wedding anniversary celebrations, and the stifling heat as well as the overpowering dust put me off immediately. Trust me, Chennai and Bangalore seem nowhere as hot and dusty as Mumbai was (that particular weekend, at least!). Needless to say, I don't plan to return anytime soon.
But during the way back to the Mumbai airport, I had a whiff of what everybody talks about: the indomitable Mumbai 'spirit'. The roads were hopelessly jammed, with all kinds of vehicles blocking each other. And not a policeman in sight, to boot; I was resigned to the fact that I'd miss my flight (even accounting for the hopeless ineptitude of the Mumbai airport, but that is another story altogether!). But then, I'd not bargained for the resilience of some citizens (a Marwari, another guy who looked like a chauffeur, and a couple of others) who came out of their vehicles and forced the jammed vehicles to back off - one by one, inch by inch. Cajoling a lady on a scooty, berating a truck-driver who tried to inch forward while everybody else was backing off, exchanging good-natured banter with the auto and taxi-wallahs - they did all this and more with an easy familarity.
The junction (with no traffic signal, of course) was finally cleared, and the volunteers (for want of a better word) stayed at the junction to ensure that all the vehicles cleared that junction smoothly. This is something I have seen in no other Indian city before, and I have been to many cities in South India. Indeed, if somebody tried the likes of this in Kerala, he'd have probably got hit for trying to act too smart (and there'd have been a Communist bandh as well as a Congress bandth too). I was really, really impressed (and needless to add, thankful for saving me my 5000 bucks!).
As Govinda would put it, it happens only in India :).
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Film Review: Pudhupettai
Warning: Those of you who haven't seen this movie, but intend to: stay away from reading this until you have (seen the movie). There are PLENTY of spoilers ahead.
There's this particular passage in Mario Puzo's 'The Godfather', where Michael Corleone suddenly stiffens and glares at his brother Sonny who's laughing hard at 'the kid who wants to gun down the police captain, all because he got slapped around in the face a little bit'. Puzo's prose is absolutely rivetting when he describes the change that comes over Michael's persona; a chillness seems to emanate from Michael that fills the entire room.
Justifiably, this scene is not present in Coppolla's own version; nor was it filmed by Mani Ratnam or RGV in their own versions of this masterpiece (I am not even looking at stupid remakes like 'Aatank hi Aatank', 'Abhimanyu' and others of their ilk). Trust cocky Selvaraghavan to take a stab!
As a gang-member repeatedly hurls abuses against Kumar's (enacted magnificently by Dhanush) dead mother, the hitherto meek and obedient Kumar suddenly snarls back: Shut up, #$#@ or else! Of course, the scene falls flat on its feet (as a 'Godfather' tribute, else it is rather decent); Dhanush, not a Pacino, Kamal or a Mohanlal on even his best day, has neither the looks nor the panache to carry off such a scene.
What does Selvaraghavan do now? Well, try again, of course! This time, he resorts to the genius of Yuvan Shankar Raja to provide a lilting bgm as he prises out a nearly perfect scene - as perfect as they can get in commerical Indian cinema, I'd say. As a political hoodlum swings his arm to finish off a battered, staggering and dead-on-his-feet 'Kokki' Kumar, the director - in an astonishing display of film-making savvy - has his gawky protagonist blindly hit out with every iota of strength left in his body. The hoodlum drops down dead, and the 100-odd mob stands by in a shocked silence as a clearly exhausted-but-indomitable Kumar yells out like a maniac for more punishment. Combined with Yuvan's background-score, the scene underlines yet again what tremendous talent this brother-duo possess.
Now, there are a whole lot of people who avoid Selvaraghavan movies, claiming that he makes utterly crass movies about psychopaths. Well, their claims are partly true - his protagonists do exhibit signs of mental illness. But his movies are never crass; he just makes movies on crass people. And that, my friends, is a huge difference. With 'Pudhupettai', Selvaraghavan reaffirms that 'Kathal Kondein' and '7G Rainbow Colony' were no mere flashes in the pan.
'Pudhupettai' tells the tale of 'Kokki' Kumar, who narrates the story of his life from an imaginatively shaded prison cell (was the dual coloring supposed to indicate symptoms of multiple-personality disorder in Kumar? I am not sure, but the thought certainly crossed my mind). Kumar ends up in a life of crime upon his sheltered life being thrown into shambles when his father murders his mother in a murderous fit of rage. The meteoric rise of Kumar from the baby of the gang to a sudden adult is depicted mostly through a series of random scenes - Kumar eating, Kumar having sex with the prostitute (Sneha, who puts in a performance that can be best described as dignified), Kumar surviving an attack by the skin of his neck etc. The pre-interval portion of the movie is a treat to watch.
Post-interval, Selvaraghan resorts to idiosyncratic techniques which are fascinating to watch but do end up spoiling the tempo hitherto established. Moreover, much like in Mahesh Manjrekar's Vaastav, this part of the movie deals with a Kumar drunk on power (as they say, there is no better aphrodisiac than power), and the gradual unravelling of his empire. Unfortunately, Dhanush tends to go overboard in more than one scene, and his gravelling voice is irritating in several sequences. There is also at least one song more than what would have been ideal, and the best song of the album has not been picturized at all. The politics-gangsta' nexus is all very nicely filmed, but evokes strong feelings of deja-vu (RGV's 'Satya', for instance). However, there was an AWESOME scene with Dhanush and Sonia Agarwal (whose sole purpose in the movie was this scene, IMO!), where she almost snidely tells Dhanush that Sneha's child may not quite be his; Dhanush's heartbroken expression and the subtle hardening of his eyes speaks volumes (more than his voice ever could).
Now, for the performances: its the gawky, skeletal Dhanush all the way. Overcoming his looks, the young actor puts in tremendous effort and delivers a powerhouse performance. The only scenes that jar are the ones in which he hams, and thankfully Selvaraghavan does a fine job of reining his brother in most of the time. Sneha does another one of her trademark roles (the beautiful, dignified-in-the-face-of-suffering Indian nari), and she does pack in a lot of screen-presence, one has to admit. Most of the new actors do well. Sonia Agarwal has nothing much to do, except for that great scene.
Selvaraghavan is a tremendous talent, and he will only improve (the guy is just 3 movies old!) as time goes by. One wishes, though, that he stops picturizing those inane dance-numbers even when they clearly do not fit in to the scheme of things. Also, I strongly felt that in 'Puthupettai' the erotic song with Sonia was put in only to underline the fact that he is not a director to shy away from depicting sexuality on screen. However, in his previous outings (namely 'Kaathal Kondein' and '7G Rainbow Colony', though to a lesser extent), the scenes were integrated into the script, whereas here it is NOT. The climax, though perhaps as close to real-life as one can get, is a tremendous letdown (this was the case in his previous movie as well).
Verdict: A firm thumbs up (not for the faint-hearted; there's plenty of sex, violence and abuse).
There's this particular passage in Mario Puzo's 'The Godfather', where Michael Corleone suddenly stiffens and glares at his brother Sonny who's laughing hard at 'the kid who wants to gun down the police captain, all because he got slapped around in the face a little bit'. Puzo's prose is absolutely rivetting when he describes the change that comes over Michael's persona; a chillness seems to emanate from Michael that fills the entire room.
Justifiably, this scene is not present in Coppolla's own version; nor was it filmed by Mani Ratnam or RGV in their own versions of this masterpiece (I am not even looking at stupid remakes like 'Aatank hi Aatank', 'Abhimanyu' and others of their ilk). Trust cocky Selvaraghavan to take a stab!
As a gang-member repeatedly hurls abuses against Kumar's (enacted magnificently by Dhanush) dead mother, the hitherto meek and obedient Kumar suddenly snarls back: Shut up, #$#@ or else! Of course, the scene falls flat on its feet (as a 'Godfather' tribute, else it is rather decent); Dhanush, not a Pacino, Kamal or a Mohanlal on even his best day, has neither the looks nor the panache to carry off such a scene.
What does Selvaraghavan do now? Well, try again, of course! This time, he resorts to the genius of Yuvan Shankar Raja to provide a lilting bgm as he prises out a nearly perfect scene - as perfect as they can get in commerical Indian cinema, I'd say. As a political hoodlum swings his arm to finish off a battered, staggering and dead-on-his-feet 'Kokki' Kumar, the director - in an astonishing display of film-making savvy - has his gawky protagonist blindly hit out with every iota of strength left in his body. The hoodlum drops down dead, and the 100-odd mob stands by in a shocked silence as a clearly exhausted-but-indomitable Kumar yells out like a maniac for more punishment. Combined with Yuvan's background-score, the scene underlines yet again what tremendous talent this brother-duo possess.
Now, there are a whole lot of people who avoid Selvaraghavan movies, claiming that he makes utterly crass movies about psychopaths. Well, their claims are partly true - his protagonists do exhibit signs of mental illness. But his movies are never crass; he just makes movies on crass people. And that, my friends, is a huge difference. With 'Pudhupettai', Selvaraghavan reaffirms that 'Kathal Kondein' and '7G Rainbow Colony' were no mere flashes in the pan.
'Pudhupettai' tells the tale of 'Kokki' Kumar, who narrates the story of his life from an imaginatively shaded prison cell (was the dual coloring supposed to indicate symptoms of multiple-personality disorder in Kumar? I am not sure, but the thought certainly crossed my mind). Kumar ends up in a life of crime upon his sheltered life being thrown into shambles when his father murders his mother in a murderous fit of rage. The meteoric rise of Kumar from the baby of the gang to a sudden adult is depicted mostly through a series of random scenes - Kumar eating, Kumar having sex with the prostitute (Sneha, who puts in a performance that can be best described as dignified), Kumar surviving an attack by the skin of his neck etc. The pre-interval portion of the movie is a treat to watch.
Post-interval, Selvaraghan resorts to idiosyncratic techniques which are fascinating to watch but do end up spoiling the tempo hitherto established. Moreover, much like in Mahesh Manjrekar's Vaastav, this part of the movie deals with a Kumar drunk on power (as they say, there is no better aphrodisiac than power), and the gradual unravelling of his empire. Unfortunately, Dhanush tends to go overboard in more than one scene, and his gravelling voice is irritating in several sequences. There is also at least one song more than what would have been ideal, and the best song of the album has not been picturized at all. The politics-gangsta' nexus is all very nicely filmed, but evokes strong feelings of deja-vu (RGV's 'Satya', for instance). However, there was an AWESOME scene with Dhanush and Sonia Agarwal (whose sole purpose in the movie was this scene, IMO!), where she almost snidely tells Dhanush that Sneha's child may not quite be his; Dhanush's heartbroken expression and the subtle hardening of his eyes speaks volumes (more than his voice ever could).
Now, for the performances: its the gawky, skeletal Dhanush all the way. Overcoming his looks, the young actor puts in tremendous effort and delivers a powerhouse performance. The only scenes that jar are the ones in which he hams, and thankfully Selvaraghavan does a fine job of reining his brother in most of the time. Sneha does another one of her trademark roles (the beautiful, dignified-in-the-face-of-suffering Indian nari), and she does pack in a lot of screen-presence, one has to admit. Most of the new actors do well. Sonia Agarwal has nothing much to do, except for that great scene.
Selvaraghavan is a tremendous talent, and he will only improve (the guy is just 3 movies old!) as time goes by. One wishes, though, that he stops picturizing those inane dance-numbers even when they clearly do not fit in to the scheme of things. Also, I strongly felt that in 'Puthupettai' the erotic song with Sonia was put in only to underline the fact that he is not a director to shy away from depicting sexuality on screen. However, in his previous outings (namely 'Kaathal Kondein' and '7G Rainbow Colony', though to a lesser extent), the scenes were integrated into the script, whereas here it is NOT. The climax, though perhaps as close to real-life as one can get, is a tremendous letdown (this was the case in his previous movie as well).
Verdict: A firm thumbs up (not for the faint-hearted; there's plenty of sex, violence and abuse).
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Reservation - The Order of The Day
For the last couple of days, I have been besieged with the following fwd:
Manmohan Singh (to George Bush): We are sending 10 people to the moon.
GB: Really? Who?
MS: 3 OBCs, 2BCs, 4 astronauts and a woman!
I am sure most of you would have received variants of the same message by now; after all, there are only so many new fwds on a given day. I am irritated by the whole issue, and hence my (outspoken) thoughts on the whole mess:
First of all: why do we oppose reservation? Is it because we are convinced that reservation is bad for the future for our country (i.e. moral and/or patriotic reasons), or is it more 'coz we strongly feel that a 50% reservation policy (or something of a similar vein) would severely undermine our own chances in the not-so distant future? I have to admit, I personally feel that it is predominantly the latter factor that has propelled the issue this far; it certainly is THE principal factor that makes me curse the ilk of V.P.Singh and Arjun Singh. After all, there are lots and lots of other equally inane things (reservation for women? demolition of slums? the Narmada dam issue?) that do not attract even a minor proportion of the publicity that this issue has (not to suggest that this is unimportant; it is, equally so).
If this vague feeling of insecurity were not enough, we have the fact that for the last 50 years the policy of so-called affirmative action has not helped in any way at all - we KNOW that mere caste-based reservation does not help. We have all those studies - the various ones that Karan Thapar quoted in his interview with Arjun Singh - to prove it. But do the pro-reservation dimwits care? No sir! Instead of doing the correct thing - which would be taking steps to reform our primary education and our inane examination system, which I grant is a long-term solution, but a sane one at least - our folks compound the problem by adding layers of reservations. Reservations for school seats, reservations for college seats, reservations for jobs, reservations for promotions (oh isn't that in yet? Fear not, the day is not too far away).
What makes this newfound enthusiasm for reservation even more abhorrent is that it is based on caste. Yes, you got that right - on CASTE. After 50+ years of Independence, after all those fwds of how India is 'shining' and 'improving', the elected leaders of our country still continue to think on the lines of segregating people on religion and caste. Most of us have already been privy to televised debates where students belonging to the forward classes have been accusing BC and OBC students of not being competent enough, and the disgruntled (but obviously) (O)BC students have been reacting in equally poor taste. Trust our politicians to create an issue where none existed, of course.
Now, I disagree with those who say that a reservation policy based on economic strata might be a better idea; I disagree with the whole policy of affirmative action itself. Why? Because any reservation in the educational sector is based on marks. And as anybody who has done his/her public education in one of the universities in South India (I am not all that familiar with the scene in the rest of India, but trust me, I am not too hopeful on that front either) can tell you, our examination system sucks. Big-Time.
First of all, we have an evaluation system where teachers are paid based on how many exam papers they evaluate per day; of course, they 'evaluate' a few dozen exam papers per day to earn as much money as they can (I apologize to all the sincere teachers out there, but even you know that you are outnumbered). One cannot really balme them; its their livelihood, dammit.
Then of course, we have all those horror stories of exam papers missing - perhaps, half eaten by cows and goats 'coz the driver of the university van decided to take a leak in an empty farm, leaving the door open. Of course, then there are all those stories of how all roll-numbers beginning with 'S' got exactly 93 marks out of 100 - irrespective of how many questions they even attempted.
But you might say, the good students fare well anyway. Trust me, its out of desperation - one learns to beat the system. Use lots of color-pencils and crayons and stuff to 'beautify' your answer-paper; underline important points; practice your goddamn handwriting as if you were going for a friggin' handwriting competition instead of an exam on Discrete Mathematics - sound familiar? Yes, one learns to beat the system at its own game.
Manmohan Singh (to George Bush): We are sending 10 people to the moon.
GB: Really? Who?
MS: 3 OBCs, 2BCs, 4 astronauts and a woman!
I am sure most of you would have received variants of the same message by now; after all, there are only so many new fwds on a given day. I am irritated by the whole issue, and hence my (outspoken) thoughts on the whole mess:
First of all: why do we oppose reservation? Is it because we are convinced that reservation is bad for the future for our country (i.e. moral and/or patriotic reasons), or is it more 'coz we strongly feel that a 50% reservation policy (or something of a similar vein) would severely undermine our own chances in the not-so distant future? I have to admit, I personally feel that it is predominantly the latter factor that has propelled the issue this far; it certainly is THE principal factor that makes me curse the ilk of V.P.Singh and Arjun Singh. After all, there are lots and lots of other equally inane things (reservation for women? demolition of slums? the Narmada dam issue?) that do not attract even a minor proportion of the publicity that this issue has (not to suggest that this is unimportant; it is, equally so).
If this vague feeling of insecurity were not enough, we have the fact that for the last 50 years the policy of so-called affirmative action has not helped in any way at all - we KNOW that mere caste-based reservation does not help. We have all those studies - the various ones that Karan Thapar quoted in his interview with Arjun Singh - to prove it. But do the pro-reservation dimwits care? No sir! Instead of doing the correct thing - which would be taking steps to reform our primary education and our inane examination system, which I grant is a long-term solution, but a sane one at least - our folks compound the problem by adding layers of reservations. Reservations for school seats, reservations for college seats, reservations for jobs, reservations for promotions (oh isn't that in yet? Fear not, the day is not too far away).
What makes this newfound enthusiasm for reservation even more abhorrent is that it is based on caste. Yes, you got that right - on CASTE. After 50+ years of Independence, after all those fwds of how India is 'shining' and 'improving', the elected leaders of our country still continue to think on the lines of segregating people on religion and caste. Most of us have already been privy to televised debates where students belonging to the forward classes have been accusing BC and OBC students of not being competent enough, and the disgruntled (but obviously) (O)BC students have been reacting in equally poor taste. Trust our politicians to create an issue where none existed, of course.
Now, I disagree with those who say that a reservation policy based on economic strata might be a better idea; I disagree with the whole policy of affirmative action itself. Why? Because any reservation in the educational sector is based on marks. And as anybody who has done his/her public education in one of the universities in South India (I am not all that familiar with the scene in the rest of India, but trust me, I am not too hopeful on that front either) can tell you, our examination system sucks. Big-Time.
First of all, we have an evaluation system where teachers are paid based on how many exam papers they evaluate per day; of course, they 'evaluate' a few dozen exam papers per day to earn as much money as they can (I apologize to all the sincere teachers out there, but even you know that you are outnumbered). One cannot really balme them; its their livelihood, dammit.
Then of course, we have all those horror stories of exam papers missing - perhaps, half eaten by cows and goats 'coz the driver of the university van decided to take a leak in an empty farm, leaving the door open. Of course, then there are all those stories of how all roll-numbers beginning with 'S' got exactly 93 marks out of 100 - irrespective of how many questions they even attempted.
But you might say, the good students fare well anyway. Trust me, its out of desperation - one learns to beat the system. Use lots of color-pencils and crayons and stuff to 'beautify' your answer-paper; underline important points; practice your goddamn handwriting as if you were going for a friggin' handwriting competition instead of an exam on Discrete Mathematics - sound familiar? Yes, one learns to beat the system at its own game.
My point: any student with the sheer tenacity to grind it out - 'mug' pages and pages of the textbook with not an inkling of the concept behind it - is liable to get great marks and be 'eligible' for posts in institutions of higher studies. On the other hand, a truly intelligent and interested student who goes out of his/her way to refer other books and understand the ifs and the buts will most probably barely be able to gather passing grades. That's merit for you, most of the time.
Hence any policy of reservation in education finally comes down to this: those who learn to beat the system would now face competition from those who haven't learnt to beat the system; that these others happen to be from a different caste is but incidental IMO. Hence the very idea of reservation is repugnant to me - whether it be for other castes, or the underprivileged.
IMHO (mabbe a naive one at that) one of the best ways to help would be to establish a meritocratic system (a meritocratic system does have its share of flaws, but would definitely be an improvement on what exists now). Establish scholarships for the economically backward in all schools, be they private or public, and establish norms to ensure that only the truly economically challenged get to take advantage of such scholarships. Change all examinations to an objective-based system, so that one doesn't have to carry a whole friggin' crayon factory to the exams. Insread of pushing for affirmative action, establish a policy of zero-discrimination instead s.t. we do not have Hindu, Muslim, Christian and Jainish schools. I belive a combination of these factors would help, but the implementation - sadly, that is another matter altogether!
P.S: The worst part is, do even the most hardcore advocators of reservation believe that it will help the truly underprivileged? Those who need real help - the last thing they have on their mind is attending school; they are struggling to survive. So who is reservation really for?
Thursday, May 18, 2006
The Repertoire of Padmarajan
Most of you must be wondering - who the heck is this Padmarajan? Well, I guess the name makes it amply clear that he was a Mallu :). Padmarajan was to Malayalam cinema what Mani Ratnam was to Tamil cinema, or Hrishikesh Mukherjee was to Bollywood. However, Padmarajan's movies were neither overly simplistic (like Mani Ratnam's own Bombay or Agni Nathathram), nor always rooted on a foundation of humor. Through the 1980s, Padmarajan showcased his abilities as a director par excellence, straddling the so-called parallel and commercial genres with utmost ease.
Being basically a novelist, Padmarajan displayed a phenomenal flair for characterization (he always wrote his own screenplays). Be it the hapless old man of 'Moonnam Pakkom' (The Third Day) or the compulsive-obsessive stepfather in 'Namukku Parkkan Munthiri Thoppukal' (Vineyards For Us To Dwell), the characters he created could never be accused of being ordinary. To the contrary, many of the protagonists penned by him were delinquent, often sexually (which was being pretty daring in the 1980s, one has to admit). Another thing I loved about his movies were their titles - they were rather like the ones found for short stories, and always just so apt. Its rather difficult to pinpoint the best movies Padmarajan directed; he's done far too many different kinds of movies with more than a mere semblance of competence to make it that easy. Here I present my personal favorites from his oeuvre:
'Namukku Parkkan Munthiri Thoppukal' (Vineyards For Us To Dwell - a whopper of a title, even if it's a self-confessed Padmarajan fan saying so) starts off like a simple love-story, but the characters take on a life all of their own after half an hour, and keep you engrossed until the very end. Thilakan plays the stepfather of the girl, and just oozes slimy menace. With more than a hint of sexual harassment thrown in, this movie was far ahead of its times. Great pacing, a truly DARK climax (I just love these - exactly why I liked the recent 'Being Cyrus') and amazing performances by Mohanlal & Thilakan make this an eternal favorite.
Much before Deepa Mehta, there was Padmarajan; much before 'Fire', there was 'Deshadanakkili Karayarilla' (Birds That Migrate Don't Shed Tears - a terrible translation, but it's the thought that counts, I guess!). Unlike Deepa Mehta, who IMHO sought to obscure the issue with how the protagonists became lesbians because of their uncaring husbands, Padmarajan made no bones about the fact that his protagonists were probably lesbians. Narrating a tragic tale of how the meek, submissive partner of the duo tries to break away from the influence of her dominant & brash other half, the director never once resorts to the familiar filmi trappings (such as a flashback exonerating the perpetuator of everything); unpredictable twists and turns make this an amazing ride all the way through.
When I first saw 'Thoovanathumbikal' (Butterfiles in the Rain), I didn't like it much. IMHO, it still remains one of Padmarajan's lesser efforts; I mean, it somehow lacks that amazing completeness so many of his other movies boast of. But a re-watch of the movie by a better movie-literate me made me admire the hell out of the sheer ingenuity of the characterization - probably amongst the best ever attempted in Indian cinema. They (the characterizations) - especially that of Mohanlal - are so good that they linger in your mind eons after you have watched the movie. Moreover, there is a kind of poetry to the whole film that gets to you once the film approaches its all-too logical conclusion. Mohanlal magnificently depicts a two-faced personality, with the kind of nuances only he can even attempt without appearing to overact. In what had to be a real stroke of genius, Padmarajan gets footage of Mohanlal at his vintage best, showing the audience that there is more to it than meets the eye - after a boisterous session of drinking with friends after which Mohanlal leeringly arranges for one of his friends to lose his virginity with a prostitute, he suddenly sobers up and after carefully checking that nobody is watching him, composedly staggers down the stairs. I know it doesn't sound much on paper, but that one scene spoke volumes about the innate loneliness of the character. In yet another remarkable bit of inspiration, the director chooses to place rain in the background whenever the protagonists meet (hence the title), indicating, perhaps, the innocence of their love for each other; on the other hand, at another scene the rain stops and lingers, indicating that they are about to part (in a predictable finale, one of my chief grouses about the movie). Point and counter-point - amazing, subtle direction!
'Kariyilakattu Pole' (Like a Draft of Dry Leaves) adopts a story-telling technique that I didn't really appreciate at the time. When I chanced upon Nelson Demille's 'The General's Daughter', I was intrigued by the technique of knowing the victim through the investigator's eyes. When I commented on this to a fellow-bibliophile, he remarked that he had seen a Mallu movie (he was Tamilian) that basically did the same thing. His brief outline of the story triggered off my mown memories, and I went VCD-hunting. And o-boy - what a find I made that day. The movie is basically about an investigation into the murder of a prominent film-director. In a classic reversal of their onscreen images, Mohanlal (then, merely an upcoming star) and Mammootty (the reigning star then) play the investigator and the murder victim respectively. Though they never share screen time, one gets to know and empathise with the victim through the investigator's eyes, chiefly due to competent performances by both of them. Many years later, Mammootty would play the role of an investigator (well, a journalist investigating a murder) for the umpteenth time in a film of a similar genre; Uttaram (Answer) went on to become a huge hit with the critics, and played at several film festivals as well. Sadly, the pioneer of the genre remained unacclaimed.
'Season' is a personal favourite. It is widely regarded as a failure by most purists, but a rather unique screenplay plus Mohanlal at the peak of his acting prowess makes this a memorable experience, IMHO. The story is a one-liner, really; I imagine it this way. Padmarajan reads Stephen King's 'The Shawshank Redemption' and contemplates: what if Andy and Red had a history; what if Red had a personal agenda behind helping Andy flee prison? Mohanlal does the guy-who-can-get-it-done-for-you part with a straight face, never betraying his true intentions until the end. The film, though, is a tad predictable, and this may have accounted for its failure at the box-office.
I know I have missed out on many a perrenial favorite: Moonnam Pakkom (The Third Day), for one, is a haunting tale with some AWESOME acting. It is rather simply structured, though, and does not have the shock-value that his earlier films did. I discount 'Innale' (Yesterday) too, becuase I found Shobhana very, very unconvincing in the part of an amnesiac. Its all subjective, though. For all of you who have wanted to watch great regional cinema, you could do no better than getting a collection of Padmarajan DVDs with good sub-titles. The only movie I'd avoid would be 'Parannu Parannu Parannu' (Flew); well, everybody can make one mistake!
Being basically a novelist, Padmarajan displayed a phenomenal flair for characterization (he always wrote his own screenplays). Be it the hapless old man of 'Moonnam Pakkom' (The Third Day) or the compulsive-obsessive stepfather in 'Namukku Parkkan Munthiri Thoppukal' (Vineyards For Us To Dwell), the characters he created could never be accused of being ordinary. To the contrary, many of the protagonists penned by him were delinquent, often sexually (which was being pretty daring in the 1980s, one has to admit). Another thing I loved about his movies were their titles - they were rather like the ones found for short stories, and always just so apt. Its rather difficult to pinpoint the best movies Padmarajan directed; he's done far too many different kinds of movies with more than a mere semblance of competence to make it that easy. Here I present my personal favorites from his oeuvre:
'Namukku Parkkan Munthiri Thoppukal' (Vineyards For Us To Dwell - a whopper of a title, even if it's a self-confessed Padmarajan fan saying so) starts off like a simple love-story, but the characters take on a life all of their own after half an hour, and keep you engrossed until the very end. Thilakan plays the stepfather of the girl, and just oozes slimy menace. With more than a hint of sexual harassment thrown in, this movie was far ahead of its times. Great pacing, a truly DARK climax (I just love these - exactly why I liked the recent 'Being Cyrus') and amazing performances by Mohanlal & Thilakan make this an eternal favorite.
Much before Deepa Mehta, there was Padmarajan; much before 'Fire', there was 'Deshadanakkili Karayarilla' (Birds That Migrate Don't Shed Tears - a terrible translation, but it's the thought that counts, I guess!). Unlike Deepa Mehta, who IMHO sought to obscure the issue with how the protagonists became lesbians because of their uncaring husbands, Padmarajan made no bones about the fact that his protagonists were probably lesbians. Narrating a tragic tale of how the meek, submissive partner of the duo tries to break away from the influence of her dominant & brash other half, the director never once resorts to the familiar filmi trappings (such as a flashback exonerating the perpetuator of everything); unpredictable twists and turns make this an amazing ride all the way through.
When I first saw 'Thoovanathumbikal' (Butterfiles in the Rain), I didn't like it much. IMHO, it still remains one of Padmarajan's lesser efforts; I mean, it somehow lacks that amazing completeness so many of his other movies boast of. But a re-watch of the movie by a better movie-literate me made me admire the hell out of the sheer ingenuity of the characterization - probably amongst the best ever attempted in Indian cinema. They (the characterizations) - especially that of Mohanlal - are so good that they linger in your mind eons after you have watched the movie. Moreover, there is a kind of poetry to the whole film that gets to you once the film approaches its all-too logical conclusion. Mohanlal magnificently depicts a two-faced personality, with the kind of nuances only he can even attempt without appearing to overact. In what had to be a real stroke of genius, Padmarajan gets footage of Mohanlal at his vintage best, showing the audience that there is more to it than meets the eye - after a boisterous session of drinking with friends after which Mohanlal leeringly arranges for one of his friends to lose his virginity with a prostitute, he suddenly sobers up and after carefully checking that nobody is watching him, composedly staggers down the stairs. I know it doesn't sound much on paper, but that one scene spoke volumes about the innate loneliness of the character. In yet another remarkable bit of inspiration, the director chooses to place rain in the background whenever the protagonists meet (hence the title), indicating, perhaps, the innocence of their love for each other; on the other hand, at another scene the rain stops and lingers, indicating that they are about to part (in a predictable finale, one of my chief grouses about the movie). Point and counter-point - amazing, subtle direction!
'Kariyilakattu Pole' (Like a Draft of Dry Leaves) adopts a story-telling technique that I didn't really appreciate at the time. When I chanced upon Nelson Demille's 'The General's Daughter', I was intrigued by the technique of knowing the victim through the investigator's eyes. When I commented on this to a fellow-bibliophile, he remarked that he had seen a Mallu movie (he was Tamilian) that basically did the same thing. His brief outline of the story triggered off my mown memories, and I went VCD-hunting. And o-boy - what a find I made that day. The movie is basically about an investigation into the murder of a prominent film-director. In a classic reversal of their onscreen images, Mohanlal (then, merely an upcoming star) and Mammootty (the reigning star then) play the investigator and the murder victim respectively. Though they never share screen time, one gets to know and empathise with the victim through the investigator's eyes, chiefly due to competent performances by both of them. Many years later, Mammootty would play the role of an investigator (well, a journalist investigating a murder) for the umpteenth time in a film of a similar genre; Uttaram (Answer) went on to become a huge hit with the critics, and played at several film festivals as well. Sadly, the pioneer of the genre remained unacclaimed.
'Season' is a personal favourite. It is widely regarded as a failure by most purists, but a rather unique screenplay plus Mohanlal at the peak of his acting prowess makes this a memorable experience, IMHO. The story is a one-liner, really; I imagine it this way. Padmarajan reads Stephen King's 'The Shawshank Redemption' and contemplates: what if Andy and Red had a history; what if Red had a personal agenda behind helping Andy flee prison? Mohanlal does the guy-who-can-get-it-done-for-you part with a straight face, never betraying his true intentions until the end. The film, though, is a tad predictable, and this may have accounted for its failure at the box-office.
I know I have missed out on many a perrenial favorite: Moonnam Pakkom (The Third Day), for one, is a haunting tale with some AWESOME acting. It is rather simply structured, though, and does not have the shock-value that his earlier films did. I discount 'Innale' (Yesterday) too, becuase I found Shobhana very, very unconvincing in the part of an amnesiac. Its all subjective, though. For all of you who have wanted to watch great regional cinema, you could do no better than getting a collection of Padmarajan DVDs with good sub-titles. The only movie I'd avoid would be 'Parannu Parannu Parannu' (Flew); well, everybody can make one mistake!
Saturday, May 13, 2006
Good Bye, See You After Five Years !
Election-time never fails to drive me crazy.
Every goddamn newspaper, magazine and television channel has some aged politician flashing his smile, with all the sincerity of a 4-year old begging for a lollypop. Everybody is busy discussing chief-ministerial candidates, possible outcomes, coalition-politics and/or despairing about the 'state of affairs' and commenting on 'the good old days' and the 'bygone era' and such crap, with all the seriousness and earnestness of experienced political analysts. What's more, they insist on dragging me into these inane conversations, asking me my political inclinations, favorite candidates and every other related thing they can think of. When I try to explain to them that I am the least bit bothered, there are two reactions: either they agree with me saying there is 'no use' and go back to the 'state of affairs' conversation, or they look at me condescendingly and remind me how its my 'duty' to be involved and vote and 'change the system' and ... - you get the picture.
Every goddamn newspaper, magazine and television channel has some aged politician flashing his smile, with all the sincerity of a 4-year old begging for a lollypop. Everybody is busy discussing chief-ministerial candidates, possible outcomes, coalition-politics and/or despairing about the 'state of affairs' and commenting on 'the good old days' and the 'bygone era' and such crap, with all the seriousness and earnestness of experienced political analysts. What's more, they insist on dragging me into these inane conversations, asking me my political inclinations, favorite candidates and every other related thing they can think of. When I try to explain to them that I am the least bit bothered, there are two reactions: either they agree with me saying there is 'no use' and go back to the 'state of affairs' conversation, or they look at me condescendingly and remind me how its my 'duty' to be involved and vote and 'change the system' and ... - you get the picture.
Now, I have never understood how it is my 'duty' to help in bringing to power yet another corrupt fuddy-duddy, who probably spends time in Parliament having wet dreams about a good-looking nurse and a bedpan. Sure, it is my constitutional right to cast my vote to whoever I deem honorable and responsible enough to take up a cudgel for me, if it comes to that. That is my right, not my duty. Many people seem to think that voting is a barometer for patriotism; they keenly walk up and inform us that they went to vote with great difficulty, and then proudly display that little black mark on their finger. What's worse, most of these people vote for the party (or for that party that supports their caste and/or religion, but that's a different albeit sad story altogether), and not for the most deserving candidate (IMO, there is no 'most deserving' party), which is a pathetic state of affairs, really.
For instance, look at the Tamil Nadu elections. The 82-year old Karunanidhi, whose DMK was dismissed off by every media pundit in the country as having 'no realistic chance', romped home in style on the strength of his so-called 'brilliant' manifesto - an offer of a color TV for every household. It beats me how the DMK would ever fulfil this utterly unrealistic promise, reeking of bravado and a desperation to hang onto power. Now, the other side - the AIDMK headed by Jayalalitha - are no saints, but at least they made no rash promises like these. The third equation in the fray, the filmi hero trying his hand at politics, offers a frggin' goddamned cow for every household. Thank your holy stars he didn't win, or we would have had cows tied around the pillars of every flat! Now whether Karunanidhi lasts the term is debatable (there are all kinds of rumors in the air, ranging from doctors' prognoses to dire predictions from soothsayers), but I hear that the people are already disposing of their old B/W TV sets.
Now, Kerala politics is not as complicated. Every election, the so-called 'incumbency factor' somehow comes into play. This merely means that the people get sick of the existing goverment, and vote the opposition to power. This has been going on for donkey's years now, and as a result elections mein utna dum nahin hai. The ruling party doesn't waste much money on rallying people, giving enthusiastic speeches etc, while the opposition party runs pretty frugal campaigns - after all, everybody knows which way the vote's gonna swing this time. But the tussle for chief-ministership is pretty funny. Both the Congress and the Communist parties are filled with old geezers who still cling onto power desperately. There's Karunakaran of the Congress, the wily old fox, who's swung more ways than a goddamn pendulum in these last weeks. Then there's old Antony, the sacrificial lamb of the Congress. And there's the new CM from the Left (oh, he's pretty ancient too), who I would be ashamed to point to as being from my same state, forget being the CM.
Then we have the BJP, who have been having it bad from every direction. First, a leader with a decent public image (they don't have many of those, do they?) dies on them. Advani's been trying so hard to bend over backward to let go of his hardliner image, he almost looks like Prabhudeva from a distance. And good old Sonia's wallopped them every which way now, they probably think she's Mohammed Ali reincarnated or something! Now, for some inexplicable reason, Aamir Khan is gunning for Modi too (not that I mind, he deserves anything he gets).
Anyway, election-time is over. Except for some sting-operations or sex-scandals, hopefully these politicans will be unheard of for the next 5 years - blissful silence!
Amen.
P.S: I guess this would qualify as a rant, huh !!
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
The RGV and Bhatt Film Factories
For a long time, RGV has been churning out one competent movie after another (to those miserable souls who watched Mr Ya Miss, I apologize; I am yet to watch that particular monstrosity). Although it is my opinion that the quality of movies produced from this particular 'Factory' has been declining steadliy (Company was a poor man's Satya, while Sarkar was not a patch on Company, despite bravura performances by both the Bachchans; let's not even mention The Godfather here!). However, one has to admit that most movies that come out under his banner are reasonably competent. Darna Zaroori Hai, the heavily publicized sequel to an earlier flop venture under the RGV banner, is competent as well. However, the twists and turns are often predictable.
I would rank the Randeep Honda story (directed by Chakravarthy who starred in and as Satya) the best by a comfortable margin. It boasts of some fine acting by the actors, and a couple of genuinely spooky moments. The Bachchan story, directed by RGV himself, has the big B and Ritesh Deshmukh putting in decent performances (Bachchan managed to startle me thrice, despite me promising myself every time not to be taken in again!). However, I found the ending really abrupt, and as a result, not eerie enough. The whole prelude episode, directed by Sajid Khan, was sorta nice as well, with the RGV protege taking generous digs at his so-called guru.
However, after these stories, thing go terribly wrong. The Rajpal Yadav (who hammed crazily) episode was amaturish and pretty dumb; the fact that it starred Sunil Shetty did not exactly help. The Bipasha Basu episode was predictable; even more so was the Anil Kapoor-Mallika story; believe me, a Murder-ishtyle lovemaking scene with Mallika in her usual skimpy costumes (and Mr. Hairy Kapoor most definitely fully clothed) would have helped that particular tale a lot! The worst of the lot, however, was the story connecting all these pieces together, and that is what screwed up the movie for me. The dadi trying to act scary (rolling up her eyes and all that crap), and the kids trying to act smart (why do kids have to be so damn pesky in all Indian movies!!!!) destroyed the effect completely.
And then we have the Bhatt camp, who have been quietly churning out decent filmi flicks (albeit flicked from Hollywood most of the time) month after month. This team has assembled a crew of low-profile professionals who go about their jobs quietly, without any fuss. As a result, the camp has produced some of the best music in recent times, some halfway decent flicks and a serial-kisser to boot! Emraan Hansini is a shrewd performer alright; he knows enough to underplay his roles, makes sure he gets some great songs and promptly kisses the heroine in most of them - as foolproof a plan to box-office success as you can get! The latest movie from the Bhatt camp is Gangster, and it does beat the RGV release by miles, I have to admit.
Supposedly 'inspired' (I know, I know!) by the Abu Salem-Monica Bedi angle, Gangster narrates an engrossing tale with debutante Kangna, Shiney Ahuja (who makes a complete transformation from the fantastic Hazaaron Khwahishein Aisi) and Emran Hansini all putting in fine performances. The music rocks, and so the scripts takes enough twists and turns to hold one's interest.
Verdict: If you can watch only one movie a month, then Gangster is it - enjoyable masala fare.
I would rank the Randeep Honda story (directed by Chakravarthy who starred in and as Satya) the best by a comfortable margin. It boasts of some fine acting by the actors, and a couple of genuinely spooky moments. The Bachchan story, directed by RGV himself, has the big B and Ritesh Deshmukh putting in decent performances (Bachchan managed to startle me thrice, despite me promising myself every time not to be taken in again!). However, I found the ending really abrupt, and as a result, not eerie enough. The whole prelude episode, directed by Sajid Khan, was sorta nice as well, with the RGV protege taking generous digs at his so-called guru.
However, after these stories, thing go terribly wrong. The Rajpal Yadav (who hammed crazily) episode was amaturish and pretty dumb; the fact that it starred Sunil Shetty did not exactly help. The Bipasha Basu episode was predictable; even more so was the Anil Kapoor-Mallika story; believe me, a Murder-ishtyle lovemaking scene with Mallika in her usual skimpy costumes (and Mr. Hairy Kapoor most definitely fully clothed) would have helped that particular tale a lot! The worst of the lot, however, was the story connecting all these pieces together, and that is what screwed up the movie for me. The dadi trying to act scary (rolling up her eyes and all that crap), and the kids trying to act smart (why do kids have to be so damn pesky in all Indian movies!!!!) destroyed the effect completely.
And then we have the Bhatt camp, who have been quietly churning out decent filmi flicks (albeit flicked from Hollywood most of the time) month after month. This team has assembled a crew of low-profile professionals who go about their jobs quietly, without any fuss. As a result, the camp has produced some of the best music in recent times, some halfway decent flicks and a serial-kisser to boot! Emraan Hansini is a shrewd performer alright; he knows enough to underplay his roles, makes sure he gets some great songs and promptly kisses the heroine in most of them - as foolproof a plan to box-office success as you can get! The latest movie from the Bhatt camp is Gangster, and it does beat the RGV release by miles, I have to admit.
Supposedly 'inspired' (I know, I know!) by the Abu Salem-Monica Bedi angle, Gangster narrates an engrossing tale with debutante Kangna, Shiney Ahuja (who makes a complete transformation from the fantastic Hazaaron Khwahishein Aisi) and Emran Hansini all putting in fine performances. The music rocks, and so the scripts takes enough twists and turns to hold one's interest.
Verdict: If you can watch only one movie a month, then Gangster is it - enjoyable masala fare.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Review: How Opal Mehta Got Kissed ...
I guess almost everybody knows the plot of 'How Opal Mehta Got Kissed...' by now, so I am not going to bother. The book is pretty much like one of the many coming-of-age chick-flicks that the Disney group churns out every year, except that at times Kaavya Viswanathan makes you grin amiably at the sheer familiarity of the happenings with her gently self-deprecating humour. In fact, I would rate this book higher than the two recent Chetan Bhagat books that have been celebrated and exalted by the media - I found the call-center one really bad. The girl (At 27, I am entitled to call a girl of 17 a girl !!) can write.
But of course, How Kaavya Viswanathan Got Famous is another story altogether. Accusations of plagiarism (especially from Megan McCafferty's first two novels) are flying all around like crazy, and the eerily similar paragraphs make the charges kinda hard to refute. There have been new allegations of other 'similar' passages doing the rounds of late as well. Sadly, the books have been withdrawn from the market (I have my copy - hurrah!).
I am not sure that I buy Kaavya's defense entirely, but it is indeed possible that a lot of paragraphs of a favourite book can stick in one's mind; believe me, I can quote from 'The God of Small Things' extensively (I can also recognize/remember most books and the characters in them just by reading the summary on the back-flap). Could passages from memory unconciously work their way to what somebody tries to put down? They could, I guess - this is really a question for psychologists who have worked with short-term and long-term memory, and not for the media to speculate and unequivocally condemn.
IMO, the plagiarism was not intentional. First of all, reading the book (or any book, for that matter)clearly gives you a mental picture of the author, and dumb this author certainly is not. Only really dumb people would copy passages almost verbatim from other books, and then publish the damn thing - I mean, this is something that is read all over the world, and I am certain that the author would have been concious that the possibility of discovery would have been failry high. Secondly, Kaavya Vishwanathan is no mean writer (read the book and decide for yourself), and she would/need not have copied passages so explicitly. And most important of all, Kaavya Viswanathan makes me want to support her. While countless episodes of even more blatant plagiarism (especially in the tinsel world) go unnoticed or are even excused, a 17-year old girl is being unmercifully lynched by the media for what might have been an honest mistake on her part. The fact that Kaavya had the gumption to admit her mistake and apologize (I can't stand people who do not admit her mistakes) also makes me want to go bat for her.
But of course, How Kaavya Viswanathan Got Famous is another story altogether. Accusations of plagiarism (especially from Megan McCafferty's first two novels) are flying all around like crazy, and the eerily similar paragraphs make the charges kinda hard to refute. There have been new allegations of other 'similar' passages doing the rounds of late as well. Sadly, the books have been withdrawn from the market (I have my copy - hurrah!).
I am not sure that I buy Kaavya's defense entirely, but it is indeed possible that a lot of paragraphs of a favourite book can stick in one's mind; believe me, I can quote from 'The God of Small Things' extensively (I can also recognize/remember most books and the characters in them just by reading the summary on the back-flap). Could passages from memory unconciously work their way to what somebody tries to put down? They could, I guess - this is really a question for psychologists who have worked with short-term and long-term memory, and not for the media to speculate and unequivocally condemn.
IMO, the plagiarism was not intentional. First of all, reading the book (or any book, for that matter)clearly gives you a mental picture of the author, and dumb this author certainly is not. Only really dumb people would copy passages almost verbatim from other books, and then publish the damn thing - I mean, this is something that is read all over the world, and I am certain that the author would have been concious that the possibility of discovery would have been failry high. Secondly, Kaavya Vishwanathan is no mean writer (read the book and decide for yourself), and she would/need not have copied passages so explicitly. And most important of all, Kaavya Viswanathan makes me want to support her. While countless episodes of even more blatant plagiarism (especially in the tinsel world) go unnoticed or are even excused, a 17-year old girl is being unmercifully lynched by the media for what might have been an honest mistake on her part. The fact that Kaavya had the gumption to admit her mistake and apologize (I can't stand people who do not admit her mistakes) also makes me want to go bat for her.
I hope the second Opal Mehta book (hope there is one!!) makes it to the bestseller list too, but sans the controversies !!
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Movie Review: Thanmatra (Molecule)
After almost 5 years of one insipid movie after another, Mohan Lal is back with another knockout performance. Although director Blessy 'borrows' liberally from the superb 'Iris' (where Kate Winslet delivers yet another class act; she really is an amazing actress), he has delivered a movie that is realistic as well as poignant.
Warning: Spoilers ahead.
Thanmatra narrates the tale of an ordinary government servant Rameshan Nair (Mohan Lal), who leads a simple life and has modest dreams of his teenaged son appearing for the IAS examinations. Having almost had a go at the IAS himself, he is keen to make sure that no stone is left unturned to educate and prepare his son. Being a man of no mean intelligence himself, Rameshan Nair has brought up his son educating him in the sciences and arts alike.
It is at this juncture that Rameshan Nair, who prides himself on his memory, begins to forget things - simple things, such as whether he has brushed his teeth in the morning, or where he has placed an important file. He begins to unravel rapidly, and things come to a head when one day Rameshan Nair goes to office, strips and begins to take a bath. Rameshan Nair is diagnosed as being afflicted with Alzheimer's desease (AD). From here on, the movie narrates the travails of his family as they attempt to take care of (and cope up with) their father, who can no longer recognize them; who can no longer find his own way to places; who can no longer even speak coherently.
It would be repetitious to talk about what a fine actor Mohan Lal is; he's already proved that several times over. But at this stage of his career, where he has made even his most ardent fan grimace with distaste at least once with the kind of movies he has been doing, Thanmatra arrives as a boon for the actor in him. And does he know it too - he sinks his teeth with relish into the role and comes up with the kind of performance that would have won him an immediate Oscar if he were from the Oscar-winning parts of the globe (not that I believe the Oscar is the award for excellence; but they are definitely a lot more consistent than their Indian counterparts). Whether its as the proud parent in the former half of the movie, or as the Alzheimers-afflicted patient in the latter half, Mohan Lal lives as Rameshan Nair.
The rest of the cast performs admirably too. Nedumudi Venu as the father is competent, as expected. Meera Vasudevan turns in a good performance as Rameshan Nair's wife. Arjun Lal turns in a remarkable debut performance, standing up to Mohan Lal throughout the movie (which is no mean task). He never once goes above the top. Innocent jars, though, as the Hindi-spouting father of Meera (when will our directors understand that Mallu actors do not speak Hindi well?).
Director Blessy delivers once again after Kaazhcha (Sight). However, he could have avoided flicking those scenes from 'Iris'; it raises unnecessary doubts about the skill he had so effortlessly displayed he possessed through his previous movie. The Tamil song is melodious, and picturized beautifully; it lingers in the mind long after the movie is over.
Verdict: A must-watch.
Warning: Spoilers ahead.
Thanmatra narrates the tale of an ordinary government servant Rameshan Nair (Mohan Lal), who leads a simple life and has modest dreams of his teenaged son appearing for the IAS examinations. Having almost had a go at the IAS himself, he is keen to make sure that no stone is left unturned to educate and prepare his son. Being a man of no mean intelligence himself, Rameshan Nair has brought up his son educating him in the sciences and arts alike.
It is at this juncture that Rameshan Nair, who prides himself on his memory, begins to forget things - simple things, such as whether he has brushed his teeth in the morning, or where he has placed an important file. He begins to unravel rapidly, and things come to a head when one day Rameshan Nair goes to office, strips and begins to take a bath. Rameshan Nair is diagnosed as being afflicted with Alzheimer's desease (AD). From here on, the movie narrates the travails of his family as they attempt to take care of (and cope up with) their father, who can no longer recognize them; who can no longer find his own way to places; who can no longer even speak coherently.
It would be repetitious to talk about what a fine actor Mohan Lal is; he's already proved that several times over. But at this stage of his career, where he has made even his most ardent fan grimace with distaste at least once with the kind of movies he has been doing, Thanmatra arrives as a boon for the actor in him. And does he know it too - he sinks his teeth with relish into the role and comes up with the kind of performance that would have won him an immediate Oscar if he were from the Oscar-winning parts of the globe (not that I believe the Oscar is the award for excellence; but they are definitely a lot more consistent than their Indian counterparts). Whether its as the proud parent in the former half of the movie, or as the Alzheimers-afflicted patient in the latter half, Mohan Lal lives as Rameshan Nair.
The rest of the cast performs admirably too. Nedumudi Venu as the father is competent, as expected. Meera Vasudevan turns in a good performance as Rameshan Nair's wife. Arjun Lal turns in a remarkable debut performance, standing up to Mohan Lal throughout the movie (which is no mean task). He never once goes above the top. Innocent jars, though, as the Hindi-spouting father of Meera (when will our directors understand that Mallu actors do not speak Hindi well?).
Director Blessy delivers once again after Kaazhcha (Sight). However, he could have avoided flicking those scenes from 'Iris'; it raises unnecessary doubts about the skill he had so effortlessly displayed he possessed through his previous movie. The Tamil song is melodious, and picturized beautifully; it lingers in the mind long after the movie is over.
Verdict: A must-watch.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
My Engagement & An Escape From The mundu
Yes, I got engaged during my vacation - on 26-Mar-2006. A bit of history at first, though.
I work at this obscure location near Manhattan, where the average age of the female species appears to be 40+. A word to those of you who believe that America is the land of opportunity: well, not at this location, at least; my hopes were dashed irrevocably within a couple of week! Over the past year, being old (and desperate) enough, I tried offering some subtle (and then some not-so-subtle) hints to my parents, who unfortunately never appeared to understand my level of desperation !! At last, I had to resort to a dirty, underhand trick (I complained about my parents not doing anything to a close friend's mom, who conceivably had a long, serious talk with my mom about my diminishing 'prospects') to rouse my mom into action. And spring into action she did - bombarding unsuspecting marriage beaureaus with my photographs.
Now, me and the camera have a love-hate relationship. I hate getting photographed, and all cameras love getting me in wierd expressions (eyes closed, molars showing or nostrils faring - you name it, and I have pasport-sized photographs of them all). The one decent passort-sized photograph i have was taken approximately 4 years ago; I was so delighted when I saw a snap that actually looked looked passable that i had a 100 copies made immediately, and distributed it to all and sundry. It was this photograph that my mom now distributed to all the beaureaus. The only problem was that I had put on a bit (I'm being modest here) of weight over the past 3 years, and the photograph no longer beared any resemblance to me.
But i am going off on a tangent here. Surprisingly enough, the marriage beaureaus were able to find some matches. Of course, with my parents looking at horoscopes, family backgrounds and a zillion other things, I really didn't have much to do except ask my sister for updates on whether any good-looking snaps had worked their way.
In mid-December, an alliance filtered its way through my parents' safety-nets, and I was 'allowed to' talk to the girl (am exagerrating here, of course; but this keeps reminding me of that hilarious scene in 'Hyderabad Blues' where the hero's friend talks to his fiancee, with her parents attempting to eavesdrop). After a couple of calls and chat-sessions, the akwardness wore off, and we hit it off pretty well too. And 3 months later, here I am - engaged to Smitha.
The engagement ceremony itself was quite wierd, though. On one hand, neither me nor Smitha had an inkling of what to expect. Moreover, despite my best attempts to keep things on a small scale, both of our families were determined to make the event festive. So we had a decent crowd for the engagement - with photographers et al. And then there was the most important question that everybody had to ask - what I would wear.
Now I have a morbid fear of the mundu (the South Indian counterpart of the dhoti, but tied like the lungi), which is the default attire of the groom (and most of the guests) for a Kerala wedding. I have never perfected the art of fastening the damn thing so that it remains in place; instead, everytime I wear one I am always very aware of exactly where upon my waist the mundu is, and the velocity at which it is slowly but surely slipping down. As a result, I firmly put my foot down and said that under no circumstances would I wear a damn mundu for the engagement (at the wedding, I have no way out). There were a couple of discontented murmurs from some of the old folks belonging to my father's generation; but I acted as if I were deaf, and went off to buy a cream-colored kurta set.
The ceremony itself was brief; Smitha's dad asked my dad whether he was willing, basically, and my dad said 'Yes'; this was iterated thrice, and hey - I was engaged.
Now, the photographers - I have already explained my relationship with the camera. Hence being on stage and getting photographed while posing with strangers who you had to pretend to know was sheer torture. In fact, there was an upcoming actor who was related to Smitha, and I didn't recognize him (even after somebody asking me whether I recognized him); the poor chap appeared to be taken back. I wish people understood that I have a poor memory for faces, and an even poorer memory for people I have not seen over the past 15 years, and stopped asking me whether I recognize Mr and Mrs xxx. Back to the photographers - they were not done with us yet. After clicking away with the camera for what seemed like an eternity, they haunted us even while eating (I am sure they got a snap of mine at that exact second when I had opened my mouth wide to put in a ball of rice). And, horror of horrors, they were still not done with us.
Now, they led us outside to a lawn, and asked us to pose. The very thought of me posing and preening in front of the camera sufficed to make me break into a cold sweat. Moreover, these were not natural, everyday poses; these were the kind of poses that Jeetendra used to do with Rekha, Sridevi and Jayaprada with hundreds of pots and cans in the background, back in the early 1980s. Somehow, I tilted my chin, raised my neck and completed the ordeal.
Now, there isn't much time; the wedding date has been fixed. Its 26-Aug-2006. Let me get back to practising wearing the damned mundu.
I work at this obscure location near Manhattan, where the average age of the female species appears to be 40+. A word to those of you who believe that America is the land of opportunity: well, not at this location, at least; my hopes were dashed irrevocably within a couple of week! Over the past year, being old (and desperate) enough, I tried offering some subtle (and then some not-so-subtle) hints to my parents, who unfortunately never appeared to understand my level of desperation !! At last, I had to resort to a dirty, underhand trick (I complained about my parents not doing anything to a close friend's mom, who conceivably had a long, serious talk with my mom about my diminishing 'prospects') to rouse my mom into action. And spring into action she did - bombarding unsuspecting marriage beaureaus with my photographs.
Now, me and the camera have a love-hate relationship. I hate getting photographed, and all cameras love getting me in wierd expressions (eyes closed, molars showing or nostrils faring - you name it, and I have pasport-sized photographs of them all). The one decent passort-sized photograph i have was taken approximately 4 years ago; I was so delighted when I saw a snap that actually looked looked passable that i had a 100 copies made immediately, and distributed it to all and sundry. It was this photograph that my mom now distributed to all the beaureaus. The only problem was that I had put on a bit (I'm being modest here) of weight over the past 3 years, and the photograph no longer beared any resemblance to me.
But i am going off on a tangent here. Surprisingly enough, the marriage beaureaus were able to find some matches. Of course, with my parents looking at horoscopes, family backgrounds and a zillion other things, I really didn't have much to do except ask my sister for updates on whether any good-looking snaps had worked their way.
In mid-December, an alliance filtered its way through my parents' safety-nets, and I was 'allowed to' talk to the girl (am exagerrating here, of course; but this keeps reminding me of that hilarious scene in 'Hyderabad Blues' where the hero's friend talks to his fiancee, with her parents attempting to eavesdrop). After a couple of calls and chat-sessions, the akwardness wore off, and we hit it off pretty well too. And 3 months later, here I am - engaged to Smitha.
The engagement ceremony itself was quite wierd, though. On one hand, neither me nor Smitha had an inkling of what to expect. Moreover, despite my best attempts to keep things on a small scale, both of our families were determined to make the event festive. So we had a decent crowd for the engagement - with photographers et al. And then there was the most important question that everybody had to ask - what I would wear.
Now I have a morbid fear of the mundu (the South Indian counterpart of the dhoti, but tied like the lungi), which is the default attire of the groom (and most of the guests) for a Kerala wedding. I have never perfected the art of fastening the damn thing so that it remains in place; instead, everytime I wear one I am always very aware of exactly where upon my waist the mundu is, and the velocity at which it is slowly but surely slipping down. As a result, I firmly put my foot down and said that under no circumstances would I wear a damn mundu for the engagement (at the wedding, I have no way out). There were a couple of discontented murmurs from some of the old folks belonging to my father's generation; but I acted as if I were deaf, and went off to buy a cream-colored kurta set.
The ceremony itself was brief; Smitha's dad asked my dad whether he was willing, basically, and my dad said 'Yes'; this was iterated thrice, and hey - I was engaged.
Now, the photographers - I have already explained my relationship with the camera. Hence being on stage and getting photographed while posing with strangers who you had to pretend to know was sheer torture. In fact, there was an upcoming actor who was related to Smitha, and I didn't recognize him (even after somebody asking me whether I recognized him); the poor chap appeared to be taken back. I wish people understood that I have a poor memory for faces, and an even poorer memory for people I have not seen over the past 15 years, and stopped asking me whether I recognize Mr and Mrs xxx. Back to the photographers - they were not done with us yet. After clicking away with the camera for what seemed like an eternity, they haunted us even while eating (I am sure they got a snap of mine at that exact second when I had opened my mouth wide to put in a ball of rice). And, horror of horrors, they were still not done with us.
Now, they led us outside to a lawn, and asked us to pose. The very thought of me posing and preening in front of the camera sufficed to make me break into a cold sweat. Moreover, these were not natural, everyday poses; these were the kind of poses that Jeetendra used to do with Rekha, Sridevi and Jayaprada with hundreds of pots and cans in the background, back in the early 1980s. Somehow, I tilted my chin, raised my neck and completed the ordeal.
Now, there isn't much time; the wedding date has been fixed. Its 26-Aug-2006. Let me get back to practising wearing the damned mundu.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
I Am Back
after an unintentionally long hiatus. A lot has been happening at my end, so let me first write about all these 'happenings':
My Trip to India
Its been 2 years since I left India. Hence obviously, I was in urgent need of a break, and the vacation couldn't have come at a better time. I opted for an Emirates flight, connecting through Dubai, since my plan was to reach Cochin directly (its barely an hour from the Cochin airport to Thrissur, where I stay). Unfortunately, my flight from Dubai was at 4:00 AM, and I was left sipping gallons of coffee at the Dubai airport for almost 6 hours. I, of course, had to lug around the bottles of liquor and sacks of chocolates that I'd purchased from the duty-free shops wherever I went, and so I wasn't too keen on roaming around inside the airport.
I hate to admit this, but our countrymen are terrible at doing something as simple as standing in line, and waiting for their turn; they almost need to be threatened to stand in line for any damn thing. Somehow, the very folks who at JFK airport had obediently scuttled into line like well-trained puppies (I figure there is something about the U.S of A that intimidates a lot of our countrymen!), created a huge commotion at the Dubai airport. I had observed many of these (expectedly, predominantly Mallu) gentlemen and their families behaving themselves at JFK, so I'd not expected the chaos that now followed. Instead of following the seat numbers being read out loud and clear by the crew, these folks chose to make a race of who would enter the damned aeroplane first. In between, a Mallu-looking and Mallu-sounding (you know what I mean) bald man in a blazer that looked as if it had been bought at least a decade ago, chose to pick a fight with a hapless flight attendant over a rather large-looking suitcase that he insisted on carrying with him into the flight, despite the attendant (by now desperate) offering to check it in for free. Thankfully, his supervisor (I think) soon arrived and put her foot down, much to baldie's chagrin.
The flight itself was, thankfully, uneventful; so was the entire Customs process.
A lot of friends had commented that the first thing I would notice in India after stepping out of the airport would be the dust. Well, they were wrong. It was the traffic that unnerved me - the vehicles zipping in and out at perilous speeds was really alarming, despite me being used to driving much in the same way for more than 6 years. Strange, but true.
The heat levels have definitely increased though; and the load-shedding scene is terrible. In fact, the weekend I came, the frequency was every half-an-hour - can you imagine? One had to shave/have dinner/whatever within half-an-hour, or one would get stuck halfway through. I really can't imagine who came up with this notion of cutting power every half-an-hour. I mean, why 30 minutes; why not 1 hour or 2? But No - from when I was a child, load-shedding has to be for exactly 30 minutes; it's almost part of our daily routine now.
My Trip to India
Its been 2 years since I left India. Hence obviously, I was in urgent need of a break, and the vacation couldn't have come at a better time. I opted for an Emirates flight, connecting through Dubai, since my plan was to reach Cochin directly (its barely an hour from the Cochin airport to Thrissur, where I stay). Unfortunately, my flight from Dubai was at 4:00 AM, and I was left sipping gallons of coffee at the Dubai airport for almost 6 hours. I, of course, had to lug around the bottles of liquor and sacks of chocolates that I'd purchased from the duty-free shops wherever I went, and so I wasn't too keen on roaming around inside the airport.
I hate to admit this, but our countrymen are terrible at doing something as simple as standing in line, and waiting for their turn; they almost need to be threatened to stand in line for any damn thing. Somehow, the very folks who at JFK airport had obediently scuttled into line like well-trained puppies (I figure there is something about the U.S of A that intimidates a lot of our countrymen!), created a huge commotion at the Dubai airport. I had observed many of these (expectedly, predominantly Mallu) gentlemen and their families behaving themselves at JFK, so I'd not expected the chaos that now followed. Instead of following the seat numbers being read out loud and clear by the crew, these folks chose to make a race of who would enter the damned aeroplane first. In between, a Mallu-looking and Mallu-sounding (you know what I mean) bald man in a blazer that looked as if it had been bought at least a decade ago, chose to pick a fight with a hapless flight attendant over a rather large-looking suitcase that he insisted on carrying with him into the flight, despite the attendant (by now desperate) offering to check it in for free. Thankfully, his supervisor (I think) soon arrived and put her foot down, much to baldie's chagrin.
The flight itself was, thankfully, uneventful; so was the entire Customs process.
A lot of friends had commented that the first thing I would notice in India after stepping out of the airport would be the dust. Well, they were wrong. It was the traffic that unnerved me - the vehicles zipping in and out at perilous speeds was really alarming, despite me being used to driving much in the same way for more than 6 years. Strange, but true.
The heat levels have definitely increased though; and the load-shedding scene is terrible. In fact, the weekend I came, the frequency was every half-an-hour - can you imagine? One had to shave/have dinner/whatever within half-an-hour, or one would get stuck halfway through. I really can't imagine who came up with this notion of cutting power every half-an-hour. I mean, why 30 minutes; why not 1 hour or 2? But No - from when I was a child, load-shedding has to be for exactly 30 minutes; it's almost part of our daily routine now.
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