NEW! Guns and Roses - Chinese Democracy

The wait is over.

15 years after their last album, the highly successful The Spaghetti Incident, Guns and Roses are all set to officially release their sixth studio album, Chinese Democracy. TOMORROW!

While the title track was released last month on the 22nd, the second single, Better, was released just seven days back.

Axl Rose, has never been in better form, they say.

I hope so.

He has had 15 years to cure himself of his stage-rage…

The solitude of a remote beach

Sometimes all that I can think of is a beach.

Today is one of those days when I have an aching desire to be on one.

Not one of those teeming with people, the women half sucking n their breaths to keep from bursting in a constricting, smaller size bikini / tankini, while doing a 360 degree overview of all those they survey from their gender - taking-in everything from the the snazzy Dior / YSL sunglasses they sport to whether they are partial to slathering Bullfrog or Neutrogena suntan lotion generously upon their toned (or not so toned) bodies...

While the men suck in their breaths or gasp for entirely different reasons...

I want to escape to a solitary beach right now...

What I would like to do most right now is to toss some gaily-colored skirts / sarongs (which I would have to purchase) into an oversized straw bag, fish out the dark grey sunglasses I have discarded (and which lie somewhere beneath all that is heaped on my table), rack my memory hard for where I last put the hat I bought while on my desert trip to Jaisalmer, borrow the lime-green pair of flip-flops from a college friend, pack the couple of books I am simultaneously trying to get-through, throw in my Banana Boat sunscreen tube, check that I have enough cash on me, keep some spirits and a pack of ciggies, and catch the next flight to the nearest beach (which happens to be Mumbai in my case, but I'd rather choose Goa over it anyday).

And while sipping a cool beer, take a stroll...

Alone.

This is what peace means to me right now.

Me.
Alone on a beach.
The waves lapping up at my barefeet, the azure ocean spread silently till as far as the eyes can discern; the beach crabs also ensuring that they leave me to myself. A yard further, there is a shack with a cane chair, an icebox, a hammock tied to two palm trees nearby, and a chaise-lounge - all beckoning to me invitingly, lest my body and peds desire some rest.
Pure bliss!

Something which no Rs-4500-an-hour-spa can give me. No matter how much they try to convince me

Will someone please take down these Diwali fairy lights? Like Now!

So the other day I heard the following conversation on a leading radio channel, in which a guy kept delivering to another, a chain of Diwali (the Indian festival of lights) greetings, each one longer than the previous one rendered.

The effusiveness only kept getting onto one's nerves.

After replying the first two times, albeit a tad half-heartedly, the other man finally lost his cool demeanour, visibly vexed by the wishes, and especially since the eagerly-circled-Diwali-holiday had long sped by from his Hindu calendar.

A fortnight back, to be exact.

In a huff, he asked why the other dude was insistent on doing the utterly irksome season's greetings bit. To this, guy # 1 replied that the other still had Diwali fairy lights (commonly called ladiyaas) up on his walls, and lit them every night religiously.

Obviously his Diwali was not yet over.

Hence the Diwali greetings.

Point noted.

The same runs true in many other colonies too.

Pretty fairy-lights, rows upon rows of them, make for a sparkling visual treat at night – when the festival season descends upon us.

They sometimes make an appearance a full fortnight before Diwali day, or even before that (in some cases). Strings of lights garland most houses, the owners of some sworn to keeping them on for close to a month perhaps.

Now are these people foolish?

Or do they simply think that they are the guiding light of some people's lives?

You decide.

Movie Review: Quantum of Solace

Bond is back.

He of the blue eyes, clipped Brit accent, steely resolve, wry sense of humor, impeccable Savile Row suits, black Aston Martin, cool handling of martinis, and gasp-inducing, stomach-churning, sucking-breath, death-defying stunts.

All the above are there in the 22nd James Bond flick, Quantum of Solace, where Daniel Craig reprises second innings as the legendary 007 super spy.

And in a first, he arrives in India a full week before his scheduled November 14 date.

Sunday afternoon had all the trappings of a very pleasant time for me - lunch with great friend from college, window-shooping (I've sworn off shopping for a while - touche), and the new 007 flick. All in all, it promised to be a very pleasurable afternoon.

However, that was not to be. While the former two went off rather well, I was miffed, cheated, and sorely disappointed with Quantum of Solace.

Daniel Craig, instead of looking suaveness personified, looks more like a sneering, ruthless trigger-happy street-fighter agent-cum-boxer, with a constantly contemptuous look on his face.

The perpetually snarling, curled upper-lip doesn’t help much to redeem him either.

While Marc Forster (of Monster’s Ball, Finding Neverland fame) deserves full marks for directing Ian Fleming’s most famous spy, the story leaves you a little cold and disenchanted.

So you have a still nursing-a-broken-heart, embittered Craig chasing a sinister Dominic Greene (Mathieu Amalric) over three continents, and six countries, with some stunning images of Chile’s Atacama desert. Greene’s character is based on French President Nocolas Sarkozy and former English PM, Tony Blair. The smirking owner of an ecological Organization that he is, has more than the planet’s green resources in mind, and is all out to crack a deal which would make him the undisputed controller of Bolivia’s water resources. He is also a member of the mysterious shadow Organization, Quantum, which has tentacles everywhere.

Bond, in characteristic style, is determined to splash ‘water’ over and ruin Greene’s ambitious plans. Pun intended.

Besides mixing an unforgotten sense of vendetta for the death of Vesper Lynd, the only woman out of the flock he had seduced and been seduced by (see Casino Royale).

So you have adrenaline pumping fight scenes, where a brawny, rippling muscled Craig battles it out, often bare-handed, with nimble-footed, deft adversaries. There are speedboat and bike chases, skydiving stunts, pumping bullets that leave one dazed, jet fights, glass-crashing-into-smithereens moments, car crunchings – all leaving you sitting on the edge of your cushy seats, looking wide-eyed at the almost impossible-looking, gravity-defying stunts.

Veteran Dame Judi Dench returns as M for the sixth time, this time a tad disapproving and resentful of Bond’s trigger-happy ways, trying her best to restrain the unstoppable Bond's reckless movements and ruthless killing sprees. But eventually re-imposes her complete trust and faith in him.

Moving on to the women.

You have the achingly-lovely, luscious-lipped Olga Kurylenko playing Camille Montes, a Russian-Bolivian agent, who harbours a mission to destroy Greene. While the fake tan is a dead giveaway, the lilting accent is pleasing enough, and she holds her own with Craig as a tough-as-nails agent.

The guys will be pleased to know that Craig only shares a brief lip-lock with her at the end of the movie, and not any steamy between-the-sheets encounter. Agent Fields (played by freckled, red-wigged Gemma Arterton) however does have an amorous shot with Craig dropping kisses on her shivering bare back, though in the next scene she is found dead on the same bed, daubed in oil – a shuddering pre-present of what horrors lie ahead, from Quantum.

The only other saving grace of Quantum of Solace besides Olga – is its length. Running for a maximum of 106-odd minutes, it marks itself as the shortest Bond movie.

Go catch the associated video game instead, its namesake, which also marks a release this weekend. Read more about it here.

Maybe you wouldn’t be that disappointed.

Ohh, by the by, Bond wields a Sony phone.

I can almost see that wiping the grins off the faces of the Nokia suckers. Ha!

The Mystery of the Magic Wallet

Aladdin had a magic carpet which transported him, in the twinkling of an eye, across the swirling sands of the desert.

I saw an old couple sharing some magical moments with each other, while taking a walk into the evening sun.

Some entrepreneurs have a magical touch; whatever they touch turns to gold, making each venture more successful than the last.

When you are hurt (emotionally or physically), someone’s reassuring, soothing words work like magic.

Cinderella’s fairy Godmother had the magic wand which, with one wave, turned the sweet put plain cinder girl to centrefold gorgeousness personified.

For some, thankfully, the three magic words – ‘Please, sorry, thank you,’ still exist.

As for me, what magic do I have in my life?

I have a magic wallet.

Pray what is that, you might arch an eyebrow and ask curiously.

Well, to answer your query, I have a wallet, which no matter how much money you put into it, does one of the following:

A) makes the money disappear (one day its clearly there, the other day it vanishes)
B) changes the currency notes into receipts!!

Can you think of anything more magical!

I suspect the glitzy malls that have mushroomed in every nook and corner of the city, have something to do with the case of my perpetually drained-out wallet / purse.

These pesky shops pull me to them, extending their ritzy arms to me, waiting for me to reciprocate their warm embrace.

And once I do, everyone knows the story of the Venus trap, and how difficult, almost impossible it is, to escape from its clutches. It is akin to a flailing fish trying to escape from the tentacles to a triumphant octopus.

Anywhichways, yours truly’s wallet is usually the picture of a barren nation, quite a far picture from the ‘greenery’ she would like to see.

Sometimes, methinks it has an invisible suction cup attached to it, which cunningly siphons off all the hard-earned cash I religiously put into it. Drat!

Good friend from college, let’s call her by her initials – RS, also echoes my feelings, saying that her wallet too has this black hole which constantly makes trips to the friendly ATM to replenish it, almost a bi-weekly feature.

Those plastic shopping bags that produce such a pleasing, crunching sound are also to be blamed, as even when RS and I walk like two horses with blinkers, we inadvertently chance upon bargains that are too-hard-to-pass-up-and-go-by and no matter how hard we bite our lips, we can’t help but take a peek, and then…DISASTER strikes - wallets are whipped-out, payments are made, and those beguiling packets are handed us. Guilt often sets in, within 10-15 minutes of the shopping spree, depending upon the bill run-up.

To drown our sorrows, the strategically-placed bistro / lounge almost calls out to us in a sexy baritone, and we fall victim yet again – to yet another meal, where, for the amount we pay, the portions are surprisingly miniscule.

(The poor wallets scowl, muttering to no one in particular about how they like to be exclusive, and don't like making too frequent appearances, and how they wished their daft owners understood that).

Promises are made – that we would watch where our steps lead us(literally), that we would swear off the FDs (four devils, not the other acronym that my Dad would be proud of if I invested in them). These demons are, in descending order of costs – perfumes, bags, footwear, and clothes / accessories / makeup. Darn!

However, considering that a couple of days back, I made my way through an entire floor of a perfume-sniffer’s delight, without picking up a single bottle, does speak volumes of my turning over a new leaf.

Well, just maybe...

The soap bubble has burst

Ekta Kapoor, she of the vermillion-tikka-on-forehead, and K-serials-business fame, is bound to be a sad woman today.

‘Cos no amount of ringing bells at various temples dotting the city, will stop the knell for one of her longest running soaps, which ran for…hold your breath…an astounding 8 years.

While you have the usual crowd of people do the elitist act, raising a hue and cry, rolling up their eyes dramatically, and holding their noses disdainfully high at the very mention of these saas-bahu (mother-in-law – daughter-in-law) sagas, it is also not unknown for these very same people to furtively fish-out the remote, fluff the cushions, sink into the couch and sit through yet another episode of the mind-numbing family drama.

So far so good.

There are pretenders everywhere in the world.

Now, with a clap of thunder, Rupert Murdoch’s Star TV has decided to pull off Balaji Telefilm’s prime-time show and replace it with some other series that will ensure that its falling TRPs fall no further.

Renowned lawyer, Ram Jethmalani, currently fighting the suit, counsels that Star undertaking such a measure is a dire breach of an agreement which established that the soap was to run till March next year.

Star is frankly weary with the allegations, and with one stroke which screams FINALITY, has decided to go ahead with the TRP-spinning-no-more soap, much to the palpable anger, tears, and cussing by the producers, director, and cast.


While some were sorely offended and saddened by the curtains call for the soap, saying that they finished their household chores to watch yet another addictive episode, quite a few openly expressed unrestrained delight and whoops of ecstasy.

Although the dramatic renditions of family values, truth and good triumph over all odds, and sacrifice appealed to many, there were loads (including me) who were put off by:

a) The Over The Top (OTT) accessories – bling mangalsutras and vermillion sindoor on full-display especially when the protagonist comes face to face with the perpetually-designer-attired, grey-eyed, stylish vamp
b) Bouts of amnesia (with thunder and lightning sounds playing not-so-subtly in the background)
c) The face close-ups from every angle when a character received news, often unbelievable or of the depressing category
d) Female characters who looked like prototypical Christmas trees, dressed in all their gaudy best, bedecked alike whether they were shown sleeping, at a funeral, or just awake and reaching out for the morning cuppa (Woo hoo – no bad hair days, no mussed makeup, no rumpled clothing, not even an eyelash out of place – Bravo)
e) Vamps who wore dangerously revealing blouses, and bindis that could only elicit an ‘Ohh my gosh’ from the viewer
f) All that money spent over yet another face restructuring surgery (and ohh on those cannot-done-without glycerine bottles)
g) Themes of resurrection, murders, flashbacks of memory returns, backstabbing, illegitimate children spawned by a degenerate generation, infidelity by both the genders – the works
h) Women playing roles double their age (sample this - a nubile 20 year old, playing dutiful mother to two teenagers)

Undoubtedly, the soap was hugely popular, bringing together women for discussing animatedly what the next episode would reveal. Such was its popularity that even movies are cashing on soap-obsessed homemakers, as was the case with a recent Bollywood flick, wherein the leading lady is a teletubby, her flat chest heaving emotionally at every episode of the much-loved soap.

The death of a male protagonist in Kyunki…even brought people to the streets, made headlines in a national daily, and forced Ekta Kapoor to tread the path of resurrecting her characters, bringing him back, albeit with a new face. Enchanting.

I bet she’s now wishing that much in the same way as in her soaps, she could resurrect the future of her favourite soap.

Which now looks like a distant dream, what with ‘Kyunki Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thhi’ airing its very last episode on November 10, 2008.

If I crane my neck, I can see that the corner store is full to the brim with women.

I bet they are stocking up on the tissue boxes....

Movie Review: Fashion

I wouldn’t call ‘Fashion’ a dud, but yeah, coming from Madhur Bhandarkar, the man who gave us stellar hits like Page 3 and Corporate, watching ‘Fashion’ was a tad disappointing.

What could have been an insightful glimpse into the fashion world, turns instead into a protracted catechism / moral science class.

It starts off well though. Predictable, but nice.

So you have the middle-class model-in-the-making, Meghna (Priyanka) who harbours a secret desire to escape from smothering Chandigarh to glitzy Mumbai, and at the end of the long ride, achieve supermodel stardom, complete with all the perks.

So she arrives bag and baggage at the doorstep of a distant relative in Mumbai, a gay friend, who is assistant to a fashion designer, having assured her that he would do all it takes to get her onto the fashion bandwagon.

So far, so good.

After this, the movie goes on a downslide.

In the almost 3 hour long torture, Madhur Bhandarkar introduces you, can by can of every possible vice one may encounter in the swanky fashion realm.

So you have the teetering-off-the-edges supermodel, Shonali (played by Kangana Ranaut) who is on a destructive journey of coke-overdose, nicotine, and arrogance; the fellow struggler (Arjun Bawa) – who shares her profession, and later her bed; an openly-gay designer who marries his school friend Janet (Mughda Godse) – the tough-but-good-hearted model – for the sake of pacifying a society which frowns upon homosexuality as a depraved disease; the grieving parents who moan about their daughter who has kicked off her flat sandals in favour of sky-high stilettos.

There is also the gory / murky side – the business tycoon (Arbaaz Khan) – who provides for her, expecting his pound of flesh in return; his wife (Suchitra Pillai) who turns a blind eye to his flagrant, amorous adventures with young, upcoming, petite models; the hard-as-nails modelling agency head (Kitu Gidwani), who is herself a pawn in the hands of the tycoon...

The movie also deals with fashion issues like a brilliantly handled wardrobe malfunction scene upon Kangana, existence of an evident casting couch, bohemian models whose lifestyles can be called anything but model, excessive forms of intoxication, including snorting, designers ripping off designs from one another, passing-off streetwear as avant-garde fashionwear, catty exchanges between models, promiscuity – the works.

In between, you see Priyanka Chopra, she of the swollen lips, exhibit a hugely-swollen ego and caustic tongue - success has clearly gone to her poker-straight haired head. While Kangana needs urgent voice modulation and dialogue delivery / diction / pronunciation classes, she has still brought the right level of unhinged-ness to her character portrayal. Mughda is bound to go far, the way she has breathed confidence and spontaneity to her character.

As far as Madhur Bhandarkar goes – what can I say – he definitely has a little black book which numbers all the ‘sins’ of the fashion world.

A book which he needs to toss in favour of some much-needed designer scissors.

To trim his next realistic movie.