Money doesn’t grow on trees, Dr. Singh, but food does

(http://www.sify.com/news/money-doesnt-grow-on-trees-dr-singh-but-food-does-news-columns-mj2aCidcbac.html)

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We knew the government’s decision to allow 51 percent Foreign Direct Investment (FDI) in its $450 billion retail market would cause uproar. When the Cabinet passed the resolution last year, Parliament was paralysed for days. The Left and the BJP united, and then-Congress ally Trinamool Congress as well as the DMK protested. Several states were furious.

When the decision was made earlier this month, sure enough, the Confederation of All India Traders, supported by the BJP among others, decided to call a Bharat Bandh on September 20. Assocham estimated that the bandh caused a loss of Rs, 10,000 crore, while CII said the economy placed it at Rs 12,500 crore.

With even the Samajwadi Party, which supports the UPA from outside, protesting against the FDI reform, Prime Minister Manmohan Singh decided to address the nation the next day. Again, he gently reminded us, as he is wont to, about the role he played in rejuvenating the economy in 1991. And again, a quotable quote emerged from his speech: “Money doesn’t grow on trees.”

The irony of the Prime Minister’s intended epigram is apparent to everyone who reads the news – over the last couple of years, the newspaper front pages have been devoted to the scams the UPA government has been involved in.

To be honest, I think the FDI decision will help both consumers and the economy. We’ll have access to original products (hopefully before their expiry date), at reasonable rates. The economy will benefit from much-needed foreign capital, and ease in supply bottlenecks. If handled properly, the move may check inflation. Whether small traders and family-owned business survive will depend on how enterprising they are – global giants like Wal-Mart, Tesco, and Carrefour won’t be open at odd hours or offer home delivery, for instance.

What I find rather pathetic is the government’s emphasis on how allowing international investors into the retail sector will check wastage of food and improve its quality. Because essentially, this is a confession that our government can’t ensure that the food distribution channels aren’t clogged.

Worse, it doesn’t seem to embarrass the government that thousands of tonnes of grain have been lost to rot, at the storehouses of the state-run Food Corp of India (FCI).

On Wednesday, the reply to an application under the Right To Information Act by activist Tajinder Pal Singh Bagga revealed that about 36,000 tonnes of grain had gone bad under FCI storage since 2008. An earlier application filed by Dev Ashish Bhattacharya had shown that 183,000 tonnes of wheat, 633,000 tonnes of rice and 111,000 tonnes of maize were damaged at FCI warehouses in the 1997-2007 decade. That’s about a million tonnes of grain lost over ten years.

And all of it could have been prevented. FCI blamed the damage on pest attack, leakage, low-quality stock, spillage during transport, exposure to rain, and negligence. When our economy is still largely driven by agriculture, why don’t we have storage facilities that can withstand even floods?

FCI’s website says the storage capacity of the agency is 33.6 million tonnes, as of April 1 this year. The plan is for this to be expanded by 8 million tonnes over 18 months. The grain production for 2011-12 was estimated at 257.44 million tonnes by the Press Information Bureau of the government. The Bureau proudly announced that in the Kharif season alone, the grain production could reach 117.18 million tonnes, “higher than the average first estimates of [the] last five years”.

How much of this will be lost to “natural calamities” that we have no protection against, because we haven’t built enough, or strong enough, shelters?

A report by IANS said only 2.9 million tonnes of additional storage capacity have been constructed, out of 18.1 million tonnes approved for being built by the central, state and private agencies – less than a fifth.

Strangely, most newspapers made a mention of the report in their inner pages – in a country where malnutrition and deaths from starvation produce horrific statistics every year.

While the FDI issue has given the UPA’s opponents an opportunity to begin canvassing for the 2014 polls well in advance, and a hinge on which to leverage their election manifestos, no political party seems to be organising any form of protest against spoilage due to poor storage.

It may be true that money doesn’t grow on trees. But are we doing anything to protect what does?

Slapstick meets spoof

(Published in The Sunday Guardian, on 30 September 2012, retrieved from http://www.sunday-guardian.com/masala-art/slapstick-meets-spoof)

Cast: Dax Shepard, Kristen Bell, Tom Arnold, Bradley Cooper and others

Directors: Dax Shepard, David Palmer

Rating: 4 stars

When Dax Shepard makes a movie starring himself, his girlfriend and two of his close friends, you can be relatively sure that it will involve low brow in-jokes, and some statement on homosexuality, or racism, or both. And that when Shepard, who’s also in charge of the script and screenplay, runs out of ways to make us laugh, he will punctuate his syllables with swearwords.

Here, he plays Charles Bronson a.k.a. Yul Perrkins – with the extra ‘R’ – whose love for a girl and a car could lead him to lose everything, including the said girl and car. The film opens to Bronson and Annie (Kristen Bell) having something between a lover’s argument and borderline-masochistic sex. They appear to be trailer trash, but then it turns out she’s a professor.

What begins as a happy road trip turns into a bizarre chase and counter-chase, driven by the same back-story that made Perrkins change his name. Throw in a gay Marshal, a gay Sheriff, a matchmaker, a criminal with dreadlocks and a Russian name, a jealous ex-boyfriend, a vengeful ex-fiancée, a car with a mind of its own, a woman with a doctorate in ‘non-violent conflict resolution’, a nymphomaniac with Sanex-dependence, and a gay professor with marginalisation issues, and it seems only natural that the action should culminate in the yard of a former racer who isn’t on talking terms with his son.

Naturally, the film runs mostly on gags. However, there are sparks of intelligence in the dialogue. My favourite part is Bronson’s theory that couples don’t tease. There are times when the film genuinely takes us by surprise – for instance, when we’re introduced to Alex (Bradley Cooper). There are times when it tries too hard to be funny, but we’re in an indulgent mood, because it parodies everything, including itself. That’s best illustrated in a conversation centred on the ethnic identity of the man who violated one of the protagonists in prison. And there are times when it trips on political correctness.

But the film consistently makes us laugh, by pushing us into the sort of zone when we find lines like, “Do you need to borrow a condom, or can we go?” funny. To its detriment, it occasionally tries to infuse real emotion and sentiment into the scenes, and then valiantly tries to rescue their incongruousness with the film by layering them with cloying music. But the actors’ timing within a goofy-but-plausible plot make it somehow reminiscent of a rather average episode of Seinfeld.

The Verdict: If you’ve wondered what a semi-intelligent, satirical take on the Fast and Furious franchise would be like, this film’s your answer.

Rawal revelry not enough

(Published in The Sunday Guardian, on 30 September 2012, retrieved from http://www.sunday-guardian.com/masala-art/rawal-revelry-not-enough)

Cast: Paresh Rawal, Akshay Kumar, Mithun Chakraborty, and others

Director: Umesh Shukla

Rating: 2.5 stars

I blame it on the trailer for hiking up expectations. When you have Paresh Rawal rattling off, “Ek dozen bade peyt wale Ganpati de, aath body builder Hanuman de, dhai sau wala Krishna de, paanch-tiger wale de, teen dozen ho gaye, teen Sai Baba toh bonus mein milega kya?”, you laugh. Well, unless you’re the politician who sued him. The problem is, witty lines and lovely dialogue delivery from one actor can’t carry a two-and-a-half-hour movie.

The premise of the story has potential – Kanjilal Mehta owns an antique shop in Chor Bazaar, where he recycles religious ware with Gujarati business acumen, preying on superstition and sentiment. When the wrath of God, a turn of fate, or simply inclement weather deals him a blow, he ends up taking Bhagwan to court over an insurance policy loophole.

When an atheist strives to prove God exists, the Godmen – and woman – come into the picture. Swami Leeladhar (Mithun Chakraborty), Siddheshwar (Govind Namdeo) and Gopi Maiyya (Poonam Jhawer) arrive with their USPs – Leeladhar’s supple fingers, Siddheshwar’s temper tantrums and the Maiyya’s chiffon saris and tight cholis.

Kanjibhai’s run-ins with them made me laugh, mainly because of Rawal’s brilliant execution. Warned that he could boil in hell, he retorts, “Main aadmi hoon ya pakora?” But except Rawal and Chakraborty, everyone hams his or her way through the film. The silly sound effects are annoying. I may have been more indulgent with Akshay Kumar as “Krishna Vasudev Yadav” if he did three goofy roles a year, instead of one every month.

Upon Kumar’s entry – complete with a superbike – the comedy becomes laborious. When Kanjilal refuses to acknowledge that someone wearing a suit could be “Hamare Bhagwan”, Yadav replies with Kumar’s trademark half-smile, “Abhi mera latest photo Facebook pe update nahi hua.” I mean, isn’t this, like, four years too late for that dig? When he plays the flute, Kanjilal cries out, “O Hari Prasad! O Chaurasia!” Of course, that had the first row and college kids in hysterics.

Why the industry continues to believe that Sonakshi Sinha is item number material is beyond me. To begin with, she can’t dance – unless humping the air qualifies. If she must “dance”, she shouldn’t be wearing costumes that make her look larger than her partner. And if she must have a partner, it shouldn’t be Prabhu Deva, whom even Madhuri Dixit couldn’t hold her own against.

The Verdict: Rawal sparkles, but the screenplay and cinematic jazz drag down what could have been a tight comedy.

Relentlessly lowbrow, relentlessly funny

(Published in City Express, The New Indian Express, on 6 October 2012)

Cast: Dax Shepard, Kristen Bell, Tom Arnold, Bradley Cooper, Kristin Chenoweth, Beau Bridges, Michael Rosenbaum, Jess Rowland

Directors: Dax Shepard, David Palmer

Rating: 4 stars

When Hit and Run opens to Charlie Bronson (Dax Shepard), who appears to have either a tattoo or a skin disorder (or perhaps both), giving his partner Annie (Kristen Bell) a pep talk, I thought with some horror that I was actually about to watch a serious love story starring Dax Shepard. But before Annie eventually wells up, they get sidetracked by an argument about hair-pulling and wrist-gripping. I knew I was safe – for the next ninety minutes or so, there would be plenty of laughs, and little work for my brain.

The dialogue seems improvised, when they go on about how he’s “five years older” and giggle about small pox and urinary-tract infection. The first real indication of this being a not-so-normal film is when US Marshal Randy (Tom Arnold) “ghost-drives” his car. In other words, he tries to shoot its tyres before it can run over two kids playing in a suburban yard. Next thing we know, Gil (Michael Rosenbaum) and Randy are in hot pursuit of a runaway couple, for their respective attachments to its component halves.

It’s obvious that the film is low-budget. Inevitably, it’s lowbrow. There’s comic relief within the comic relief – such as the part where we find out how Charlie got both his names, one of which “sounds like a character from Sesame Street”. And then, there are times when we’re not sure whether we’re supposed to find something funny or horrifying – such as Alex Dimitri’s (Bradley Cooper’s) run-in with a fellow-customer at a departmental store. Either way, we laugh.

The premise of the film is ridiculous. The relationships it forges between its barely-developed characters are bizarre. And it attributes such ridiculous eccentricities to them – the badass earnestly campaigns for canine rights – that they are almost believable.

It’s obvious that nobody takes the script seriously, least of all the actors. I think the longest shot in the film, and the longest discussion on any one subject, involves an amateur analysis of the relative femininity of males of various ethnic groups.

Throughout, there’s a sense of there’s-no-way-in-hell-this-could-actually-happen, but the film is populated by everyday events that make us relate to these weirdos, their crazy agendas, and their inane observations. A movie that is unapologetically over-the-top demands music that is completely incongruous with the visuals, and Julian Wass provides that.

The film tries every now and then to get deep, with lines like, “You can either wallow in someone’s past, or you can see the person standing right in front of you.” But it mostly stays true to its genre, and doesn’t trouble us with anything more than a single dimension, and practically no plot.

The Verdict: Hit and Run is by no means an achievement of filmmaking, but it guarantees an hour and a half of mindless fun after a long day at work.

Seriously, wrap up this franchise already!

(Published in City Express, The New Indian Express, on 29 September 2012, retrieved from http://newindianexpress.com/entertainment/reviews/article1278221.ece)

Cast: Milla Jovovich, Sienna Guillory, Michelle Rodriguez, Aryana Engineer, Bingbing Li, Johann Urb, Oded Fehr

Director: Paul W S Anderson

Rating: 3 stars

I’ve never figured some things out. One is, why on earth are people scared of zombies? I mean, you could run out to your car, drive to the airport, and leave the country before a zombie makes it across your bedroom, right? Hell, you could even get your US visa processed if you’re from another country, provided there are no protests outside the American embassy at the time. Another thing I’ve never understood is, how does a video game spawn, what, five, six movies?

Apparently, Resident Evil: Retribution takes up from where the previous instalment left off. I wouldn’t know, because I’ve only seen parts of the previous instalments, and that too while switching channels. I have no patience for zombies. These ones don’t even do the Thrillerdance, ya. They just crawl out of rooms and cupboards and go on killing sprees. Meh.

The most room for contemplation I had in the film was when I recognised Oded Fehr and thought sadly that he’s aged rather a lot since the Mummy series. Or maybe men just look better riding horses and wearing robes and beards.

Anyway, back to Retribution. Apparently, the film took two months to shoot, and nine months of studio work to look the way it does. Obviously, this means the draw lies in the special effects.

Most of the film is spent on a series of simulations that reminded me of Jonny Quest.  And there are shootouts, and heavy breathing, and debris from expensive metal and plenty of zombies – which look quite funny, most of the time. Of course, given that all this is in 3D, random things are being flung at us all the time.

I suppose those of you who’ve followed the series will know what the Umbrella Corporation is, and what the fuss over the T-Virus is all about. And you’ll probably figure out why Rain Ocampo (Michelle Rodriguez) sees fit to rescue Alice (Milla Jovovich) and her daughter from some suburban dream home invaded by zombies. Or what Alice’s complicated relationship with Jill Valentine (Sienna Guillory) involves. I got there at some point, but I confess I was distracted by this Umbrella Corporation’s mishandling of its electricity supply. You’d think they were Indian politicians, I tell ya.

Now, I suspect the people who’ve caused the franchise to stay alive are the hormone-driven teen boys who first salivated over Milla Jovovich ten years ago, and are in all likelihood respectable working men now. I suppose they will retain their fancy for her, and for theResident Evil series. I can relate to neither. But I guess those people will like this edition too, because it doesn’t appear any different from most films featuring outlandish creatures that our protagonists must fight. The White House obligingly features towards the end, and we’re left with the promise of more sequels.

Verdict: The film is probably best left to fans of the video game, Milla Jovovich and/or zombies.

Coke Studio Pakistan – At a crossroads

(Published in Kafila.org, on August 31, 2012, retrieved from http://kafila.org/2012/08/31/coke-studio-pakistan-at-a-crossroads-nandini-krishnan/)

Khabaram raseedah...imshab

Khabaram raseedah imshab kih nigaar khaahi aamad

The words are beautiful; the voices that sing them mellifluous. And yet, I find that instead of being overwhelmed as I usually am by the qawwali of Farees Ayaz and Abu Muhammad, enraptured by the transcendental waves of their music, parts of my consciousness are held down, niggled. Perhaps it’s the constant drumming and strumming, perhaps it’s the psychedelic sound waves zipping across giant screens, perhaps it’s the acoustics that throw back bits of the singers’ strains at them. But the Coke Studio version of Khabaram Raseedah doesn’t affect me the way even scratchy recordings of live, open-air concerts do.

Well, let me make full disclosure here, thus allowing people who’re already frowning to skip right over to the ‘Comments’ section – I’m one of those purists. Actually, let’s face it, we’re classical chauvinists. My idea of fusion is jugalbandhi, you know, the kind where Bhimsen Joshi and Balamurali Krishna would dart alaaps and swaras at each other. So, I began as a sceptic, wrinkling my nose at the spangled headphones, neon outlines and cardboard cut-outs of Coke bottles. But, at one point, Coke Studio was beginning to win me over. After watching Duur from Season 1, where Hussain Bakhsh Gullo was accompanied by Strings, and the mix felt just right, I’d begun to, as a friend puts it, “hope that the people who read Chetan Bhagat will eventually graduate to Kafka.”

Fans of fusion often feel the need to defend themselves. The usual argument is that “the younger generation”, raised on rock music and Western instruments, can be channelled into looking into their own musical heritage, so that folk music and Hindustani classical and indigenous instruments may be stoked back into life, so that they may reach a larger audience. And then, of course, there is the more appealing, less pedantic argument – that there is space for both modern and traditional music, and that it tests the creativity of exponents of both forms when they’re asked to jam.

To me, the tragedy of Coke Studio is what started out as a conversation between two genres of music has got so wrapped up in itself that it has sold out to its image. It is the cool, ‘in’ thing, the trend-setter in the subcontinent. The noble cause it stood for, the lofty ideal of bringing everyone together, breaking barriers of genre, religion, nationality, and to some extent, language, is laudable. And there is no doubt Coke Studio has achieved this ‘bringing together’ of people.

What I find disappointing, though, is that instead of pushing further in search of the not-yet-popular, Coke Studio has begun to corporatise. It has chosen to sex itself up by turning to the likes of Meesha Shafi, Rachel Viccaji and Komal Rizvi – actresses and models whose bodily gyrations win more approval than their vocal acrobatics, who are clearly more comfortable on the ramp than in the studio.

However, they’ve established a fan base that may be responsible for the corporatisation of Coke Studio – and that this is what matters to the programme was obvious from the fact that the fifth season finale was Meesha Shafi’s frequently off-key version of the Iqbal Bano-Faiz classic Dasht-e-Tanhai. The song is a difficult one even for good singers to attempt – the magic of Iqbal Bano’s music lay not only in her voice and style, but the special quality of plaintiveness that would highlight what the words conveyed. Though I was initially baffled as to why Meesha Shafi had chosen such a challenging song, it strikes me as a clever decision now – with the music camouflaging most of her errors in the latter part of the song, it has served to elevate her status as a singer among the public.

One can’t deny that there have been some brilliant renditions of popular songs, and lovely poetry too, in Coke Studio. The likes of Abida Parveen, Rahat Fateh Ali Khan, Asif Hussain Samraat, Tina Sani and Javed Bashir adapt quite masterfully to the instruments around them, controlling the music and knowing just how much to give the microphones. There have been some incredibly memorable performances, including Arif Lohar’s Mirza Sahibaan from Season 3, and the programme can boast of discoveries like Sanam Marvi, who largely owes her popularity to Coke Studio.

But there are many among the classical musicians and folk singers who are confused by all the new sounds, whose virtuosity is lost in a profusion of beats that their music doesn’t really lend itself to. At times, Coke Studio seems to forget that not every song is made for throaty gasps, high-pitched harmonies, hoarse trail-offs and westernised vowel intonations from backup singers; that one can jam with traditional instruments too, as was done so hauntingly in the case of Moomal Rano by Fakir Juman Shah and his group.

With a dedicated audience, Coke Studio can afford to be bold enough to throw in the odd song which is pure classical, or unadulterated folk. Saieen Zahoor, Akhtar Chanal Zahri, the Chakwal group, Attaullah Khan Esakhelvi, Ustad Naseer-ud-din Saami and the many qawwals who have been featured in Coke Studio sing songs meant for the great outdoors, songs that ought not to be limited by space. Their instruments are muted, just enough to keep time and provide the slightest accompaniment. The Coke Studio performances of these artists have worked best when the accompanists have chosen to exercise restraint, so that the delicate twirls of their syllables weren’t lost in instrumental fervour.

And that’s also why Coke Studio needs to be more careful about picking the combinations of groups and singers who can perform together. To bring Ali Zafar and Tufail Ahmed together is begging for disaster. Performers like Ali Zafar, Zeb and Haniya, Bilal Khan and Noori may be popular with the public, but it takes musicians of the calibre of Atif Aslam, Shafqat Amanat Ali and Strings to hold their own against the doyens of the traditional forms.

It must be acknowledged that, with its excellent sound systems and talented instrumentalists, Coke Studio has often pushed the better musicians to excel. Atif Aslam’s rendition of Dholna is quite unforgettable, as is Shafqat Amanat Ali’s Kuchch Ajab Khel Karatar Ke. And often, the more average performers have made me either seek out, or go back to, the original versions of the songs they pick.

But there is the more dangerous trend of people feeling pushed to come up with something magnificent, and getting “inspired” by iconic bands or songs. One example is ADP’s Sultanat, the guitar riffs of which reminded me immediately of Running Wild’sThe Ghost. Another is Karavan’s Kaisay Mumkin Hai, which seemed rather heavily influenced by Led Zeppelin and Kiss. Then, there have been rather awful covers of Aicha, I’m a Believer, and Billie Jean (the last was, admittedly, improvised).

There are times when I feel the artists –some of them, at least – on Coke Studio are better than the programme. But the show itself, the brainchild of Rohail Hyatt, could well be history-in-the-making in the musical discourse of the subcontinent. It has caught the public’s imagination and has the potential to dig out little known talent and catapult it to fame. There have been interpretations of music that I have gone back to several times over the years. And I probably spend less time shaking my head at modern interpretations of Rabindra Sangeet that look beyond the tabla and harmonium, and of Carnatic that go beyond the mrigandam, flute, violin and veena, thanks to this show broadening my perceptions of what music can be.

However, Coke Studio may have arrived at a juncture where it needs to re-evaluate itself, and figure out which way it wants to go – higher TRPs, or better music. And if it is not to lose sight of the purpose it has claimed to be standing up for, we all know what the choice should be.

Dirty Picture, Version 2.0

(Published in The Sunday Guardian, on 23 September 2012, retrieved from http://www.sunday-guardian.com/masala-art/dirty-picture-version-20)

Cast: Kareena Kapoor, Arjun Rampal, Randeep Hooda

Director: Madhur Bhandarkar

Rating: ½ star

Here’s my theory on how Heroine was written – Madhur Bhandarkar closed his eyes, and did “Inky Pinky Ponky” on a roomful of gossip rags from 1960-2012. He then tore out random pages about troubled heroines, meshed them together, glued the gaps with his ubiquitous gays, hard-boiled agents, catty media hounds, and bitchy rivals. Throw in sex tapes and a lesbian moment to titillate, and you have a caricature of Bollywood, replete with cheesy dialogue.

Where’s the “insider’s perspective” in reproducing the same tired story any film on film has told? Worse, when you use the same stereotypes? Bhandarkar goes out of his way to show us everyone in the film industry drinks, smokes, and has sex. This time, a film-journalist narrator guides us through the story of Mahi Arora (Kareena Kapoor). Broken home, bipolar disorder, box office flops, sordid affair(s). Wait, what’s new? Failed adoption, clash with lover’s wife, bina makeup day, MMS scandal...oh, new, you said?

Kareena Kapoor, playing the eponymous character, is present in almost every frame, and seems to have no clue what to do with her screen time. She spends a good chunk crying, smoking and stumbling in a (presumably) alcoholic daze. She divides the rest between throwing things at people and feeling herself up. For foils, she has a bunch of nondescript friends, most of whom flap their hands about madly to prove they’re gayer than Paris. For sex, she has Aryan Khanna (Arjun Rampal), whom she illogically accuses of using her. For masochism, she has Tapanda – Ranvir Shorey trying hard to lampoon a Bengali art-house filmmaker with a schizophrenic accent.

The only relief to this display of shoddy acting comes from unexpected quarters: Helen as a yesteryear star who is now a “character actor”, and Arjun Rampal, who takes on the slightly negative role he’s executed well in many of his films – a man who rates his work above almost everything else. Rampal has shown promise in the few good scripts he’s had, such as Rock On and The Last Lear, but he has little to do here. Randeep Hooda, who I’ve often felt is an excellent actor stuck in bad movies, has such terrible lines even he can’t make them work.

The film meanders to a limp end, with jumps in time that only serve to convince us the filmmakers have literally lost the plot.

The Verdict: Heroine could be a poor remake of Dirty Picture, with a little less flab on the actors and a little more on the storyline.

Scouting for Attention

(Published in The Sunday Guardian, on 23 September 2012, retrieved from http://www.sunday-guardian.com/masala-art/scouting-for-attention)

Cast: Jared Gilman, Kara Hayward, Bruce Willis, Edward Norton, Bill Murray and others

Director: Wes Anderson

Rating: 4.5 stars

Maybe it’s the serious expressions of everyone in the Bishop household; maybe it’s the fact that a home run military style, complete with a loudspeaker to announce meals, shouldn’t house so many slobs; maybe it’s because the misfits in the film are always neatly turned-out.  But from the word go, you’re laughing at all the wrong times in Moonrise Kingdom. Yet, it seems the film demands that. Couched in a soft palette of pastel shades and delicate hues, it forces us to confront cruelty, loneliness, and compromise in a fantastical world that feels strangely suffocated by reality.

It’s 1965, and we’re on an island that appears to be populated only by the characters in this film. Our guide is an eccentric narrator (Bob Balaban), who pops up every now and again with reporter-on-site style weather updates, reinforcing the idea that we can’t help but imbue the forecast with significance vis-à-vis the lives of the characters.  

The film is loaded with contradictions. Solemn occasions look ridiculous, and ridiculous ones solemn; characters don’t die when you expect them to, and die when you’re sure they won’t; children display their maturity when adults get petty. And all of this is infused with the innocence of a fable. Yet, this is a dreamscape where even intelligent kids will stick their fingers in electric sockets, where we sense the frustration of some characters when others insist on conforming to nonsensical rules.

With stylised moves, minimal dialogue, and quirky music, the film embraces the bizarre. Try this exchange: “Does it concern you that your daughter’s missing?” “That’s a loaded question.” At its simplest, Moonrise Kingdom is a growing-up story – of Sam (Jared Gilman), of Suzy (Kara Hayward), of Scoutmaster Ward (Edward Norton), of Captain Sharp (Bruce Willis). At its most complicated, it questions the meaning of love, comfort, responsibility, morality, friendship and family ties.

Wes Anderson's signature style is to play on the subtle moments - a cadet pushing open the door after everyone else has squeezed through the gap, a sudden pause and shake of the head, a cat's meow at just the right time, a stamp of the foot that nearly kills everyone, a kid jumping on a trampoline in the background as two other people are making what they think is the most important decision of their lives. Here, the music deserves special mention - it's incredible how Hank Williams and one operatic piece can drive an entire film.

I doubt there’s ever been an ensemble cast where everyone has so much to do, especially when the kernel of the story is the approach of adolescence, and its accompanying restlessness, uncertainty and curiosity. Pragmatic issues like custody are raised by a wacky character known only as Social Services (Tilda Swinton).

The delightful mix of the impractical and the sensible, so reflective of the movie, is best illustrated by the contents of a runaway duo’s luggage. Indeed, there are moments when we wonder whether the entire film may be a daydream, especially when we find out where it got its name.

The Verdict: A charming film that makes us nostalgic for a time when we could escape into stories, when our imagined worlds seemed more real than our daily lives.

Old wine, old bottle

(Published in The New Sunday Express, on 23 September 2012, retrieved from http://newindianexpress.com/entertainment/reviews/article1238585.ece)

Cast: Kareena Kapoor, Arjun Rampal, Randeep Hooda, Helen, Mugdha Godse, Shahana Goswami, Ranvir Shorey

Director: Madhur Bhandarkar

Rating: 1 star

A car pulls up at a pavement, a woman (Kareena Kapoor) is thrown out. Weeping, she screams, “Bastard!” Then, she heads to the police station, where gaping cops gasp, “Arre, yeh toh Mahi hai na?” and indulge her as she weeps through the night. When she leaves, to face the media glare, flashing cameras and thrusting microphones at her, I groan. It’s obvious that the storyline will be insipid, the film will be populated by stock characters, and the actors will ham their way through most of it.

It gets worse. The film doesn’t stop at the token gay man. It’s teeming with them. And they all flutter their fingers like they’re learning to fly. More annoying are the aspiring and established actresses, who dig their claws into each other’s careers, even as they air kiss. Even the techniques are overused – people smile, wave and hug as they trade nasty comments. The only innovation in the film is camaraderie with an award-winning Bengali actress (Shahana Goswami), which leads to more intimacy than Mahi bargained for.

The film doesn’t offer any insight into the big bad world of Bollywood, except to assert that it’s no place for good people. The only character with any depth is played by Helen, who makes a guest appearance as a yesteryear actress, who speaks with cheery nostalgia of how the entire unit would eat together back in the day, when stars didn’t have vans, but would plonk themselves under umbrellas for sun protection.

It isn’t that all the actors in the film are bad – not by a long way. Randeep Hooda, who plays Vice-Captain of the Indian cricket team, has a genuine boy-from-Ludhiana-who-made-it-big appeal. But the script gives him very little scope. He delivers lines like, “Tum log ko siraf istmaal kar sakte” and “Jab career hai, heroines pyaar chahte hain. Jab pyaar hai, tab career” with conviction and panache.

Arjun Rampal, who has made an admirable transition from model to actor, plays Aryan Khanna, a star whose affair with Mahi wrecks his home. His frustration with her tantrums comes through, as does his attraction, and later, affection for her. But the script doesn’t allow him to explore his character much further than as an accessory, and his screen time is too limited for him to make the character’s ambiguous feelings believable. He excels in one scene, where he remains completely silent while driving Mahi home, despite her attempts to provoke him into saying something.

However, the most damning aspect of the film is that neither Kareena Kapoor’s character nor her portrayal of it elicits our empathy. She sidles through the first ten minutes, and seems to cry for most of the film. There are occasions where she actually begins to act, but those descend quickly into melodrama, aided by cloying music.

The Verdict: Heroine is disappointingly run-of-the-mill, offering nothing new to an audience that has seen several movies of this ilk.

Wham, bam, thank you, 3D Cam

(Published in City Express, The New Indian Express, on 22 September 2012, retrieved from http://newindianexpress.com/entertainment/reviews/article1237869.ece)

Cast: Karl Urban, Olivia Thirlby, Lena Headey, Wood Harris

Director: Pete Travis

Rating: 3.5 stars

There are some of us whose childhoods were sullied by a terrible movie called Judge Dredd, starring Sylvester Stallone. When we grew older, we were further messed up by the discovery that the lines curled out by Stallone’s wooden Dredd, played like every other character he’s essayed, had their origins in a comic book series that began before we were born. Those of us can draw succour from this new interpretation of Dredd, a film that pares the story down to what it really is – an action movie free from the trappings of sentiment and logic.

Because, let’s be honest. We all know a film whose locations are ‘Cursed Earth’ and ‘Mega-City One’, whose tough-guy hero is ‘Dredd’, whose villain is ‘Ma-Ma’, and which documents a war on a drug called ‘Slo-Mo’ has to be unimaginative. But Dredd (3D) is one of those films that shows us unimaginative fare can still be enjoyable, provided the 3D effects don’t stop at ammunition heading right for us. Of course, it helps if you’re into blood spurting and squirting all over the place. It also helps when the bloodshed prompts parents who’ve brought their spawn to an adult movie to take their wailing kids out of the cinema.

Back to the movie. You don’t expect any film spawned by a dystopian graphic novel whose eponymous hero is a masked-but-licensedvigilante to bother with plot or character development. Naturally, the setting is a wasteland where futuristic technology and rigid lawmakers infuse a sort of sameness into society. We enter the story, as usual, when a villain’s wreaking havoc.

In a film of this ilk, some things are a given:

• Everyone wears stupid costumes and tries to look tough
• The head of operations is a woman, and executor of operations is a man
• The executor is accompanied by a woman whom he may or may not kiss at the end
• Everyone wants to kill the lead pair
• At some point, we want everyone to succeed
• There’s lots of gore and gunfire

Here’s where Dredd scores. The 800 million strong megacity is so intricately represented that it’s completely believable the project was shot using 3D cameras on practical sets. Though most of the action happens inside a single building, we enter it through a world that seems so real we want a sequel, just so we can explore it. The filmmakers know they must capitalise on the scope of the 3D camera, and we find ourselves pulled into every experience in this film – including a rather enjoyable virtual narcotic trip.

Karl Urban – or more specifically, his jaw – looks the part of Dredd, the Street Judge with a firm hand, golden heart and penchant for growling out his lines. Lena Headey, whom I last recall seeing as a scantily-clad queen in 300, looks as sinister as she can with weird facial scars and a name like ‘Ma-Ma’.

A lot of complicated action choreography later, you reflect that the movie would have been over in five minutes if the psychics had used their power with some forethought. Ironic, huh?

The Verdict: Dredd (3D) is a happily unimaginative action film which is redeemed by its exploitation of 3D.

‘Anti-Islam’ propaganda: Why rise to the bait?

(Published in Sify.com, on 20 September 2012, retrieved from http://www.sify.com/news/anti-islam-propaganda-why-rise-to-the-bait-news-columns-mjuvvuffhbd.html)

Picture Courtesy: Sify.com. Unauthorised use of this image is prohibited.

I live in a city that is arguably the most peaceful metro in this country. A city where there isn’t much communal tension, certainly not enough to cause rioting. A city where a few people routinely set themselves on fire in support of some cause or protest against some decision, and where there will be the occasional fracas in colleges or courts, and where political parties and the film fraternity go on relay fasts every now and again over the Tamil Eezham issue, or over some water crisis – but a city that hasn’t been the focus of national attention since Rajiv Gandhi was assassinated in nearby Sriperumbudur in 1991.

But for the past few days, traffic has been stalled for hours, and posses of police personnel have been manning the streets, because of large-scale protests by several Muslim organisations outside the US Embassy in the heart of Madras.

And this wasn’t an ordinary sit-in, or run-of-the-mill protest with sloganeering. It was one of the most intense I’ve witnessed anywhere. The streets were choked for hours. A 20,000-strong crowd had assembled, appropriating the arterial Mount Road. The sloganeering was only interrupted when the entire assembly stopped for evening namaaz. To my horror, I saw images on television of motorcycles that happened to be parked nearby set on fire. A vehicle that belonged to a Tamil television channel was apparently burnt too.

As the anti-American sentiment among Muslims spreads from the Middle East to the subcontinent, access to the offending video, an English clipping from a film called Innocence of Muslims, has been blocked. I saw it a little over a week ago, when Egyptians stormed the American embassy in Cairo. One journalist had described it on Twitter as “a very unfunny remake of The Life of Brian”.

Yes, a very unfunny, terribly shot, awfully scripted remake. Reportedly made by a Nakoula Basseley Nakoula and promoted by Pastor Terry Jones, the crazy extremist who organised a Quran-burning fête despite the US administration trying desperately to reason with him. It was apparently shot with actors who mouthed completely different lines that were altered by dubbing. They’re believed to have been paid minimum wage.

What I don’t see is why a bizarre film made by a nutter deserves so much importance. Or should cause so much hatred against the country he happens to belong to. How are American embassies across the world to blame for one man making a home video? Why is American President Barack Obama being burnt in effigy and held responsible for the actions of a man who happens to live in the country whose Presidency Obama assumed four years ago?

As violence sweeps across this part of the world, people are being killed every day. “Foreigners” are being targeted – foreigners who have nothing to do with the man or people who made the film. In Afghanistan, a suicide bomber killed at least twelve people, who were all aviation workers. Most weren’t even American; even if they had been, there was no reason they or anyone else should have been killed. Not even the makers of the film.

By reacting in such a manner to the film, whose existence we came to know of only when it was uploaded on YouTube, dubbed in Arabic, and pushed into the media’s ambit, followers of Islam have played right into the hands of the makers of this ridiculous film. What better way to besmirch a religion than to provoke its followers into frenzy, and then count the bodies?

The wave of angry protest reminds me of the Prophet cartoons controversy of 2005, when Danish embassies were stormed and Danish flags burnt, in response to a single newspaper publishing cartoons that ridiculed Islam and Prophet Muhammad.

Since the clippings sparked similar reactions, spoof site The Onion put up a caricature of Jesus, Moses, Ganesha and the Buddha in an orgy, titled, ‘No one was murdered because of this image’. French satirical weekly Charlie Hebdo went further, publishing cartoons that depicted a Jew wheeling Prophet Muhammad someplace on the cover page, and the Prophet in an imitation of Brigitte Bardot from And God created Woman in the inner pages. Since then, France has announced that it will shut its embassies and schools in 20 countries on Friday, as a preventive measure.

It’s true that the Islamic faith may have been targeted by extremists of other persuasions. And it’s only natural that anti-Islamic propaganda should be disturbing to its followers. But at a time when any fool can shoot an offensive video and upload it online, maybe the only solution is to ignore such provocation and go about one’s daily business. After all, by taking to storming embassies and setting off suicide bombs, no one is doing their faith any favours, whatever the faith may be.

Is Sycophancy Exempt from Sedition?

(Published in Sify.com on 16 September 2012, retrieved from http://www.sify.com/news/is-sycophancy-exempt-from-sedition-news-columns-mjqntvhaehd.html)

Photo Credit: http://twitpic.com/atgnyv

While cartoonist Aseem Trivedi has become a national hero for the self-proclaimed supporters of freedom of expression, and remains a seditionist for the self-proclaimed guardians of patriotic spirit, let’s look beyond his cartoons for a while.

Let’s look at what he has been accused of – sedition, through disrespecting national emblems. And how has he “disrespected” them? One of his cartoons depicts the lions of the Ashoka Pillar as bloodthirsty wolves, with the slogan Sathyameva Jayate (Truth alone triumphs) altered to Brashtameva Jayate (Corruption alone triumphs). Another depicts the Parliament as the base of a Western-style latrine with flies hovering around it. Another depicts Ajmal Amir Kasab as a dog urinating on the Constitution.

Let’s say the charges against Aseem Trivedi are valid, and that he has indeed disrespected symbols enshrined in our democracy. If that is the case, then, shouldn’t the sycophantic party workers who tack our politicians’ faces on to national emblems be tried for the same alleged crime?

How is it, then, that these party workers have plastered public walls in metros and other large cities with posters desecrating national symbols, complete with their own photographs, so we know whom to blame, and got away with it?

 A few years ago, a Congress party member called Kailash Sonkar supplied his name, photograph and mobile number on a poster that had Congress President Sonia Gandhi’s face superimposed on a picture of the Rani of Jhansi, complete with a baby bag for her son Rahul. She was bearing the Indian flag, just in case her mission – or representation – wasn’t clear enough.

I have seen posters that represent Sonia Gandhi as the Bharat Mata in my own hometown. These are usually put up when the ruling party in the state, whichever it may happen to be, strikes up an alliance with the Congress.

As the controversy over Trivedi broke out, actor Ashwin Mushran tweeted a photograph of a poster that seems to have been put up in Madras. The very same emblem Trivedi has been accused of disrespecting is shown bearing the faces of Rahul Gandhi, P Chidambaram and his son Karthi Chidambaram. At least five names, one mobile number, and the photograph of one grinning party worker have been supplied on the poster itself.

But has any one of these party workers been punished? Has any of them even been accused of sedition? Or do the powers that be at the Centre consider themselves representative of national insignia? Do they deem it natural that the Italian-born Sonia Gandhi should be portrayed as the Bharat Mata, or even as the Rani of Jhansi? Incidentally, the Congress is yet to find a foothold in the state the Rani hailed from.

There have been several debates earlier over the representation of politicians as Gods. Following the uproar over a photograph of Obama in the magazine Newsweek, that seemed representative of Lord Nataraja, this blog posted several of the poorly-Photoshopped images the writer had come across.

These included a tribute from the DMK to its atheist leader Karunanidhi and his son Stalin, represented as Lord Krishna and Arjuna respectively. Also pictured is a portrayal of Sonia Gandhi as Ma Durga. The BJP, which usually objects to the representation of politicians as Hindu Gods, should probably take a closer look at the face of the Ma Durga in the last photograph on the page.

In a country where textbooks are scoured for “offensive” cartoons, a professor gets arrested for circulating a cartoon of Mamata Banerjee, and a cartoonist is accused of sedition, is it all right for the faces of politicians to be mounted on national and religious icons? Or are our “leaders” so blinded by their double-standards that the irony is lost on them?

We, the one per cent

(Published in The Sunday Guardian, on 16th September, 2012, retrieved from http://www.sunday-guardian.com/masala-art/we-the-one-per-cent)

Cast: Richard Gere, Tim Roth, Susan Sarandon, Brit Marling, Laetitia Casta

Director: Nicholas Jarecki

Rating: 4 stars

For the first time in the history of this career – you know, the one where I’m paid to watch movies – I Googled the name of a film before heading to the cinema. Because I had a feeling “Arbitrage” wasn’t the name of Richard Gere’s character, though the posters could have one fooled. Apparently, it involves making money from the price difference between two or more international markets. It sounds legal; it definitely seems logical.

If we’re lucky, even the most business-linguistically challenged of us will figure out why most of America’s pissed off with Wall Street, from Abritrage. We will also follow what most of the characters are saying most of the time. True, the actors enjoy spitting out jargon like it was the only vocabulary they grew up with. But the story transcends this, to keep us hooked.

Writer-director Nicholas Jarecki crafts an exceptional script, where strong characters dictate the story, so that the events and their follow-up seem natural. Circumstances and the primal urge to save one’s own skin, at all costs, eliminate the need for the crutch of coincidence.

It gives me special pleasure to watch Richard Gere in a dastardly role, perhaps I grew up in a generation that sighed and swooned over his Pretty Woman line, “Not all men hit.” Some aspects of Edward Lewis do carry over to Richard Miller, though – he’s a troubled billionaire, with a weakness for the wrong kind of woman. And he has a secret – but this isn’t a crisis of conscience that a hooker with insight can soothe. Here, he’s truly an awful man, with no thought for anyone but himself.

And no one would have been any the wiser if it weren’t for a nosy daughter and a chatty cop. An accident brings Detective Michael Bryer into Miller’s life. You never let the cops in when you have something to hide – especially when the something involves hundreds of millions of dollars. The inspired casting of Tim Roth in the role of the detective ensures that our attention is riveted, but our loyalties are never divided.

We are always on Miller’s side. His baseness of character finds foil in his nobility of countenance. And this appears to work on the premise that there is nothing more attractive than a haughty billionaire – except a handsome haughty billionaire. And though we’re not sure he’ll worm his way out of the mess, we’re sure we want him to. Even if it means the ruin of all the good people we sympathise with, but strangely, don’t relate to.

The Verdict: Arbitrage is a gripping thriller of the calibre of Match Point.