Movie Review: Tashan

What do you get when you have a debut director who insists on calling the shots with an uber colorful star cast, but forgets to weave them all together seamlessly, and instead has an insipid, threadbare plot to boot?

Three hours of torture, I’d say.

That yours truly inflicted upon herself.

And that too on the first day of the week, no less.

So you have a Bhojpuri don, Bhaiyyaji, played by Anil Kapoor (who is getting to be a fixture in almost every second movie these days), who is yet to wake up to a world of banks, and instead believes in the virtues of stuffing wads of Gandhi printed notes in large aluminum trucks, hauled (pun intended) by the now-as-light-as-a-feather Kareena Kapoor, playing the character of pretty girl-next-door, Pooja Singh.

Bhaiyyaji, when he is not blinding people with his garish clothes, and even more loud mouth, harbors a dream – that of speaking English the way George Bush does. The petite Pooja, has other plans in her not –so-dainty-mind, and ropes in an English spouting call center executive, Jimmy Cliff (Saif Ali Khan), who falls hook, line, and sinker in love with her. After a customary song and dance routine, Jimmy, completely under the spell of Pooja’s fluttering eyelashes, helps her loot a handsome sum from Bhaiyyaji, all to “pay off her father’s debt,” and while Saif is still in la di la land, Pooja does a quick vanishing act, playing out her character of con woman par excellence, and is seen shaking a pretty leg and showing quite a bit of skin in a lime colored bikini (that’s one up for the guys) in some exotic locales of Mauritius.

So far so good. Except that Jimmy, who is on the path of smelling sweet roses and love, has to contend with smelling gunpowder and looking straight into the barrel of Bhaiyyaji’s gun. Enter Bachan Pande (Akshay Kumar), a bumbling henchman, who, when he is not scratching his unmentionables (toolbox, if you will Ahem), keeps naively showing a gummy smile, and rattling off quotes of his allegiance to Bhaiyyaji. He and Jimmy go in search of Pooja, who’s done the disappearing act, and enjoying all that loot somewhere.

The rest is, as they say, completely clichéd – retrieving the money, another fixed song and dance sequence, the obligatory exchange of hands and dishoom-dishoom, and some strange hand of fate linking all the characters together.

I’d say that the opening scene is one well-done though. A red Mercedes is vrooming on the highway, its music station getting changed randomly between “Highway to Hell” and “Kabhi Kabhi.” Amidst violent zig-zag motions, it teeters off the highway, plunging into the blue waters below.

As for the rest, it’s like an ill-tasting gloss, hollow of substance.

Spare your money.

Buy yourself a drink instead.

At least your head will not reel, as mine did.

Sample the lyrics of one song in the flick, wherein the three protagonists don ill-fitting, ludicrous blonde wigs, and dance to in gay abandon -

"White white face dekhey
Dilva beating fast, Sasura
Chance marey re
Very Happy in my heart
Dil Dance marey re"

Enough said. I rest my case.

PS - If the Director is lissening, here's a suggestion. He could have tried renaming "Tashan" (style / attitude) as "Nashta" (breakfast) - Kareena, who looks straight out of anorexia land, sure could do with some...

Music Video: Everywhere (Fleetwood Mac)

The ever dramatic soul I was (oops correction, that I still am), it was no surprise that I could often parrot-off prose and verse at various theater, extempore, and recitation dos at school. One poem, for which I received top honors, was The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes.

At that time, love was an unfamiliar concept to me, one that I was inclined to scoff at.

Many many years later, I came across a song by Fleetwood Mac, which was picturized on the very same poem.

Both featured a highwayman, heads over heels in love with Bess, the local inn landlord’s daughter, who also reciprocated his passion. One night, as was his wont, he bid adieu to his love, asking her to wait for him till the time he returned with some rich loot. A jealous suitor plays Peeping Tom on the two lovers, and crazed by his own love and envy, tips off the King’s soldiers about the highwayman’s impending return.

The soldiers promptly make their way to the landlord’s inn, drink his ale, and bind and gag Bess to her bed, a rifle tied below her chest. Bess had more matters to be fearful of than the stone-cold muzzle – through her window she could see the road that the highwayman would take, perhaps for the last time.

Twisting and writhing her hands, she was finally able to reach the trigger with one finger. In the dead of the night, the unmistakable sound of a horse's hooves announce her lover approaching her window.

With one fluid stroke she releases the trigger, shattering the peace of the night....

With her death, she gave life to her highwayman, who turned Westward Ho, but who, with the coming of dawn, learnt who it was who warned him with her death.

Morbid? Or achingly sweet?

You decide what the song means to you.

As for me, let me just say that love is not all that unfamiliar an emotion to me now.....

See the video below:

A Room with a view...

Hate crowded hotels?

Guard your privacy jealously?

The very idea of hob-nobbing with the common herd in hotel lobbies, corridors, and elevators, makes you curl your upper lip in distaste?

Well then, look no further than the Everland Hotel.

Perched atop the Palais De Tokyo (Paris), this mobile hotel offers a direct view at the Eiffel Tower.

Ohh, and did I mention, it has only one room to let out to guests?

There,…. your privacy gets a solid tick.

The brainchild of Swiss artists Sabina Lang and Daniel Baumann, Hotel Everland was originally conceived for Expo 2002. It has been exhibited in Yverdon (Switerland), and Leipzig (Germany), and since last year October, it sits pretty atop the contemporary art museum, the Palais De Tokyo, overlooking the Eiffel Tower.

People can visit it during the day, or reserve it for the night, after the museum closes. You have uptil December 31, 2008 to book yourself there, after which it will be moved to a yet-undisclosed location.

Of course, a night-out there doesn’t come cheap.

The Four Star cube-shaped hotel, which can comfortably lodge a couple, comprises a deluxe rest room, a king-sized bed, and a lounge; and would set you back by €333 for a weekday, and €444 if you choose a weekend night.

The hotel staff urges you to steal the golden embroidered bath towels as a souvenir.

Online bookings can be made at the Hotel’s website.

This one is sure one well-traveled hotel (pun intended).

Movie Review: Shaurya

In an industry where army movies often border on jingoism, banshee screams, and mindless bloodshed, Shaurya strikes you with its different portrayal. There are no righteous speeches on justice, loyalty, and patriotism; instead you have characters battling their inner conflicts wih a quiet but touching dignity.

Two lawyer friends in the Indian army, Akash Kapoor (Javed Jaffery), and Siddhanth Chaudhary / Sid (Rahul Bose), who couldn’t be more dissimilar from each other than chalk from cheese, make their way to the beautiful climes of Kashmir. While Akash is the serious, brooding sorts (a far, far cry from Jaffery's usual slapstick comedy roles),Sid is nonchalance personified, impish smile firmly in place, without a care in the world ruffling his spiked hair.

Legally pitted against each other, Akash and Sid find themselves bang in the middle of a defense investigation, to probe the alleged murder of one Major Rathore by Captain Javed Khan (excellently portrayed by Deepak Dobriyal). Where Sid strikes you with his verbal diarrhea, Khan speaks volumes with his pained eyes, the very picture of a wronged soul. Minissha Lamba is the hard-as-nails local journalist, Kaavya, who is keen to spot her prize-winning story. Seema Biswas as Javed’s mother, gives a short but striking performance, which is but natural, given her proven acting prowess.

However, the show-stealer is undoubtedly Kay Kay Menon, who is par excellence as the high-strung hard-hitting-dialogue-spouting Brigadier Rudra Pratap Singh. He undeniably has the best dialogues, effortlessly delivering them. His thunderous court-room scene is applause-worthy.

Though it is “inspired” by A Few Good Men, Shaurya is pretty much watchable fare. Watch it for its brilliant cinematography, impactful story, above average direction.
Oops, did I miss out the crisp dialogue delivery…?

Thank God that in its “Indianized” version, the budding romance between Sid and Kaavya in Shaurya, was not closed in a holy matrimony / living-happily-ever-after-scene, as is wont in most Indian cinema.

Though obviously the director could not resist picturizing a small song on them.

But that’s ok, in the item number performed by Rosa Catalano in the movie, our very own Jaaved Jaffery could also not resist showing us some neat moves to set the dance floor ablaze… :-)

Frozen in one's tracks...

The dictionary describes a flash mob as “a group of people who organize on the Internet and then quickly assemble in a public place, do something bizarre, and disperse; also called inexplicable mob.”

With the US and Canada, having a more than fair share of their fun (read - a surprise pillow fight flash mob right in the middle of a bustling-with-activity street, an orchestrated string of applause by 200-odd people in a reputed hotel, and an “invasion” into a plush shoe boutique), other countries are following in hot pursuit too.

(I can only just imagine the surprised looks on the faces of the pedestrians, hotel-staff, and shoe-store employees who were subjected to those utterly-baffling two-five minutes. I bet that when those who pulled off the above acts made a disappearance, these same people would have blinked, and pinched each other in return, wondering if the incidents really happened, or they were just their taxed minds at their hallucinating best, on an overdrive spree.

Now in the midst of a flash mob, there are bound to be three totally-identifiable groups:
a) A bewildered lot
b) Those who participate in it
c) Those who are loath to feel left out, but are unsure what to do, hobble their feet, look awkwardly around themselves, and when they are unable to make sense of it, shuffle off, muttering about a strange, strange world.

In Beijing, around 100 people, and in Brussels, quite a few too, pulled off a flash mob stunt, where they stood as if frozen in time. Those in Beijing “froze” for three minutes. Their counterparts in Belgium, on the other hand, stood still for five minutes, spaced out with a quick break, redid it for five minutes, and then ambled off, to their respective destinations.

They couldn’t have chosen a more apt day – April 01, 2008.
Word of mouth and a prominent website had notified the participants, some of whom stood locked in embrace, some “spirited” sorts clutching their poison, while some pretended to be inter-locked in a mock-fight.

While many pedestrians looked on, flabbergasted, quite a few chose to step in, agreeing with the others that it was a great stress-buster.
Now if only there could be flash mobs in India…

In a country where people are bound to surround me, agog looks plastered on their faces, trying to see what I, on one of my mad moods, would be trying my best to spot in the bright sky, flash mobs are sure going to be quite a crowd-puller.
The same horde that would excitedly peer into the sky, where I would be pointing a well-jabbed index finger an imaginary saucer-shaped-fluffy-blob, after having used the proverbial best-seller UFO argument, would increase sizably if one of “em flash mobs were to occur.

Though I’m not too sure if they would just stand and stare, agape, or join in the fun…

Tapping away....

The only driving I do is driving people nuts.

So when I am with someone driving his / her set of wheels, I’m the one merrily looking out of the window, adjusting the AC duct onto myself to ensure that I remain as cool as a cucumber (literally), making little crooning noises to myself when the radio station decides to play a well-liked number, on daring days I might do a lil sing-along too, click my tongue disapprovingly when a not-the-most-liked song makes an entry on the charts, screw up my nose when the adverts are a lot and not well-spaced out...

And oh yes, see the way people tap on their steering wheels.

Now, some people steer with one hand.

Some hold the steering wheel right at the bottom.

There are others who hang on to the steering wheel for dear life. (I ascribe to this school, as pointed out by Daddy dearest last month, during one of the few driving lessons that solely tried his patience).

However way you may hold the steering, there are bound to have been instances when you tapped on it.

TOOMA* holds the steering lightly, sometimes tapping it to the rhythm of some peppy number playing in the background, besides delivering a relatively decent karaoke rendition on some days.

Dad does a particularly amusing thumb dance on the steering, which is usually accompanied by some (very loud) humming.

Brother leaves one hand free to rap me smartly on my pretty head repeatedly (a gesture he claims, is one of deep sibling love), which I know is a whole lot of BS. And when the turn signal is clicking, he will synchronize it with some merry tapping, leaving me free to do what he loathes the most – ruffling his hair. The priceless steely glare he gives is enough to throw my head back and give one of my throaty engine laughs, another f his pet peeves.

Best guy friend, when he is not making scary sounds at every sharp turn, taps relentlessly on the wheel, not missing a breath from his string of non-stoppable conversation.

Longtime gal pal from college, when she is not checking her reflection in the rearview mirror, concentrates on holding the steering lightly with her fingers, doing a little tap-dance every now and then, and grinning at me good-naturedly, eyes twinkling, chattering about the next shopping area that we would be gracing with our presence.

Another close friend, she of the many colorful moods, when she does not have a lit-up ciggie in her hand, does her own version of thumping, which closely resembles some merry horses trotting to the nearby pasture to get a full tummy.

Of course the delicate hands gesticulate wildly and the right one often ball ups, a particular finger showing prominently, to an errant driver who tries to swoop into the lane in front...

*TOOMA - The Object Of My Affection

Movie Review: 27 Dresses

I would be lying if I said that I went to watch 27 Dresses without any expectations. After all, what would you expect from the screenwriter who gave us the immensely entertaining and vividly resplendent The Devil Wears Prada (TDWP).

Katherine Heigl as the quirky but nevertheless perennial do-gooder Jane is a Manhattan singleton, in love with her boss (Ed Burns), who besides throwing in a good word and a pat on the back every now and then, is utterly oblivious of her adoration. With a best friend in the form of Judy Greer, she of the sourest of tongues, and the most vivid of expressions, Jane has some relief from her persistent Good Samaritan-ness.

Besides of course, a fascination for weddings...

Our leading lady, when she is not mooning over her boss, can be found shuttling between wedding receptions, sometimes two on the same night.

Dressed as a bridesmaid.

The perpetual bridesmaid, Jane has seen and done it all – she’s dressed in clothes, now stashed into her home closet, that can only be termed torture attire inflicted by the bride-to-be upon the bridesmaids so as to look better than them, lifted gowns of the bride-to-be so that the latter could fulfill answer nature’s call before taking the vows at the altar, danced with the families of both parties, you name it…
Ho-hum story, huh.

Enter Jane’s spoilt younger sister, the man-magnet, Tess (Malin Akerman), who waltzes straight into her life, and into the wide arms of Ed. Within a matter of days, Tess has Ed eating out of her hands, tied to her pinky, and even all set to walk down the aisle. And who else to arrange for the wedding, than dahlin elder sistah!

Respite comes to an unwilling Jane in the form of cynical wedding columnist Kevn (Va Va Voom, James Marsden – the dishy Cyclops from X-Men), who is keen to cover her for his breakthrough story for his reporting career.

A stinging slap from Judy, a deliberate presentation at Tess and Ed’s wedding rehearsal dinner, a very entertaining round of sloshed singing at a roadside bar, the predictable rain, the subsequent romp in the sack, and the morning-after misunderstanding – 27 Dresses has all the trappings of a movie to keep you suitably happy.

And smiling, in spite of its predictability.

A fun-filled Sunday afternoon watch with your gal pals, 27 Dresses is not as huge a stunner as TDWP, but somewhere along the line, the story strikes the right chord.
As for the men folk, for obvious reasons, they would cite severe health conditions and bolt for the door at the very mention of yet another chick flick.

I wouldn’t blame them...

What with all that taffeta, lace, and organza spread throughout the movie in ample measure, they are definite to go running helter-skelter into the open doors of the nearest watering hole, and grab a six-pack...

Hic Hic!