I really don’t want to see Avatar. But just as I was bullied into submission by the world’s insistence on discussing Three Idiots over all dinners, lunches, telephone conversations and facebook updates, I am getting hustled into a 3D theatre to see a world that has introduced new words into the English language; and there are only so many times I can go to Wiki to figure what Na’vi is, and then what unobtanium is, and so on and so forth.
I am not too optimistic about my expectations. Partly because technology and special effects cannot make me love a movie, but also because the public adulation makes me cynical. Don’t get me wrong – I am no snob. I loved Harry Potter and the Da Vinci Code series, and it was their populism that drove me to them in the first place. But my appetite and acceptance of books is way wider than my tolerance for movies, and if I don’t like a trailer, chances are I won’t like the movie.
Take the case of Three idiots which, really, is no masterpiece. In the first five minutes you know the movie is going to stretch incidents to accommodate a point of view. Faking a heart attack to stop a plane has no place in cinema that seeks to be a realistic depiction. That scene alone marks the movie as an exaggeration. Which is not a fault if something is seeking to be timepass fun – but is totally out of place if aiming for grandeur.
And it is slapstick. Giving the villain a lisp, and filling a speech with sexual references, while potentially hilarious, is not a stroke of comedic genius.
Topping it all, 3I suffers from the old Bollywood failing of falling back on lectures through a hero’s monologue even though the storyline alone would be, should be, enough to get the message across. What I’m saying is: if you need to explain a joke, it is a loser joke. And if you need to explain the moral of a story, it is a loser screenplay.
And what’s with the casting of old men as college students? Okay, so Aamir Khan looks seriously unaged. But that is not enough. What makes youngsters look young is not a lack of frown lines, it is a certain something – perhaps a rebelliousness in his ponytailed hair, a boisterousness in her haughty expression, a languidness in the way they walk - some symptom of a nonchalant attitude ... Look at Imaad Shah in Little Zizou. Or Saif Ali in Dil Chahta Hai. Youth is a facial expression, a body language, not a skin texture. In Three Idiots, only Sharman Joshi has that look, perhaps because he actually is young(er).
3I has its good moments too, but I can’t be bothered to list those out coz enough has been oversaid about them. Long story short, if I must spend 3 hours staring at a screen on Sunday, I’d rather it be Jaane Bhi Do Yaaron once again. Instead, it ended up being Three Idiots earlier. And it is going to end up being Avataar next.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Tuesday, January 05, 2010
Another one, just like the other one
Sometimes I think our computer is an orphanage.
Unneeded software, unloved programs, useless upgrades - just about anything of questionable conception - and my husband adopts it and houses it in our hard drive.
Which all I bear with a step-motherly sigh, but it is the accumulation of gadgets that really gets to me. The latest thing to enter our household is the universal remote controller.
“Just one click!” gushes Vipul, “A single click on this and you can turn on any gadget in the house that you want to!”
“Wow!” gushes me “instead of one whole click on the older remote control which we already have?”
“Are you being sarcastic? This is really something cool!”
“Are you being serious? Have you already bought it?”
“See, you won’t need the five different remote controllers we have any more”
“I didn’t need the five different gadgets they came with either! Anyway, so I can throw those five remotes now?”
“No No, first I need to program the universal remote!”
And that’s where we stand.
He will install the software that came with the remote on our computer, read through the thousand pages of manual every morning before office, sync the remote and the gadgets, find faults, google for troubleshooting, give up, and by the end of it we will find we need six remotes instead of five.
Seriously, boys and there toys! It’s true – all men have a child hidden inside them. If only the damn kid remained hidden.
Unneeded software, unloved programs, useless upgrades - just about anything of questionable conception - and my husband adopts it and houses it in our hard drive.
Which all I bear with a step-motherly sigh, but it is the accumulation of gadgets that really gets to me. The latest thing to enter our household is the universal remote controller.
“Just one click!” gushes Vipul, “A single click on this and you can turn on any gadget in the house that you want to!”
“Wow!” gushes me “instead of one whole click on the older remote control which we already have?”
“Are you being sarcastic? This is really something cool!”
“Are you being serious? Have you already bought it?”
“See, you won’t need the five different remote controllers we have any more”
“I didn’t need the five different gadgets they came with either! Anyway, so I can throw those five remotes now?”
“No No, first I need to program the universal remote!”
And that’s where we stand.
He will install the software that came with the remote on our computer, read through the thousand pages of manual every morning before office, sync the remote and the gadgets, find faults, google for troubleshooting, give up, and by the end of it we will find we need six remotes instead of five.
Seriously, boys and there toys! It’s true – all men have a child hidden inside them. If only the damn kid remained hidden.
Monday, October 05, 2009
What's your nightmare?
I can't believe I'm saying this, but "What's your Rashee" is not the worst movie I've ever seen.
It certainly comes close, given that its 14 songs stretch across a length of film that would have been less painful if I had strangled myself with it and positively delightful if I had strangled Harman Baweja with it. That insipid man needs a personality, a haircut, some lip synching lessons and most importantly, a new profession.
And I need friends who don't bully me into seeing his movies.
Anyway, misery needs sharing. So please bear this story...
It all begins with a family who is told by an astrologer that the day their younger son gets married (in fact, precisely at the fourth turn around the wedding fire), will be the day he becomes amazingly rich. This revelation brings them a much needed respite - because their older son has a pregnant wife, a gambling habit, an utter disregard for fiscal responsibilities, and owing to the last, a chance of getting jailed.
So naturally our NRI hero flies down from the DJ-ing nightlife of Chicago to the Gujarati accent of Mumbai. We find out he is hardworking, loving, intelligent, dutiful and a thousand other good adjectives. He is willing to get married in a jiffy for the benefit of his family and the script-writer.
Indeed his only fault - and this is nit-picking really - is his unexplainable interest in bad literature such as bedtime reading of a book called "What's your Rashee". After which our hero gets over his jet-lag and falls asleep, but our nightmare begins because the book gives him the insight that there are twelve types of girls in this world. And thanks to this, he insists that twelve girls - all Priyanka Chopras with a unique star-sign, wardrobe and make-up assigned to themselves- are shortlisted as prospective candidates.
As it turns out:
One is not a virgin. Another has no intentions of remaining one.
One wants to be a superstar model. Another is already a celebrity of sorts.
One wants to marry him to emigrate. Another wants him to stay behind.
One is too young to be legally married. Another is too immature to be married at all.
One pretends to be insane. Another pretends to be modern.
One thinks they were destined to be married. Another thinks she is destined to marry another.
All of them sing awful songs.
None of them can dance.
How the four paragraphs I have written above got translated into a mind-boggling four-hours of screen-time is a mystery I am not prepared to unravel. But if you do wish to see the movie anyway... you bloody Guantanamo Bay torture items collectors! We liberals will hunt you down and make you see Sholay Part II and Shortcut! (Yah, those are the two worst movies I've ever seen).
It certainly comes close, given that its 14 songs stretch across a length of film that would have been less painful if I had strangled myself with it and positively delightful if I had strangled Harman Baweja with it. That insipid man needs a personality, a haircut, some lip synching lessons and most importantly, a new profession.
And I need friends who don't bully me into seeing his movies.
Anyway, misery needs sharing. So please bear this story...
It all begins with a family who is told by an astrologer that the day their younger son gets married (in fact, precisely at the fourth turn around the wedding fire), will be the day he becomes amazingly rich. This revelation brings them a much needed respite - because their older son has a pregnant wife, a gambling habit, an utter disregard for fiscal responsibilities, and owing to the last, a chance of getting jailed.
So naturally our NRI hero flies down from the DJ-ing nightlife of Chicago to the Gujarati accent of Mumbai. We find out he is hardworking, loving, intelligent, dutiful and a thousand other good adjectives. He is willing to get married in a jiffy for the benefit of his family and the script-writer.
Indeed his only fault - and this is nit-picking really - is his unexplainable interest in bad literature such as bedtime reading of a book called "What's your Rashee". After which our hero gets over his jet-lag and falls asleep, but our nightmare begins because the book gives him the insight that there are twelve types of girls in this world. And thanks to this, he insists that twelve girls - all Priyanka Chopras with a unique star-sign, wardrobe and make-up assigned to themselves- are shortlisted as prospective candidates.
As it turns out:
One is not a virgin. Another has no intentions of remaining one.
One wants to be a superstar model. Another is already a celebrity of sorts.
One wants to marry him to emigrate. Another wants him to stay behind.
One is too young to be legally married. Another is too immature to be married at all.
One pretends to be insane. Another pretends to be modern.
One thinks they were destined to be married. Another thinks she is destined to marry another.
All of them sing awful songs.
None of them can dance.
How the four paragraphs I have written above got translated into a mind-boggling four-hours of screen-time is a mystery I am not prepared to unravel. But if you do wish to see the movie anyway... you bloody Guantanamo Bay torture items collectors! We liberals will hunt you down and make you see Sholay Part II and Shortcut! (Yah, those are the two worst movies I've ever seen).
Sunday, September 20, 2009
In Memorium.
The ceramic cups. I don’t know why I remember those beige ceramic cups, or the navy blue tin tray they were set to match with. But as I sit back today to think of the times I spent with my grandfather, somehow it is their image that flickers in my mind.
Which is bizarre because there is so much more to choose from, now that I must choose what to remember him by.
Every second Sunday of my life in Delhi was spent at my grandfather’s place in Faridabad. We would typically land at his doorstep in the blazing afternoon sun, trooping in with large vessels full of lunch my mom had prepared. By ritual, we were invariably late, which was invariably my father’s fault, so my mom would invariably be scolding him at the end of the journey. But the moment we entered his airy bungalow, all would be calm respite.
At his long dining table, we’d load our plates and my sister and I would eat double our usual appetites. The food always tasted better at his place, even if it was cooked in ours. Plus, there was at least one dish on the platter which wasn’t made by my mom – the dhal –something my grandfather insisted on preparing for the potluck.
And after lunch when my mom went for a short nap, and my father pretended to read the paper but was napping sitting instead, our grandfather was ours.
My sister and I would lie on our stomachs on his bed, our faces propped over our elbow and hands [a posture which evolved to just hanging around his room when we got older] while he would sit ramrod straight in his half-sleeve shirt and white pyjamas [a posture that never changed till after he touched his 90s]. And then the story telling began.
Not fairy tales nor folklore, but real life adventures that my grandfather had lived through. He had worked for British Railways as it trespassed through Kenyan jungles owned by man-eating lions and affronted tribes and everything he narrated held an exotic attraction. He would pick an episode at random, speaking in a matter of fact manner, which made the narrative all the more real. He would talk of when he decided the leave the police force after seeing his colleagues rob a civilian. Of how tribal natives blew up rail tracks with explosives to bring trains to a standstill. Of why construction crews were terrorised when one amongst them started disappearing every night… His index of events was inexhaustible, as was our wonder.
It would end all too soon once my mom awoke. The discussion would become more grown-up and staid. And always including him needing a new supply of jaggery for the nibbles box by his bedside. Nothing worth evesdropping over, so my sister and I would use the time to treasure hunt through the house.
The house was, and still is, really a bungalow. Built under the supervision of my grandfather, it has front and back gardens, a large terrace and several bedrooms (one with delightful spring beds whose elasticity we can attest to wholeheartedly). In other words, there were innumerable hiding places for play and limitless closet spaces for junk. The garage, for instance, had piles of dated Sputniks and Reader’ Digests we pored over many summers. It was also there that we discovered a wooden Chinese chequers board as large as ourselves, which had its set of coloured marbles to play with. (We got bored of the game very soon, but not before we managed to lose most of the marbles.) Then there was the exciting period when we figured the required acrobatics to reach the roof (we could never figure where the key to the terrace door lay), which had a very low ledge that we could bend over. It was a treasure trove, that house, all of which we trashed without ever getting scolded, and the only uninteresting item it housed was my grandfather’s bicycle which neither of us ever grew tall enough to ride on.
At the end of the exciting day, we would emerge all cob-webbed and dirty feet. And grinning.
And finally, before leaving we would have tea. It’s the only time during the week I would drink it, and I’d have the way it is supposed to – dripping with Marie Biscuits.
I guess that is why I remember those tea cups.
It is time to say good bye.
Which is bizarre because there is so much more to choose from, now that I must choose what to remember him by.
Every second Sunday of my life in Delhi was spent at my grandfather’s place in Faridabad. We would typically land at his doorstep in the blazing afternoon sun, trooping in with large vessels full of lunch my mom had prepared. By ritual, we were invariably late, which was invariably my father’s fault, so my mom would invariably be scolding him at the end of the journey. But the moment we entered his airy bungalow, all would be calm respite.
At his long dining table, we’d load our plates and my sister and I would eat double our usual appetites. The food always tasted better at his place, even if it was cooked in ours. Plus, there was at least one dish on the platter which wasn’t made by my mom – the dhal –something my grandfather insisted on preparing for the potluck.
And after lunch when my mom went for a short nap, and my father pretended to read the paper but was napping sitting instead, our grandfather was ours.
My sister and I would lie on our stomachs on his bed, our faces propped over our elbow and hands [a posture which evolved to just hanging around his room when we got older] while he would sit ramrod straight in his half-sleeve shirt and white pyjamas [a posture that never changed till after he touched his 90s]. And then the story telling began.
Not fairy tales nor folklore, but real life adventures that my grandfather had lived through. He had worked for British Railways as it trespassed through Kenyan jungles owned by man-eating lions and affronted tribes and everything he narrated held an exotic attraction. He would pick an episode at random, speaking in a matter of fact manner, which made the narrative all the more real. He would talk of when he decided the leave the police force after seeing his colleagues rob a civilian. Of how tribal natives blew up rail tracks with explosives to bring trains to a standstill. Of why construction crews were terrorised when one amongst them started disappearing every night… His index of events was inexhaustible, as was our wonder.
It would end all too soon once my mom awoke. The discussion would become more grown-up and staid. And always including him needing a new supply of jaggery for the nibbles box by his bedside. Nothing worth evesdropping over, so my sister and I would use the time to treasure hunt through the house.
The house was, and still is, really a bungalow. Built under the supervision of my grandfather, it has front and back gardens, a large terrace and several bedrooms (one with delightful spring beds whose elasticity we can attest to wholeheartedly). In other words, there were innumerable hiding places for play and limitless closet spaces for junk. The garage, for instance, had piles of dated Sputniks and Reader’ Digests we pored over many summers. It was also there that we discovered a wooden Chinese chequers board as large as ourselves, which had its set of coloured marbles to play with. (We got bored of the game very soon, but not before we managed to lose most of the marbles.) Then there was the exciting period when we figured the required acrobatics to reach the roof (we could never figure where the key to the terrace door lay), which had a very low ledge that we could bend over. It was a treasure trove, that house, all of which we trashed without ever getting scolded, and the only uninteresting item it housed was my grandfather’s bicycle which neither of us ever grew tall enough to ride on.
At the end of the exciting day, we would emerge all cob-webbed and dirty feet. And grinning.
And finally, before leaving we would have tea. It’s the only time during the week I would drink it, and I’d have the way it is supposed to – dripping with Marie Biscuits.
I guess that is why I remember those tea cups.
It is time to say good bye.
Tuesday, September 08, 2009
Driving, or something like it
I suspect my husband has taken out a huge life insurance policy in my name. I was in Delhi recently, and he just wouldn't let off insisting that I practice driving there. Seriously, what other purpose besides dying can driving in Delhi possibly serve?
Anyway, under the influence of the intoxicating chemicals in Delhi's air, I agreed to his idea. Delhi air can do that you. Consider what prolonged exposure has done to Delhiites: they actually believe what they do on roads with their cars can be labeled driving. [driving! seriously! Next they'll tell me what Rakhi Sawant does in movies is acting.]
Likewise, my dad's been living in Delhi for donkey's years, and finds it a welcome prospect that I will wreck his car [something he's been trying to achieve since exactly donkey's years].
Anyway, so it is that I ended up in a refresher driving course, to fortify my skills as someone who hasn't driven here in a while. And if you fall in the same category, here are the Golden Rules:
1. Red lights are the signal for inching forward
2. Green lights signal that the race has begun
3. Orange lights are green lights in disguise
4. Speed limits are a challenge to be beaten
5. Using side mirrors is dangerous as they may get ripped off by cars overtaking you
6. Parking is a fundamental human right which can be exercised any where, any time, any how
7. Horning is not only a mandatory greeting but also responsible driving, alerting the obviously blind drivers on the road to your presence
8. Only losers give way
9. One-way road signs need to be followed only by foreigners, learners and possibly women who cannot handle the pressure two-way traffic on a single lane road
10. You can drive on roads, footpaths, dirt tracks; you can drive forward, reverse, or laterally; but for God's sake, Don't even think about approaching the Naraina "soon to become flyover" highway or your corpse will rot waiting for the jam to clear!
Happy driving!
Anyway, under the influence of the intoxicating chemicals in Delhi's air, I agreed to his idea. Delhi air can do that you. Consider what prolonged exposure has done to Delhiites: they actually believe what they do on roads with their cars can be labeled driving. [driving! seriously! Next they'll tell me what Rakhi Sawant does in movies is acting.]
Likewise, my dad's been living in Delhi for donkey's years, and finds it a welcome prospect that I will wreck his car [something he's been trying to achieve since exactly donkey's years].
Anyway, so it is that I ended up in a refresher driving course, to fortify my skills as someone who hasn't driven here in a while. And if you fall in the same category, here are the Golden Rules:
1. Red lights are the signal for inching forward
2. Green lights signal that the race has begun
3. Orange lights are green lights in disguise
4. Speed limits are a challenge to be beaten
5. Using side mirrors is dangerous as they may get ripped off by cars overtaking you
6. Parking is a fundamental human right which can be exercised any where, any time, any how
7. Horning is not only a mandatory greeting but also responsible driving, alerting the obviously blind drivers on the road to your presence
8. Only losers give way
9. One-way road signs need to be followed only by foreigners, learners and possibly women who cannot handle the pressure two-way traffic on a single lane road
10. You can drive on roads, footpaths, dirt tracks; you can drive forward, reverse, or laterally; but for God's sake, Don't even think about approaching the Naraina "soon to become flyover" highway or your corpse will rot waiting for the jam to clear!
Happy driving!
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