Slumdog Millionaire

Slumdog Millionaire is a good film, but hardly Oscar-worthy. Try telling that to the Oscar committee. Those hallowed gatekeepers to Hollywood recognition awarded it eight Oscars. What rankled was the fact that it came as no surprise. SM had been the media darling for months on end and the bookies’ favourite to win. Which fact leads me to believe that the rest of the world saw something genuinely brilliant in the film. Which belief makes me contemplate the appallingly low standards of the movie-going population and the fate of the human race in general.

Okay, credit where credit is due. Slumdog Millionaire had a brilliant premise that was also a wonderful plot device to showcase numerous aspects of Indian life. The production values were top-notch, some of the casting was excellent and given the relatively paltry sum Danny Boyle had to work with, he did some absolutely fantastic work. The shot locations were evocative of India; the venues chosen captured the soul of the land in as much as it is possible to compress a country to a few hours of celluloid. The music was in a class of its own and well-deserving of the Oscars it clinched. The entire package was a solid likeable crowd-pleaser with a simple uplifting theme and a Bombay filmed with so much love that it’s obvious the filmmakers fell for the city --- hard.

But the script,(a script which Danny Boyle said inspired ‘mad love’), oh the script was bollocks. Granted, the whole film had a fairytale feel to it, so a certain suspension of disbelief was required to enjoy it. But when two slum dwelling itinerants from Mumbai wind up in Delhi speaking the Queen’s English like the Queen herself, then the gap between disbelief and the suspension of it is an yawning chasm; a canyon that cannae be bridged. When Salim starts disbursing Benjamins to old pals, when he’s gotta know the dough will just end up back with his old masters, its more than odd. When a little child,very accurately done up like Lord Ram, materializes in the middle of a riot, it has a surreal Daliesque quality, like that pig-mask scene from The Shining. The dialogue lacked authenticity, coming as it did from Indian tongues unaccustomed to speaking in that manner. It feels like Danny told all his actors,” Speak clearly and slowly, pronounce every word correctly.” The result is that the lines lack the practiced nonchalance of true Bombayspeak, that wonderful synthesis of English and Hindi with effortlessly cool expletives as its cornerstone. The only actors who delivered their lines with a modicum of realism were veterans Anil Kapoor(quiz host) and Saurabh Shukla(Inspector Srinivas). In his defense, it must be said that Danny was attempting to create an essentially English movie, so the jarring incongruity of the dialog must be excused. But this is the Oscars; give the statuette to cinema that does not need apologists. The lines and delivery of, hell, even the casting, of the older avatars of Salim were plain horrid. When Salim justifies his rape of the teenage Latika with lines like ‘I am the elder. I am the boss. I am number one now.’, I had acid reflux. And it had nothing to do with the impending rape. Characters were badly sketched out, their motivations poorly delineated, their feelings and actions barely explained. Worse was the fact that the rags-to-riches story with a quick-fix solution was the same old-hackneyed fare that Bollywood has been churning out year after year. Danny’s inability to deviate from the trodden path of Hollywood sappiness, predictability and fairytale endings is his greatest failure as a visionary. Slumdog Millionaire has been done before, in various guises; we in India call it the last 30 years of Indian cinema. 

SM has become the Indian media’s darling for the past three months. A cause celebre that polarized the country, provoked indignation in many quarters, spawned a lawsuit against the makers but also inspired and made many proud. Now that it’s raining Oscars, everybody’s quick to pounce on the SM bandwagon. This irksome tendency to claim the film as India’s own is a miserable attempt to share in international film excellence recognition that has eluded us thus far. And with good reason, for Bollywood makes crap films. It also takes great films in other languages and turns them into execrable oeuvres of such mindblowing suckiness that it’s a miracle the whole world does not vanish into the blackhole. Bollywood, Mumbai was right under your noses. The source material for SM was a novel written by an Indian - you could have optioned it. The money was there ( Slumdog cost a paltry $10 million bucks –Hrithik Roshan gets more for his Coke endorsement.) This could have been your movie. It still wouldn’t be a great movie, but with the right spin, you coulda won a Best Foreign Film Oscar. But now, you have to hold your tale between your legs and beg for kinship at the table of the Brits; request affiliate status from somebody who is now seen as more Indian than Bollywood itself. What’s worse, this film might shape foreigners opinions and ideas about India for years to come. More’s the pity.

Well, atleast SM is not as bad as that other Indian cultural ambassador of the year, Arvind Adiga’s bland, uninspired novel The White Tiger. How it won the Booker is beyond me. Whatever the judges were smoking, it’s powerful stuff. 

Danny Boyle says he hopes to make a thriller in Bombay. Let’s hope he does not choose to adapt The White Tiger. Cos if he does, it will probably win 10 Oscars and make me catatonic.

The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada ***1/2

Slow moving but rewarding, this film is a simple story of sin and redemption, crime and punishment.  A western set against the sprawling American landscape, The Three Burials is the story of a reckless young border patrolman and the consequences that arise when he accidentally kills a Meskin. The Meskin works in a ranch owned by Tommy Lee Jones, and, as has been proven numerous times, one does not fuck with Tommy Lee Jones and escape unscathed. The upright,tough Tommy is a man who lives by a strict moral code and when he finds out that this bloke did his Mexican friend in, he decides to give him a dose of frontier justice.

After making border patrolman dig up Mel, Tommy Lee gets himself three horses and embarks on an arduous journey to take the dead displaced Mexican back to the native village he fondly remembers and once described to him. The young patrolman, played to perfection by Barry Pepper is not too keen on the idea and has to be dragged kicking and screaming, at gun point. Tommy Lee directs himself with extraordinary grace, letting the slow, lethargic, mostly silent story tell itself at its own pace. It is hard to direct a slow movie that captivates you and The Three Burials does that to perfection. There are so many small things going on in the movie that captures the essence of the small Western town and the harsh Mexican landscape. The storytelling, non-linear in parts, manages to hold our attention throughout. A haunting score and a masterful script clinch the deal. The restrained and controlled direction is especially laudable, given that it is Tommy's directorial debut. Two gringos, one meskin with an unpronouncable name, sparse dialog, tight scripting, repetitive burials. 'nuff dead.

The Hitcher (1986) ***1/2

Though not a road movie in the strictest definition of the term, for me The Hitcher will forever be classified under that elite domain. Set against the vast open landscape of America, the wide empty roads and bleak but beautiful backgrounds remind one of such roadies as Vanishing Point and Easy Rider. However, the similarities end there. While most road films have rebellion and freedom as their central themes, this one has fear.

 The Hitcher is a nihilistic depiction of a psychopathic killer, yet is never too violent or gory. Robert Harmon has crafted a beautiful little genre flick that eschews the gratuitious gore, faces in mirrors and cats leaping from hidden corners while still remaining atmospheric and chilling. 

The plot is simple. Jim Halsey,a young buck driving to California, picks up a hitcher on a deserted highway on a rainy night and soon finds out the man has more on his mind than simple transportation. The taciturn hitcher soon becomes voluble on his predilection for cutting off appendages and does the nice young driver know what happens to an eyeball when it gets punctured. Jim manages to kick the hitcher out, but our friendly thumb-waving maniac rejoins the hunt after getting picked up by another passing vehicle. The harrowing chase becomes a tornado of violence as the hitcher builds a mound of bodies. When a planted knife casts suspicion on Jim Halsey, the entire local police is mobilized for a massive manhunt. Halsey, framed and falsely accused is helped by a cute chick from a cafeteria. The ensuing car chases replete with helicopter seems to have been lifted straight out of Vanishing Point, but it works extremely well. Rutger Hauer, steely eyed, implacable and ruthlessly efficient steals the show as the hitcher. His character, John Ryder, a Ramboesque inscrutable badass whose motives are unclear is definitely one of the greatest villains of film. 

The Hitcher has a Kafkaesque feel to it, an anti-existentialist touch that suggest that we are merely pawns in a game of random chess, where every character can move anywhichwhere it pleases. The Hitcher is the only one in control; anarchy rules. One feels that his destiny is intertwined with Jim's and can only lead to the inevitably fatal conclusion. Good does triumph in the end, but at what cost? For what is humanity advantaged, if the evil man dies but the good man loses his soul. A pyrrhic victory this, like in Se7en. But to hell with the philosophizing. This is a brilliant little gem and when I say that this movie made me shit-scared of road trips and hitchhikers, you'll understand how hauntingly effective it is. All the goodwill that Jack Kerouac built for hitchhikers, this film effortlessly annihilated. 21st century traveler, you have been warned.

The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor ** ( two stars out of five)

They should never have resurrected this franchise. The third installment of the Mummy is a piece of lamentable, uninspired filmmaking that will leave Imhotep spinning in his pyramid.

Having exterminated every mummy worth his linen in Egypt, Rick O’ Connell (Brendan Fraser) now fights the undead in another well known mummy habitat: China. This time along, the titular mummy is Emperor Han ( Jet Li), a ruthless megalomaniac whose quest for immortality leads him to Zi Juan ( Michelle Yeoh) a sexy, powerful witch. Han fancies Zi Juan, so when he finds her in flagrante delicto with his trusted general Ming, he orders Ming executed, which prompts the witch to literally petrify Han and his army.


A couple of millennia later, Rick O’ Connell (Brendan Fraser ) and his wife Evelyn are coaxed to come out of an idyllic retirement to deliver a sensitive package to China, where their dashing, rebellious son Alex has just unearthed the tomb of the Dragon Emperor. A propitious confluence of events leads to a family reunion, at which point, things (and the movie) start going to pot. With formulaic predictability the O’Connells manage to reawaken the Emperor who starts wreaking havoc and generally being an ill-mannered, fire-breathing badass. Rick and his family, who hate the undead on principle and feel the only good mummies are dead mummies, take it upon themselves to exterminate Han before he can turn immortal and enslave the world. Wild adventure, romantic entanglements and several standoffs ensue, and there are rare moments when you feel again the outrageous chutzpah and roguish wit that made the original Mummy so memorable.

Brendan Fraser and Jet Li manage to hold their own, but the rest of the acting is so wooden it could have been phoned in. There are numerous attempts at humor, but since these attempts have the success rate of impotent sperm, the laughs are few and far between. The CGI sequences, featuring undead armies, the odd yeti or three and an Emperor Han who can transmogrify at will into three-headed dragon or giant lion thingy do little to salvage a script plagued with cringe-worthy lines and lackluster direction. At the end of the film Jonathan ( Evie’s brother ) relocates to Peru, so a possible next installment might have Rick and family battling the Peruvian crystal skulled Mummies that starred in the last Indiana Jones flick. Tutankhamen save us from that possibility.

The Midnight Meat Train ***1/2 (three and a half stars)

Directed by Ryuhei Kitamura. Stars Leon Bradley, Leslie Bibb and Vinnie Jones

Without a doubt, The Midnight Meat Train is one of the best horror movies in recent years. Adapted from a short story by horror maestro Clive Barker (of Hellraiser fame) and helmed by Japanese director Kitamura in his Hollywood debut, this film is bound to please horror aficionados who have gone too long without a worthy spine-tingler. Atmospheric and infused with a sly sense of foreboding throughout, TMMT eschews cheap scares in favor of a mildly stewing discomfiture that culminates in a violent potboiler of a train ride

When photographer Leon Kauffman (Bradley Cooper, TV’s Alias) is persuaded by a prominent art gallerist into exploring the naked underbelly of the city for grittier subject material, a foray into the subway offers him a glimpse of Mahogany, whom he begins to suspect of being a serial killer. Despite the vehement protestations of his sultry girlfriend (Leslie Bibb, Iron Man) and disregarding all sane options, Leon begins shadowing him to confirm his suspicions. Mahogany (the effortlessly menacing Vinnie Jones, Snatch) is a butcher by day, and as soon becomes apparent, does not entirely dispense with the tools of his trade at night. As Leon’s nocturnal peregrinations in pursuit of the butcher increase, his obsession consumes him and places his loved ones in jeopardy, leading to a nail-biter of a climax in the eponymous midnight train, which is the butcher’s base of operations.

As a horror film, it succeeds remarkably well. Vinnie Jones turns in a spectacularly chilling performance. Taciturn, ominous and brutal, he is the seminal slasher; eviscerator extraordinaire. There’s enough gore, blood and decapitations to satisfy your inner sadist, but not so much you’ll lose your lunch. The mood, oh the mood, that holy grail of the horror genre, is captured and distilled with consummate ease. The satisfying twist at the end hinted at great conspiracy, of vast hordes of things that go bump in the night. Highly satisfying horror! Stephen King, eat your heart out.

Last House on the Left vs. Wolf Creek

Roger Ebert loved Last House on the Left enough to give it three and a half stars. That put paid to any notion I had of sensible critiques. All critiques are biased and all critics have pet peeves and prejudices that they cannot lay aside to write review. In fact, perhaps the best critics are the ones who see the movie through their own tinted lenses than pander to popular appeal.

What I cannot for the life of me understand is why Ebert rated this movie so high when he gave the similar Wolf Creek zero stars. Perhaps because pioneer trash is considered classic while modern trash is just trash. Not that the movies in question are trash, but a lot of people do see the horror/slasher genre with lone sociopathic nutcases slaughtering innocents devoid of value. I concur, but have to point out that the genre provides for damn good entertainment. In my guilty pleasure lies its redemption.

Both movies revolve around women who get kidnapped and savagely murdered. Wes Craven’s Last House on the Left benefits from an above average plot with a twist: the killers end up in the house of the woman they murdered and the distraught parents proceed to mete out their vengeance on them. Wolf Creek on the other hand, has no such poetic justice or sweet revenge; it is a bleak visual display of the evil that lies in man’s heart.

Both movies claim to be based on true stories, and I would well take their word for it. In this zany world, folks killing each other with no motivation is hardly cause for surprise. Wes Craven’s film, while hailed as a groundbreaking and pioneering oeuvre, hardly gripped me the way Wolf Creek. Granted, pioneering films are not always known for their cinematic excellence; similar films that follow have better technology at their command and they also learn from the mistakes of the past. So while Night of the Living Dead might have been pioneering, Dawn of the Dead is a much better crafted and more effective movie.



So too with Last House on the Left, it perhaps succeeds as a view into the dark recesses of human evil, but as for realism, suspense and gripping terror, it trails behind Wolf Creek. Both films are deeply unsettling, and Wolf Creek is damn near unwatchable. The villains in Last House might be coldblooded, remorseless killers, but they do not give you the jitters every time they are on screen. The Wolf Creek slaughter machine however, is chillingly efficient at raising your heartbeat and your nape hair.

Wolf Creek had a much tighter script, sparse dialogue and numerous scenes that notched up the nerve-wracking anticipation. Last House has a lethargic quality to it, it’s like watching a snuff film shot in slow motion with two bumbling cops who do a lousy job of providing comic relief. People might argue that Last House is less nihilistic, with redemption coming in the form of revenge. The killers do not go scot free. Be that as it may, Wolf Creek is the better film. I wonder how Craven would shoot Last House if he were to remake it today. For a directorial debut it’s not bad, but he’s definitely honed his craft well over the years.He’d do the concept better justice, I’d assume , long as he does not use the same scriptwriters employed for his last directorial outing, Spiderman 3

World Without End

Ken Follett has carved out quite a name for himself penning great espionage thrillers; the rare kind of airport novel that are a notch above the rest and worth re-reading. The mass paperback market is the territory of such personages as Robert Ludlum, John Grisham, Tom Clancy and Danielle Steele. Follett inclusion in this list would not merit surprise. But future times will not remember Follett’s Eye of the Needle or The Key to Rebecca as much as they remember his historical epic The Pillars of the Earth. Vast in scope and populated with tremendous characters who encompassed every vice and virtue known to man, Pillars transformed Follett from a purveyor of cheap thrills into a mature writer who could craft a thousand page epic that was as riveting as any of the paperback thrillers he wrote.

Eighteen years have passed since Follett’s magnum opus; years he spent writing fiction, which, while good, would be forgotten in a generation. World Without End, however is a different kettle of fish. I felt it inferior to Pillars, but that is in no way a criticism, considering how good Pillars was. The book is a sequel of sorts to Pillars; it takes place in the same village and the descendants of the Pillars protagonists feature prominently. The priory of Kingsbridge is home once again to the evil machinations and virtuous enterprise of rich and diverse characters.



Our hero Merthin, is an architect nursing grand ambition, great ingenuity and a seemingly hopeless love for the plucky and spirited Caris. Caris is an absolute rebel, and flouts almost every societal rule espoused by fourteenth century England. She is a woman before her time, torn by her desire for independence and her love for architect boy. She also dabbles in medicine, despises authority and her religious beliefs are heretical to the point of atheism. Our villains include Ralph, Merthin’s headstrong, bullying brother whose primary passions are fighting and philandering, Godwyn the stubborn prior whose purpose it is to thwart any and all plans with a semblance of sensibility and Philemon, his sycophantic lieutenant who’s got a severe case of kleptomania. There are a lot more peripheral characters, but Follett does them justice by fleshing them out, giving them significant roles and making sure they contribute to the overall plot. Against the backdrop of the Black Death and the Hundred Years War, Follett does a masterful job of crafting a vast story spanning many decades. As with most epics, one expects that good will triumph and the gallivanting hero will land the woman of his dreams; but the author manages to keep the element of suspense alive. Mostly, Merthin’s and Caris’ plans are frustrated by mere pigheaded authority, obstinacy, and the superstitions of those in power. Independently, they manage to make enemies of almost everybody who has a say in the running of Kingsbridge and only reason, and their popularity among the more sensible locals will help them in their causes. This book has it all: politics, dark secrets, conspiracies, steamy scenes aplenty, undiluted evil and virtue pure as the driven snow. It was a time when men were real men, women were real women and let us say nothing of Alpha Centuari.

I’d been reading Connie Willis’ Hugo winner The Doomsday Book at the same time I was reading this. Both novels deal with fourteenth Century practices and prevailing social mores in some detail, and the important lesson to be taken away from their perusal is this: the fourteenth century absolutely blows. Not only was there no internet, but also the living conditions were terrible, the people were absolutely filthy, superstitious to the point of idiocy and the plague didn’t help matters any. The church’s near-absolute governance over the people’s day-to-day lives coupled with their absolute ignorance in many matters further exacerbated an already terrible situation. The feudal system and droit du seigneur prevailed; the feudal serfs had about as many rights as the sheep and women had less. Depressing times to live in, but a great backdrop for storytelling. Witness the success of Braveheart, The Seventh Seal & Monty Python and the Holy Grail.

Ultimately, World Without End is pure escapist pleasure; a rich tapestry of enormous proportions woven together by an author at the top of his game. He gives you characters that you can identify with and feel strongly about and forces them into crunch situations that bring out the best and the worst in them. In some ways, both Pillars of the Earth and World without End are an allegory of the eternal fight between reason and ignorance in a world that seems to elect its leaders based on the Dilbert Principle.

The Academy Awards 2008

This has been a whirlwind year for Hollywood. The historic writes’ strike brought the industry to a standstill and the studio moguls down from their high horses. The watershed event impacted Hollywood so dramatically that they almost shelved their yearly glitz extravaganza, The Oscars. If it hadn’t been for the propitious and timely end to the strike, the Oscars would have gone the way of this year’s golden globes: just the peremptory reading of a Winners list. That would have been a pity, considering the fine slew of material that invaded cinemas this year.

Jon Stewart hosted the gig. Having had to churn out hours worth of comedy in just over a week due to the Writers’ strike, it was understandable that the jokes were not out of this world. But he was witty, interesting and even poignant when required; a collected and impressive performance. The nominees and winners themselves were hardly controversial; critics’ favorites clinched most awards leaving bookmakers saying, “I told you so”.

The best picture obviously went to No Country for Old Men. In a year of superlative films, the Coen Brothers' crime opus was light years ahead of the pack. Also-rans included the very good There will be Blood, Michael Clayton, indie sleeper-hit Juno and the Golden Globe winning but slightly overrated Atonement. The Coens picked up their second Oscars for Best Director for the same oeuvre, trumping Juno’s Jason Reitman, Michael Clayton’s Tony Gilroy and the masterful Paul Thomas Anderson. They also won the award for Best Adapted Screenplay.

Daniel Day Lewis’s brilliant, imposing and unforgettable turn as an ambitious, amoral oil-man in There Will be Blood netted him his second Oscar, an honor he called “the closest I'll ever come to getting a knighthood”. To me, this man is the most gifted actor of our generation. Kudos to P.T. Anderson for bringing him out of self-imposed retirement.

  
Hollywood’s Finest!
 

Marion Cotillard’s Best Actress Oscar nod for portraying Edith Piaf in La Vie en Rose had the stunned actress declaring “it is true, there is (sic) some angels in this city”.

The Best Supporting Actress Oscar went to Tilda Swindon who played to perfection her role as a corporate executive trapped by circumstance to make excruciating moral decisions. In her acceptance speech, she praised co-star George Clooney’s professionalism, dedication to his craft and antics both on and off-set, saying, “You rock, man.”

Javier Bardem’s mesmerizing portrayal as one of the most unforgettable villains in celluloid history ( with arguably the worst haircut ever) garnered him a Best Supporting Actor Oscar, a weird choice given that Bardem was obviously the star of No Country.

Ratatouille clinched the Best Animated Feature Oscar, trouncing the intelligent and thought-provoking movie adaptation of Persepolis and Surf’s up, yet another penguin romp in the tradition of Happy Feet. Ever since they instituted this award, it has been given to movies starring ogres, horses, fish, superhumans, penguins and rats. I suppose animated creatures play to the strengths of the medium, but it’d be nice to see some regular animated humans make a play for the brittanium statuette.

Can you smell what the rat is cooking?
 

Juno won a much-deserved Best Original Screenplay Oscar and while Ellen Page’s refreshing performance as the eponymous protagonist did not get her an Oscar, we can take heart that Hollywood has discovered a prodigious new talent.

The much-touted The Bourne Ultimatum won the Film Editing Oscar while Tim Burton’s Sweeney Todd won for Art Direction.

This year’s Oscars did not afford much in the way of melodrama and theatrics. For one, the statuettes didn’t get stolen before the ceremony. There were no drawn-out spiels about the war in Iraq, no emotional break-downs on stage nor did anyone manage to execute passionate lip-locks with Halle Berry. On the upside, it was a great year for movies and the Writers’ strike is finally over. All things considered, one should be grateful the event happened at all.

Also, for those of who are interested in such things, Penelope Cruz looked glorious as she paraded the red carpet in a glorious strapless black gown that accentuated her... But don’t get me started on that; we could be here till next year’s Oscars.


And the Oscar for Best Dressed Actress goes to…


Image Credits: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/arts/graphics/2008/02/25/bfroundup2.jpg
http://defamer.com/360208/oscars-2008-top-ten-best-dressed-women
http://www.screenhead.com/wp-content/uploads/2007/10/ratatouille5.jpg

Santana: Live in Concert

As concerts go, this one was something of an anomaly. It started only 15 minutes past the scheduled time.

In a system where rock legends arrive fashionably late, leaving their fans waiting the obligatory hour, Santana’s uncharacteristic punctuality nearly made me miss the opening. Having accounted for a late opening, I made it with milliseconds to spare, just in time to see Santana himself come out on stage and begin his first solo.

Santana is one of the greatest guitarists of our time, a six-string demi-god in a pantheon that includes Jimmy Page, Brian May and Ritchie Blackmore. While he’s hardly on his last legs, a chance to see him live in concert might not come by again. Thus it was that despite the exorbitant ticket prices, the Singapore indoor stadium was packed to the gills. The crowd was a tad more mellow and older than the black-tee clad, shout-themselves-hoarse types that throng heavy-metals concerts.
The band started up with a few plucky numbers from the old days. It took a good hour or so before they tired of playing instrumental ensembles and launched into a proper song, lyrics and all. Not that I was complaining; Santana’s sonorous blues and Afro-Cuban rhythms had an ethereal quality.



In the tradition of the great Bob Marley, the band churned out stirring, passionate rhapsodies that conveyed the essence of proud Latin America in all its hot-blooded mish-mash of poverty, romance, rage, revolution and hope.

The tempo sure picked up after their rendition of “Maria, Maria.” Crowd control authorities tried to get the few of us who’d left our seats to go by the railings to dance to return to our chairs, to little avail. Carlos Santana was thirty feet away, dressed in white, sporting a fedora and twanging away the dulcet notes of “Smooth.”

Nothing short of a Force 10 gale could have moved me, rooted to the ground as I was awe-struck by wonder and a feeling of profound gratitude to the fates. Then in a moment I’m not sure if I imagined, he steps over to the crowd and hands his plectrum to one of the women seated in the front row. She’s beside herself.
The highlight of the night for me was the stellar solo performance of Dennis Chambers, whose inspired drumming was a treat to listen to. This was followed by renditions of classic numbers like “Oye Como Va”, “Corazon Espinado” and “Black Magic Woman.” An Indian couple in front of me was doing the salsa to the sultry Spanish numbers.



While the final songs were performed, pictures of Santana’s musical history flashed on the big screen, both tribute and possible swan song to a legendary career. The three-hour concert ended with Santana’s latest hit single “Into the Night.”

Santana, despite his age, is still going strong. What with The Rolling Stones still rocking stages with one foot in the grave, I shouldn’t be surprised.

In the words that Kurt Cobain immortalized in his suicide note, “It’s better to burn out than to fade away.” Keep burning, Santana.


Picture Credits:
http://www.vectorarena.co.nz/UserFiles/Image/SANTANA_publicity_07_v2m.jpg
http://www.scu.edu/ethics/architects-of-peace/Santana/resources/portrait_hr.jpg

Lust,Caution

Ang Lee seems to have a thing for making movies out of short stories. If Brokeback Mountain successfully exorcised the ghosts of that execrable piece of JUNK, “The Hulk”, his latest endeavor “Se,Jie”(Lust, Caution) cements his status as a gifted auteur . Naturally, I was keen to review the source material, Eileen Chang’s short story of the same name.



The old chestnut that the book is always better than the movie is not true of “Lust,Caution”. They are both powerful oeuvres in their own right and comparison would be unfair to both. While Lee’s film was a well fleshed out look at the sinister machinations of spies and the complex intricacies of conflicting loyalties and emotions, the short story is less overt, dealing in subtleties and nuances. The plot revolves around a young woman who finds herself rather confused about her feelings for her mark, a high placed enemy official who she is to seduce and lead into a death trap. Morality hardly enters the equation in this dilemma, the choice being between desire and loyalty to her fellow firebrands. It is no easy choice. Either her lover dies, or she tells him of her perfidy and subterfuge and saves him from death, thus losing him forever. Think of it as a Chinese take on “The Lady and the Tiger” set in the decadent Shanghai of the 1940’s. Only this time, we discover which of the two impossible decisions our heroine makes.

The novella itself was a sweet little gem that ended too quickly, but was all the more powerful for its brevity. The rest of this anthology of stories is hit or miss, love being the predominant theme explored. Eileen Chang’s characterizations are deeply thought-out and deserve much kudos. She is a student of human character and the personages that populate her world are excellent portrayals of the human race in all its complexity, passion and flawed beauty. Her eloquent depictions of the mystic East are powerful and sensuous, evoking nostalgia for places and ways of life long gone.
Keeping in mind the theme of the month,( the entire board of editors has become a bunch of smut peddlers), I would be remiss if I did not mention the steamy scenes of carnal congress in the movie version. The performance is so realistic, leaving critics wondering if the sex is simulated at all. Just in case you’re wondering, they have done it for real on the silver screen. It’s been done (forgive the pun) in” Wild Orchid” and Martin Scorcese’s debut crime opus “Boxcar Berthie”. Quizzed on the possible authenticity of the coupling, Ang Lee quipped, “Have you seen the film?” Those who have will agree that the sex, while elaborate, explicit (and exquisite) is hardly gratuitous, contributing an essential facet to the way we perceive the tumultuous relationship of the central characters. Seldom has one film so satisfied both the voyeur and the philosophical analyst of the human condition. Top marks on both movie and text versions.

draft

Tp go home…

It’s back to familiar digs for our bold adventurer as he retraces his steps to the coconut clad shores of distant Kerala. That beautiful skyline served a fitting unicorn chaser to wipe away the acerbic bitterness in his mouth, said bitterness having been caused by a less than stellar performance in his semester exams. The old haunts have not changed much, the food still tastes glorious, the roads still sport potholes of impossible sizes, the rustic air still retains a touch of purity. His old enemies the mosquitoes are still ridiculously easy to kill while internet speeds remain as slow as ever. No, not much has changed but our protagonist knows that given a few years, that hated adversary Change will have replaced his corner chai shop with that most reprehensible of food outlets, McDonalds. Not in my lifetime, he prays. He cares not if the net takes an aeon to load the BBC homepage. He wouldn’t trade his rustic hamlet for all the modernity and convenience of the largest megapolis.

Signs that globalization was slowly gaining inroads became apparent when our strapping lad looked to his father’s interesting new side business: tourism. For nigh on seven years, his dad had been arranging tours for foreigners, mostly Brits. With their tales of foggy isles and presents of Scotch whisky, Sheffield crockery and chocolate from Harrods, their presence had been a mostly interesting aside to our hero’s life. The latest in a long line of visitors were a wacky bunch, to be sure. The 1.97m tall John Fack wanted to get married in the country…

Choke

The literary wizard who brought you Fight Club hits another one out of the ballpark with this novel. Choke is chock-full of the usual Palahniuk traits; irreverence, a streak of creative brilliance that hinges on the bizarre and a protagonist who might just have a few screws loose.

Victor Mancini is a med-school dropout whose modus operandi for money making revolves around choking on food in restaurants and having his fellow patrons “save him”. Being thus imbued with a hero-complex and feeling responsible for Victor’s life, they continue to support him by sending checks. Victor also cruises sexual addiction recovery clinics to spice up his love life and has a day job working at a colonial theme park. His frequent visits to the nursing home to see his perpetually confused mom whose memory is going to pieces makes for some brilliant satire. Palahniuk is outrageous yet mesmerizing; while repulsed by some of his characters, we find ourselves totally unable to look away as the author leads us through the visceral playgrounds of America’s suburbia.



Socratic wisdom dictates that the unexamined life is not worth living. As Mancini leads us through his chequered, weird but never boring life, you get the feeling that a dysfunctional life is the only one worth living. Palahniuk makes such a frenetic maelstrom of Mancini’s addled existence that anything else seems tame and insipid in comparison. While Choke is perhaps not as spectacular as Fight Club and Survivor, it is well worth a read, if only to enter deeper into the anarchic, fiercely independent imagination of Chuck Palahniuk .

Ludmila’s Broken English : A review

Having hugely enjoyed DBC Pierre’s Booker-winning debut novel, Vernon God Little, I picked up with LBE with a combination of both anxiety and anticipation. Vernon God Little was a remarkable tour de force of literary fiction, ergo Ludmila had big shoes to fill. Far too often, writers have had extraordinary first novels, only to descend to mediocrity, having had their fifteen seconds of fame.

I should not have worried. Pierre sure delivers the goods in his latest innings. His crackling wit, sarcastic humor and black comedy are as evident as ever. His strong rein over his characters and the wildly imaginative plot make this book a solid instalment to Pierre’s work. Granted, VGL was a far superlative oeuvre, but Ludmila shows Pierre coming into his own, developing a style to run with and maturing as a writer.



The book shuttles back and forth between modern-day London into which the Heath twins (conjoined at birth and recently separated) are startlingly exposed to life outside a health-care institute and Ublilsk, a war- ravaged fictional country, where Ludmila, our eponymous heroine, is fighting tooth and nail to keep body and soul together for herself and her family. Blair and Bunny Heath, released into a world of emancipation and wondrous possibilities are possessed of a childlike innocence and wonder akin to Huxley’s John Savage on entering the brave new world. Ludmila, on the other side of the world, is battling to keep out the cold and starvation in a world where trouble is a byword. Her resilience and acerbic wit, in addition to her resourcefulness make her a compelling protagonist, but she is beset at every turn by the establishment and society at large. Seeing no sunny prospects on her horizon, she is cajoled into becoming an internet bride with offers of rich, young, foreign men. In a ridiculously absurd turn of events, Blair Heath chances on her photo and flies out to deserted Ublilsk with his brother, pursuing juvenile fantasies of fairybook love. This leads to the book’s darkly humourous denouement, where spiked vodka and loaded guns result in an ambiguous yet satisfying ending.

Ludmila’s Broken English calls for a vast suspension of disbelief. Surreal and impossible events occur with impunity. Pierre does not deal in subtleties, but rather in exaggeration to make his point. As such, the author has characters raped and killed rather casually to make his point. Violence in Ublilsk is shown to be random and gratuitious; life is harsh, like the terrain. The novel could be seen as a vehicle to voice Pierre’s views of a crumbling, dystopian establishment and how globalization can compound and abet third-world crime a hundred fold. Stunningly inventive and laced with political commentary, Ludmila’s Broken English is well-worth a read.

Two days in Paris

Truth be told, I did not have great hopes for Julie Delpy’s directorial debut. The plot and setting seemed to be a lot like the superlative Sunrise/ Sunset films and I felt Delpy was just cruising along on the success of a tried and tested formula. However, when five minutes into the movie,Adam Goldberg convinces a group of American tourists that the Louvre is just around the corner, in order to cut a taxi queue, my reservations about this movie being run-of-the-mill vanished. The film does feel a lot like the Sunrise/ Sunset movies in that they both explore romantic relationships and the milieu is similar. But this offbeat little film will be best remembered for its irreverence and its all too realistic depictions of the pains and tribulations of relationships.

The film follows the Parisienne Marion( Delpy ) and Jack( Adam Goldberg ), her American boyfriend who are visiting Paris for a couple of days. The couple are put up at Marion’s parent’s house. Marion’s family is quite dysfunctional, with Marion herself being quite a neurotic character. Jack’s growing impatience with Marion’s eccentric quirks and short fuse have put their relationship on the rocks . It does not help that Paris seems to be chock-full of Marion’s ex-boyfriends and there’s one lurking around every corner.

The direction and acting are top-notch. Adam Goldberg really proves his acting chops in this film and Delpy’s portrayal of a quirky, red-blooded, lovable Parisienne is spot-on, but the scripting really is the best part of the film. The dialogue is witty and dead on, the characters well-fleshed out and real. From Marion’s dad, a semi-Luddite who can’t understand computers and has a thing for key- scratching cars to the French artist who thinks pubic landing strips on women are reprehensible, Delpy has created some very interesting characters. The French are portrayed with the usual stereotypes; their extravagated jingoism, their casual and open-minded attitude to sex all feature heavily. Delpy’s essentially Parisian approach to ex-lovers,her white lies and her neurotic attitude distance her from the more staid, straightforward Jack and wrecks the affair. In many ways, the film has the feel of a Woody Allen oeuvre. And while it is not exactly ground-breaking, it is a far cry from the dull, repetitive fare that passes for romantic film these days. Certainly worth the price of a ticket, and if you’re a fan of Delpy, pop-corn and drinks too.

My name is Red

My Name is Red is Orhan Pamuk’s latest in a line of books which seek to capture the melancholy beauty , pain and contrariness that is his hometown, Istanbul. Set in 16th century Istanbul at the height of the Ottoman Empire, the novel revolves around the murder of a master miniaturist for reasons that include the creation of a highly secretive and possibly sacrilegious book commissioned by the Emperor himself. At this point, comparisons with The Name of the Rose will inevitably crop up, seeing as both are historical murder mysteries. While Umberto Eco’s tour de force was a brilliant and intelligent work which dabbled in esotery , Pamuk’s book is a more emotional and beautiful creature, appealing more to the heart than to the brain.



Orhan uses the voices of the various characters to guide us through the turmoil and changing landscape of the empire, challenged by the technological and artistic advances of the West. This collision of cultures in the Ottoman empire leaves the miniaturists with a choice, stick to the ways of old or be engulfed by the oncoming avalanche of Westernism. Pamuk’s Ottoman Empire evokes all the old stereotypes established by such childhood tales of the east such as 1001 Nights and the legends of Haroun Al Raschid. Istanbul is lush and exotic; the sultanate is rich beyond imagining and the glory and power of the sultan is sacrosanct. The land is rich with tradition and dozens of Oriental legends are seamlessly interwoven into the fabric of this book. As Pamuk strives to explain the grand scheme of art, explaining its relationship to the will of God and other variables, he ends up creating art. Beauty oozes out of Pamuk’s exquisitely crafted sentences and one must assume that they must sound more beautiful in the original Turkish, losing something in the(albeit wonderful) translation.

Ultimately this work is more poem than book, spinning delicate sentences that murmur an ode to an art form that will soon be devoured by a cultural deluge from the West.

The age of the Graphic Novel

Ever since Superman and Batman made their advent in the late 1930s, comic books have constituted an endearing and essential part of our teen years. The vicarious pleasure we experienced when the Green Lantern defeated yet another evil nemesis with his power ring and the open-jawed disbelief with which we received Superman’s death ( early 90’s) were emotions of such undistilled purity and innocence. Our years of boyish adventure were spent putting on spandex and trying to make batarangs. In our late teens, when we rediscovered the opposite gender, Archie and his gang from Riverdale High entered our lives and Betty and Veronica formed the fantasy diet for many a freckled adolescent. In due course, adulthood came along and we outgrew comic books. Those who still had the hots for Wonderwoman and idolized the Flash were mercilessly ribbed about it and soon fell out of popular society. Generation after generation, a few individuals retain this childlike wonder and innocence and get relegated to the backburner of society. These are the lucky few, the ones that fall through the chinks. For them, the magic lives on.



Up until the 80’s, a major percentage of mainstream comics (think Marvel and DC) dabbled in fare that was childish and repetitive : black versus white, add some tights, add some fights. The Comics Code Authority, instituted because a certain Fredrick Wertham felt comic books led to juvenile delinquency, had severely stifled creativity in the industry for decades. All that was about to change. A slew of great stories with mature themes was suddenly unleashed on the world in the eighties. Suddenly, comic books were no longer for kids. Realizing the potential of the visual medium, great visionaries like Alan Moore and Frank Miller were bringing their unique, often bleak , disturbing and thought-provoking visions to the pages of comics. Moore’s groundbreaking opus Watchmen did plenty to get comic books re-integrated into the mainstream. It won a Hugo award and became a bestseller. Inspired by this success, many artists followed suit with daring and risqué stories. Violence and blood once again rode the streets of comicdom. Murder, mayhem and anarchy followed, leading to a turbulent but extremely creative period in the industry. Moore’s Swamp Thing, From Hell and V for Vendetta, Grant Morrison’s run on Animal Man, Miller’s The Dark Knight Returns and Love and Rockets by Los Bros Hernandez were seminal oeuvres, changing and redefining the landscape of comics. Soon, those of the geek and nerd persuasion were crawling out of the woodwork and walking with their heads held high.



Enter the nineties and with it Neil Gaiman. This heretofore unknown writer resurrected a little known DC character called the Sandman and reinvented him in a stunningly original series. The Sandman books were published under the DC Vertigo imprint, a new line of adult comics. Buoyed by the success and critical acclaim they received, DC commissioned many new titles. Garth Ennis’ highly irreverent Preacher ( my personal favorite), Warren Ellis vision of a dystopian future, Transmetropolitan and the long running Hellblazer and Moonshadow were the most successful progeny of the Vertigo imprint. On the other side of the world, Japanese manga had become a craze and was churning out great masterpieces such as Ghost in the Shell and Akira. Graphic novels had finally arrived with a bang and comic book- aficionados were suddenly hip. Even still, they occupied a niche culture that baptized only a chosen few. But, like rap music, the initiates were cool cats.
Hollywood soon cottoned on to the popularity of comic books and superhero movies have become a Hollywood staple. Dozens of graphic novel adaptations are in the works, most notably Miller’s Sin City 2 and Alan Moore’s Watchmen.



Today, the comic scene is abuzz with creativity, propelled by such fine minds as Brian Michael Bendis, Grant Morrison, Brian Wood, Bill Willingham and Brian Azzarello. The best contemporary titles on the scene include Fables, 100 Bullets, The Walking Dead, DMZ and Y the Last Man. The medium offers infinite potential and with the artistic genius of such stalwarts as Glenn Fabry, Dave McKean and the inimitable Alex Ross, rest assured that the future of the graphic novel is in great hands.

The best unmade scripts of all time

A while back, Empire magazine published a list of ten movie scripts that had been floating around in Hollywood limbo for a while. The scripts were fantastic, but for some reason or the other, they hadn’t made it to the silver screen. Of the entries on the list, Aronofsky’s Fountain recently got made into a beautiful but slightly befuddling movie. James Cameron’s Avatar is one of the most talked about movies on the list. Apparently, current CGI standards will enable him to create his unique vision the way he wanted it; casting calls for Avatar have been sent out and it’s set to release in 2009. Given Cameron’s penchant for perfection however, ( and if his directorial work with Titanic was anything to go by) I’ll bet dollars to donuts that Avatar won’t see the light of day before 2011. There’s a Lynch on the list, a script by the Coens and another by the Wachowskis. Here’s hoping that someday these brilliant masterpieces will claim the reel they deserve.


Exit Zero - Kurt Wimmer:

Ronnie Rocket - David Lynch:

Sherlock Holmes And The Vengeance of Dracula - Michael Valle

Edward Ford - Lem Dobbs

To The White Sea - Joel & Ethan Coen

The Gemini Man - Darren Lemke and Jonathan Hensleigh

The Sky is Falling - Eric Warren Singer & Howard Roth

Carnivore - Larry & Andy Wachowski

Avatar - James Cameron

Crusade - Walon Green

Bessie - Richard Kelly

The Fountain - Darren Aronofsky

Podcast paydirt

It’s amazing how technology has helped us waste so much time with so little effort. A few clicks, some buttons pushed and you are watching some mindless 12 year old with a video camera drone away about how much he loves his poodle or why dolls are great. The funny thing is, we dig it. The phenomenal popularity of Youtube is testament to this fact. The internet has allowed you to broadcast yourself to the world and in acknowledgement of this reality, TIME magazine selected ‘You’ as it’s Person of the year. Another nifty little self-broadcast utility is the podcast. Firmly established in the media underground and fast gaining public popularity, these little babies can be downloaded direct to your ipod or computer through regular RSS feeds. They’re often short and make for excellent filler while you’re waiting at bus stops, in between lectures and during lunch breaks. In my brief foray into podcasting, I came across two series of podcasts that are absolute gems of comic brilliance.

The Ricky Gervais Show

Hosted by the eponymous Ricky Gervais and Stephen Merchant ( of The Office fame ), this British podcast is a surreal foray into the mind of Karl Pilkington, a bloke with a perfectly bald round head and a mind that baffles the imagination. That’s not to say he’s very bright. Quite the opposite, in fact. His total lack of knowledge in many areas and his ridiculous views on various subjects will have you laughing your socks off. This cool, collected and easy go lucky chappie is a rare and fascinating discovery; pure comic gold. Merchant and Gervais provide the perfect foil to Karl’s naiveté. They’re the epitome of sensibility and moderation and they well know how to bait Karl with careful questioning into revealing the most stunning anecdotes and opinions They’re great friends, the lot of them and they really have a bang making the series, which got catapulted into the Guinness book of Records for being the world’s number one podcast. If the notion that the British have no sense of humor was laid to rest by the stupendously funny Brit sitcom Coupling, this podcast series hammers in the final nail to the coffin.



Ask a Ninja

God’s a flippin ninja and he made this podcast so you’ll die laughing. Ask a Ninja.com is hosted by this black-clad ninja who’s death reincarnate. This guy has battled dragons, witches, orcs, the Medusa, Hulk Hogan, Balrogs and even Russell Crowe and Colin Farrell in drunken barroom brawls. He makes Leonidas from 300 and Marv from Sin City look like pansies. You do not want to be messing with him. Seriously, you even so much as look at him the wrong way and you’ll get shuriken lodged in your skull. This shadow of death answers questions from viewers on various and diverse subjects, injecting a deadly mix of killing-related humour and pop culture references to make for one rip-roaring podcast. He’s imaginative, has a way with words and is laugh-out-loud funny. You get immersed in the secret world of the ninjas and start to see how things look from their perspective as the ninja talks about ninternships,minjas, chickinjas, nintechnology and Santa Claus. My words won’t do him no justice; you gotta view this to believe it: it’s absolute ambrosia level comedy. So do yourself a favour and check it out. Because if you don’t, you’re gonna get killed by a ninja. It’s ninjevitable. He’s probably right behind you even as you read this. No, seriously, just look over your shoulder real quick. Do you see the ninja? No? But he sees you…

300

Rating: 8.5/10

What can I say? Cinematic brilliance. This is the future of film. CGI rivaled only by The Lord of the Rings. A script to die for. Brilliant direction and a sweet fucken cast. Memorable lines and brilliant images that overwhelm you, stolen panel for panel from the pages of Frank Miller. It reads like a fucken recipe or perfection.

When the trailers came out last year, I knew I was in for a wild ride. Nevertheless, it was with some trepidation that I entered the theatre. Most trailers today just showcase the best bits of the movie; the rest is utter prosaic banality that is unbearably boring. I need not have worried. Every scene from 300 is postcard perfect, every line memorable and epic, every Spartan larger than life. This movie will be the benchmark for sword and sandal epics for aeons to come. First, we had Spartacus and Ben Hur. The 90’s gave us William Wallace and Maximus . 300 ushers in the new era of historical epics with a bang.

The only quibble I have with the movie is it’s slight deviation from the graphic novel. Leonidas’ wife’s perfidy with Theron for his support in the Council is not mentioned in the comic and is inserted in the movie for dramatic effect. As to its historical accuracy, I am uncertain but I take issue with the idea that a Spartan wife would offer carnal pleasure in exchange for favours rendered. Granted, said favour would have resulted in her husband being saved and in the salvation and greater glory of Sparta, but I still find it hard to stomach.



300 fully immerses us into the draconian and harsh world the Spartans lived in, where violence was a byword and discipline, unwavering loyalty, honor and obedience were the cornerstones. A world where no quarter was spared for the weak, no weakness betrayed the strong and might was right. Where children were pushed out into jungles to learn survival and wives expected husbands to either conquer or die. Like Xerxes tells us, the Spartans had one heckuva fascinating culture.

The perfectly filmed fight sequences leave nothing to be desired; they are a perfect joy to behold. The Spartan fighting method is a work of aesthetic beauty, comparable only to the Grammaton cleric John Preston’s fascinating GunKata in Equilibrium. We cheer the Greeks on as horde after horde of Xerxes slave Persians break like water upon stone on Leonidas’ indomitable force of 300.



The visuals are stunning and overwhelming, showing us glimpses of both the beautiful and the grotesque. Xerxes army boasts of quite a few oddities, an executioner with blades for arms, some really screwed up harem girls and a hunchback traitor with a horribly disfigured face. A statutory sex scene is thrown in for good measure. Ultimately, 300’s triumph stems from Frank Miller’s beautiful rendition in his comic series. It’s as if he knew that his graphic novels would be filmed some day and drew each panel for the silver screen. This is one flick that is theatre-worthy and well worth the price of a second entry ticket too.

Manhattan

Rating : 9/10

Of all Woody Allen’s oeuvres, this one for me remains his seminal piece. The Oscar winning Annie Hall is preferred by many; Allen’s biting satire, acerbic wit and resplendently witty humour is all too evident in that film. However, the black and white treatment of Manhattan clinches it for me; I fell in love with it watching it alone on a slow Friday evening. And alone is how all of Woody Allen’s movies should be watched. The slices of life they portray, the frank evocations of reality they show and the emotions they elicit in the viewer are best enjoyed in solitude.

Manhattan stars Woody Allen as Isaac Davis, an out-of-work comedy writer who’s just coming out of a nasty divorce. It is of interest to note that in all his movies, Allen seems to be playing himself. He is often depicted as a Neurotic Jewish person mostly having a career in film or television. Anyway, back to the plot. Isaac’s ex-wife( played by a stunningly beautiful Meryl Streep) is writing a stunning revelatory memoir of their marriage and the break-up which will make Allen look like a neurotic fruitcake given his idiosyncratic tendencies. Allen is dating a sweet high school kid, but refuses to take her seriously. Into this mélange of complex relationships enters Mary Wiley (Diane Keaton), Issac’s best friend’s mistress whom Ike seeks solace in. The story is set in the eponymous Manhattan; the beauty of the city is captured in various scenes. The black and white treatment really accentuates the business of the bustling streets, the lonely park benches late at night the beautiful bridges and the bright street lights. You feel the thrum of New York behind you, the fragility of its people, the harsh uncaring relentlessness with which it bears down on its denizens. And as in most of Allen’s movies, there are no happy endings to be had. Life is not a cakewalk, it’s a flippin tiger waiting to pounce just when you’ve become comfortable. Hope is all Allen leaves us with; a glimmering sneak peek at what could be, if…

I am yet a newcomer to the world of Allen’s vast movie collection. But from what I’ve seen, this quirky bloke is funny as fuck and has a directing sense unique in my experience of Hollywood. I’m certain that I’ll be going through the entire Allen repertoire before I die, so help me God...