Saturday, February 21, 2009
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Killing Margaret Atwood's work
Perhaps one of the most reductive, not to mention badly written, and absolutely un-researched pieces I have read about a writer. The victim this time is Margaret Atwood. Sadly it was carried out by The Hindu Literary Supplement. Click here to read.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Thursday, January 22, 2009
The Bachchan-Boyle-blog saga; or the Slumdog story
Danny Boyle’s little film, Slumdog Millionaire has made it big. With four Golden Globe wins including major ones like Best Film and Best Director have made it an Oscar favourite. As was expected, a film like this would have encouraged yawns from the Indian masses and at best would have received critical nods and intellectual appraisal at film festivals. But then Rahman went and won a Golden Globe and we went a tad berserk that an Indian received an international award, and dreams for India’s first actual Oscar (Satyajit Ray’s was an honorary one, and Aamir was always a non-starter) have resurfaced at an embarrassing level. For some reason the Oscars appear sacrosanct to us, the superior awards to the lowly, Third-World, manipulations evident at the Filmfare etc. Since we have taken to worshipping Aamir Khan, his word against popular awards is the word of god and his weird preference for ‘untainted’ Oscars makes them holy.
But Aamir aside, Slumdog is unique in the reception it has received more than a fortnight before its release. Agreed that it is the most pirated films of all time, but I do wonder if the all-knowing, opinionated public has really watched the film, or is the public just judging it for the inevitable indignation that is considered politically correct behaviour from any Third-World citizen. I am most curious to find out if Amitabh Bachchan, the most “disgusted” of the lot has actually seen the film.
What Bachchan said: “If Slumdog Millionaire projects India as a third-world, dirty, underbelly developing nation and causes pain and disgust among nationalists and patriots, let it be known that a murky underbelly exists and thrives even in the most developed nations. It’s just that the Slumdog Millionaire idea, authored by an Indian and conceived and cinematically put together by a westerner, gets creative global recognition.”
Bachchan acknowledges that the film is based on a book by an Indian but doesn’t quite realize that that contradicts his statement. Even if one is to agree with him about the Orientalist view of Danny Boyle or any white man for that matter, this is a unique case as the meat for the film comes from an Indian.
The cast of Slumdog was vehement in its defense of the film. Actor Irrfan Khan said, “The film is based on (a work of) fiction and it takes a cue from what Vikas Swarup narrates in his book Q&A. It is not that Swarup wrote the book in the backdrop of Mumbai's posh south Mumbai locality and Boyle deliberately set his film against the background of the city's slum in order to run down India's economic progress…Anyway, why get jittery about India's poverty and try to hide it? Because, the fact is, we are a poor country and poverty is there for all to see. Is there any harm if it is highlighted in a film for the sake of realism?”
No one quite expected the kind of backlash Bachchan’s statement invoked, the sharpest of them all coming from a blogger with The Guardian in UK. Nirpal Dhariwal said, “Bachchan is no doubt riled, as many other Bollwood no-talents will be, about the fact that the best film to be made about India in recent times has been made by a white man, Danny Boyle. Bachchan gave one of the worst English-language performances in cinematic history with his embarrassingly stupid portrayal of an ageing thespian in The Last Lear. Having failed miserably at cultivating a western audience, it must hurt him to be so monumentally upstaged by white folk on his home turf.
The bitter truth is, Slumdog Millionaire could only have been made by westerners. The talent exists in India for such movies: much of it, like the brilliant actor Irrfan Khan, contributed to this film. But Bollywood producers, fixated with making flimsy films about the lives of the middle class, will never throw their weight behind such projects. Like Bachchan, they are too blind to what India really is to deal with it. Poor Indians, like those in Slumdog, do not constitute India's "murky underbelly" as Bachchan moronically describes them. They, in fact, are the nation. Over 80% of Indians live on less than $2.50 (£1.70) a day; 40% on less than $1.25. A third of the world's poorest people are Indian, as are 40% of all malnourished children. In Mumbai alone, 2.6 million children live on the street or in slums, and 400,000 work in prostitution. But these people are absent from mainstream Bollywood cinema.
Bachchan's blinkered comments prove how hopelessly blind he and most of Bollywood are to the reality of India and how wholly incapable they are of making films that can address it. Instead, they produce worthless trash like Jaane Tu, Rock On!! and Love Story 2050, full of affluent young Indians desperately, and mostly idiotically, trying to look cool and modern.”
Meanwhile, the media quoted Boyle saying he respects the view of Bachchan. Though no actual quotes of Boyle saying this are available, perhaps him not defending the film was construed as such.
In the days that followed, Big B, as Bachchan is popularly referred to, has backtracked, (who wouldn’t in the face of unprecedented criticism that you are just not used to) and has once again used his most popular tactic till date – an amused criticism of the media. He has gone on about how headlines are picked and how it is morally incorrect and what have you. How he managed to convince people (and by that I mean Danny Boyle) that a headline like Big B rubbishes Slumdog, is not appropriate for his statement about the movie disgusting nationalists and patriots is anyone’s guess. Bachchan has also written an official letter to The Guardian saying that attacks on his person by reporters and bloggers of this paper display the “most extraordinary level of misreporting.”
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Thoughts on Revolutionary Road
There is no dearth of films on the darkness of suburban life in America. In fact we get at least one every year. As far as content goes, Sam Mendes’ Revolutionary Road is nothing new.
A young couple move to the suburbs after their first pregnancy, looking for a stable background for the life that is to come and for themselves. Few years and two children down the line, it hits them that they aren’t happy with their lives, and the stableness they once desired. The wife suggests moving to Paris – a long unfulfilled dream of her husband’s, where he can take some time off while she provides for the family. After some initial hesitation, the husband is on board. The couple, excited for the first time in years, make plans, announcements and dreams. As luck would have it, the husband’s meaningless job suddenly becomes more lucrative, forcing him to rethink, he does, and thus begins the crashing of dreams and a family.
The hollow emptiness that surrounds the lives of Frank (Leonardo Dicaprio) and April Wheeler (Kate Winslet) has been staple fodder in Hollywood for years. Think back to American Beauty, Donnie Darko or even the other Kate Winslet starrer Little Children. The emptiness eats people on the one hand, and gradually, the monstrous City—which stands in stark comparison to the suburbs—looks more colourful and more alive.
It is therefore not the story that makes Revolutionary Road special, but the characters who may live the lives of stock suburban figures in cinema, but embody greater detail in the way they’ve been built. As he narrates his one lasting memory of his father’s company, Frank says that the one thing he wanted was to not become like him, and here he is, working for the same company. The sense of superiority that was there in him when he sub-consciously distanced himself from his father’s way of life, stayed with him and we see glimpses of it in his very demeanor. He feels superior to his co-workers, to his neighbours and of course to his wife.
April on the other hand is no longer sure that they are in fact superior to the lot that lives falsely content lives in the suburbs. She is doing the dishes, looking after her children and exchanging gardening tips like any other woman. Her failed attempt at acting has only proven that she can no longer boast of being above the rest. Instead, it gives the riff-raff of her neighbourhood a chance to judge her. She reminds Frank of the man he used to be, who she thought was ‘the most exciting man (she had) ever met’, and wants to see that energy in him again. The confidence that was explicit in her body language in the snapshots of her pre-marital life has waned and she wants the edge back. In the guise of giving her husband the time to be the intellectual he has aspired to be, she is looking to gain control.
Frank laughs at the lowly, backward notion of his friend Shep when he expresses shock and contempt at the thought of April supporting him while he sits back, but it is ultimately the idea of control that becomes the deciding factor. Questioning Frank’s manhood is the recurring motif throughout the film – which leads him to try and prove it in the most traditional way – violence. The thought of earning more, going beyond the man his father was, one who can stand proud in front of his children because he has given them the perfect life is a temptation he can’t avoid.
The other recurring figure of suburbia is a mentally disturbed character. Michael Shannon plays John Givings the institutionalised son of their neighbour and land-lady. As is expected, he is the only person who ‘truly understands’ what they mean when they say they want to escape the hollow emptiness. They are happy to see he approves, as if it is a true indicator of his genius and the greatness of their plan. However, when he speaks the truth once again and questions Frank’s manhood, he is a crazed lunatic who should be shut up in an asylum where him and his views belong. In the suburbs, the mad are the sane.
The film does give in to hysteria every now and again becoming at points a little too shrill, but when it is contrasted with lasting silence—and Mendes does that at strategic points and with the control of a master—the silence becomes loaded with anticipation, frustration and hope, all at the same time.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Death of an actor…
One of the best publicity campaigns in the history of Indian cinema was designed for Ghajini. The anticipation for this film was like none other. Internet movie portals had a glorious December with page-views increasing ten folds each time they mentioned the word Ghajini. It was as if there was something magical about the word, that made people leave anything they were doing and lap up gossip, information, sneak peeks, pictures and trailers of the film. Brand partners of the film – Van Heusen, Tata Sky and Samsung too got a piece of the pie and pushed their products through their star – the one, the only Aamir Khan. His newly worked out look, the eight-pack that defeated Shah Rukh’s measly six-pack was the headliner at dinner-table conversations. The two girls of the film were royally ignored and no one minded that. The director was ignored and no one minded that either. After all, how many directors are there who are willing to tell the same, stolen, stale story twice. While we were busy giving ourselves embarrassed sighs over the dominance of remakes of Hollywood films, we didn’t see a more sinister trend coming up –remake of a remake of a remake. Plato and his Republic died all over again.
A R Murugadoss made the first attempt at copying Christoper Nolan’s Memento in 2005 with the Tamil Ghajini starring Surya Sivakumar, Asin and Pradeep Rawat. The version we see today has the same cast with the exception of Aamir Khan who has replaced Surya Shivakumar and Jiah Khan who has replaced Nayantara.
The story is of a man whose fiancé was killed and he was given a massive blow on the head that lead to short term memory loss. He plans to kill the killer, which is not an ordinary task given his 15-minute memory span. He makes notes and takes photos of things and people to remind himself of his agenda.
It’s a unique storyline, but the kind whose novelty wears off after the first time (which was Memento). The Aamir Khan starrer, being the third, has nothing new to offer and is therefore little more than a miserable copy. A film like this, which has a weak storyline does the predictable – and tries over the top methods of populating itself. Unnecessary and graphic violence was the means by which Murugadoss chose to overcome this lack. His characters were weak and poorly defined, take Ghajini for instance, played by Pradeep Rawat - an actor who hails from the South was forced to adopt a Harayanvi accent, something that he was ill at ease with and something that did not gel with his appearance at all, especially given that he slipped out of it every now and again (I wouldn’t call that perfection, would you?). He was clearly a man of influence, even publicly, but what exactly his profession was, was undefined. He attended college functions as the chief guest but also made regular appearances to kill people – personally.
The real disappointment is however, Aamir’s character – Sanjay Singhania. Unfortunately, the director and the writers haven’t quite figured out for themselves the stand they want to take about short term memory loss. His 15 minute memory span expands and compresses as per need of the moment. He can be in an act and not remember why but also reach from one end of Mumbai to the next without any memory loss problems. Continuity and logic have taken the toll badly in this film. There is an interesting moment in the film when we see the renewed shock of Kalpana’s (Asin) death for Sanjay when he takes his shirt off and reads the message. But Aamir Khan gets so busy showing off his body and admiring it himself that few would be fooled into believing he is reading devastating messages. His disorder is mixed up with bouts of madness (for people like him it seems it’s the same thing) as he lives in a state of animal rage. And by animal, I mean real, growling, jumping, snarling type of animal. He goes from making sounds and gestures like dogs, tigers and even King Kong for that matter. Sadly, this is the man who gave us the most incredible portrayal a character ever saw – in Rangeela. Even he, who is widely projected as a perfectionist, never bothered to understand the logistics of short term memory loss and follow at least something consistently. The renewed shock of a man over the murder of his fiancée can be a challenging role, especially if the aim is to prevent it from being run-of-the-mill and repetitive. Instead Aamir chose to snarl to show blind rage. Not novel, not perfect.
Meanwhile, Asin who made a bold statement saying she too is a perfectionist like Aamir, made a forced attempt at a bubbly personality. In her defense, she may have done it well the first time around and lost steam by the second. Anyone who needs to reinstate her ‘jadu ki chhadi’ status repeatedly is surely not confident of her charm and ‘magic’ reaching out to people.
Jiah Khan meanwhile was so badly cast that little else can be said about her. Her weird accent coming and going, her static expression and poor dialogue delivery did not help this crumbling film.
The people may go to the theatres out of sheer curiosity, but that just means the PR people behind this film were brilliant, not the film itself.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Review: Vicky Cristina Barcelona
Few would believe that the hyper Woody Allen has it in him to make a film like Vicky Cristina Barcelona. His films so far have been witty, fast-paced and likeable, especially when he isn’t in them because he can play but one character – himself. Vicky Cristina Barcelona however looks like it’s made by a wholly different person. One whose soul agenda is not to convey his great wit and intelligence to his audience.
The story is about two women, Vicky (Rebecca Hall) and Cristina (Scarlett Johansson) who travel to Barcelona for a vacation. There they meet the sexually aggressive Juan Antonio (Javier Bardem). Cristina in her forced post-Modern outlook is immediately attracted to his predatory skills, while the overly balanced Vicky is more than cynical about him and ‘method’. His suave, European demeanour wins them over and they accompany him to his birthplace, also in Spain. This leads to a number of friendships, relationships, loves and betrayals, and that’s what the film is about.
We hear a constant narratorial voice that actually tells us the story, sometimes giving us information in advance leading to heightened anticipation, and sometimes withholding just the right amount - for shock value. The beauty of this story lies in its simplicity, or rather apparent simplicity as is enforced by the narrator, who is, like all good narrators, matter-of-fact about the story he tells. That we hear the most wonderfully bizarre story in the most traditional way of story-telling is interesting. The voice of the narrator is perhaps the single strongest force that ensures the smooth flow of the story. There is an ease with which the story is told that makes even a threesome seem like a spiritual, uplifting idea.
The characters are well built and contribute to the strange ride this film is. My personal favourite is Cristina, who is a painful mix of progressive and a forced progressive. Her studied attempts at being impulsive are hilarious, yet, when the straightjacketed Doug (Vicky’s fiancée) criticizes her lack of respect for ‘normal values’ as pretentious, the joke is on him. Similarly, Vicky, who starts out as the most stable, reasoning character of the film, turns into an emotional mess after one escapade with Juan Antonio. A good combination of the two is Juan Antonio himself, who embodies both these opposing forces.
A late entrant, Mary Elena (Penelope Cruz) brings in madness and a raw sexual energy that changes the tone of the film. The constantly touch-and-go relationships that she enters into are Woody Allen’s unique touch and her actual impulsiveness makes her the most attractive character.
The actors have helped Allen a great deal in realizing this little film. Unfortunately, Scarlett Johansson is not drastically different in this Woody Allen film than any other though she fits the role well. Javier Bardem plays out a great balancing act between the stable and not-so-stable aspects of Juan Antonio’s character. It is however, Penelope Cruz who steals the show.
No one who sinks into the film (as most viewers will) can miss the lovely background score that suits the film well and compliments the story being told.
You can call the film meta-normative, you can say the relationships occupy an alternative space, you can pitch the romance of Spain against the lack thereof of America and see the subtleties of moralities in it, but for me, Vicky Cristina Barcelona is just telling a story. It’s a great story and it is told well. And that is enough.
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