Ishqiya

Clint Eastwood meets Raja Bhaiyya.

If nothing else, this movie will be remembered as a part of the effort by a few fresh-blood Bollywood filmmakers in ridding the industry of its pretentious decency. These directors include Anurag Kashyap, Dibakar Bannerjee, Vishal Bharadwaj (Ishqiya's producer, MD, dialogue writer etc etc) and now Abhishek Chaubey.

While the bumble-bee and kissing flowers (for making out scenes), vulture (rapes), blemishless handsome hero and chaste heroine are being slowly relegated to history, the prudery surrounding street language (not the romanticised, caricaturised version) too is being surely abandoned for the raw flesh and blood lingo. Cultural hawks and prudes, its time to go take a walk!

"Bold", I guess, is the word.

Chaubey and Bharadwaj take the movie-watcher on an unpaid trip through the underbelly of the cowbelt baddies' mind. And they do it in a way that at any time one would expect a Tuco or a Blondie from 'The Good, The Bad and The Ugly' to jump out of one of the primitive streets in the Hindi heartland and go 'pow! pow!'. Cheekily, the slow, hissy drawl has been alotted to the villain of the movie.

This time the word's "stylish".

The plot -- too complicated for me, but perhaps just right for "Old West Action" -- could possibly be the biggest dampener. It weaves around two small-time crooks and their female acquiantence who are caught in a web of deceit, confusion and romance. Ironically, their do or die situations are also some of the most hilarious, at least going by the crisp and incisive exchanges.

While three is nothing exceptional about the veteran Naseerudding Shah portrayal of Khalujaan, it is Arshad Warsi who takes the cake as the mumbling, kohl-eyed womaniser nephew. He effuses a certain boyish charm beneath a roguish persona. Vidya Balan is very impressive as the wronged yet iron-willed wife, whose deceptive duality of character takes the mama-bhanja duo on a jolly good romantic ride.

But the best offering in the acting department is the sidekick -- the sweeper boy who joins the naxals, the adulterous industrialist, the villains etc. They give the movie the authentic feel and complete the rugged texture.

While the flow of the movie is at times spoilt by continuity problems, the background score and songs make it up with their lilting balladry. Watch out for "Ibn-e-Batuta..." and "Dil To Baccha".

All in all a good fare.

3 Idiots

There are two ways of looking at this movie -- as in the case of most movies actually.

One, as a standalone project. Second, as another Rajkumar Hirani-Vidhu Vinod Chopra presentation.

As the first, 3 Idiots scores. And scores well.

It has the verve and the heart to carry through the message about education, youthfulness, fresh thinking and competition. Aamir Khan, Madhavan and Sharman Joshi bring out their best.

Going by the second perspective, however, I was terribly disappointed by the movie.

When Raju Hirani, associated with gentle and healthy humour that one carries home and internalises in the next few days, needs an old sick man's pubic hair getting rolled into a chappatti to make people laugh, then there is something seriously wrong.

However, there is another flaw in this department that is even bigger and tragic for the film-makers. They fall for the convenient trap of stereotyping and caricaturing in various degrees, especially from a north Indian Hindu's point of view.

The cunning and geeky south Indian, the bearded Muslim taking a photograph of his army of burqa-clad womenfolk, the morose science teachers, the spoilt rich brat- hardworking poor brat -- the Hirani-VVC duo has used them to the hilt and gotten away with it... sadly.

Honestly, the movie left a slightly bad aftertaste in me. And tonnes of disappointment when I thought about Munnabhai and Circuit.

Bole To... Mamu Bana Daala.

Beena Rai, The Eternal Anarkali

"Ae Baad-e-Saba Aahista Chal, Yahaan Soyi Hui Hai Anaarakali.
Aankhon Me Jalawe Saleem Ke Liye, Khoyi Hui Hai Anaarakali.
Hai Shaheed-E-Ishq Ka Maqbara, Zara Chal Adab Se Yahaan Hawa.
Tujhe Yaad Ho Ke Na Yaad Ho, Mujhe Yaad Hai Us Ka Maajhara."


(Oh zephyr, move slow, Anarkali is asleep here.
In the fantasies of Salim, Anarkali is lost here.
This is the tomb of the martyr of love,
Please move around respectfully here oh breeze.
You may perhaps not remember, but I do remember her woeful tale.)


When I listen to these words, I instantly remember my dad's first stereo player -- a National Panasonic model -- with huge round steel-framed speakers, which he bought in Jodhpur and carried with him long after his retirement from the Air Force. I also remember the cassette cover of Anarkali -- Salim looking over a sleeping Anarkali even as Akbar loomed large over them. The cassette doubled with the songs of Nagin.


They were a part of my childhood, my growing up. However, it was a long long time before I could give the poignant character Anarkali a face. Till then, I had to depend on some of the most enchanting songs ever of Hindi cinema. Like:


"Yeh Zindagi Usiki Hai, Joh Kisi Ka Ho Gaya, Pyar Hi Mein Kho Gaya"


or


"Mujhse Mat Pooch Mere Ishq Mein Kya Rakha Hai"


or


"Wafaaon Ka Majboor Daaman Bichaakar,
Dua Kar Gham-e-Dil, Khuda Se Dua Kar
Tu Aakar Gham-e-Dil, Khuda Se Dua Kar"


Of course, Lataji had to be the voice behind. Otherwise it would have been incomplete.


Then one day -- long after the triumphant march of TV -- I caught a glimpse of Anarkali. In the soft light of ancient cinematography, with a deliberate, naughty slant of the lips and lifting of an eyebrow, Beena Rai, with a single curl of hair dangling tantalisingly on her side forehead, completed my picture of the legendary Mughal courtesan who dared to challenge the might of Akbar only for her love.


I never followed up on her. Beena Rai never caught my imagination as a Sadhana or Waheeda Rehman did. Yet, she kept coming back to me, through Anarkali and through my grandmother's ruminations about her youthful days with my grandpa (The rascals used to watch three movies a day -- morning, matinee and night show -- at cinemas during holidays!!!).


But there was something Rai that I couldn't let go of her association with Anarkali. Even after the irresistable Madhubala took on the mantle (and how!) through K Asif's Mughal-e-Azam and Naushad-Lata's "Pyar Kiya To Darna Kya".


I couldn't forget the way she sang:


"Dhadak Raha Hai Dil To Kya, Dil Ki Dhadkane Gin.
Phir Kahaan Yeh Fursaten, Phir Kahaan Yeh Raat Din."


even as a mesmerised Pradeep Kumar held a bunch of grapes to her lips.


Even in black and white and degenerating film quality -- and of course also considering my young age -- I couldn't help but fall in love with Anarkali a.k.a. Beena Rai.


Today when I read about her passing away, I see an era of (at least perceived) beauty, creativity, passion and innocence passing by. When I see my grandma reminiscing about her dream honeymoon that lasted close to 40 years, I rue the fact that I was not born 60 years ago, when I could have perhaps enjoyed the little joys of life – like watching Beena Rai on the silver screen -- much more fully.


RIP Beena Rai.

Dev D -- by Anuraag Kashyap

I had been resisting watching this movie simply because I didnt want to do anything with the character Devdas, especially after watching bits and pieces of Bhansali's version. Even when everybody told me this was an antithesis to Bhansali.

On Saturday I decided to get over my revulsion.

I enjoyed Dev D, and how?!

I loved the way the otherwise loveable drunkard was shown his true place -- particularly by the women.

"Main Tumhe Tumhari Aukaad Dikha Rahi Hoon," says Paro, played by the hot hot hot Mahi Gill. And it sums up the movie.

As the storyline is well known to any Indian who cares a wee bit about movies, Kashyap plays truant and turns the perspective upside down. He shows what a loser the Devdas character is actually.Psychedelic colours, contemporary subplots -- like the MMS scandal of DPS R K Puram--Delhi, the BMW hit & run -- are all weaved into a narrative that eviscerates the hideous nature of Devdas.

Absolutely no sympathy for the scum.By the end of it, one was left wondering if Kashyap was showing his middle finger to the character Devdas or to those movie directors who have eulogized him for decades till now.

Abhay Deol sinks deep into Devdas’s skin and comes out trumps. The guy is a class act.

All Quiet On The Western Front

It is a coincidence that I got to watch this movie at a time when the Vande Mataram controversy has raised its ugly head again, for the umpteenth time. When energy and time is being wasted on the mere singing of a patriotic song – which of course does not guarantee that the singer is patriotic or that the one not willing to sing is unpatriotic.

If we are to believe the words of those who want the beautiful song sung compulsorily and those who refuse to sing – both dogmatic and irrational – then the very basis of one’s identity is based on this one sung, whether it is sung or not.

Drunk high on the poison of nationalism, we are ready to believe any bit of trash as long as it is garnished with now vacuous but still high-sounding words like “country” and “motherland”.

History repeats itself. In another country. Among another set of people. Often ruthlessly…

The Franco-German border. It’s All Quiet on the Western Front. And then the air is split by the shock waves of bombs, splintering shrapnels, gunfire and, most horribly, the desperate shrieks of the dying.

Raids and counter-raids on each others’ trenches is the stuff their routine lives have been all about for over a year now. It didn’t take long to drain them of the puffed-up patriotism that their teachers, fathers, neighbours injected into them as teenagers.

“Germany is a nation of high culture, science, arts…” their affable schoolmaster Kantorek once told them, goading them to do their duty for the Bharat Mata… err sorry, for the fatherland. And what is that duty? Fight a war. Fight the First World War. Fight to conquer and decimate other people. People who are inferior. The “other”.

It’s not difficult to blame Germany, all right. Although these very words would have easily adorned the speech of the haughty British, the proud French, the arrogant American… and of course the patriotic Indian.

For eons, waging a war has been the easiest way to demonstrate one’s virility. Barbarians we still are, at heart. And in the meaningless nationalism of this age, we have found the perfect alibi to turn fighter cocks at the drop of a hat.

So we had a Germany, proud of its racial purity and of course superiority. We had a Britain ever carrying its “Britishness“ on its sleeve. We still have a vain France. And then we also the have the upstarts– China and India—the neighbours whose claim to high civilization is destroyed by the mass murders, ethnic cleansing and racial jingoism that mark both their internal and external affairs.

Lewis Milestone gives vent to an entire generation’s agony, brought about by a war that only the political masters waged. He portrays the desperations of the soldiers—like today, fed on an overdose of nationalistic steroids that quickly wears out--at the front.

So what if they were Germans! The emotions, I am sure, are the same among all soldiers across the world.

It’s not difficult to see the common sense message of the movie: “Nationalism is the witchcraft used to bewitch a population and lead them to war. Nationalism is malignant. Nationalism sucks!”

Of course we are not willing to learn.

Because now, our time, India’s time, has come.

Mera Bharat Mahaan!

Khuda Ke Liye

Curiosity about the Pakistani civil society is never quenched for us Indians. And apart from the internet and an ocassional writeup in the newspapers, rarely do we get a glimpse of the social currents there. Given this scenario, Khuda Ke Liye comes across as a breath of fresh air.

If one takes away the slightly dragging narrative, hints of self-pity and the victim-complex, the movie does a decent job of dealing with religious fundamentalism.

Of course, most of what is shown is what we see in our own country too -- brainwashing, fundamentalism, violence, innocents getting caught in the whirlwind etc etc -- though may not be on that scale.

What is the most important aspect of the movie is that it shows there is a liberal stream flowing in that country too -- and that needs to be harnessed.

Naseeruddin Shah, in his cameo, does an expectedly decent job. However, what is surprising is the role he was chosen for -- a liberal Mullah who shreds into pieces that many popular, anachronistic and regressive notions about Islam that are used by his fundamentalist counterparts to wage "Jehad" across the world.

The story revolves around two musician brothers. While one fals prey to the mullah's manipulations, abandons the "haram", forcefuly marries his own elder cousin and then rapes her, the other pursues his interest further, marries an American -- and yet is branded as a terrorist by the simplistic reasoning of the US authorities in the aftermath of 9/11.

The entire fare is a tracking down of the trajectories the lives of these siblings take.

Good movie overall.

High And Low -- Akira Kurosawa

There are two parallel movies in High and Low.

Don't be mistaken. Its not an earlier version--in format--of Naalu Pennungal.

High and Low, like wikipedia rightly says, plays out in virtually two acts.

But the last scene of the movies proves that actually it is not two separate acts. It is just a contrast.

A top business executive -- of course, it has to be Kurosawa's favourite Toshiro Mifune -- has a detailed plan in place to take control of his company, National Shoes, and topple other direcors who are plotting to dethrone the owner. After even mortgaging his hill-top villa, Gondo has staked every penny of his for that one masterstroke.

Then, disaster strikes.

Gondo gets a call, which claims to have kidnapped his son. The ransom: 30 million bucks (yens, I presume).

Of course Gondo is willing to pay up to save his only son.

But by a quirk of fate and through mistaken identity, the family realises that the child kidnapped is not Gondo's son, but his son's friend--the son of his chauffer. A man of integrity, what course does Gondo take?

After a lot of contemplation, Gondo decides to rescue the child at the cost of utter ruin.

The second act, which actually has already started playing itself out with the police's involvement, starts in earnest now.

The working out of the case by the police is a treat to watch. The meticulous planning, detailed procedures--and status reports--media moves, which otherwise would come across as plain drudgery, are so smoothely and excitingly portrayed that I wished our Suresh Gopi brand of filmmakers picked up a page or two from this.

Just when we start thinking that the movie has completely lost the original track, we reach teh climax scene.

This last 5 minutes, I felt was the capsule form of Dostoyvesky's Crime and Punishment.

The kidnapper, now apprehended and behind bars, seeks to meet Gondo.

He expresses his angst, explaining why he hated Gondo for his wealth and status -- as symbolised by his house on the hill top -- as compared to his own penury in the slums downhill.

While trying to maintain his composure and moral posture, the kidnapper simply uses word to justify himself, while a visibly serene Gondo hears him out.

After all that grandstanding and brouhaha, the kidnapper ends the scene--and the movie--with a violent fit that he throws, out of sheer frustration, guilt and angst.

A fantastic movie...