Movie Review: No Reservations

I often go overboard, I have been told.

Which is why, after weeks of no theater-visit, I saw two flicks last weekend.

The first was this riotous Indo-American comedy that left me in splits.

The second was No Reservations, which I must say without any reservations, tugged at my heartstrings. Oh well, quite a few times.

Catherine Zeta Jones is in top form after a two-year sabbatical. She plays Kate Armstrong, a standoffish, work-obsessed chef in Manhattan, whose regimented life is utterly thrown into disarray upon the death of her sister, leaving her in custody of her niece, Zoe (Abigail Breslin), last seen in a splendid performance in Little Miss Sunshine.

Jones is caught in a crisis – what with her 9-year old niece who will touch none of the exotic meals she whips up, a restaurant owner, Paula (Patricia Clarkson) who insists that she go for weekly visits to an octogenarian shrink (Bob Belaban), and a maverick “rival chef” , Nick (Aaron Eckhart) who insists on playing opera in the kitchen. It is small wonder that she (Jones) gives way to the occasional outburst with a customer who complains about her less then perfect foie gras or steak, and she is fit to throw the pretty toque that she has donned on her pretty head throughout the movie.

Aaron Eckhart disappoints though. As the Good Samaritan who is totally smitten by both Jones’ culinary skills, and erm… ______ skills, he paints too good a picture. Seen last year as another Nick – a hard-nosed tobacco lobbyist in Thank You for Smoking, who will stop at nothing to increase smoking amongst the public, Eckhart is unconvincing as the do-gooder, who will continue with his good act, despite Jones barbs.

The movie has its pluses though. For a self-confessed foodie like me, it was a veritable delight. Tantalizing, sumptuous feasts are elaborately arranged on immaculate tables, akin to a Sidney Sheldon description, causing my tummy to rumble, grumble, and growl throughout the movie. Too bad that I had to contend with coffee and corn while arrays of delectable pies, appetizers, aperitifs, and finger foods constantly made their appearance.

All in all, however, the movie was decent.

Not recommended for those who like mush though…

Movie Review: Loins of Punjab Presents

With a title like that, Loins of Punjab Presents sure must have grabbed quite a few eyeballs. Which would however, soon crease into wide smiles and / or impish grins, depending on your affinity.

A perfect weekend watch, Loins of Punjab Presents (I won’t deny that I get a kick each time I say the title aloud) takes you through the quirks, anxieties, ambitions, delusions, and machinations of an Indian diaspora in New Jersey. Thrown together one weekend to win the $25,000 jackpot of a reality show called Desi Idol, seven contestants attempt to sweat it out for the moolah. The show is organized by the boorish Jameel Khan, who takes the word ‘crude” to an altogether new high.

A walk through the contestants almost makes you feel they are intensely familiar. So you have the conniving socialite, Rita Kapoor (a stunning Shabana Azmi), assaying the Machiavelli act to perfection, complete with arched eyebrows, secretive smirks, and glinting eyes. Her only aim is to outdo a certain rival, who happens to be a prominent media person / socialite / theater personality. So when the rival donates a raffle draw prize money in charity, our very own Ms. Azmi sets her heart upon doing the same, albeit on a grander, more ostentatious manner. And the best course of action she decides to take, is entering the talent show, trotting off with the prize money on designer heels, and donating it all in charity. This, while the blinding flashing cameras click away merrily, and eager photojournalists hang-on to, and hastily jot-down her well-rehearsed “noble” speeches. As far as competition is concerned, Pshaww. What do some ignorant buffoons pose to her Royalty herself? Out she comes with her social networks (carefully updated and maintained over the years, no doubt), and like a seasoned Grandmaster, she sets about removing all the barriers that lie between the jackpot and her. Too bad that in the end, her hubby dear decides to have a torrid affair with the rival.

Next is Preeti, one of the huge Patel family’s offspring, all of 17 years old, blessed with a divine voice, which however, she only uses to sing. The talking? Well, she leaves that to her Scrooge Gujju clan, who will go all out to ensure that she wins. Even if that means spouting malapropisms (Cock for Coke; snakes for snacks – you get the drift, right), or taking the very very openly gay judge to, hold your breath, an all-female strip club, leaving him gagging/ frothing at the mouth. Do watch out towards the end, when Preeti finally opens her mouth to take Shabana Azmi by total surprise.

Sania Rehman fits the bill of the ABCD (for the uninitiated, American Born Confused Desi) to the T. Conversant with only a smattering of Hindi, which she uses sparingly, she dreams of making it big in Bollywood as an actress. And for whom, the Desi Idol contest seems like Manna from heaven and the perfect launchpad…

Vikram Tejwani (Manish Acharya, who incidentally is also the writer and director of the movie) plays the statistics-mouthing Amitabh Bachan aficionado, who, with his job getting outsourced to India, decides to give a shot at the contest. Love blossoms between him and Sania Rehman…

Then you have the odd man out – Josh Cohen, an American contestant, who loves Indian music and his Indian girlfriend, a wasted Ayesha Dharker here. The earnestness with which he sings the only two Hindi pieces he know – the Indian National anthem, and Yeh Hain Bombay meri Jaan, tugs at your heartstrings…

The funniest are the two Bhangra rappers, who insist on using the effing-word in every sentence they mouth. One of them goes by the name of Turbanotorious B.D.G (Ajay Naidu), and even gets one of the judges, another fusion music artiste, to rap with him. The swear words might be a little harsh on your acoustic sense, but boy! Can he dance!!! I almost whistled aloud – he was that incredible.

The film, is packed into a nifty 90 minutes-something, and keeps you entertained with its rollicking dialogue-delivery, crisp story line, and inane characters. The last includes an elderly citizen, who borders on paranoia that terrorists are lurking in every nook and corner of New Jersey, and who often gives “helpful” tip-offs to the police about probable terrorists.

Loins in Punjab Presents made me wonder, why such a cavorting flick, didn’t come out much earlier.

After all, with the spate of reality / talent shows that have pervaded channels pan-geographically, a movie must have long been in the offing.

A must watch. Go grab your laffs.

Stuck with stuck-ups...

You see them everywhere.

In your social circuit.

At your workplace.

In glitzy malls.

At restaurants.

Heck, even on the road.

They’ll stare at you coldly; smirking is their most preferred occupation. They could be of either gender. Eyebrows arched, they will deign to look at you out of the corner of their eyes, almost as if you are some tadpole that has decided to hop into their sight, straight out of some algae-ridden pool.

Striking up a conversation with them sure is tricky, cos they put the “C” in cynical. Every comment that you utter is scrutinized, analyzed, dissected, and thrown back at you with a vengeance. Almost making you wonder if they moonlight as critics – since they are so adept with their scathing comments, which are not even remotely droll.

They always know that tad bit more than all the knowledge you possess, and you better not forget that in a hurry. The Lord help those who foolishly decide to cross them – that’s absolute Hara-kiri - as what they say is next to Gospel truth, irrefutable, and most importantly always one-up on what you, the twit that you are, could possibly come up with.

Every time an innocuous remark escapes your lips (and there will be a fare share of these definitely), their lips will curl in that half-smile-sneer that they have perfected, and which will probably set you back by an hour of patience, cause you to grit your teeth, clench your fist, and look around for the nearest gas chamber to shove them into.

They have the prerogative of always airing their freely-dispersed opinions, cos obviously, for us mere mortals, those should be the only ones that matter, and the sooner we realize that, the better for our general well-being.

Index-fingers always jamming in your face, they take it as their moral obligation to elucidate points to us, the imprudent earthlings that we are. Hell, we should be kissing the very ground they tread on – that is the least of the ways to show our eternal gratitude.

Proficient at that fine art of clucking their tongues in disapproval, they are also not averse to shaking their heads at all times, except when they are the ones from whom pearls of wisdom are flowing like freshly-opened packs of iodized salt, at which time it is considered most appropriate to nod your heads in:

a) silent approval
b) open admiration
c) both

Heavens help you, if you by some stroke of misfortune, decide to ask them about something. Within seconds, their hands will move animatedly, and chest puffed out, they will set about giving insightful monologues on anything from how the country to how the universe should be run. Intervals are rare, and any interruption will be severely glared upon, and shushed with one authoritative hand. After all, who dares interrupt when Royalty speaks? Pshawww.

Disagreed with them, did you? You gotta be kidding right?

Gosh, you actually did that? Prepare for some fireworks now. Extended periods of silence. Or maybe accusatory / are-you-out-of-your-orbit glares. Perhaps all of these. And some more…

And if you insist on cracking a feeble joke at this juncture, be prepared to receive some perfectly-honed withering looks.

The ones that can cause flowers to wilt. And cracks to appear on the walls.

There is only one way out then.

Pray hard.

Or make a beeline for the nearest exit point.

And your quirk is....?

“My daughter is about to give another of her Presidential speeches,” would be my Dad’s constant refrain, to no one in particular, each time I would clear my throat (a habit, which began during my school years, has continued with me over the years, and which seems in no hurry to depart).

Many many years later I realized that what I had shrugged off for so many years as just another of my quirks, had a name – Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (more commonly known as OCD). And I don’t have just one – I have quite a few – for instance, on a couple of occasions, when I spritzed a popular blue-bottled EDP with notes of aqua and citrus, I chanced to fight with TOOMA (The Object of my Affection), and decided that the offending fume was a jinx, and promptly banished it to the back of my closet. It doesn’t quite end there – I sometimes count the steps when I climb stairs, a quirk which I am glad to know, I share with Jennifer Love Hewitt.

TOOMA sees his arm size pat every morning, something he admitted to me today. He also strokes his stubble when he is immersed in thought (a fact which he revealed over the phone, and which I have yet to confirm myself). Mom, best friend, and quite a few others share an OCD for cleanliness. Everything has to be in symmetry, so much so that if I chance to move a table at my place, Mom will instantly jump to re-arrange / re-align the “visually-offending” table, besides shooting a murderous glare at me. Ditto for best friend, who will wring her hands if I chance to “drop” a tissue on the floor, try her best to assume an unaffected / nonchalant look about her, and the minute I turn, spring to a) fling the tissue into the garbage can and b) give me a homily on my affinity for resembling a certain porcine creature (the latter designed to send me into peals of laughter, much to her ire)...

Even on the sets of “The Apprentice,” Donald Trump would arrive with a family-sized bottle of sanitizer, and desist from shaking hands with anyone. Such is his mysophobia( fear of contamination) that he washes his hands every half an hour or so, a la our very own Lady Macbeth. What guilt or long suppressed conscience is plaguing him is quite another story…

The closely-resembling a Greek God, David Beckham, has an OCD for symmetry. Something which has wreaked havoc upon his personal life, and caused his usually tight-lipped anorexic wife to speak out. He insists on lining-up his shirts hue-wise. Fair enough. Except that it doesn’t end there. His sprawling mansion houses three refrigerators – one for food, one for snacks, and one for drinks, all coordinated down either side. Wait, there’s more. If his fridge stocks three cans of some drink, he’d rather throw one than keep three – such is his penchant for even numbers (and abhorrence for their odd counterparts). A certain Ms. Gurinder Chadha should really have re-considered naming that delightful movie, “Align it like Beckham.” Tee hee

A close friend, I have observed, has this long-running pattern where she will twirl her hair constantly while conversing. While I find it amusing and indulgently overlook it, some may be annoyed. A friend back in college had to re-apply the war paint on her face every hour. Why she was addicted to the touching-up, when anyway most of it was intact, and more importantly smudge-proof, completely beat me.

A common scene is men adjusting their belts or pulling up their trousers / jeans every now and then. While this may be appropriate for those who swear by their anti-fit Levis, it does seem a tad ludicrous when middle-aged, office executives become the newest addicts. Then you have those who believe that trousers are the best shoe-brushes known to mankind. So there you are holding a serious conversation when all of a sudden, their right leg goes behind their left trouser leg, and lo and Behold! A vigorous shoe-shine has just been done, all within ten seconds. Shoe-shine boys be damned.

Another breed are the adjusters. They adjust anything and everything – their car rear-view mirrors, ties, spectacles, watch, caps you name it. There are those who straighten their ties countless times in a day, giving a whole new meaning to the term “tie-breaker” altogether!

Best guy friend recounted how one of his friends, a budding mathematician no doubt, had an unusual pastime while driving. He would read the numbers of licence plates on cars, and do the works with them – add, multiply, subtract, and divide them with each other. Once the car in front would slow down, or he would overtake it, his interest would wane – till he espied another licence plate. Then his interest would be reinstated.

I have come across more than a fair share of people who repeat words, many of which are often superfluous. Common examples are – like, basically, generally, usually, obviously, suffixing “no” after every sentence, sorry, etc, all of which certainly sound grating on one’s ears.

There are many who count poles or temples while traveling. While some of these eccentricities may be innocuous enough, there are some that border on the bizarre.

Billy Bob Thornton, known more for his failed marriage to Angelina Jolie, and the idiosyncratic marriage vows and rituals he shared with her, is also known for taking his mail out of the mailbox and putting it back repeatedly. Cameron Diaz, “destined” for a life of OCD, is committed to washing her hands incessantly, and for making it a point to open all doors with her elbows, thanks to her inordinate fear of germs. Leonardo Di Caprio takes superstition to a new level altogether, and is known to retrace his steps to avoid cracks on pavements.

There you are. I guess if you’d only analyze a bit, you’d find some of your own petty foibles. Now if you shake your head, and gloat that you have none, I’d just say that your analysis could do with some more depth.

While you go ponder over your own quirks, let me go and check one last time if the door is thoroughly locked, count my steps to the kitchen (they should be twelve and no more), pick my good luck green bottle, lay it on my right, and call it a day! Whew!

Giving off a message...

While stuck in a traffic snarl, I often do one of the following activities to keep myself amused / occupied -
a)yap incessantly into my phone
b)look at my nails to see if one of them has grown overnight (they never do. Bah!)
c)try to guess what people in the loco pulled alongside are conversing about (pretty boring actually, as one can never know whether the guesses are right or otherwise)
d)counting cows on the roads (there are quite a few you see), and so on…

Another time pass, especially on a long long highway, is reading the messages emblazoned vividly on the backs of trucks. Yes, those smoke-puffing horrors that are driven by sadists / perverts who look straight out of some D-grade Punjabi flick, have quite a few amusing, some downright side-splitting messages.

Seems like that there is more to those colorfully decorated trucks than just their lame attempts at jinx-proofings(read the ubiquitous slipper / green-chili / lemon strung on a string) after all.

And each truck has a different story to unfurl...

That you can read these messages only when their drivers are NOT doing the Michael Schumacher / Fernando Alonso (drool drool) impersonation is a different story altogether.

Besides the "Hum do, Hamare Do" (We two, our two) message that spreads its social-awareness bit, and appeals for small-sized families, there are others that range from the Oh-my-Gosh-what-in-goodness-gracious-is-that to the wickedly funny.

I’ve never been able to understand why trucks (and there are many of these) that cheerfully proclaim, "Horn OK Please." Some people are lactose-intolerant, some are saccharine-intolerant - I’m horn-intolerant. Why anyone in his right mind would invite aural trouble upon himself, and encourage people to toot their obnoxious horns, completely beats me. You do have weirdos everywhere, I guess.

Then you have one of the eternal-favorites “OK Tata Phir Milengey”(OK, Bye, We’ll meet again), that borders on the persistently-optimistic.

A classic-cult movie (in the news again for its shoddy remake by one of our most talented film-makers), has spawned an entire legacy in truck literature, the most common one being, “Chal, Meri Dhanno,” (in honor of an equestrian in the flick). Other spin-offs include, “Chal meri Raam Dulaari / Pyaari.”

Upping the patriotic fervor, you have the much-used-to-death, “Mera Bharat Mahaan” (My India is great).

Keeping with a “nasal,” capped singer’s “singing”prowess in mind, is another hot-favorite, “Tera Mera Saat” (13-mera-7), meaning "Your and my comradeship". Not to be crooned, let me add hastily. Not to be left behind, another numerically-inclined message proffers itself - “Ek saat teen teen” ( 1-7-3-3), which can be loosely interpreted as the randy “three simultaneously, ” an expression, I must admit, put my guy into bursts of rapturous sighing, and longing “If onlys…” And causing me to repent instantly my penchant for putting my foot into my mouth.

There are the occasional ones in verse too.

Sample this:

“Chalti hain gaadi,
Udti hain dhool,
Jaltey hain dushman,
Khiltey hain phool.”

(Uhmm, lemme try the translation here: the truck moves, the dust billows; enemies are envious, while flowers bloom).

Yet another of those rhyming ones:

“Amiron ki zindagi biscuit aur cake par
Driver ki zindagi clutch aur brake par”
(Loosely translated into: The wealthy thrive on their biscuits and cakes; the driver thrives on the clutch and brake).

Some sensible ones also decide to show-up, common among them being the stoic “Use Dipper at Night” ones, and extending to the slightly exaggerated but nevertheless well-meaning advice, “Babuji, dheerey chalna,” (Hey Mister, go slow), probably “inspired” by a popular yesteryear’s silver screen song.

Another fairly frequent one is the one where the driver’s / owner’s name is liberally splashed in vivid hues. Causing you to know their names, from miles away.

Some border on the droll:

“Shaam hotey hi yeh dil udaas hota hain,
Tootey khwabon ke siwa kuch na pass hota hain,
Tumhari yaad aise waqt bahut aati hain,
Bandar jab koi aas-paas hota hain.”
(Dusk falls, and this heart feels glum, it has nothing but broken dreams with it. It misses you immensely at such times, when a monkey is nearby.) No, don’t glare at me – I didn’t make this up myself. And another N-O – don’t even ask me what in the world is it supposed to mean!

Then,there are the ones that leave you at a loss for words.

“Ladki ko mat chhed, paap hoga,
Ek din tu bhi kisi ladki ka baap hoga”
(Don’t eve-tease the girl, one day you shall yourself be the father of a daughter).

Enough said.

I rest my case.

OK Tata Phir Milengey…

My cup of love goes to....

As you take that bending slope on your way to a hill station, taking pleasure in the wind puffing lightly on your face, you are inclined to let the accelerator slide.

It is then that you see that hoarding looking up at you authoritatively, compelling you to stop.

And stop you do.

You have to.

There’s no two ways about it.

That is N, at least for me.

His full-throated laughter was what first drew me to him.

I didn’t admit it to him then, but it was I who had asked someone to ask him to come and share a ciggie with us. Since I was too proud to go up to someone myself and ask to share a smoke.

(When I eventually made a clean breast, I heard no end from him, and had to contend with endless leg-pulling…)

An entire fortnight passed, and good sense didn’t prevail upon us to exchange numbers, and use Graham Bell’s invention.

When I look back, I go, “Gosh! Could it get any more lame than that?”

The smokes soon extended to exchanging mints, coffee dates, and the occasional beer.
The phone conversations grew longer in duration…

My scowls would give way to sunny Cheshire cat grins when I would hear his reassuring voice (which I must admit, sounds downright hot as hell in the mornings).

Eat your hearts out – his number aint coming your way. Anytime soon.

Ok, make that, Never!

Add chocolate brown liquid eyes, an absolutely mischievous grin, and you get the complete picture, right?

Ohh, and I forgot to mention that he always smells divine (blame that potent bottle of Polo for that)…

I’ve re-christened him time and again. He’s countered, and my monikers have ranged from rustic Rajasthani ones, to the occasional eye-popping Haryanvis, to the positively funny Bihari ones.

He’s gallantly fed me forkfuls between his own bites, held doors (and my heart) for me.

The most mundane of topics become super-interesting when I’m discussing them with him.

Though some (especially the kinds where two girl-colleges are pitted with each other) can lead to sour tempers and tongues…

His jokes are like double-edges swords – while they can usually make you go into hoots of hysterical laughter, every now and then, they can also make you want to pull out all your hair.

And ohhh, the times I’ve goofed up with him.

I remember how on one occasion, I thought that the mole a lil above his eyebrows was some black mark, and I tried to scratch it off, much to his bewilderment, and later visible vexation.

I’ve driven him up the wall on more occasions that I would want to recall, on account of my atrocious memory. I marvel at his patience, and when I do marvel too much, that is the time he decides to alternate between sighing resignation and a slight outburst.

I’ve also done my bit in driving him crazy with my incessant questions-popping, a habit, I am happy to say, I am not gonna nurture.

A self-confessed lover of Yo-China, he is also not averse to his share of popcorn and Corona.

Playing pool with his best bud is a highlight for him; almost as much as it is for me to look longingly at the calendar and count the days till he touches home-turf.

Quite the Nostradamus, he has the uncanny ability to analyze any situation at hand, cut through the mire to its very essence, and give me a candid bird’s eye view and the future prospects of any situ. However, me, the mule that I frequently am, gleefully refuse to lissen to him then.

But the next day or week, with red face smarting, I have to bite my lower lip and come clean that his verdict / solution was the one that mattered, held true, and was the best one.

Eat crow is what I do then. Humbly...

I like the ease with which he connects with all – though he hardly calls himself congenial / affable, I’d like to think he is.

I also admire the way he can set the ball rolling, and bring any situ towards its intended accomplishment.

I think of myself as lackadaisical sometimes; he galvanizes me snap into action on account of his infectious commitment and passion that he displays and which goes into whatever he chooses to do at that moment.

What I need to learn from him is his ability to not get affected or changed by the obvious inconsistency or frivolous judgment of others. (He’s still light years ahead of me, and I have SOME catching up to do…)

I take pride in the way he races on the tracks even when the last spectator has left and the last light has been dimmed because he keeps personal scorecards and the race isn’t over till his heart says so.

What I like a lot about him is that he never convinces anyone that he is right – that is probably the most miserable way to start a discussion. Consensus is not the end, conciliation is.

Even if I try to do the occasional Houdini, he uncannily figures the state of my mind.

He’s crooned numerous karaokes – be it in his car, or a watering hole; joined quite a few times by me. The reluctant singer, who is fast blossoming :)

I took it to another level altogether, going live on a popular radio channel, dedicating the over-one-hour show to him.

I’m not sure what feelings he went through at that point of time, but I’m guessing, they were any / or all of these: surprise, bashfulness, embarrassment, amusement, and maybe the odd touched feeling….

The tea that he makes is one of the most divine I have ever tasted – and it is not an acquired taste – it is absolutely flavorsome. The flavor remains the same, however many times he may make it, much to my wonder, and his amusement…

My very own Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung rolled into one, he gives me some of the most soul-baring, and bang-on advice.

We have laughed over inane jokes, read each others’ horoscopes, pulled each others’ legs randomly, played assorted (cartoon) games online (at which he always comes sunny side up, however hard I try). But I’m not complaining – I give in to him with a goofy-look-plastered-all-over-my-face.

Coffee is not just a beverage for me when I am with it – it’s a bond…

His rendition of Joey (of F*R*I*E*N*D*S fame) will dispel the clouds for you, even on the most murky of days.

When I rest my head on his shoulders, all my fretting peter out..….

Lastly, there is something about the way he can hold a cigarette, and speak with you earnestly.

Bowling you over.

I should know...(sheepish grin).

They say, smoking is injurious.

In my case, it was positively of assistance - it introduced me to the guy whom I love to distraction……

Woodstock recreated....?

If word is to be believed, Jackie Shroff, he of the sexy baritone (second only to someone’s super-hot voice early mornings), and moustached “splendor,” plans to hold a rock / other genres of music festival in Goa. Reminiscent of the original Woodstock festival of 1969, the festival, if it happens, will be huge.

I mean, how wrong can you go with the following list of tentative names that have been drawn up:
Red Hot Chili Peppers
Starship
Jethro Tull
Fleetwood Mac
Queen (Paul Rodgers)
Ravi Shankar
Iron Butterfly
Aerosmith
Santana
Rolling Stones
Fat Boy Slim
Norah Jones
Prodigy
Black Eyed Peas
Paul McCartney

Whoop! That’s quite a mouthful, don’t you think?

Now if only Jaggu dada is able to pull it off, it'll be a virtual treat for music aficianados like me, and countless others.

Meanwhile, let me see if I can coax / cajole / persuade / convince / wheedle / sweet-talk a certain someone to go with me to the sun-kissed Goan beaches.

For I'd be most loath to miss this festival, if it happens.

Amen!