Is Aamir Khan the greatest Indian actor in today's times? No, he is not. Is he the biggest star? No, not that either. The best way to define Aamir is that he is a star who seeks otherness in what he does. There have been times when his choices have been highly questionable. He has also been accused of ghost-directing his films, which is something only a director who has fallen out with him can prove.
But Ghajini, despite its structural loopholes and the actor's eagerness to flaunt his newly built muscles, manifests a fact once more. In other words, Aamir Khan works hard: one could say, more than most of his fellow stars have ever done. (If any of his counterparts works harder, it certainly doesn't show).
Cut to Aamir in Ghajini which should possibly be the biggest blockbuster of 2008. As a character with short term memory loss on Mission Vendetta, Aamir as Sanjay Singhania exhales fury and anger. His nostrils flare up; the voice turns guttural; and the eyes show what being menacing is all about. When he wants to emancipate himself from the clutches of cops, for instance, he comes across as an untamed beast whose natural habitat is distanced from civilization by several light years.
Before the change takes place, the actor in his avatar of an industrialist is polished, handsome and articulate. His dress sense (thanks to Van Heusen?) makes statements of uniqueness every time we see him onscreen. But, once his character undergoes a transformation – after the brutal murder of his girlfriend as also the injury to the head – what we see is a man which is as distanced from the industrialist as the Nile is from the Ganges.
The sophistication is gone. Understandable, since he has forgotten what being polished is all about. While one can question how he manages to have an unchanged haircut all through, Aamir's sincerity is visible in each and every frame. As the revenge seeker, he makes Singhania as memorable as his near-perfect act of ACP Rathore in Sarfarosh.
Why the performance merits admiration is mainly because of his ability to conquer the limitations imposed by a flaw-laden script. Not only that, there are other bad eggs in the basket too. Pradeep Rawat as the villain (complete with the golden tooth popularized by Eli Wallach in The Magnificent Seven) is an absolute disaster. Jiah Khan fumbles her way through a badly written role of a young student of medicine who decides to become a sleuth without any explanation whatsoever. Songs assault the viewer out of the blue, breaking the tempo of a fast moving plot guiltlessly.
So many shortcomings could have killed a film: even if we were to keep aside, the human tendency to nitpick for the heck of it. But, the reality is that Ghajini is a super hit already. Aamir is the only reason, the only explanation. The film's fate shows the difference one performance can make.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
WHAT WAS, IS
Kasab has no regrets. Terrorism never does. Have you ever heard of insane sanity? You couldn’t have. It is bloody meaningless. Hence, Kasab, a killer behind the bars, who has no regrets at all.
Kasab’s photograph – with his eyes glowing and an AK-47 in hand - has become the defining face of urban Indian terror. During 9/11, none of us saw the abhorrence in the pilots’ eyes when suicide aerial missions devastated the World Trade Center. But, terrorism on the streets, at the CST station, and inside the Taj, the Trident-Oberoi and Nariman House, left behind killers’ images which will molest the recesses of collective human memory.
Not that terrorism is anything new. It has been there, and always will be. Ransacking hearts. Brutalising bodies. Shocking with its' premeditated suddenness. Such is the horror of terrorism that its' manifestations in the pages of fiction turn into causes of concern for us. Same for textbooks where we have discovered, since childhood, that a great deal of history is heartless savagery. The rest form the basis of civilised human existence. But, the dry blood on those pages doesn’t disturb us like the Taliban or the LeT because they exist amidst us. The ideology is the same: killing for a cause. But, the quest for their perception of justice – and, for many, the choice of martyrdom – is eclipsed by the approach which makes them anti-innocent, anti-constructive and anti-civilisation.
Where there is goodness, the presence of demolishers is a must. In that sense, we can only minimise terrorism and not annihilate it. Also, we must not forget that modern-day guns only add to the script authored by barbaric medievalism. Why the modern-day terrorist seems more destructive is because the arms and ammunition have changed; the population has shot up; and the media tells stories that horrify us like never before. Take them away, and you will find the footprints of a million other Kasabs in the history of time.
Mumbai has been at the receiving end of most terrorist savagery, and that’s since one assault on the city can drive the nation berserk. The city needs protective gear which is non-existent. Dismissing a handful of individuals is not the solution as long as the system isn’t overhauled completely. If the NSG doesn’t have its' own plane to attend to exigencies, why does it exist anyway? If the city’s firemen have merely two bullet-proof jackets, how can they save their own lives while extinguishing the fire? If the Chief Minister of the State takes a filmmaker along with him to an encounter site, how serious is he about addressing the issue of terror? If the Deputy CM finds the devastation a ‘small incident’, why is he the Deputy CM for?
When the society lacks discipline and unified action, terrorism thrives. It kills and disappears, and kills to hibernate once more. Death and destruction by capitalising on the loose ends of a system: terrorism is all about that. Like a tiger on the prowl, it hunts for any one weak loophole if systemic complacence doesn’t grant it a tourist visa. Whether or not India will achieve a metamorphosis overnight is anybody’s guess. As of now, the masses need to be far more vigilant as they go through their daily lives, knowing what an ancient formula in its modern manifestation can do to the society at large.
Kasab’s photograph – with his eyes glowing and an AK-47 in hand - has become the defining face of urban Indian terror. During 9/11, none of us saw the abhorrence in the pilots’ eyes when suicide aerial missions devastated the World Trade Center. But, terrorism on the streets, at the CST station, and inside the Taj, the Trident-Oberoi and Nariman House, left behind killers’ images which will molest the recesses of collective human memory.
Not that terrorism is anything new. It has been there, and always will be. Ransacking hearts. Brutalising bodies. Shocking with its' premeditated suddenness. Such is the horror of terrorism that its' manifestations in the pages of fiction turn into causes of concern for us. Same for textbooks where we have discovered, since childhood, that a great deal of history is heartless savagery. The rest form the basis of civilised human existence. But, the dry blood on those pages doesn’t disturb us like the Taliban or the LeT because they exist amidst us. The ideology is the same: killing for a cause. But, the quest for their perception of justice – and, for many, the choice of martyrdom – is eclipsed by the approach which makes them anti-innocent, anti-constructive and anti-civilisation.
Where there is goodness, the presence of demolishers is a must. In that sense, we can only minimise terrorism and not annihilate it. Also, we must not forget that modern-day guns only add to the script authored by barbaric medievalism. Why the modern-day terrorist seems more destructive is because the arms and ammunition have changed; the population has shot up; and the media tells stories that horrify us like never before. Take them away, and you will find the footprints of a million other Kasabs in the history of time.
Mumbai has been at the receiving end of most terrorist savagery, and that’s since one assault on the city can drive the nation berserk. The city needs protective gear which is non-existent. Dismissing a handful of individuals is not the solution as long as the system isn’t overhauled completely. If the NSG doesn’t have its' own plane to attend to exigencies, why does it exist anyway? If the city’s firemen have merely two bullet-proof jackets, how can they save their own lives while extinguishing the fire? If the Chief Minister of the State takes a filmmaker along with him to an encounter site, how serious is he about addressing the issue of terror? If the Deputy CM finds the devastation a ‘small incident’, why is he the Deputy CM for?
When the society lacks discipline and unified action, terrorism thrives. It kills and disappears, and kills to hibernate once more. Death and destruction by capitalising on the loose ends of a system: terrorism is all about that. Like a tiger on the prowl, it hunts for any one weak loophole if systemic complacence doesn’t grant it a tourist visa. Whether or not India will achieve a metamorphosis overnight is anybody’s guess. As of now, the masses need to be far more vigilant as they go through their daily lives, knowing what an ancient formula in its modern manifestation can do to the society at large.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
NOTHING (For Jane Frostina, my Life in the time of Death)
Come tomorrow, and reams of newsprint will spell out just one word: MUMBAI. Many have died, and some others might collapse in the hospital. But, we can do nothing. Such is the heartless iniquity of some self-centred assholes that Mumbai’s soul is afraid of dying for ever. But, we can do nothing. The small screen is consuming hours of footage, telling us a story that is hurting us. But, we can do nothing except sit near the TV, shivering at the thought of what is happening. Once mentally screwed up, we can reach out for the remote and move over to some channel that gives us momentary peace. Because of what we are, and because of what we cannot be, we can do nothing.
Heard a politician just now. He was saying, “We condemn the attack….” Condemn: that word has turned into a convenient escape route for these suited-booted netas. Can we ban its usage or, at least, make it a synonym for ‘praise’ so that no politician would dare use the word to express his ‘compassion’ and conceal a systemic failure? Perhaps, we could, if we start a campaign to tell what condemn does not mean when used after a terrorist attack. But, we can do nothing since we know what language can do. Once used by the system that has failed, it turns into a tool that manufactures myths and feeds the masses.
Yes. We can do nothing.
The heart is hopeful. Tomorrow might change, it wants us to believe. But the mind, the rational part of our being, offers a different picture. Tomorrow will not change even if we want it to, it tells us. If America could not anticipate 9/11 – an expression repeated so often that we are tired of it – how can India, poor India, expect what the messiahs of doom have in mind? In today’s times, 9/11 has come to symbolize a defence mechanism rather than a tragedy that brought down the World Trade Center.
Just as ‘condemn’ has become an easy-to-use expression, 9/11 is a metaphor that is repeatedly flogged to say why nothing is right with the world. Have we sat back and actually bothered to calculate how often India has been assaulted in recent years, and how badly it fares when compared to most other countries? We may have, or we may not have. Does not make a difference, does it? We can brood, cry, shout, whatever.
But, we can do nothing.
A few days later, the world will ‘salute the spirit of Mumbai’. Even as many will hide their tears to board trains and reach their distant workplaces, those who have suffered no personal tragedy will write about the city’s ‘resilience'. Every time Mumbai gets back on its feet, what sort of resilience do these bullshitters talk about? Do they know what it means to lose a cousin to a blast? Have they even been close to a train that has been blown to pieces? Have they seen the rich and the poor rush inside hospitals in a tragic manifestation of egalitarianism? Have they ever done anything that has touched a single person’s life? Even as we wonder when the world will come to end, we have reasons to hate everyone who camouflages his absence of sensitivity with a sequence of well-rehearsed words.
But, we cannot stop such people from talking rubbish. We cannot believe in a system that fails repeatedly. We cannot expect more dynamism from our politicians. We cannot stop blasts, shootouts, deaths, and all those bloody AK-47s which can permeate Mumbai with the ease of an amoeba. That being the case, is there any damn thing we can actually do?
Forget it, my friends. Why discuss it anyway? For, think as we might, try as we can, we can do nothing.
Heard a politician just now. He was saying, “We condemn the attack….” Condemn: that word has turned into a convenient escape route for these suited-booted netas. Can we ban its usage or, at least, make it a synonym for ‘praise’ so that no politician would dare use the word to express his ‘compassion’ and conceal a systemic failure? Perhaps, we could, if we start a campaign to tell what condemn does not mean when used after a terrorist attack. But, we can do nothing since we know what language can do. Once used by the system that has failed, it turns into a tool that manufactures myths and feeds the masses.
Yes. We can do nothing.
The heart is hopeful. Tomorrow might change, it wants us to believe. But the mind, the rational part of our being, offers a different picture. Tomorrow will not change even if we want it to, it tells us. If America could not anticipate 9/11 – an expression repeated so often that we are tired of it – how can India, poor India, expect what the messiahs of doom have in mind? In today’s times, 9/11 has come to symbolize a defence mechanism rather than a tragedy that brought down the World Trade Center.
Just as ‘condemn’ has become an easy-to-use expression, 9/11 is a metaphor that is repeatedly flogged to say why nothing is right with the world. Have we sat back and actually bothered to calculate how often India has been assaulted in recent years, and how badly it fares when compared to most other countries? We may have, or we may not have. Does not make a difference, does it? We can brood, cry, shout, whatever.
But, we can do nothing.
A few days later, the world will ‘salute the spirit of Mumbai’. Even as many will hide their tears to board trains and reach their distant workplaces, those who have suffered no personal tragedy will write about the city’s ‘resilience'. Every time Mumbai gets back on its feet, what sort of resilience do these bullshitters talk about? Do they know what it means to lose a cousin to a blast? Have they even been close to a train that has been blown to pieces? Have they seen the rich and the poor rush inside hospitals in a tragic manifestation of egalitarianism? Have they ever done anything that has touched a single person’s life? Even as we wonder when the world will come to end, we have reasons to hate everyone who camouflages his absence of sensitivity with a sequence of well-rehearsed words.
But, we cannot stop such people from talking rubbish. We cannot believe in a system that fails repeatedly. We cannot expect more dynamism from our politicians. We cannot stop blasts, shootouts, deaths, and all those bloody AK-47s which can permeate Mumbai with the ease of an amoeba. That being the case, is there any damn thing we can actually do?
Forget it, my friends. Why discuss it anyway? For, think as we might, try as we can, we can do nothing.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
BAND IN THE LAND OF DEATH
We have been hearing some strange music for a while. In the heavy metal track called Life by the Band of Death, the sound of erratic and loud percussion is missing. Where is the BoD's savage drummer The Terrorist, who rips up the fabric of old-fashioned peace with his wild rhythm patterns from time to time? Because of his hibernation, Life won't make news. In the heavy metal world of bomb-dom, the song's minimalism can never work because there won't be any blood on the tracks.
Most of us don't know why the BoD is such a huge success. With its songs titled Blood, Devastation and Kill When You Can – the last giving rise to the word bomb-dom – it has rocked the establishment like nothing ever has. Whenever the band has performed, the masses have been pulverized and the hospitals over-burdened by colossal tragedies. After the act has packed up and left for some other city to play the same songs, the all-lying politicians have groped for explanations about why they came, how they performed, and why they disappeared before the establishment reacted to the possibility of their arrival in the city.
All we know about the BoD is that The Terrorist is a drums-pounding robot who has a blast from time to time. Although his rhythms are monitored by a faceless enigma from a vague somewhere, he is the star of every BoD rock show that assaults us out of blue. Seldom does the establishment track down his act because The Terrorist himself does not know when he is going to play, and where. He destroys because he is drugged; while the mastermind who supplies the narcotics never shows up because he does not have the courage to confront the establishment.
If The Terrorist can't be heard in Life today, that is since the brain behind tracks like Blood and Devastation is busy composing a new song somewhere. So, let us not take Life too seriously. It is not worth it, Devastation being that super hit BoD track we will hear soon.
Most of us don't know why the BoD is such a huge success. With its songs titled Blood, Devastation and Kill When You Can – the last giving rise to the word bomb-dom – it has rocked the establishment like nothing ever has. Whenever the band has performed, the masses have been pulverized and the hospitals over-burdened by colossal tragedies. After the act has packed up and left for some other city to play the same songs, the all-lying politicians have groped for explanations about why they came, how they performed, and why they disappeared before the establishment reacted to the possibility of their arrival in the city.
All we know about the BoD is that The Terrorist is a drums-pounding robot who has a blast from time to time. Although his rhythms are monitored by a faceless enigma from a vague somewhere, he is the star of every BoD rock show that assaults us out of blue. Seldom does the establishment track down his act because The Terrorist himself does not know when he is going to play, and where. He destroys because he is drugged; while the mastermind who supplies the narcotics never shows up because he does not have the courage to confront the establishment.
If The Terrorist can't be heard in Life today, that is since the brain behind tracks like Blood and Devastation is busy composing a new song somewhere. So, let us not take Life too seriously. It is not worth it, Devastation being that super hit BoD track we will hear soon.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
BEING DEAD
I met Peter’s body recently. He had died sometime back. Happens, you know. Meeting a dead man, talking to him while knowing that his soul has drifted out of the mortal body a few days back, realising that life goes on but not for ever: death being a form of living just as truth seems like storytelling often.
Peter had died; neglected, forgotten, his body was rotting. Possibly, that is what epitomizes urban isolation. Decanted into a vacuum of solitude for being a bastard, there was he, trying to put his stubborn soul back into the body while it tried to escape through a tiny aperture. Like most stupid people trying to postpone death, Peter was seeking life.
“Can you help please? Please catch hold of my soul and bring it back to me.”
“Show me where it is. I will try,” I said, desperate to help but unable to see the soul.
“See, see, it is there. There, please,” he beseeched, a sequence of staccato utterances trembling out of his dry mouth. Only dead people see souls, which he did.
I pretended to try but couldn’t. When the soul ditches the body, there is nothing one can do.
In life, there often comes a time when helplessness guillotines the nobility of human intentions. Much as I hated Peter, I had met him at a juncture when his desire for mere life had buried all my negative thoughts about the man. The tears in his eyes, his sweat-drenched face, that guilty look which seemed to summarise his penitence for a sin-laden existence, his unkempt hair and beard, the sight of him lying crumbled on the floor: they had driven away my contempt for a man whose only achievement in life was his uselessness. But, he wanted to live. He wanted a second chance, and there was none.
“Sorry, Peter. There is nothing I can do,” I murmured, and dashed out of the room before he could say a word.
“Please, please come back. I beg of you. Please.” I could hear his voice, which faded into inaudibility once I had left the compound of his house. My inability to do anything had taught me a lesson, one I shall never forget.
Impossible is not a word in the dictionary of fools. Just stay away from dead men.
Peter had died; neglected, forgotten, his body was rotting. Possibly, that is what epitomizes urban isolation. Decanted into a vacuum of solitude for being a bastard, there was he, trying to put his stubborn soul back into the body while it tried to escape through a tiny aperture. Like most stupid people trying to postpone death, Peter was seeking life.
“Can you help please? Please catch hold of my soul and bring it back to me.”
“Show me where it is. I will try,” I said, desperate to help but unable to see the soul.
“See, see, it is there. There, please,” he beseeched, a sequence of staccato utterances trembling out of his dry mouth. Only dead people see souls, which he did.
I pretended to try but couldn’t. When the soul ditches the body, there is nothing one can do.
In life, there often comes a time when helplessness guillotines the nobility of human intentions. Much as I hated Peter, I had met him at a juncture when his desire for mere life had buried all my negative thoughts about the man. The tears in his eyes, his sweat-drenched face, that guilty look which seemed to summarise his penitence for a sin-laden existence, his unkempt hair and beard, the sight of him lying crumbled on the floor: they had driven away my contempt for a man whose only achievement in life was his uselessness. But, he wanted to live. He wanted a second chance, and there was none.
“Sorry, Peter. There is nothing I can do,” I murmured, and dashed out of the room before he could say a word.
“Please, please come back. I beg of you. Please.” I could hear his voice, which faded into inaudibility once I had left the compound of his house. My inability to do anything had taught me a lesson, one I shall never forget.
Impossible is not a word in the dictionary of fools. Just stay away from dead men.
Friday, August 22, 2008
YESTERDAY ONCE MORE
The Beatles disintegrated around the time I was born. In that sense, I ‘happened’ well after The Beatles did. Having grown up with the sound of pop acts like Boney M and Abba – they compelled me to wipe the dust off dog-eared LPs to hear stuff like Pat Boone’s Baby Elephant Walk – I was awe-struck after the discovery of a sleeve-less EP with the words Roll ‘n’ Roll Music. The endearing restlessness in the song held me captive. The singer’s guttural voice rose above the strains of instrumentation time and again. The sharp edge in his vocals made statements of passion, the ‘why’ of which I couldn’t have known. It was like reading Gulliver’s Travels during childhood, and thinking of it as Little Tommy Tucker in prose. Lovely book that indeed was. But I hadn't understood the satire then.
When I saw Across The Universe last week, I did not know who the director Julie Taymor was. Not that I know much about her seven days later, but for the fact that she is a genius. After all, how else can you describe a person who had the vision to direct a film that weaves songs from The Beatles to tell a love story in the backdrop of 60s America, England and Vietnam of course? How else do you – sorry, can you – assess a story whose protagonists are Jude (from the track Hey Jude) and Lucy whose name owes itself to John Lennon’s acid-driven Lucy in The Sky With… you-know-what?
What can say about an insight which believes that the counter-revolutionary should be named Max, which expands to Maxwell, from the track Maxwell’s Silver Hammer whose lyrics seem to suggest that something has gone wrong? Max detests the establishment represented by obvious metaphors like the Ivy League institution he attends and also by the members of his family. But his attitude from the very first shot shows that something is coming, a something that will aim at hurting the system which it tries not to belong to. Impracticality and unbridled energy drive the guy. The result is Vietnam.
Then, there are the songs. When Jude leaves for America, he sings All My Loving to make a statement of commitment to his lover (not Lucy, please. That would have screwed the story completely). You could say that one is predictable, and indeed it is. But, Lennon, McCartney and co. surely knew how to hypnotise with effortless simplicity, and the song makes a similar impact when we hear ‘I will pretend I am kissing/The lips I am missing.’ Oh yes, it does.
The best interpretation (among the many brilliant ones, if I may add) is that of Let It Be, one of the most touching cuts ever sung by anybody. Set against the backdrop of the Detroit riots, the eyes moisten when we see a little black boy, reminding of a ball of inflammable cotton lying neglected behind a damaged car, who sings the lines with fear in his heart and tears in his eyes. When we see the boy’s funeral as also the death of a white soldier in distant Vietnam, the message of the twin inevitability hits us hard, really hard. Come Together depicts the energy in New York’s life, while the fun and the frolic in a bowling alley find a musical ally in I’ve Just Seen A Face.
The film has more. Bono does a fun cameo as a Ken Kesey-like guru; Salma Hayek is just a nurse; a guitarist reminds of Jimi Hendrix; Sadie’s character is a take on Janis Joplin; and, all this when the core is essentially a love story. While being visually stunning – the film could have been a sequence of meticulously planned stills – the ambience defines the spirit of the 60s. Of an era, which startled us with its dope and politics and several small and big revolutions and the never-say-die spirit of some who made sure that those years did not leave us even after becoming a phase from long, long ago.
If one may quote thinker Erich Fromm, it makes us think about the difference between the ‘being’ and ‘having’ modes of existence. Living in times that can be best described as appallingly confused, it makes us pray for yesterday once more.
When I saw Across The Universe last week, I did not know who the director Julie Taymor was. Not that I know much about her seven days later, but for the fact that she is a genius. After all, how else can you describe a person who had the vision to direct a film that weaves songs from The Beatles to tell a love story in the backdrop of 60s America, England and Vietnam of course? How else do you – sorry, can you – assess a story whose protagonists are Jude (from the track Hey Jude) and Lucy whose name owes itself to John Lennon’s acid-driven Lucy in The Sky With… you-know-what?
What can say about an insight which believes that the counter-revolutionary should be named Max, which expands to Maxwell, from the track Maxwell’s Silver Hammer whose lyrics seem to suggest that something has gone wrong? Max detests the establishment represented by obvious metaphors like the Ivy League institution he attends and also by the members of his family. But his attitude from the very first shot shows that something is coming, a something that will aim at hurting the system which it tries not to belong to. Impracticality and unbridled energy drive the guy. The result is Vietnam.
Then, there are the songs. When Jude leaves for America, he sings All My Loving to make a statement of commitment to his lover (not Lucy, please. That would have screwed the story completely). You could say that one is predictable, and indeed it is. But, Lennon, McCartney and co. surely knew how to hypnotise with effortless simplicity, and the song makes a similar impact when we hear ‘I will pretend I am kissing/The lips I am missing.’ Oh yes, it does.
The best interpretation (among the many brilliant ones, if I may add) is that of Let It Be, one of the most touching cuts ever sung by anybody. Set against the backdrop of the Detroit riots, the eyes moisten when we see a little black boy, reminding of a ball of inflammable cotton lying neglected behind a damaged car, who sings the lines with fear in his heart and tears in his eyes. When we see the boy’s funeral as also the death of a white soldier in distant Vietnam, the message of the twin inevitability hits us hard, really hard. Come Together depicts the energy in New York’s life, while the fun and the frolic in a bowling alley find a musical ally in I’ve Just Seen A Face.
The film has more. Bono does a fun cameo as a Ken Kesey-like guru; Salma Hayek is just a nurse; a guitarist reminds of Jimi Hendrix; Sadie’s character is a take on Janis Joplin; and, all this when the core is essentially a love story. While being visually stunning – the film could have been a sequence of meticulously planned stills – the ambience defines the spirit of the 60s. Of an era, which startled us with its dope and politics and several small and big revolutions and the never-say-die spirit of some who made sure that those years did not leave us even after becoming a phase from long, long ago.
If one may quote thinker Erich Fromm, it makes us think about the difference between the ‘being’ and ‘having’ modes of existence. Living in times that can be best described as appallingly confused, it makes us pray for yesterday once more.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
CRITIC RAJ
BY BISWADEEP GHOSH
RGV has turned into a critics’ critic in his blog. Does he have any business to massacre those whose job is to dissect a film thoroughly? What gives him the right to say that our critics don’t know their job, or that they write pompously worded sentences which convey nothing at all? Why is he getting personal with some of our critics, who may or may not made films but have acquired some sort of recognition as an analyst of the audio-visual medium?
Without taking the RGV route – don’t think am good enough to make a film, so cannot –let me say that the one problem Indian criticism suffers from is that of inconsistency. Indeed, inconsistency is like a chronic disease which few have been able to get rid of, resulting in wrong films getting the sort of treatment (five stars, stuff like that) which they simply do not deserve.
If Ram Gopal Varma Ki Aag was a colossal tragedy – even RGV agrees – it is wrong to brutalise Sarkar Raj in the same tone. For, Sarkar Raj deals with a tricky subject, and the director steers its plot very well. There are some weaknesses, no doubt about it, but then no film can be completely flawless. Besides, what we perceive as a shortcoming is a subjective view. What one thinks is a pothole can be Taj Mahal in the eyes of someone else. That is the essence of all criticisms of art, whether or not we want to accept it.
Having said that, Sarkar Raj would have been a watchable film even if the plot had been really vague. The reason: the Big B’s extraordinary performance. A couple of decades later, many critics might actually term this one as Bachchan’s greatest performance ever. Talking about cricket, the Indian batting maestro Sunil Gavaskar had once said that the toughest cricketing shot is the one that you don’t play. As an actor, similarly, the most difficult moments are those in which you don’t talk, in fact, do nothing at all except look, listen and react. It is in such moments that the Big B takes the film to a different level. Being a music lover, I heard the Sounds of Silence. And, rest assured, I wasn’t the only one.
That Sarkar Raj has a convincing story, a fairly decent performance by the Small B and the presence of some interesting minor characters makes it a very good watch. It also has some highly imaginative lighting, good camerawork, smart editing…what else can one ask for? May be, Aishwarya needed a meaty role. Perhaps, there should have been much less emphasis on Govinda, Govinda, Govinda…. Some of the minor characters were irritatingly theatrical. However, even if many critics hated the film just as many film viewers like yours truly loved it, is it fair to say that this is one merit-less film that should not have been made?
It is high time we took a compassionate and genuine stand on films coming out of Bollywood. Let us not forget that the maker spends more time in making a film than we do while running it down.
Friday, March 14, 2008
GIVING ACTORS THEIR DUE? YOU MUST BE KIDDING!
BISWADEEP GHOSH
In a website poll on underrated actors in India, I came across a lot of names. There was Pankaj Kapoor who I think is extraordinary; Irrfan Khan who can be brilliant when he is not repeating itself in the trying-hard-to-make-you-laugh roles; and Ranvir Sheorey who promises to grow into an even better actor with time.
Seldom do I post my views in such polls, one reason being that several faceless intruders who have just one thing to do – nothing – write absolute gibberish whose dominant presence eclipses the odd strand of serious thought. But, this time round, I did, choosing to talk about just one actor who could have done so much if the affluent fiefdoms of the industry hadn’t overlooked his presence. When he played the wicked and impulsive elder brother in Sarkar, he actually matched the Big B’s magisterial presence in every single frame. In Honeymoon Travels, he was a parochial Bengali guy married to a freedom-loving girl; in Black Friday, the cop Rakesh Maria who had investigated the roots of the 1993 Mumbai blasts; and in Life in a…Metro, a selfish husband in a selfish extra-marital affair. Kay Kay Menon. You know he is the guy I am talking about.
Yes, you know Kay Kay. That’s why he and other guys like him should consider themselves lucky. In a superstars-and-megabucks-driven industry such as ours, these actors cannot get any more attention even if they deserve it. It doesn’t matter if a Pankaj Kapoor can pull off an Al Pacino act as the protagonist. That Kay Kay can step into the shoes of a character played by someone like Russell Crowe – or Kurt Russell – in a big-budget film is of no significance at all. For, such actors will never ever get the opportunity to bat ahead of big stars and score more runs than the latter can. A few such success stories can demolish fiefdoms, create new equations in which power will be decentralised, and even decant the so-called big stars into the zone of no return. Secure in their systems, loaded with cash, blessed with the loyalty of big stars, which big producer wants a change in which rules can be rewritten beyond recognition?
Not that the story ends there. Such is our industry that actors who aren’t stars are caught in an image trap. They are termed ‘character actors’ – which possibly implies that the stars play themselves while the others don’t! But, seriously speaking, the label of a ‘character actor’ is a curse whose power no spell on earth can diminish. What it essentially implies is that the victims of the branding do all the hard work to make a film work in its totality. But, the person who hijacks the promos, sings all the songs, get most solo frames, and the maximum amount of money is the star. He is the one who makes the film work. At the end of the day, the character actors are minor support systems who help the star because the latter is infinitely more talented and works the hardest of course!
Many viewers who have matured considerably are keen to see a systemic change. They will be happy to see many films in which the so-called character actors step into central roles. As of now, however, no one can see it happening. I am in that list.
What about you?
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
EXTRA, AND NOTHING
BISWADEEP GHOSH
A friend’s friend asked me the other day, “Wow! So you have written a book on SRK? How big are you?” I stared at the window in front of me, looked at my reflection, and replied, “I am not big. SRK is.” While I had stated a fact, what is also true is that I had enjoyed some adulation for a while when I had written the Hall of Fame book on Shah Rukh. People who knew me told me, often excitedly, that the mere act of keying in my name could lead to more than 1,000 references on any search engine. Acutely aware that I had nothing to deserve so many links, I used to keep shut. I still do, most uneasily.
SRK’s stardom – or, for that matter, that of Salman and Hrithik and Aishwarya, my other subjects – gave me the opportunity to write four biographies. But the most revealing episode, one that summarised the story of actual Bollywood, took place when I had gone to meet Manoj Bajpai. After speaking to Manoj, who was fresh from his exploits in Satya and Shool, I stepped out of the trailer van.
Suddenly, a tall and well-built man stopped me and said, “Hello, why don’t you publish my interview as well?"
Although I was familiar with all the famous and not-so-famous faces of Bollywood, here was a guy I couldn’t recognise. Inwardly cursing my own self for not knowing who he was, I asked, “Can you tell me about your latest film?”
“What? You haven’t seen me ever, is it?” he asked in a tone of dismay.
“No,” I stammered. By that time, I had realised that the fellow was wearing a wig and had several false teeth. From a distance, he had looked like a 35-year-old guy. But actually, he couldn’t have been less than 50.
“I have acted in more than 200 films. You will also see me in Dil Pe Mat Le Yaar in which Manojji is acting,” he said, adding, “I am there in one scene.”
“One scene?”
“Yes,” he said, adding in an accusatory manner, “That is since journalists don’t write about me. When you see the scene, you will realise that I am a fine actor.”
Unable to react, I sat down. He stood next to me and spoke to me for an hour, telling me all kinds of stories about the opportunities he had missed, the odd film which never got released. Several such stories, one after the other. “But, I am sure I will get a fine role some day. Don’t you think so?” he said.
I got up, murmured a diffident ‘yes’, patted his shoulder and walked off. I had taken down notes that I did not use. Being a professional journalist, I knew that few will be interested in reading his story in an entertainment magazine. So, here I am, talking about a guy who has acted in 200 films. I must have seen him in a few films ever since I had conducted a false interview with him. But, how could I have identified him, lost as he would have been in a big, big crowd of extras?
A friend’s friend asked me the other day, “Wow! So you have written a book on SRK? How big are you?” I stared at the window in front of me, looked at my reflection, and replied, “I am not big. SRK is.” While I had stated a fact, what is also true is that I had enjoyed some adulation for a while when I had written the Hall of Fame book on Shah Rukh. People who knew me told me, often excitedly, that the mere act of keying in my name could lead to more than 1,000 references on any search engine. Acutely aware that I had nothing to deserve so many links, I used to keep shut. I still do, most uneasily.
SRK’s stardom – or, for that matter, that of Salman and Hrithik and Aishwarya, my other subjects – gave me the opportunity to write four biographies. But the most revealing episode, one that summarised the story of actual Bollywood, took place when I had gone to meet Manoj Bajpai. After speaking to Manoj, who was fresh from his exploits in Satya and Shool, I stepped out of the trailer van.
Suddenly, a tall and well-built man stopped me and said, “Hello, why don’t you publish my interview as well?"
Although I was familiar with all the famous and not-so-famous faces of Bollywood, here was a guy I couldn’t recognise. Inwardly cursing my own self for not knowing who he was, I asked, “Can you tell me about your latest film?”
“What? You haven’t seen me ever, is it?” he asked in a tone of dismay.
“No,” I stammered. By that time, I had realised that the fellow was wearing a wig and had several false teeth. From a distance, he had looked like a 35-year-old guy. But actually, he couldn’t have been less than 50.
“I have acted in more than 200 films. You will also see me in Dil Pe Mat Le Yaar in which Manojji is acting,” he said, adding, “I am there in one scene.”
“One scene?”
“Yes,” he said, adding in an accusatory manner, “That is since journalists don’t write about me. When you see the scene, you will realise that I am a fine actor.”
Unable to react, I sat down. He stood next to me and spoke to me for an hour, telling me all kinds of stories about the opportunities he had missed, the odd film which never got released. Several such stories, one after the other. “But, I am sure I will get a fine role some day. Don’t you think so?” he said.
I got up, murmured a diffident ‘yes’, patted his shoulder and walked off. I had taken down notes that I did not use. Being a professional journalist, I knew that few will be interested in reading his story in an entertainment magazine. So, here I am, talking about a guy who has acted in 200 films. I must have seen him in a few films ever since I had conducted a false interview with him. But, how could I have identified him, lost as he would have been in a big, big crowd of extras?
Monday, March 10, 2008
SHAKESPEARE UNDER SIEGE
BISWADEEP GHOSH
I am not someone who loves quoting others for the heck of it; simply because I believe that we shouldn’t say what we cannot because of someone else. Such an indulgence is not a great thing, is it? But, as a writer who has been struggling to transcend prosaic mediocrity for a while – occasionally succeeding, but mostly not – there are times when the thought of a great writer needs to be borrowed. Hence, a quote becomes necessary. Can the situation be evaded? Certainly yes, if one were to plagiarise the essence of the thought, rephrase it with badly used words, and make it sound like one’s own. Does that happen? It does, which is why the average muggle googles away, searching for extraordinary phrases of extraordinary mortals.
Lately, however, a couple of aspiring writers have touched new lows. (You want names? That’s easy. Read everything published everywhere every day). They have been whacking lines – from one of the countless quotable quote sites – and using them in their articles shamelessly, stupidly. The obvious assumption is that they are addressing millions of morons who don’t own a single book with broken spines. So, Chesterton enters the article; Bernard Shaw intrudes after a few more; and suddenly, out of nowhere, a phrase from Freud leaps towards the unsuspecting reader, says a quick ‘hello’ and pretends to be a part of the article a second thereafter. Not a single word is changed and the sentence sparkles, sticking out as an oddity. For some inexplicable reason, such guys seem secure in the knowledge that no one will catch them. Besides, as long as they are lifting from writers who are no longer alive, the act doesn’t bother them. After all, dead people do not sue.
The situation is reminiscent of the era when a book reviews page was mandatory in every newspaper. People used to read then. Today, they watch the TV. That is why. However, some small regional newspapers sought to emulate their bigger counterparts by keeping non-specialist books editors for handling books pages. The result: the pages got manhandled. Just about anyone wrote reviews, and murder the writers without understanding a word of what the latter said.
With writers who cut and paste because they are incapable of piloting an article with their own phrases and thoughts, things are very, very similar. How one wishes someone told them not to look like fools on a regular basis? On second thoughts, even if someone actually did, will they understand and change? Unlikely. Only, they might stop whacking from Shakespeare because of whom they might have been caught, and lift from Ogden Nash instead. Which writer they maul doesn’t matter, as long they live to see another day, and write another article!
I am not someone who loves quoting others for the heck of it; simply because I believe that we shouldn’t say what we cannot because of someone else. Such an indulgence is not a great thing, is it? But, as a writer who has been struggling to transcend prosaic mediocrity for a while – occasionally succeeding, but mostly not – there are times when the thought of a great writer needs to be borrowed. Hence, a quote becomes necessary. Can the situation be evaded? Certainly yes, if one were to plagiarise the essence of the thought, rephrase it with badly used words, and make it sound like one’s own. Does that happen? It does, which is why the average muggle googles away, searching for extraordinary phrases of extraordinary mortals.
Lately, however, a couple of aspiring writers have touched new lows. (You want names? That’s easy. Read everything published everywhere every day). They have been whacking lines – from one of the countless quotable quote sites – and using them in their articles shamelessly, stupidly. The obvious assumption is that they are addressing millions of morons who don’t own a single book with broken spines. So, Chesterton enters the article; Bernard Shaw intrudes after a few more; and suddenly, out of nowhere, a phrase from Freud leaps towards the unsuspecting reader, says a quick ‘hello’ and pretends to be a part of the article a second thereafter. Not a single word is changed and the sentence sparkles, sticking out as an oddity. For some inexplicable reason, such guys seem secure in the knowledge that no one will catch them. Besides, as long as they are lifting from writers who are no longer alive, the act doesn’t bother them. After all, dead people do not sue.
The situation is reminiscent of the era when a book reviews page was mandatory in every newspaper. People used to read then. Today, they watch the TV. That is why. However, some small regional newspapers sought to emulate their bigger counterparts by keeping non-specialist books editors for handling books pages. The result: the pages got manhandled. Just about anyone wrote reviews, and murder the writers without understanding a word of what the latter said.
With writers who cut and paste because they are incapable of piloting an article with their own phrases and thoughts, things are very, very similar. How one wishes someone told them not to look like fools on a regular basis? On second thoughts, even if someone actually did, will they understand and change? Unlikely. Only, they might stop whacking from Shakespeare because of whom they might have been caught, and lift from Ogden Nash instead. Which writer they maul doesn’t matter, as long they live to see another day, and write another article!
Saturday, March 08, 2008
DO WE NEED A WOMAN’S DAY?
BISWADEEP GHOSH
Hello, weak and powerless women, it is time to declare from the rooftops what you don’t have but deserve. That sounds so utterly, gutterly stupid. But, who listens, who bothers, who cares? As the world comes together to celebrate womanhood today, what we choose to ignore is that, in modern times, most urban women do get what they want. They have good jobs, social standing, equality with men in the domestic sphere and so on. So, is there a genuine need for a Woman’s Day in urban societies that supposedly reminds women of their power, their privileges, their status in the society? When we celebrate the day, don’t we, in certain unstated ways, affirm that the society is divided into two classes: that of the Fair Sex and the Unfair Sex?
Someone who wishes to view the situation in a lighter vein may exclaim: ‘Men of the world unite. You have nothing to lose but your gender.’ But seriously, what the celebrations suggest isn’t funny. For one, we choose to honour genuine women achievers not because of what they have achieved but since they ‘are’ women who have ‘managed’ to script success stories. What we forget is that such success stories have been, and will be, there. There is no need to under-rate them with the eulogies in a limiting day-and-gender-specific context.
The implication, however, is not that women’s rights don’t need to be articulated. In uncivil societies where a woman’s birthrights are denial and oppression, voices need to be raised against man’s sexist dictatorship both within the house and outside. Without indulging in armchair theorising to discuss the Susani Faludis of the world, it is important to check out the state of affairs and contribute in one’s small way. Strangely enough, this is where most surrender without a fight.
Such individuals are convinced that if one attempts to change the society, the society changes him/her. But they go on and on about Woman’s Day on Woman’s Day as if there is nothing more important, nothing more meaningful. Their approach is so utterly credible since few twitch their eyebrows in discomfort because of two obvious reasons. For many men who believe that the society must not change, the day epitomizes all the dubious connotations of the tired cliché ‘man’s world’. For others, and that includes women too, the day is all about taking the shortest escape route to make a pompous statement of gender equality. A few are genuine. But then, they would always be that way, with or without a Woman’s Day.
Woman’s Day ought to disappear from our list of annual celebrations. In fact, it must. However, the desire is nothing more than demential optimism, guided as we all are by Mesozoic social norms. The celebration of ‘triumphs against adversities’ – whether or not they exist in all those cases – does nothing beyond reminding of the power of the man. But, who gives a damn anyway?
Hello, weak and powerless women, it is time to declare from the rooftops what you don’t have but deserve. That sounds so utterly, gutterly stupid. But, who listens, who bothers, who cares? As the world comes together to celebrate womanhood today, what we choose to ignore is that, in modern times, most urban women do get what they want. They have good jobs, social standing, equality with men in the domestic sphere and so on. So, is there a genuine need for a Woman’s Day in urban societies that supposedly reminds women of their power, their privileges, their status in the society? When we celebrate the day, don’t we, in certain unstated ways, affirm that the society is divided into two classes: that of the Fair Sex and the Unfair Sex?
Someone who wishes to view the situation in a lighter vein may exclaim: ‘Men of the world unite. You have nothing to lose but your gender.’ But seriously, what the celebrations suggest isn’t funny. For one, we choose to honour genuine women achievers not because of what they have achieved but since they ‘are’ women who have ‘managed’ to script success stories. What we forget is that such success stories have been, and will be, there. There is no need to under-rate them with the eulogies in a limiting day-and-gender-specific context.
The implication, however, is not that women’s rights don’t need to be articulated. In uncivil societies where a woman’s birthrights are denial and oppression, voices need to be raised against man’s sexist dictatorship both within the house and outside. Without indulging in armchair theorising to discuss the Susani Faludis of the world, it is important to check out the state of affairs and contribute in one’s small way. Strangely enough, this is where most surrender without a fight.
Such individuals are convinced that if one attempts to change the society, the society changes him/her. But they go on and on about Woman’s Day on Woman’s Day as if there is nothing more important, nothing more meaningful. Their approach is so utterly credible since few twitch their eyebrows in discomfort because of two obvious reasons. For many men who believe that the society must not change, the day epitomizes all the dubious connotations of the tired cliché ‘man’s world’. For others, and that includes women too, the day is all about taking the shortest escape route to make a pompous statement of gender equality. A few are genuine. But then, they would always be that way, with or without a Woman’s Day.
Woman’s Day ought to disappear from our list of annual celebrations. In fact, it must. However, the desire is nothing more than demential optimism, guided as we all are by Mesozoic social norms. The celebration of ‘triumphs against adversities’ – whether or not they exist in all those cases – does nothing beyond reminding of the power of the man. But, who gives a damn anyway?
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