A new-age Bollywood

I had this in mind for a very long time, but Mr. Sottai insisted I go ahead. Here you go:

Move aside Mr. Johar and Mr. Chopra. Make way for a new breed in ‘Bollywood’ filmmaking—a breed that is not afraid to tell stories, to express desires, to flaunt psychotic tendencies and to show-off creativity.

‘A Wednesday’, for me, is one of the path-breaking movies in this respect. With a screenplay tighter than a corsette, it moves flawlessly, beckoning the audience to be encapsulated in an urban thriller digressing towards a moral dilemma. Furthermore, it might be one of the few movies where the protagonist is nameless, a representative of the middle class, yet an individual who is willing to take action. What marks it out from the rest of the lot, is the simplicity with which the story is told—there is no time wasted on the rituals of character explanation, and leaves it up to the audience to decide the nuances.

While all this talk of a new Bollywood breed is on, let’s not forget the harbinger—Mr. Kashyap, who, unfortunately, has taken up for himself to be the torch in this new Statue of Liberty. But the torch wavers; it flickers in the gale of commercialism and an inability to deliver the premise of the film. For example, ‘Gulaal’, probably post-2000’s only mainstream revolutionary film, if we discount the beautiful ‘Hazaaron Khwaishein Aisi’ as a parallel cinema, fails to show the path that it amazingly lights up in the first half. With an array of the most interesting characters to have graced Indian screens and in a setting that has never been touched in cinema, Mr. Kashyap should have had the good graces to not tumble down the lowly slopes of romantic intrigues and femme fatales. Instead, he does. And the movie, instead of becoming a ground-breaking film, ends up a jamboree of characters who do not know where to proceed, now that they have gone two hours into the film.

A bit about ‘Dev D’ here—which, of course, has been hailed as the ultra-chic and an in-your-face film that has no holds barred. Yes, it is an interesting twist to the traditional Devdas tale. Yes, it shows a deep psychological insight into the characters, as never before. No—it does not work as a reflection of the cesspit Mr. D falls into—the result of a broken heart. Why—because, simply, his relationship with Paro is not defined. His relationship with Paro is a culmination of boyhood fantasies which border on sexual release and the display of machismo. And, most importantly, his relationship with Paro does not appear to be obsessive enough for him to digress into a path of supposedly ‘moral decay’, as marked by Aronofsky and Kashyap’s new best friend Danny Boyle-dedicated 360 degree camera turns and neon lights blinking revealing a drug trip.

But forget the media hype for now. And instead, watch ‘The Stoneman Murders’. Indeed, it has its flaws. There was no need for a lingerie-clad madam to be performing a traditional ‘item’ number. Neither was the concluding scene. Rather—watch it for it represents—an edge-of-the-seat thriller that twists and turns into a maze of cat and mouse, where you never know who the predator is and who the prey. Notice the film posters on the walls—the details are all in there—keeping in mind a basic point of filmmaking: the time and place should not be anachronistic to the event on the screen.

It’s not as if our big budget starrers are not trying to break the mould. ‘Luck by Chance’ is an example—spoofing the inherent tendencies of Bollywood’s obsession with stars and not with actors.

That draws me to an interesting concluding question—is Bollywood getting over the hype of the star, and instead, focusing on the story and the actor? Or is it just a phase—like the time we thought ‘Lagaan’ would show us all a new Bollywood?

Whatever it is—just promise me one thing, all ye directors: never put me through the trauma of another ‘Delhi 6’.

Hunger pangs

In response to Varun Gandhi's over-the-top overture in the wilds of Pilibhit. Had written a long time back, though.

The mob moved ahead, weapons brandished as if they were divine gifts. Their leader, a restive young man in ruffled hair and a cheap orange shirt from the pavement, was urging his followers to move on, reclaim what was once theirs.
The mob didn’t need to be told that. They were hungry, yes, they were. For exacting revenge on the cut-dick bastards who had gone over the top this time. This time, once and for all, things had to be sorted out.
“Remember those martyrs, those pure of heart, who got burnt alive. Those innocents, roasted inside a compartment just the way these fuckers roast their goats. It’s time for us to show them who we really are, won’t we?” the man asked upon his crowd.
The colony looked haunted. Dark - the lights had been cut off a long time ago – except for a yellow bulb giving short glimpses whenever it came within the range of their eyes. It seemed like the gods were on their side – darkness would be the perfect time for a massacre. All the blood, it could seriously unnerve some of the younger ones. Plus if there are any witnesses…..nay, there wouldn’t be.
But they were too late. The entire colony was empty. Not a single human soul now resided in the huts, nor moved among the dark alleys, stepping over the drain that flowed onto the road.

They had moved out in the very first days of the riot.

“Shit. I think these fuckers have already gone to the relief camps,” one of them shouted.
“I knew these guys were too smart to stick around waiting for us to attack.”
“They must have left at night, when our boys went back home.”
Slowly, the mob reached a frenzy. Heated discussions over whose fault it was became the point of the hour. Fingers were pointed, abuses to one’s mother began simmering in the air.
But all of them heard the whimper.
It was a sound of pain, of immeasurable agony.
“It came from this corner,” pointing towards the alley opposite.

A dog slowly appeared in their view. It was an emaciated bitch, her ribs’ presence overpowered by the bulge in her stomach and the overflowing teats.
“It’s just a bloody dog.”
It came towards them, wagging her tail, expecting a bone or if lucky enough, a piece of meat as the others did before they left.
It never saw the blade’s glitter before its head rolled off to the side, its body spraying blood and thrashing around.
“What did you do that for?” asked a man, closest to the dog and recipient of a splatter as well.
The restive man just shrugged, and said “I think it was one of theirs’.”

unemployment blues

when the going gets tough, there is no place to hide.

2 and a half months and counting. unemployed still. surviving by on daily subsistence levels. realizing the best (and only, so far) offer i had was of an internship that paid less than what half of India earns a day. (That's 100 bucks--what i was getting and what more than half of India earns)
Wow!!!

This 'recession' everyone's been talking about--how real a recession is it really?
firstly--India doesn't suffer from recession. It's a slowdown. S-L-O-W-D-O-W-N
secondly--thank the Communists. they've saved India.
thirdly--it's just a fucking excuse for layoffs. cost-cutting benefit analysis.

I am just back from a 5-star. All the lights in the lobby were on. All the valets were working. They had candles on the lobby tables even whiles the bloody lights were on. Stupid stupid aesthetic sense--mine, obviously, not theirs. How dumb of me not to notice--it's the look, dammit.

My friendly Rastaman still grins. Thankfully. My girlfriend is still with me. Thankfully. My maid still takes an off on Sundays. Thankfully.

unemployment blues/ooooooh
life's all loooose/oooooh
i croon all day like a burnt fuse/ooooh
and everyone believes it's all a ruse/ooooooh