ReMatriculated

It’s been over a decade (more than 11 years even) since I first saw a film called The Matrix during its third or fourth week in cinemas. For curiosity sake more than anything, really. I didn’t know cyberpunk from skapunk, it’s safe to say. Back then, people who had seen it, all back and said, “Oh, you have to watch it!”. Hmmm. Next, I’d obviously ask what it was about. Far too often have people told me that I simply had to watch some film and I did. It was only after I’d actually spent my time, money and patience on the film that I wished that someone had had the decency to actually tell me what it was about.

I won’t bore you with the entire Hall of Shame. Only the top five.
5) Rudaali
4) The Bounty Hunter
3) Daisies
2) Freddy Got Fingered
1) Close-Up

There’s probably some others that’ll come to me in the dead of the night, but for now I would have to say that’s my top five for this category. With this quintet of films and its ilk, I just wish someone had actually shared with me a rough idea of what the film was about before I decided to part with my time, money and patience.

With The Matrix, all I got from people were these extremely pointless responses like “Dude, it’s trippy” and “That’s a mind fuck” and tonnes more such vacuous descriptions. Of course then you had the real geniuses — those masters of description — whose response to my question was to lean back, look like their eyes were following an imaginary fly all over the room, flay their arms outwards and move extremely slowly to avoid said fly. There were quite a few of them who did that. (God bless IMDB. I no longer rely on fools for a plot summary.) The only thing that came anywhere close to the same neighbourhood as a real answer was a simple curt “It’s about human batteries”. I see... errr.. what? And that was where the curiosity stemmed from, because if you recall the promos and trailers around that period, they were equally vague. Intentionally so.

As I went into the cinema hall, I was sure it would end up being just a snazzy action film that people wanted to read too much into. It would be one of those things that people would want to sit “interpreting”, when all they were doing is creating something in their own head. (Requiem for a Dream is a good example of this phenomenon. It’s a superbly edited and shot film, I won’t deny that. But at the end of the day, there is very little that’s open to interpretation. It’s all sitting there in front of you.)

The little shot of the Warner Bros. studio and the Village Roadshow logos were bathed in a lovely colour of green and their texture looked odd too. Like it was in binary code or something. Fancy. The Heart o’ the City hotel. And then soon after came that unmistakeably calm yet ominous voice with some unique intonation, topped off with a lovely sophisticated and lyrical lilt (which over the next decade would turn its owner into a superstar).

“Lieutenant, you were given strict orders...”
And the lieutenant clearly tired of all the redtape and hierarchy in the system, fires off a crack about not wanting any of that “juris-my-dick-tion crap”. And besides, he’s already sent some two more units of the city’s finest to apprehend the suspect.
“No Lieutenant, your men are already dead...”

How did he know? Because he was Agent fuckin’ Smith. He knew everything. I’m going to have to do a tribute post one of these days about Hugo Weaving. I’ll call it From violent bowling to violent vendettas. I love it.

Anywho, I was really getting into this film. It was slowly making sense. It was coming together piece by piece. Keanu Reeves’ stoic (when I’m feeling less charitable, I’ll say wooden) acting worked perfectly with his role. Lawrence Fishburne was reinvented as people across the world forgot all about Cowboy Curtis. Joe Pantoliano never disappoints. Ever. And an androgynously pretty Carrie Anne-Moss paved the way for the tough-as-nails but head-over-heels-in-love female character in cinema (something Megan Fox failled at miserably in Transformers 2).

That’s the actors done. The story is phenomenal. Full stop. Let’s put it this way, the story and universe opened a door to a room for me. And that room is now one of the most important and vital rooms in my life — cyberpunk. I’d never have read William Gibson, Philip K. Dick, Greg Bear, Bruce Sterling or any other cyberpunk books had I not seen and been totally sold on The Matrix. There’s the unbeatable soundtrack that came out when I was just discovering acts like Rage Against The Machine, Rammstein etc. Then there’s obviously the action. More on this later.

Fast forward around just over three years and I was jumping around all over the place when I heard that they were going to put out not one, but two sequels in 2003. I went on the second day. Didn’t fancy going alone on Day 1 and going on Day 2 gave me the chance to meet Captain’s whacky European pals. I still recall the anguish I felt when they left that film at such an excruciatingly painful cliffhanger. Convincing Captain to sit through the credits was another task and a half. This was made more tedious by the fact that even the drivers for Keanu and Carrie seemed to have their own makeup artists and stunt coordinators. For what seemed like an eternity, these credits rolled and rolled and rolled until at last... the screen went black again. A teaser trailer for the final film in the series. Idiotically compelling “OHHHHH!!! DID YOU SEE THAT?” moments carried on into the night.

Later that year and on the day before the final chapter of the trilogy was released, LT, B and I couldn’t sleep and so we watched parts of The Matrix, Revolutions and what is probably one of the finest animé compilations out there, The Animatrix.

Around 10 hours later, as little Santi painted the sky in beautiful hues and enquired about whether she’d see Neo again, everything had come together full circle. All the loose ends had been tied and for the first time, the credits began rolling over an instrumental piece of music from the film’s score. The mood just seemed right. There wasn’t the “FUCK YEAH!!” adrenaline rush of the first one (complimented by Rage’s Wake Up). There wasn’t the “Ohhhh man, the final part is going to KILL!!!” of the second part (Rage again. Only this time it was Calm like a Bomb). There were vibes of completion, of closure and the melancholic finality of it all.

It’d be the first time in a while that a number of people I knew would be going to sleep at night, without flicking over ideas of what would eventually happen to Neo and the gang. There’d be no more heated marijuana-fuelled (seems like an oxymoron) discussions about what the final outcome would be, while one person would just sit quietly, nodding and rolling up. The bulletin boards would no longer speculate about storylines and be scattered with “exclusive” leaks.

Nostalgia trip over and long story short, I watched the trilogy over the past coupla days again after a long long time. Only this time, it was in High Definition. So all that action I was talking about earlier looked even more eye-popping. The blue tinges and hues (in Film 1) and the green tinges and hues (in Films 2 and 3) for one, REALLY stand out in HD. But, good graphics don’t mean good film (or video game even). That’s true.

Matrix Reloaded was a blip after the first film and Revolutions, while it certainly was better than the second film, just seemed to lack something. Something I couldn’t put my finger on and haven’t been able to, to this very day. But keep in mind that matching the original film’s quality would be nigh-on-impossible. Sure, you could throw in better (technology-wise) action sequences, but the perfect synergy between story and dialogue was something that I could never imagine the Wachowskis topping.

Think about it a second. Most of the dialogue is either very good or frickin’ superb. There’s only one crap line in it. Imagine that. 136 minute-long film. One crap line. You know the line I mean. Hehehe. No? Well it’s... nah... It’ll spoil the fun. So I’ll move on.

What I’m trying to say is that individually, the sequels aren’t as good as the original, but as a trilogy, it blew (and still blows) my mind. Someone once told me that the first film had the amazing ability to fill your intellect, whether it was the size of a thimble or a bucket. Truer words have yet to be uttered. And more than any of that, to me, The Matrix Trilogy was my trilogy. Everyone has a trilogy. For a tonne of people, it’s Star Wars (4,5,6). For some (I won’t be judgmental), it’s even Star Wars (1,2,3). Some swoon over the Lord of the Rings Trilogy and nowadays, even the Twilight Trilogy.

But, this was my trilogy and in HD, so much more so.

*puts on a pair of shades... looks left, then right, then upwards and flies off*

“whee.. whee.. whee.. whee.. whee.. whee.. COME ON!!!!”

A Scowl in the Gaudy Age of the Grotesque

Grotesque is easy to find, anywhere you look. A large man’s sweaty hairy ass-crack hanging out. Overflowing garbage dumps near restaurants. Being 60 and dressing like you were an 18 lady of the night. Makeup on nine-year-olds. iPopularity. And such like. But, we’re talking sports and entertainment. Arguably, the most grotesque of the lot (televised and shown in over 10 countries) is pro-wrestling.

Here’s merely one reason why — Katie Vick. On a show watched by kids all over the world. Yep. But then, WWF/E have always had to resort to gimmickry. I’m by no means suggesting that shit like that Katie Vick thing can be justified. Don’t get me wrong. But gimmicks, yes. All the fireworks, the entrance theme music, the massive screen and the video segments on it. Long and sometimes painfully long storylines. Cars being run over by other cars. People being run over by cars. Affairs of a sexual nature and so on and so forth.

But, I realise they have to resort to the gimmickry. Can you imagine how boring it would be for people to watch two hours of oiled men in spandex just grappling each other. Match after match? Why do you think normal wrestling sucks so much? Pro-wrestling tries to distract viewers from the actual wrestling aspect of it and throws all sorts of other things to keep them interested. Why do you think the “Divas” league in pro-wrestling was set up at all? Because they can really wrestle? Sure. Whatever you say. I’m not talking about actual women wrestlers here, like the ones who go to the Olympics.

Cricket on the other hand, in India at least (so basically 50 per cent of the world’s viewing population), is interesting enough to engage viewers for hours and hours. And this has been the case since long before the cheerleaders, the fireworks, Twenty20 or any of that other stuff entered the fray. Cricket doesn’t need things to be thrown in just to distract spectators. It’s not wrestling. Twenty20 was created as a format to hook newbies and bring them into cricket and not make them dislike the sport more.

Last night, I got a glimpse of just how bad things have become today and got a glimpse into Commissioner Modi’s nefarious scheme to kill cricket altogether. Random music playing at arbitrary intervals including two shocking theme songs (will elaborate at the very end) and a creepy — yes, that’s the best word — version of 7 Nation Army. Explosions going off, cheerleaders and an ass of an announcer yelling at the crowd to make some noise and demanding Mexican Waves every two minutes.

So much hard work just to distract people from the actual cricket on display. Bowlers having to wait till a song was over or till the announcer was done bellowing. The match seemed to revolve around the bullshit that was going on around the stadium. I’ve never ever thought very highly of television advertisements in the middle of cricket matches, but after last night, I will gladly put up with them, because at least I can change the channel. I’d happily eschew the charm and atmosphere of a stadium and watch the match on TV knowing that the dumb ass announcer can’t hurt my eardrums.

I’d miss out on impossibly long lines for refreshments with people shoving each other hard because obviously them getting their food and drinks first and getting in their seats first is the most important thing. I’d miss out on elbows in my face in my attempt to buy an overpriced cup of warm, syrupy and flat Pepsi. I think I’ll manage without that. I’d miss out on all the characters. I’d miss out on seeing people like this group of business yuppies, whose behaviour would probably make Tommy Lee and Nikki Sixx’ drunken antics seem polite. Chirmi was right. “The one thing business schools or B-schools don’t teach and bloody well should, is manners”.

Just in front of those fuckwits was an absolute legend. A skinny bespectacled guy wearing a Kolkata cap and jersey, who was a friend of the B-school boneheads (I think). His jersey bore the number 13 and his name (presumably, unless he stole the jersey)... Anuprit. This guy would get up and start gyrating as fast as he could, limbs akimbo, singing along to Kolkata’s ridiculous theme music — while actually knowing only one line. Good for him, the handicap of not actually knowing 90 per cent of the song didn’t stop him one bit. When his team hit its first six, he began shaking violently as he spasmed in his seat like some sort of localised tornado. I instinctively reached for my phone to call for an ambulance. I’m nice like that. His palms turn into fists with unfurled middle fingers and within the space of 4.3 seconds, he’s flipped off everyone at the stadium. The Man with the Fastest Fingers in the East — Anuprit 13. What a legend.

And then there was the cricket. Sure, it was good in parts. A Krappy Kolkata Kombination snuck past the Decidedly Complacent Deccan Chargers. Good match. I like watching a team snatch a loss from the jaws of victory as much as watching a team snatching victory from the jaws of a loss. This match had both elements. But it kept getting interrupted by the crowning jewels of grotesque that night.

“Too hot too cool, All the king’s men We rule!!! We too hot We too cool, Aamhi Kolkata We rule!!!” Anuprit 13 nearly burst a blood vessel every time excerpts from this Kolkata theme music played, which it did regularly. As for the Chargers’ they had Shaan singing some song that went along the lines of “Tum paan khaaoge, Hum chaar khaayenge.... Tum paad maaroge, Hum do maarenge”. Which roughly translates of course to: You eat one betel leaf, we’ll eat four and you fart once, we’ll do it twice. And these songs kept playing after every wicket, boundary, six, no ball, wide, every time the umpire coughed etc. etc. etc.

Relevance to cricket? None
Distraction from cricket? Total
Grotesque nature of the theme songs? Extreme
How did it make me feel? Scowl-y

Only because everyone’s doing it...

The biggest story of the week — a sad reflection of just how lame the week was in terms of news — was unquestionably the hoo-hah about the Indian remake of Simple Jack (remember Tropic Thunder?). I’m sure at least two or three other people have noted the shocking similarities between My Name is Khan and Simple Jack. It’s sadly not a theory for which I can with any semblance of a conscience take credit. Especially considering the fact that it was that bum Luke the Nuke who came up with it.

His reasoning?

- Jack isn’t quite firing on all cylinders *points at head* up there and neither is Khan.
- A woman empathises with Jack and finds his take on the world fascinating enough to fall in love with him. Ditto Khan.
- Jack loses his mother at a pivotal point of his life. As does Khan.

There were a few more. I cannot remember off the top of my head.

Wandered away from my damn point again. So, in what was a very slow week for news, the Shiv Sena took offence to comments made by Shah Rukh Khan about cricket transcending international boundaries blah blah blooey... “You’ll never work in this town again, you Pakistan-lover,” the Sena tells Khan and threatens to tear down cinema halls screening his new film. And calls for a ban on the film. Obviously.

Friday, February 12 saw the smooth release of the film, albeit with police protection for cinema halls. A few incidents of stone-pelting etc. notwithstanding, proceedings went off peacefully enough. It seemed the Sena chief had — not for the first time — bitten off more than he could chew in taking on a major public figure. I’m all for freedom of cinema and all that and I’m glad the film released. And yes, I began writing this post only because everyone else is talking about this.

Now, however, we’re changing the course that was originally plotted. Starboard! Right... Everyone who’s anyone came out and tweeted, facebook’ed, spoke or blogged about how this was a victory for democracy, for Indian people, for people who stand up to bullies and so on. Did no one realise how ridiculous it was to be getting all happy about something as trivial as a film release?

Spare me the naive rhetoric, but I do not buy the whole “We have to start somewhere and this generation is awakening at last” bullshit. Honestly, getting so Goddamn happy about a film releasing. The kind of money and power behind that film is more than sufficient to have ensured that the film would be a massive hit across India regardless of whether or not people went to watch it on the day of release.

As for the Sena, they’ve gone from being a solid force to a silly farce. Their antics get more cartoony by the day and their leader’s senility is slowly turning into an embarrassment for his son and family. There was no way in hell — even with the support of their mindless followers — that the Sena could possibly have stopped the film. It just wouldn’t have happened. Not only is the party’s supporter base slowly dwindling, but the police — as commanded by the state government — would probably have cracked some skulls and put agitators on ice for a while.

Also, while the aim may have originally been to teach Khan a lesson, what the Sena unwittingly went and did was to confer “legend” status on the film. It could even be the suckiest film ever made. Much much worse than Daisies. Much much worse. The point is all the hype and controversy will only pull in bigger and bigger crowds to watch the film. And to think that all the controversy had nothing to do with the film or its contents. It was about cricket... rather Khan’s comments about cricketers. Jeez.

So, in closing, I’d like to offer my two cents worth of advice to the major players here.
To Khan: You just pulled off a coup here, sunshine. Enjoy it, but don’t let it get to your head.
To the Shiv Sena: Just give up the political game. You’d make a brilliant PR firm. I can see it now. Sainik Relations. Good eh?
To Ben Stiller: Get your lawyers on the phone and sue the pants off Karan Johar and co. for plagiarism. I want a 3.5 percent cut of the millions you’ll inevitably get. I’m not greedy.

21/02/2010 Update: The actual film in itself was pretty damn good.

Get your hands off my tune, mothertruckers

(Note: The subject of my Republic Day rant has me so befuddled and confused that I’ve spent the last 23 minutes and 42 seconds of my life trying to work out an intro that makes sense. And I’ve come up with nothing. That’s how disoriented I am by this whole thing. I’ll give it a shot anyway)

I don’t understand and never have completely grasped why Mainstream Hindi Cinema (MHC for short) and its proponents have always been completely at ease with their industry being called “Bollywood”. So much so that for a while, there have been tags like “Kollywood”, “Tollywood” and even urghh... even “Lollywood” being thrown around to describe different industries.

I refuse to go into the etymology or nomenclature of those bastardised phrases, suffice it to say that despite overtaking the American film industry in the 1970s, people were still so in awe of phoren maal, the West (most notably Amreeka) and aping them in every way that they decided that it made perfect sense to take the fact that a city called Hollywood happens to house a set of film studies and turn into “Bollywood” as a catch-all for MHC.

In the 2000s with spiralling film budgets and MHC films/actors being recognised across the world, the “Bollywood” fraternity has decided that it hates the name. It hates the fact that as a result of Hollywood, the MHC’s name is forever going to be known as this shitty portmanteau of Hollywood and Bombay (which is now called Mumbai. There, I said it. Now don’t you dare come and wreck my blog, you shit-for-brains. You know who you are).

And so, the MHC as a whole went on this killing spree of sorts. Let’s take everything nice and pleasant in the world and ruin it. Switzerland was first on their hit-list and courtesy Yash Chopra, they succeeded with aplomb. The Maldives, the Seychelles, Sun City (South Africa), Singapore, New York and London were the next targets. Countries across the world began shaking in fear.

Calls were frantically made from one nation to another. “Listen pal, I know you guys and us guys got issues,” said a Palestinian diplomatic to an Israeli one, “But this is bigger than all that. We need to protect ourselves from a bigger threat.” The Mexicans told their Cuban “ese”s to “Relax meng, cuz joo know we gotta save ourselves and our families, joo know”. Meanwhile over in Far East Asia, “people be tripping” just like “when Godzilla be coming, they be all ‘Gaica! Gaica!’.”

Damn. Meandered off the path again.

Anyway so once all those nations safeguarded themselves, these filthy MHCers set their crosshairs on what was once a sacred institution. A rite of passage. A test that separate the boys from the... bigger boys. The game of cricket. With a saboteur-in-chief on the inside, the MHCers tore apart the institution that once was cricket. Cricket turned to a three-letter acronym shared by a club called the Irish Protestant Ladies. That crushing last attack left most people reeling, bleeding and gasping for air, while all along praying, “Please Lord, let this be the end of their reign of destruction.”

Meanwhile, the good people in Marathi Cinema put out one brilliant movie after another to try and save the world from these MHC-mothertruckers, but the shittiest (there really is no better word) films ever made (so bad that they make Hiroshima Mon Amour look like a great film... I didn’t think it was possible either) by the MHC still drew bigger crowds. By this point one would believe that the MHC had made its point against the world. The whole world wanted to just forget all about that name “Bollywood” that had angered the MHC so.

The MHC was having none of it.

Finally, today, drunk with the power the MHC did the unthinkable. It attacked a major Indian institution that wasn’t a sport. It was a part of all our histories. If you ever watched Doordarshan (in the days when we had only one TV channel... and DD-Metro), you will know what I’m talking about and maybe you like it, perhaps you love it... shit, you may even hate it or find it cheesy. But you respect it.

Combining elements from most parts of India, with some eminent personalities of the time, this six-or-so-minute capsule carried by a song that translates literally to “When your tune meets mine, the tune becomes ours”, was first aired on Independence Day in 1988. Written by ad-man Piyush Pandey, this little segment often played between shows to make up time that hadn’t been bought by advertisers. Or there were no ads about upcoming shows. I don’t know. All I know is that if a certain show got over and there were 7 or 8 minutes left till the next one, BANG! This would play. Watch it for yourself, if you haven’t a clue about what I’m saying.



Seen it? Like it? I like it too. A lot. Especially the part at 5 minutes and a second that sounds like it was written by Europe (of The Final Countdown fame, if you weren’t sure that is).

Which is why I was highly pissed off to see the new version they were playing on some shitty channel. I refuse to put up the videos here so if you are curious to see why I’m so piqued, go here and here. It’s so damn long that it’s divided into two parts. It runs at a whopping 16 minutes, gets boring in no time, has a few flashes of brilliance — Sivamani, Gino/Louis Banks, Anoushka Shankar and Ustad Amjad Ali Khan and sons.

The rest of it is the most heinous act ever carried out by the MHCers. EVER. While a sportsperson like Baichung Bhutia — who has given nearly as much time to Indian football as Sachin has to Indian cricket — gets barely a couple of seconds onscreen, these MHC floozies-posing-as-actresses get nearly 30-40 seconds EACH. These flavour-of-the-month idiots who are obviously lip-syncing prance around like idiots and we’re supposed to believe this shit is “the new generation’s Mile Sur Mera Tumhara”?.

Sorry bub, go back to the drawing boards because this shit don’t fly. This is one institution that those — screw it, I don’t care — Bollywood boneheads will not ruin for me. Who’s with me?

All spinal-tapped out...

Alternatively, the title of this post could very well be Who the hell is MJ? - Volume 2. But that would take away from the point of this particular post and so it would not be a very good title after all. Now MJ was always in the business of blowing people’s regularly and consistently and even after his death, “let me tell you, cousin, business is booming”.

But that’s not what this post is about; it’s actually about my back — one that’s reputed for its constant propensity to leave me in tremendous pain. Today was dif—... Apologies, it’s tomorrow now, so, yesterday’s back issues were different. Markedly so. The last time my back got this sort of treatment was... well, I don’t remember really. Enough foreplay now, I think.

I’m still recovering from the countless chills that travelled up and down my spine like it was the goddamn Bandra-Worli Sealink, as I watched This is It last night. As I’m sure a gigantic majority of you, dear readers are aware it’s the posthumously edited film containing footage of MJ preparing for his 50-date O2 Arena engagement in London. Now the first thought that entered my mind was that it was either going to begin or end with the “real story” of MJ’s demise and honestly, that would have sucked. Big time.

Fortunately though there was none of that. Only rehearsals and the build-up to the the mammoth London tour. If it’s just one city, I’m not sure if it can be called a tour or not. Hmmm.. something to think about.

Anyway, I won’t go into too many details, so I’ll keep it short. I think it’s fair to say that IF he’d lived on to actually perform the kind of show he was planning... I realise that’s a huge “if”, but stay with me. If he’d actually performed even one of those shows, I can guaran-damn-tee that it would have been the finest live performance ever ever ever witnessed anywhere on this planet. (Sorry Till, Cristoph, Oli, Richard, Flake and Paul... I can’t wait to get my mits on your newest album though, if that’s any consolation)

Where was I? Ah yes, let’s just put it this way, the kind of budget the show had and the way green-screen (chroma to some of you) was being used all over the place and music videos were being created on a whim... well, it’s a kind of Roland Emmerich, Stephen Sommers, Ridley Scott and Peter Jackson project with William Gibson, Anne Rice and Haruki Murakami ideas... And obviously, the music is banging!

I’m gushing, I realise. You would too if your spinal column had been turned to jelly over the course of around two hours or so. Jelly-fic! The kind of attention to detail the man paid was something that really shines in the film or maybe the film’s made to look like he was hands-on. I don’t know. I especially enjoyed the bits where he was communicating and sharing ideas with musicians on how to mix it up with songs, by singing the parts for them, whether “bum-ba-thish-thish-boo-doo-ba” to the bassist or hitting one of them high-pitched notes for the incredibly talented Orianthi Panagaris (in picture) to work out a guitar solo. Not once did he cheapen his music to chords and notes and octave this and bar that. His tunes were always beyond all that.

What was weird though, was his repeated “God bless you”s, but then he was always supposedly a bit kookie. What I felt also was that this massive routine that was being planned — though visually and aurally fantastic — would probably get a little old by the 12th or 13th show. Once you’ve seen it and been mesmerised, would it hold the same awe the next time around? Maybe they had different routines planned. Maybe they expected a new set of 20,000-odd people to turn up to each show.

What was downright bizarre was how someone in that level of fitness, was found as such a broken man when they found his body. There’s no way that person could be the same MJ. Note: I am not supporting Joe Jackson’s theory about the use of body doubles. And at the same time, MJ was one of the only people onscreen who wore full-sleeves throughout the documentary. You never get to see his arms. Which leads me to believe that a) he may have been cold (Thank you, Chim-tee) or b) his arms were covered with injection marks, which would seem logical.

But, now’s not the time to discuss all that. I hear the film’s in theatres only for two weeks. Go watch it. You won’t be sorry. Just as I’m not sorry that I’m not ending this post with some lame way using the phrase “This is It”.

Chamone!

P.S. - Also saw the trailer for the upcoming 2012 and well, that did a whole different number on my spine. There’s a special place in my heart for disaster films and this particular one is shaping up very nicely to occupy a little corner in that special place.

The Power and the Glory

Power or being powerful is not something one would usually tend to associate with a 77-year-old man. That being said, neither is the concept of glory one that would be generally associated with the Jewish, during the holocaust. And yet, Sunday gave me glimpses — albeit possibly played up by my own mind in one case or completely fictitious, as in the other case.

Sunday was made of glimpses of these concepts demonstrated by the demographic or sociographic (I think it’s a word and if not, as usual, I’m making it one) in question. The second reference I’ve made above is pretty obvious, so I’ll start with the first. I’ve seen this guy on a number of occasions on television. In fact, innumerable times. I finally got to meet the man in the flesh just over 24 hours ago. But I digress. The point is he’s been called a “weak Prime Minister” and “soft on Pakistan” among other things and the old boy’s never raised his voice at even opposition parties, leave alone being rude to them (publicly).

On Sunday, all it took was one sentence from him, in his usual calm and composed tone and style of delivery to turn a “weak Prime Minister” to someone who in fact controls the power that is India. The exact statement follows, reproduced in its entirety as delivered by the man, when asked about Pakistan blaming India for terror on Pakistani soil.

He said, “We are not in the business of exporting terror and the government and people of Pakistan jolly well know that these are false accusations.” An unremarkable statement in itself, but it had to be seen to be believed. The expression turned stern, the teeth seemed to be almost gritted and the stress on the word “jolly” made it almost seem like what he was actually saying was “They know goddamn well that we aren’t the ones who are fucking spawning these sons of bitches and Rahman Malik (Pak Interior Minister) can shove his allegations where the sun don’t shine.”

Of course that sort of language isn’t something you’d hear from Dr Singh. Oh no. That’s the sort of talk that’s comfortable at home in what forms the second of these concepts I’ve been ranting about. The glory of the Jews in Inglourious Basterds.See, I told you the second reference was bleeding obvious. Naturally, I was always going to go and watch this film. It was Quentin after all.

CAUTION: HERE BE SPOILERS. STOP READING IF YOU HAVEN’T SEEN AND WANT TO SEE THE FILM. THERE ISN’T ANY POINT IN RUINING IT FOR YOURSELF

Now, before I went to watch this film, I’d heard numerous tales of how it was a very gory film and there were scalpings shown with all the lurid details Quentin is capable of conjuring onscreen. That’s alright. I figured it’d be an interesting enough setting to try out his idea of stylicised violence.

To hell with the violence though, the last time I saw/read anything that rewrote history about WWII was Philip. K. Dick’s The Man in the High Castle, which told a tale about a time where the Germans, Italians (Eye-talians, according to that man Pitt) and Japanese won and took over the world.

But the way SS officials were depicted as intelligent and shrewd people (not insulting their intelligence in anyway) and the fact that they still end up losing (with Hitler getting his visage blown to shreds) at the hands of the Jewish uprising was... well, something I never actually envisioned watching an onscreen fictionalised depiction of. Never. This isn’t a film review so I want talk about the sublime nature of the reams and reams of dialogue in the film. I won’t talk about Samuel L. Jackson. I won’t talk about Harvey Keitel or Mike Myers either.

It’s always exciting to see someone break character. Like Metallica writing Mama Said or like Bangladesh beating India at cricket or to extend the metaphor, like Stephen Sommers making a chick-flick (The Mummy Returns was not by the way, a chick-flick: Ed) or like Franz Kafka writing a joke book. And these two incidents were some of the finest breaks of character I’ve seen in a while.

Through the Wormhole

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, oh here we go again. He’s going to start by saying something like “The Oxford Dictionary” describes a wormhole as...” and then lead onto Stephen Hawking’s view on wormholes and then tie it all together with a ropey analogy. And perhaps, you may be right. That’s why I’m purposely getting down to brass-tacks immediately with minimal fanny-ing around. Well, perhaps just a little.

In the span of the week or so, I’ve made trips back to 2001 1990 for different reasons and have returned more and more jet-lagged and nostalgic every time. A lack of desire to listen to any of the music I had on my iPod, dragged me over to an old stack of CDs that I briefly flipped through. A green CD-R caught my eye. On it was a marker pen scrawl. The scrawl read “Bouncing Souls — How I spent my Summer Vacation”. Twas my summer of 2001 when I heard that record the first time.

School was out and the summer holidays had just begun. Simple Man and I decided we’d spend a majority of the summer at the skate park trying to practice and get better, but for that we’d need tunes. The subsequent trip to the local record store helped us unearth this little gem, which after that day, was on heavy rotation in our earphones all day and all night. That summer culminated with a number of live shows (the Big Cheese festival, Less than Jake live and some others I can’t recall) and on September 14 (three days into London’s amber alert because two planes had flown into two towers across the pond), we finally saw Bouncing Souls... live!

Certain parts of the album still send shivers up and down my spine. I was pleasantly surprised.

Now, a little while after this nostalgia trip, came another in the form of G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra. Now I’d enjoyed the Spidey flicks, the Batman ones and hell, even the X-Men films and spin-off, but I’d never really read the comics as a little boy. Shit, I didn’t even know the X-Men existed. But G.I. Joe, I definitely knew about G.I. Joe as a kid in 1990, playing with the first two action figures I owned — Firefly and Major Bludd. (Thinking about it, I did own mostly Cobra action figures).

Using Blu-Tack, bits of twine (excellent for making aerial ropeslides and nets), Lego blocks and my tiny posse of Cobras, I’d create some elaborate little diorama-style domino-effect setups, where one small action would trigger off a series of things sliding, crashing, falling, swooping and falling into a net. I never did manage to work out how to get one action figure to swoop down past another and lift it up. As usual, I digress.

Going to watch the film, I knew better than to expect anything remarkable (Just like with Doom). I knew there’d be no brain-busting storyline, but I also knew that it would be a CGI-driven frag-fest and I was salivating at the prospect of the Snake Eyes-Storm Shadow showdown. The film as expected, was nothing remarkable. The tingle in my spine came a little later, when I realised that I’d actually seen a live action film that contained the same characters I’d sent on various dangerous missions — each more dangerous than the next. The same characters that under my command had at some point or the other been grievously injured or were staring into the chasm of death. And I’d just seen them on the big screen.

My stories and action sequences were better.

Good grief, Kapoor!

“It’s bad enough you do it, you do it to yourself;
But taking someone with you
Well, you know that’s something else,”
—What in the World happened to You? (The Offspring)

Regular visitors to The View are in all probability fairly well versed with my limitless reservoirs of love for the television show 24 and my equally zealous abhorrence of the way actor Anil Kapoor has suddenly shot to “stardom” after Slumdog Millionaire. Don’t get me wrong. I begrudge no one the success one he or she has achieved. Like for instance, the way a television show can call itself a success after accumulating a rabid worldwide following after seven consecutively high-quality seasons. I would never dream of begrudging the show it’s success.

However, riding on 19 or so minutes onscreen (in a pretty pathetic manner, if you ask me) and then hopping around like a nutjob everytime the film’s makers receive an award and then, having the audacity to behave like you did a fantastic job... that is something I can and plan to begrudge. Mr Kapoor’s over-the-top antics since Slumdog went over at the Oscars are very well documented. As is the fact that the producers of 24 gave him a role in the upcoming and much-awaited eighth season of the show. What were they thinking? Believe me, I’ve asked myself that repeatedly and I find no answer.

Nevertheless, none of these facts are “breaking news” of any sort. What sparked off this particular post was an article I saw in Bombay Times today that included an interview with the “Slumdog Star”. He tries to talk 24 and with his first or second sentence, already has my blood boiling. He kicks off by trying to explain what the concept of the TV show is — “an espionage and political thriller”. Close enough, I guess. What follows next is a shitstorm of massive proportions.

“24 is to drama, what Friends is to comedy,” is one such choice cut. So, what’re you trying to say, Mr Kapoor? That 24 is mediocre, trite, made to cater to the lowest common denominator and full of highly irritating characters whose lives are only a series of sexcapades (overused word, but a good ’un), innuendos, goof-ups and lame jokes? All of that in drama form, I mean, since Mr Kapoor did say that it is the drama equivalent.

Get a clue, man!

Then, he goes on to reveal the character he’ll be playing. If he had bothered to look into 24 cameos (Arnold Vosloo, Lou Diamond Phillips, Dennis Hopper, Alexander Siddig and more that I’m forgetting), no one reveals the character they are playing. You’re not supposed to, because everything is supposed to be so damn tightlipped as to keep viewers hooked once the season begins.

But no, Mr Kapoor divulges his character and then says, “But I can’t tell you which Middle Eastern country my character is from.” If the moron had bothered to take time out from yelling, “MELLON-AYYYY” every two seconds, he would know that apart from the United States of America and maybe Russia and China, 24 never specifically names ANY country. Whether to avoid stereotyping, controversy, victimisation, I don’t know. Point is, that’s what they do. Right. That’s my rant out of the way.

I just looked at the article again... I cannot stop shaking my head. Why? Why would you honestly cast Anil Kapoor in 24? I’ll be happy to eat my words if he pulls off an excellent performance, but let’s just say it’s not bloody likely. Would you cast Vin Diesel in the remake of Rudaali? Or Jonah Hill in Kahaani Ghar Ghar Kii? Or The Great Khali in The Bold and the Beautiful?

You know the answer as well as I do.

That Man Smith

Will: Hey, you know what, you ain't got to do nothing, Uncle Phil. You know, ain't like I'm still five years old, you know? Ain't like I'm gonna be sitting every night asking my mom 'when's daddy coming home?' You know? Who needs him? Hey, he wasn't there to teach me how to shoot my first basket, but I learned it, didn't I? And I got pretty damn good at it too, didn't I, Uncle Phil?
Uncle Phil: Yeah, you did.
Will: Got to do my first date without him, right? I learned how to ride, I learned how to shave, I learned how to fight without him. I had *fourteen* great birthdays without him; he never even sent me a damn card. The hell with him! [pause]
Will: I didn't need him then, I won't need him now.
Uncle Phil: Will...
Will: No, you know what, Uncle Phil? I'm gonna get through college without him, I'm gonna get a great job without him, I'm gonna marry me a beautiful honey and I'm having a whole bunch of kids. I'm gonna be a better father than he ever was. And I sure as hell don't need him for that, 'cause there ain't a damn thing he can teach me about how to love my kids! [long pause; he's crying] How come he don't want me, man?

Most of the readers that frequent this website would be correct if they recognised this as a mere splinter of an excerpt from an episode of the fantastic show, The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, (which everybody must have seen at some point or the other). More than just a little snippet from the world of Will, Carlton, Uncle Phil, Hilary, Geoffrey et al, this little segment encapsulated Willard Smith's pedigree as an actor (to that point at least). Sure, he could be the "funny guy" and cause people to have crippling chest problems (a theory that Luke and Garf will definitely corroborate) with the sheer hilarity of his antics and timing. But this little vignette had nothing to do with his comic timing or facial flexibility. To me, it had a lot more to do with his versatility, in that he could make you cry seconds after having you in fits of laughter.

Over the years he acted in some films and critics unkindly branded him as a one-trick pony, claiming at times that he would often project himself as far bigger than the movie itself. It is speculated that it is for this very reason that he didn't get to be Neo in The Matrix. In retrospect, it's probably best that Keanu Reeves got that role. Regardless, Smith took on a variety of films, playing different types of characters and yet, the criticism continued. It is only after The Pursuit of Happyness (arguably) that I believe he began to amass critical acclaim.

Shocking, non?

After all, this man was able to pull off roles with a plethora of co-actors, human and non-human and still generate some ridiculously top-notch chemistry with them all. The list is truly mind-boggling:

- With a DJ, a fat man and a short man
- With an accomplished actor like Gene Hackman
- With a skilled comedian like Jeff Goldblum
- With the computer generated robot, Sonny
- With a child
- And now most recently, with a dog

It is the latter that forms the basis for this particular piece, after a rather long-winded diatribe. Even by my lofty standards *chortle chortle*. I saw the film I am Legend today and to be honest, all I had heard about the film was that a number of people I know wanted to see it and it was about the last man on Earth, it was supposed to be quite good and that it had that man Smith in it. That's all. This morning I read a savagely cynical review and on a whim, perhaps even goaded by the review, I decided to go and watch it for myself.

Directed by Francis Lawrence of Constantine fame and screenplayed (if such a verb doesn't indeed exist and if it doesn't, then I'm MAKING it exist) by the brilliant Akiva Goldsman... Not too bad so far. The Richard Matheson-authored book by the same name has been adapted to film four times in the past, I'm told and the latest was supposed to be in 2002 with Micheal Bay directing it. Instead, he chose to make Bad Boys II. Prior to this, Ridley Scott was expected to direct the film starring Arnold, but it went over-budget.

Enter Mr Smith.

The film can be described as a slow-burner, if and only if you feel compelled to classify and pigeon-hole everything. The scale is nothing short of epic, with what seems like most of Manhattan at the director's mercy for filming purposes. What really shines isn't the special FX or the aforementioned grandeur of scale. While being competent, it isn't even the plot that shines. Consistent with the subject of this post, it's Will Smith who lays down a devastatingly touching portrayal of a scientist/army colonel, who battles the loss of human companionship, security and even sanity to find a cure for this cannibal/zombie virus hoo-ha. That's what really shines.

One of the best things about the film I found (surprising, considering my love for post-apocalyptic universes in sci-fi stories) was the fact that most of the film is set on beautiful sunny days in a completely empty city. I have never seen that aspect used in any film to this date.

NOTE: To all nitpickers and those with too much time on their hands and an innate urge to try and make a point (irrespective of whether or not it is accurate), I'm sure there've been films in the past that used this idea. However, I've never seen it in any film I've seen before. Ya dig?

Over the course of the one and half or so hours, I found my favourite scenes to be the ones that had the least to do with the actual story/plot. These are the scenes where he depicts his own character growth as the film progresses. From a dinner table scene with his dog to the "I like Shrek" scene later on in the film, these are the gems that really shine brightest in the gleaming box of jewels that is I am Legend.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that it is highly unlikely that one will ever see Will Smith in an overly arty or "intellectual" (note the sarcasm) flick. And maybe his films aren't everyone's cup of tea (enjoy your new-wave French cinema, by all means do). But in terms of satisfying films that leave you walking out of the cinema with a thought in your head, a smile on your face and perhaps even new catchphrases on your lips, you can't beat the man's work. Empathy with the character being portrayed and trying to relate to him has never been a problem with Smith's films. Now it's got to the point where it's nigh on impossible not to relate to his characters. You'd have to be really really really detached to do so. And where's the fun in that?

PTM

It comes along every few months and each time, its effects seem to be growingly crippling. This is the fifth time I have encountered this syndrome (because technically the fourth time and fifth time were squashed into one). The syndrome I refer to is what I like to call Post-TwentyFour-Melancholy or just PTM for short. Some of you will doubtless be screaming, "Yeah? Well why isn't it called PTFM?!" The answer to that is dual-fold but fairly simple. First of all, it's my abbreviation and I'll make it the way I want and secondly, it's much catchier. Season six of Fox's amazing TV show 24 drew to a close for me last week after I marathoned all twenty four episodes in about two and a half days.

For the uninitiated, 24 is a television show starring Kiefer Sutherland, Mary Lynn Rajskub, James Morrison among a smörgåsbord of ever-changing cast members (thanks to death and all that). Each season revolves around one day, with twenty four episodes that each depict one hour of the day. The whole thing is set in real-time, complete with snazzy editing, multi-screen action as well as a nifty little clock.

Aside from all that, the program itself depicts some crazy situations, all centred around Los Angeles, it must be mentioned and some remarkably cool lines and ways of getting around problematic situations. The twists and turns of every one of the six convoluted stories depicted so far, have been unpredictable and at times, shocking, creating some seriously rivetting television. Sure, a large amount of the stuff depicted therein is fairly improbable and implausible. The violence is doled out in extreme quantities and at times, to greatly exaggerated and grotesque levels. Plotholes are rife throughout the show and some idiots will take a certain sense of pride in pointing these out, no matter how obvious they may be, just to show how cool and non-conformist they are and perhaps in their feeble minds, even ABOVE 24 and its makers they are.

Right there is where the beauty of this show lies. In its sheer ability to entertain you, if you are willing to suspend disbelief or your own predilections, the series is unparalleled and unsurpassed and will probably be for a long long time to come.

That being said, it's obvious not everyone will be able to relate to the show. Hell, at times, even I can't relate to it. But to me it represents that immersion into a different reality and state of being that has been matched to this point only by Hideo Kojima's seminal game Metal Gear Solid 2: Sons of Liberty and Haruki Murakami's Kafka by the Shore. The point is, when something can immerse you in its essence so much as to debilitate you entirely, leaving you numb and walking around senseless, it ceases to be a film, game or a book anymore. It becomes incredibly hard to pinpoint just what it is that was powerful enough to leave you so depressed once it's gone.

The saddest part is that that feeling can never be replicated, no matter how many times you read, play or watch that which left you so numb. Not sure where I'm going with this, but yeah...

The Power of Visuals

Everybody talks about it — photographers, cinematographers, directors, artists, psychologists etc — and it's a concept accepted at face value. No one questions it and no one denies its existence. Yet, for the most of us, it's more of an idea that is spoken about and "dropped" into conversation from time to time. We rarely tend to actually see the theory apply itself in practice and actually appreciate it. The idea/theory/concept I allude to is that of the sheer power possessed by visuals.

Admittedly, I had never really experienced it, barring a few instances when a particularly moving photograph or some bit in a film or an exceptionally retina-scorching live music show blew me away. These are just a few of the instances where I felt the mesmerising touch of the visual form in a meaningful, albeit sporadic manner. And that previous sentence contains the most important word and essence of this paragraph — sporadic.

Recently, I experienced this phenomenon over an extended period of time — three hours and a bit to be a little more precise. The effect of this power I'm on such a trip about isn't restricted to only images that move a person. It's also about the basic art of communication. The hearing impaired know this well.

So, onto my actual point, I found myself earlier this week, seated in a cinema hall, watching a film in a language that is more alien to me than the concept of ethical journalism is to India TV. The film in question, of course was Sivaji. Having never spoken or understood a word of Tamil to this day, it was always going to be a daunting task to make head or tail of the film. And yes, while I was aided by a couple of helpful persons, who actually did speak Tamil, in understanding some of the subtler aspects, I was able to figure out a major part of the film with the sole assistance of the antics onscreen.

That is not to say that this was the most cerebral piece of filmmaking I've ever seen or am ever likely to see. As a matter of fact, it was no more than a monetary splurge of extraordinary proportions to tell an idealistic but ultimately naive tale of one man's quest to make the world a better place (for you and for me and the entire human race). It wasn't what could be described by any stretch of the imagination as groundbreaking cinema either, but, it was my first real extended brush with the power of visuals as a communication tool and it intrigued me. And that's pretty much what this entire diatribe was all about. Time well spent, don't you think?