Before Bollywood Attacks: A short short.

I call it Bollywood Blues.

Made in November 2007 for Rediff, as an accompaniment to this review.

Based on a Fyodor Dostoevsky story. Music by Tchaikovsky. Featuring Chunky The Inevitable, Diksha The Delicious, and a certain cameo who shall go unnamed. Shot across Sunday afternoon at Carter Road and Bagel Shop, Bandra. Any resemblance to existing Bollywood filmmakers is purely intentional. A Raja Sen moment.

The best films of the Sixties

Note: A ludicrously and inevitably difficult assignment. Fun nevertheless. We fanboys are masochists.

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Welcome to Part 1 of a 5-part, decade-wise exploration of the finest English language cinema from the 60s to today. This, and the following lists, look not just at the most acclaimed films of the decade, but the ones with the most impactful cultural footprint. We hope you enjoy the show, and go back to your classic DVDs with a smile on your face.

The Swingin’ Sixties.

Free love. Psychedelia. Civil rights. Flower Power. Counterculture. Hunter S Thompson. The Beatles and the British Invasion. The Martin Luther King assassination. The sexual revolution. Woodstock. Vietnam and the Anti-War movement. The Doors. The JFK assassination. Muhammad Ali. Walking on the moon. The Ford Mustang. The BASIC programming language. The Malcolm X assassination. Andy Warhol’s cans of soup. Jimi Hendrix. Motown Records. Richard Nixon, President. Spider-Man. Marshall McLuhan. Jacques Derrida. Charles Manson. Che Guevara rocks the revolution. LSD. Frank Zappa.

What. A. Decade.

‘If you remember anything about the sixties, you weren’t really there,’ memorably said Jefferson Airplane guitarman Paul Kantner — and while most of us might not have been there, we’re still reeling from the impact. The cultural significance of the 1960s beats any other twentieth century decade hollow.

Film was massively impacted by counterculture. Sex, violence and anarchy took over cinema, breaking boundaries with every step. Europe saw La Nouvelle Vague, the French New Wave movement — and the Italian filmmakers hit absolute peak. The new cameras were cheaper, lighter, and just crying out for experimentation — thus kicked off the avant-garde movement. There was a movement every which way you looked, and as Hollywood’s ’studio system’ ripped apart at the seams, we saw the birth of younger, fierier ‘New Hollywood.’

For this impossible special feature, we narrowed down our options to English-language films, and while this basically means no arguing over Federico Fellini, Sergio Leone or Jean-Luc Godard, it hardly helps the cause. There’s just too much to choose from. You’ll see.

It’s a really tough decade to boil down into a ten-movie list, but here, strictly in chronological order, are a few English films that literally rocked our world.

In conversation with Vishal Bhardwaj

No Holds Bard

Getting under the skin of the man who proves cinema belongs to everyone.

In 1988, Polish director Krzysztof Kieslowski made a series of ten films about the Ten Commandments, using highly polished allegory to explore meanings and interpretations of each of the Commandments, while looking at the hardships evident in contemporary Polish life. The great director used a different cinematographer for each of the ten one-hour films, and the project created for television went on to become the master filmmaker’s best known work, surpassing even his pathbreaking Three Colours trilogy.

The series is called The Dekalog, and it is a collective of DVDs Indian cinema should be eternally thankful for, largely because a music composer born in Bijnor felt his jaw drop as he watched the films, realising the inexorability of his passion for the medium. Cinema is the most visceral of artistic formats, and it is a stunning testimony to its universality that a man untrained in the art form but propelled by his own awestruck reach towards greatness is now Indian cinema’s finest cinematic craftsman.

Vishal Bhardwaj is 48, just about the age that Kieslowski was when those ten films first made it to the world a couple of decades ago. I sit across from the director in his Bombay apartment as assistants and family chime in with wardrobe suggestions, moments before he has to leave for an interview. He speaks exasperatedly about how it takes more energy to promote a film than to make it, apologizing to pause between sentences to take calls fobbing off actresses, the sort popular enough to be unmistakable just by their first names. For everyone, repeat everyone, wants to be in one of his movies.

His latest film is a couple of Fridays away from release, and the explosively titled Kaminey does not look anything like what Bhardwaj, over the years, has lulled us into expecting from him. This is a director who has earned himself the title of Bollywood’s Bard by inventively adapting Bill Shakespeare’s immortal plays into very earthy Indian cinema, and one who has crafted some gems of children’s cinema in a country which regrettably ignores the genre. His last take on Othello is considered one of the finest modern films made, and critics and audiences have been earnestly craving a third Shakespearean act.

Instead, unpredictable as ever, the usually literary Bhardwaj’s newest offering is as pulp as fiction can be. Kaminey, loosely translated as Knaves, or Rascals, is a story of twin brothers with speech defects, a slick and handheld caper film set over madcap events taking place over one day, with an authentic romance squeezed in between the lines of cocaine. It looks at Bollywood cliché and turns it on its head while revelling in it, and promises to be far cleverer than standard theatrical fare. Dhan te na!

“Everyone wants to make a caper film,” Vishal trills excitedly as we clamber aboard his SUV to trek from suburban home to suburban studio. “At least once. Like everyone wants to make a gangster film, or have their own take on The Godfather. It’s such a juicy genre, yaar.” It is also a genre well suited to Bhardwaj, a director who balances violence with poetry with ease, deftly walking the unlikely tightrope between the ultraviolent cinema of Takashi Miike and the subtle nuances of a Gulzar romance. “I was really inspired by Tarantino’s films, Guy Ritchie. That was the space. In that I had to hunt up something original, do something that hasn’t been done before.”

Why bother with crossing legs?

How indulgent and consenting adults have made the Hindi film industry what it is.

Bollywood really doesn’t have much sex.

Sure, raunchy webcam pictures appear in part in ‘radical’ cinema like Dev D, but it’s been barely a decade since we mustered up enough courage to show actors regularly kissing on screen. An actress donning a bikini is still breaking-newsworthy on our television channels, and it remains a fascinatingly morbid thought to imagine just what will happen once a mainstream A-list actress bares a breast.

Nope, we’re a nation given primarily to euphemism, disguising intercourse with visuals of embracing daisies and lust with tremendous pelvic heaves, and we still keep the big screen relatively prudish. The new Bollywood generation claims transparency, but gives us only a very wet sari: there is the surefire suggestion that there’s something naughty right under that drenched white cotton, but damned if you can actually see a nipple.

The reason Bollywood manages to stay such a virginal young woman is largely because she’s a good liar. She puts out with remarkable frequency and extreme abandon, but — and this is the crucially artful part — she does it off the screen.

From the infamous casting couch to notoriously libidinous leading men, from backup dancers wanting to step into the item-girl spotlight to item-girls wanting speaking roles in movies, from a scurrilous bit of tabloid fodder to the real reason for a massive, industry-halting feud… there’s a phenomenal amount of illicit sex that courses through Bollywood’s lifeblood. She’s quite a nymphomaniac, this industry. And she bites.

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The primary issue with writing a feature of this sort is that it’s exasperatingly hard to talk about sex without talking about who’s doing it. I’ve been a fly on the wall for quite a while now, and while I firmly believe everything is hearsay until you actually see two (or more) people in the act – a school of thought that works remarkably well at keeping me sane – the fact remains that you can’t dismiss the rumours either, even (especially?) if they sound too outlandish to be true.  So this feature shall contain a few stories, a few exemplary tales of debatable/incontrovertible truism that I’ve heard. Choose to believe at your own peril, but what I can ensure, nay, promise is that no celebrities will be pointed at, not even allegorically. Innocent until proven guilty, as Shiney Ahuja’s publicist says.

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An actress once told me about how she was excited to be finally working in a big, mainstream film, with a bunch of established superstar actors. She was the relative newbie on the sets, and – being as luscious as she was – it came as no surprise at all when a couple of the film’s biggest names expressed interest in inviting her over to their trailer for some after-hours, um, rehearsals.

The surprise, she felt, lay in the fact that they didn’t even make an effort. She was stunned, and sorely disappointed, that the film’s leading man, a great looking fellow and among the industry’s highest paid stars, didn’t even attempt to charm her. In this case, the pretty lady put her foot down and braved much friction on the sets. But she admits the superstar was well spoken and very attractive, and if only he’d made an effort to at least flirt… he might certainly have scored.

Superstars are a ridiculously pampered lot and the shooting-location jungle is lorded over by the man with the biggest trailer on the sets. He’s the big lion, the alpha superstar, and he is offered anything he wants on a platter, from sliced mangoes to tarted-up trollops. This is why the resident first-name-on-poster star genuinely believes its well within his rights to look on some prey-worthy bird and assume she’s ‘his,’ simply because he is who he is. Not based on his style, his charisma or even his looks, but just his brand.

The horror stories abound as some plucky actresses refuse to give in, and are mistreated for the duration of the film’s production, their finest scenes often ending up on the chopping room floor simply because they didn’t keep the hero happy.

As one may imagine, this doesn’t happen with A-list actresses. The successful dominate the sets, and have full run of their demands. The warped industry logic seems to be that those that have slogged it out, done their time and struggled up the food chain over the years, deserve now to have their needs taken care of. It’s like ragging in colleges, and they are now the seniors. Well, them and the star-kids, who have seniors for daddies.

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One particular bit of industry gossip has assailed me from so many diverse sources that it’s hard to ignore. Apparently, a certain superstar drunkenly flirted with another superstar’s wife, and the two got intimate. The second superstar was justifiably outraged, and this led to much chaos as the two were then filming a movie together.  Directors and producers were worried and the shoot was pushed till later.

During this delay, superstar B jetted off to a different country to shoot a romantic film with the initially drunk superstar A’s girlfriend, and as can be expected, he sowed some wild, on-location oats with the lady in question. One would expect this to truly exacerbate the situation between the co-stars and their stalled project, but the two men reportedly met on a set and hugged it out without a word. All was forgiven as one mistake was paid back with another.

Yeah, you read that straight, bonhomie at the expense of women objectified to the very hilt. The industry is this extreme, horrifying kind of a boy’s club where whatever the male stars say, goes. It isn’t as if a top-rung actress can shepherd young actors into her bedroom, and what her status truly means is that she’s just earned herself the right to say no, and a less grubby time on the sets than any other woman in sight.

Mumbai’s is a very testosterone-fuelled industry, with women succeeding as actors but hardly ever in other roles, especially the big ones, those of direction and production. And even the actresses don’t get top dollar. India’s highest paid actresses get a tenth of what the highest paid actors do, and their prices are always subject to negotiation.

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Which isn’t to say, of course, that the women don’t take advantage of their position.

In a land of consenting adults, it is the women who can be sharply canny with their choices – as opposed to hapless, reckless men – and the prudence of their decision to bestow and withhold sex, depending on who exactly is asking for it, is what truly politicizes the Bollywood bedroom dynamic.

It is said that a prominent actress slept with a well-known director, springboarded that to launch herself into A-list status, and then married a top-rung actor. No skeletons stay closeted for too long in Bollywood, and said actor and filmmaker got to know about each other’s liasons, and a massive battle broke out, with both parties vowing never to work with each other again. As for the lady, she’s played her cards close enough to the chest to ensure a long professional relationship with either man, and has collaborated numerous times with each gentleman in question.

Sex as currency — and that’s not just limited to the Hindi film factory. You can play clean if you want to, but it’s not at easy as you may think. Fact: The industry is an incestuous little group of pretty people who have completely legitimised infidelity. Fact: This isn’t likely to ever change.

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Blame it on us fans for idolizing the roguishly cavalier attitude in leading men through time immemorial, for them to treat married life like something to do when you’re home or being photographed, something that doesn’t get in the way of their groupie-giri.

Blame it on women for deciding that saying yes might be smarter than saying no, despite what their mothers might have told them. Blame it on men for shoving them up against the wall and leaving them with no choice but to capitulate or castrate.

Blame it on the players, blame it on the game. Blame it on the purveyors of a fleeting glimpse of fame.

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Published Yuva, July 2009.

The Taare Zameen Par review

Mighty nice, Mr Khan, mighty nice.

Taare Zameen Par is an impressive debut indeed for filmmaker Aamir Khan, and showcases a brilliant performance by the young Darsheel Safary – one of those child-actors you can’t possibly resist. More than just dyslexia, the film is a look at childhood dreamers who feel shunted out by the rest of the world, the cruel world that doesn’t understand them. At some level, I guess we all relate. And this ends up a nice watch — sincere, even if somewhat simplistic.

Aamir is particularly gifted with imagery. The film opens with Darsheel’s character, the impish Ishaan Awasthi fishing from a naala, and heading home to literally feed dogs his homework. The child doesn’t talk much but is strikingly imaginative — a Calvin without his Hobbes — and given to art. Misunderstood at most every step, he stands up to a local bully defiantly, as scrappy as the strays that chewed upon his test papers. His parents have their hands full, choosing instead to concentrate on their elder son, an achiever of Complan-Boy levels.

Darsheel is superb in the role as we see him bewildered, then hurt, then frustrated with constant rejection. Khan, who handles the school sections of the film with relatable nostalgia, reels us in with poignant, simple visuals and makes us feel the child’s pained confusion. A song bursts onto the scene, cut smartly like an edgy music video, showing Ishaan’s father (played by Vipin Sharma) get ready for a business trip, while his harrowed mother (Tisca Chopra) gets eggs and bread ready for first father then each son, in turn. All while Ishaan is blissfully oblivious to the need of the hour, or the hour itself. By this point, we’re hooked.

It is hard to know, as a director, when there can be too much of a good thing. Khan indulges himself with his nice little visual flourishes significantly in the first half, to the point of repetition. There is the clever device of the child – being shunted off to boarding school against his desperate pleas – making a flipbook which shows a family with one kid moving away, as the pages turn. It’s a strong, simple touch, yet Khan chooses to show it to us again and again, showing the audience the flipbook every time any character sees it.

While Ishaan stands in a corridor, punished, some seniors walk by. Each of them — every single one — points and laughs at our protagonist, which is depressingly overdone and unreal — even social outcasts aren’t picked on by everyone; a lot of the kids just wouldn’t give him a second look. The first few times the teachers rebuke Ishaan or are frustrated by him, it works. But we are forced to see everything again: pain in English class, Maths, Hindi… and so on. Flip, flipbook, flip. It doesn’t help that outside of Darsheel and Tisca (and later, of course, Aamir), the rest of the performances seem either amateurish or over-the-top.

The director himself enters neatly at halftime, shushing us to announce intermission. Aamir plays temporary Art teacher Ramshankar Nikumbh, one who works part-time with a special-needs school, and wants Ishaan and his buddies to open up. Khan plays the role in just the right key, a sympathetic teacher who notices a problem but doesn’t want to force himself through the child’s shell. It is he who realizes Ishaan has dyslexia, and goes to meet the Awasthis.

Aamir now balances his own character speaking like a Public Service Announcement with Ishaan’s father spouting lines seemingly written for … laughs? Sure, they are laughs at his ignorance and a look at his lack of conviction, but the sharp contrast between the two seems contrived. The child’s mother rapidly goes from confused-but-undoubtedly-caring to one who thinks googling dyslexia is enough. In fact, the whole parental angle is left considerably half-baked, seeming to serve only for a few good comebacks the teacher gets to make.

Yet, let’s discount that as nitpicking. This is the story of the child and his teacher, and Nikumbh stands at a blackboard and shows pictures of Albert Einstein and Abhishek Bachchan and tells us  — and the kids — that dyslexia is more common than we think, and that it can be helped given the proper aid. Nikumbh speaks to the faculties, asks that Ishaan be given a little more time, and, after having educating the audience thoroughly on dyslexia, proceeds to charm Ishaan out of it.

Though I really wish Nikumbh didn’t confess to himself having grown up with the disability; it makes it feel like only ones who have experienced it can empathise with the condition.

All great, except he does this over the length of one song. There are far too many musical digressions in this film anyway — and while most are touching interludes to enhance the narrative, they end up stroking what’s already been touched – yet this is wrong in particular, to show and identify the problem and then dismiss it in a manner of minutes. It is all very well to depict that love and care will conquer all, but the process cannot be as simple as making plasticine elephants.

The songs are good, however, and Shankar-Ehsaan-Loy do a bang-up job, as does lyricist Prasoon Joshi. Scriptwriter and conceptualiser Amole Gupte has clearly written a heartfelt script, and his imprint lies all over the film, even visually — outside of the two final paintings painted by Samir Mondal, all of Ishaan’s artwork is done either by Gupte or his wife Deepa, who also edited the film. This is clearly a labour of love for them.

Highly watchable and – again, because of Darsheel and Aamir’s knack for sentimental imagery – warmly likeable, Taare flounders fatally at the end. Sure, it’s okay to appease the masses with a tacked-on and cheesy ending, but for a film which stresses that we need to give our kids their space and not force themselves into constant comparisons, a film which asks them to take their time to find their talents, the climax becomes about a competition, about how winning magically makes everything better. And that’s a scary thought, in context of what the film tries to say, overall.

Taare Zameen Par is, above all else, an earnest film.

Aamir brings us the debut of both a great child actor and a budding director with a fine eye, though he seems slightly Ashutosh’d in terms of pace. Economy is the one thing this film cries out for. Crisper, tighter, and less repetitive, and we’d have a very good movie on our hands. For now, we have a director with clear potential for solid work. And we need as many of those as we can get.

Rating: 3 stars

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Published Rediff, December 21, 2007.

In defense of Timothy Dalton

Mostly everyone seems to be warming up to rookie Daniel Craig, his near-flawless Casino Royale performance merely an indicator of things to come. But as always, when a new 007 surfaces, fans of the franchise begin to debate over which of his predecessors was the finest.

Actually, make that second-finest. Everyone agrees that Sean Connery is James Bond, his avatar proving to be such a compelling character that impressed writer Ian Fleming changed 007’s parentage to reflect Connery’s Scottish background in subsequent novels. Ever since 1962’s Dr No, Connery and Bond go together like Aston Martins and martinis.

As for second place, the race is wide open. Even as Craig deservedly joins the fray, Roger Moore and Pierce Brosnan  are the popular names. Mostly everyone shies away from George Lazenby’s foray into MI-6, but the injustice lies in how Timothy Dalton, possibly the purest of all Bonds, remains criminally overlooked.

All right, I heard the outrage. But hear me out this time before scrolling rapidly down to leave a comment. Am I a Bond purist? It’s hard to say. 007 fanatics can be those obsessing unrealistically over book-to-screen detail in a franchise that left the books alone eons ago; they can also be those meticulously quoting the most insane innuendo and little continuity errors. I’m neither, really. I cherish a collection of tattered Pan versions of the Bond novels, and, having seen each of the 20 films at least twice, can hold my own in a Bondgirl quiz. I love the books and the movies, realise how very different they are, and am admittedly far too traditional — just like James Bond has always been.

And before we go on to talk about Timmy, lets quickly skim through the others, yes? Connery is The Man, a fact we all know and can’t possibly even debate. His 007 blended style, seduction and ruthlessness in an iconic fashion that made us all stand before our mirrors, folding fingers into Berettas.

George Lazenby managed a couple of scenes well in On Her Majesty’s Secret Service, but was woefully miscast in a film with a cracking second half that could really have done with Sean. In totality, George was a blunder.

Moore was believable as an aristocrat, but honestly far too soft to ever be taken seriously as Bond. After two initial good films, he seemed to stop trying, playing to the gadget-loving galleries and for laughs. No one could carry off the outrageous lines Rog did, handsome enough to carry a lot off with a wink, but he outlasted his welcome completely, always more smirk than superspy.

Brosnan was a tragic joke. Too old when he began playing 007, the Remington Steele actor found himself in precariously politically-correct territory. Trapped in the worse-written of all 007 plots, Pierce tried valiantly but was overshadowed by a Mission: Impossible like set of insubstantial films. There was no subtext, he played the part too straight, and was always an attractive actor trying to play Bond. His films took the series to their most forgettable low — some of the awful earlier films are memorable because of sheer cheese. Brosnan, too internationalised to even be the one Brit we all loved, was unforgivably blah.

Now, to Dalton. By the time he got his turn as Bond, Rog had already reduced the character to a comic detective with his arching eyebrow as his greatest mission. The plots had gotten consistently ridiculous, and the time had come for the franchise to reinvent itself. In 1987’s The Living Daylights, audiences were stunned to discover a very different James Bond. Truer than any to Ian Fleming’s pages, Dalton’s Bond was darker, more brooding, and his humour was wry. The film was a smash success, not only outgrossing Moore’s last couple of films, but also topping American action blockbusters Die Hard and Lethal Weapon.

Bond fans, however, were confused. Growing up with the warm and cheeky Moore films and blatantly unfamiliar with the Fleming books, this gritty 007 didn’t seem quite as right. Dalton’s Bond could be cruel and callous, world-weary and a thinker, archaic and bleeding. Not just another superhero in a bowtie, with a fondness for double-entendre. He quipped, sure, but Dalton delivered his punchlines deadpan, as you’d expect from a tough guy. His humour isn’t as over-the-top, but only Connery could be that exaggerated as well as credible. Dalton brought considerable depth to the role, and while Rog fans might accuse him of lacking charm, it was just because he wasn’t as overt. Don’t believe the ’boring’ tag till you see the athletic and rugged Dalton at work.

License To Kill is a Bond flop, and that’s a shame. The film is James Bond redux, a lean and intense action thriller with lesser fat than 007 fans are used to. It isn’t ridiculously about one man saving the world, it doesn’t have a repetitive plot, and it’s a complete back-to-basics film. Dalton is tough, dramatic and fiercely 007. Back in 1989, a film where Bond quits the service is unthinkable. It’s a film that defied the franchise valiantly, but was ahead of its time. Critics called it too renegade, and not Bond enough. But as a character, it’s strikingly true to James. Watched today, in an age where even the Man of Steel and the Dark Knight are going raw, it’s a refreshingly fine and most underrated watch.

We all have our favourite Bonds. Most true believers swear by Connery, some can’t get over Roger, and a few even inexplicably manage to stand Pierce. What hurts, however, is that Dalton is almost always ignored by default. Most of those who balk at his very mention haven’t even seen his films. Give him a fair chance, before writing him off.

All I ask is that you watch (or rewatch) his films, and rejoice in some fine Bondage.

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Published Rediff, November 21, 2006.

The Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna review

I feel older. A showing of Karan Johar’s mammoth 22-reel Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna has left me unbelievably exhausted. Walking out of the hall, I feel my cheeks for a beard, wondering if my clothes are suddenly dated and if my hair’s greyed.

For this is no ordinary 3.5-hour film, it’s a saga that stretches on and on — imagine, if you will, a Balaji Telefilms soap running for several seasons (time leaps and all) while you sit captively in the audience. Yes, I’ve lost a sizeable chunk of my life, and you will too.

Older yes but not wiser. Because Karan Johar, God bless his soul, has never been about meaning. He’s manufactured dreams in wonderful abundance, right from the frothy Kuch Kuch Hota Hai straight out of Archie comics, to Kal Ho Naa Ho, a rom-com Julia Roberts wouldn’t have looked out of place in. Johar’s films are bright and cheery, all merriness and overdone cliches as wholesome as besan ka laddu. Indulgently a nicely-packaged treat, never mind the extra desi ghee.

Tragically, KJ too seems struck by the Substance Syndrome, something that usually affects item girls. Not content to merely shake their booty in our glad faces, the lasses suddenly bring out the dupattas and nurse deluded dreams of acting talent, resulting in much audience grief. Similarly, Karan, the popcorn populist we all rather enjoy, has decided to turn to a deeper, darker subject. The KANK gang deals with infidelity, with broken marriages standing in the way of true love — it is a tremendous departure from the happy-joy world KJ’s dealt with thus far, but the man can handle melodrama and undeniably make women weep, so perhaps this step made sense.

It would, perhaps, if only he’d let go of his glossy fun roots. Infidelity is a tough subject to broach, but Karan opts for neither the compelling emotional complexity of a Silsila or the cheeky nonsense of a Masti. Instead, he tries straddling both worlds — imagine the unforgettable Amitabh-Rekha-Jaya story set in New York to a laugh track. Not wise at all.

So then we have failed footballer Dev Saran (Shah Rukh Khan) resentful towards fashionista wife Rhea (Preity Zinta), simply because she’s a success. On the other side of the tracks, we have party-planning upstart Rishi (Abhishek Bachchan) trying hard to court schoolteacher wife Maya (Rani Mukerji), but she’s quite the cold fish.

Mere seconds into the film, Khan meets Rani in red wedding regalia on a park bench, wondering if she should take the plunge. It being his anniversary, and this being a KJ film where everyone’s a drama queen, he encourages her to get married even as he exposes the vulnerability of his own marriage while rudely bringing to light the fact that she isn’t in love. The strangers meet, trade immense dialogue and say farewell, till Rani brings up the film’s title — never say goodbye, for then it kills the hope of meeting again.

And meet they obviously do, four-odd years later, with both marriages well on the rocks. Amid some inexplicable tomfoolery about a black-jacketed kidnapper, SRK creams Rani with a football, re-introductions are made and big life questions are brought up. Meanwhile, their spouses, being true media professionals, use the hospital waiting room to schmooze. Now everyone knows everyone, and since the cracks in the relationships are predictably more than apparent soon — begins the SRK-Rani affair, kicking off a series of contrived situations, each progressively more artificial than the last.

Yet as mentioned, the possibly compelling potential for drama isn’t given any elbowroom to play itself out. The characters are cardboard, the setting is glitzy, the songs are tiresome, and the story itself oscillates between high melodrama and slapstick hilarity, going nowhere. Decidedly going somewhere on the other hand is Amitabh Bachchan, playing Abhi’s flamboyant dad Sam (‘sexy Sam,’ the background score keeps reminding us). A widower who dresses like Snoop Doggy Dogg and cavorts appropriately with blondes, it’s fabulous to see Bachchan relish this campy role, fur-lined handcuffs and all. There’s a jump in his stride and a twinkle in his eye as he carries off peculiar colours with vintage flair. And the Big B convincingly shows there’s way more to him than meets the eye.

A tense romantic drama between two married couples — and the most compelling character in the film is one of their dads? The film is working from a fundamentally flawed script, and our four (okay, two) main leads aren’t really fleshed out at all. Khan is perpetually pissed, an angry man too busy grumbling about his limp to care about his marriage. Mukerji’s character is strangely unreceptive of Abhishek’s advances. Preity’s Rhea echoes Bollywood cliché of careerwomen being ruthless and uncaring. Abhi, while a bit of an upstart, is the most believably written of the bunch.  But never once do you feel concern for any of them.

Johar’s movies are always star-heavy, but rarely has a weak script relied so completely on pretty people with big names to carry every line through. The dialogues they mouth are meant to be meaningful, trying to sound profound about trite nothingness — then again, the script is by Shibani Bhatija, the woman who wrote Fanaa, which explains a lot. Honestly though, if you really dig Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham and are waiting for Fanaa on DVD, you might just love this movie. If you do, mail me how.

As for the pretty people, half the reason you’re scrolling down is to read how the stars have done. Well, it’s typical. For those of us who’ve been hoping for a new and improved SRK, this isn’t the kinda film. Shah Rukh hams supreme here, scowling and smirking seemingly in slow motion, each facial twitch exaggerated to painful proportions. From heavy breathing to simpering, from breathless sobs to caricatured anger, KANK provides a virtual gallery of Khan at his most over-the-top, with the actor’s emphasis making the most derivative ‘American’ lines very painful indeed. While Rani is laden with flaky dialogues that most actresses would balk at, the actress manages to provide a realistic character, as far as her words allow. Unforgivable scenes are suddenly salvaged by Ms Mukerji breaking into a teary grin, and for that we must thank her.

Abhishek Bachchan plays a cad, a clubbing bling-lover completely smitten by his wife, who really doesn’t care. It’s a tricky role, and Abhi does impressively with a nuanced performance showing admirable restraint, again despite the words. The actor has a deft comic touch, and his Rishi manages to come off both relatable and sensitive. Preity who? Zinta has barely a walk-on part in the film, her appearances pretty much restricted to the loud and showy songs. Kirron Kher (as SRK’s ma) has sleepwalked through ‘warmly Punjabi’ roles like this in the past, and continues to occasionally draw a smile.

As does the film. Despite the bad handling, the pained acting, the fractured narrative and the twisty plot, there are moments where you grin. Moments where Khan pulls off some (ad-lib?) panache, where a line actually comes off as funny, where things work. But in a film dragging close to four hours and making you feel each minute, we deserve way more smiles per hour. And for all the hype about Bollywood heading into a ‘bold’ direction, KANK ends up being a lot of oversight and barely any insight. Couples on the verge of marriage would do well not to head into the theatre, though — s/he might dump you for the choice of flick.

Damn it all, this hurts. Think it’ll take a couple more viewings of another film with a limping leading man to soothe the pain.

Rediff Rating: 2 stars

~

Published Rediff, August 11, 2006.

Why Omkara blew my mind

Omkara blew my mind.

I can’t remember the last time I said that about Hindi cinema, something I’m force-fed once a week, on average. Vishal Bhardwaj’s film, however, is a superlative-exhausting work of passion and tribute, skill and style. Spellbinding stuff.

Here, in no particular order, are five reasons I love Omkara.

Language: The words, the words. Soiled with heartland grime, the dialogues come at you with a superb realism disarming to most of us used to synthetic (at best; usually just trite tripe) often-familiar Hindi screenplays. Vishal, insistent on writing his dialogues himself, has drawn massively into his Uttar Pradesh upbringing and scripted a masterpiece — the words are raw yet poetic, abusive yet literate, mundane yet metaphoric. Transferring the Bard into bhaiyya-speak (no offense, Bhardwaj bhai) is as uphill as tasks get, but Omkara manages with a flourish, displaying deft nuances while sticking extremely close to the source material. The metaphors and idioms are magical, and there’s a consistent strain of wry humour running through the lines.

And I’m immensely, even selfishly grateful they haven’t bowed down to market strains by toning the dialect down into more-comprehensible Hindi. Spending considerable time explaining dialogues to a bewildered Parsi buddy, I was glad to have been exposed to enough of the flavour and tone of the words up in Delhi. While the feel is as pure as it gets, a massive part of the country will not follow most of what is said, even listening intently. Maybe the reason the film isn’t doing too well here but efficiently abroad is due to subtitled prints. Honestly, even while relishing the lines in the theatre, I couldn’t help but lip-smackingly think how great it would be to savour the words on a well-subtitled DVD.

Loyalty: So sue me, I’m a purist. A fervent Bard lover, I wasn’t a huge fan of Maqbool. In my opinion, the director went too far out on a limb, and his denying the ghost and the witches muddled up the final act. The film was very well-crafted, Pankaj Kapur and Tabu were superb but that’s about it. Anyway, I digress. As plays go, Othello is my favourite among the Tragedies, largely because it features Shakespeare’s finest character, Iago. Bhardwaj too seemed to find little wrong with the original, for even while he transposed it into a completely different time and setting, he’s hardly wavered from the script.

Othello: Was not that Cassio parted from my wife?

Iago: Cassio, my lord! No, sure, I cannot think it,

That he would steal away so guilty-like,

seeing you coming.

The translations are almost literal, even as the characters bark into mobile phones and watch showgirls dazzle policemen. The changes are but superficial, as the telltale handkerchief takes on the avatar of a precious cummerbund handed down from generations past. Not finding much individual use for Duke, Antonio and members of the council, Bhardwaj rolls them all into his wily Bhaisaab. Conversant with the play, it’s a delight to watch Vishal take the familiar moments and play them his way, piling on scene after scene straight from the play, but each given his own quirky twists and styling. The challenge doesn’t lie in the changes, but in staying true. It’s often audacious just how neatly the script references Shakespeare, and the film’s end is ruthlessly, beautifully loyal.

The players, and their choosing: While on beauty, it is impossible to not be mesmerised by Kareena Kapoor, who looks her best as she fittingly plays Desdemona. ‘That whiter skin of hers than snow and smooth as monumental alabaster,’ as the dark moor described his bride, is positively luminous as Kareena’s Dolly Mishra takes over the screen. Her character is one of the hardest to essay, as she goes through love and awe, fear and bewilderment, defiance to her father and submission to her man. Kareena doesn’t have the lines, but she has moments demanding powerful use of expression, and she delivers. Conversely, even as she proves what difference a director makes, Vivek Oberoi’s Cassio is tragically cardboard, as if daring someone to make him act. This results in an unexpected (I’m assuming) effect, as we lose sympathy completely for Kesu Firangi, beginning almost to root for the cripple.

And what a marvellous cripple he is. So much has been written about Saif Ali Khan’s Langda Tyagi, and so much it inevitably falls short. Suffice it to say that it is a bravura performance, and he crucially achieves the rare fine line: he overwhelms yet utterly disgusts; we are incredulous in adulation of his detailing; we will him to die. Omkara marks Saif’s emergence into the very forefront of his acting peers, and we gleefully applaud. He’s so, so wonderfully loathsome, right down to the tiniest detail. And he has the finest, finest lines, each worthy of being on a t-shirt. His only competition there is his wife. Konkona Sensharma, always a great actress, is steadily piling on the brilliance. She has but a few minutes, but they are glorious and vital.

Othello is a tricky role, a leading man eclipsed entirely by the villain. Yet the Moor is a brooding and compelling character, and Ajay Devgan does valiantly with his material. Omkara strips Othello of the racism, exchanging his black skin for surprisingly inconsequential half-Brahminism. Ajay’s best bits are when restrained, and while there is a bit of a seen-that feel to his character, by the time the film is over, you realise just how unflinchingly solid he’s been. Naseeruddin Shah has no histrionics as Bhaisaab, but tons of the quiet dignity his character demands. A warm hand must also be reserved for the excellent Deepak Dobriyal, who’s Rodrigo (here Rajju) turn is precious and integral to the narrative. And finally, just where did Vishal find that terrific old lady?

Sights and sounds: Omkara is a slow film, a poetically drawn out work that mercifully doesn’t try to rush itself. The violence, while rampant, remains atmospheric — it is there for effect, as a backdrop, to pretend that the film has pace. Cinematographer Tassaduq Hussain — whose short films made as a film student in the US thrilled Vishal — has framed the film deliciously, each shot neatly boxing in light, shadows and high drama. Samir Chanda’s art direction is masterful, the sets evocative and realistic, exaggerated enough to be theatrical while detailed enough to be convincing.

Enter Bhardwaj the composer. This is a fabulous soundtrack, as Vishal’s irresistible folksy tunes fit tidily into the film, enhancing and never once interrupting the lazy narrative. The theme song is used unexpectedly, during the first fight scene — and it is this maverick, almost slapdash fashion of filmmaking that makes Vishal thrilling to watch. Even the two full-blown dance numbers work well, Beedi serving almost as an interruption to Iago’s devilish thoughts, and Namak often pacily interrupted, relegated to background score. Best used is the Jag jaa song, and Vishal’s weaving it into the narrative is inspiringly good.

Creativity: For all his loyalty to the Bard, this is such an original take on Shakespeare. Lines from the original manifest themselves sporadically here, and not always in dialogue. Iago is the green-eyed monster, Saif’s character is unmistakably shot with green-tinted light; Omkara plays the black Moor, emphasized by his shawl the colour of midnight. It’s how perfectly the filmmaker decides to incorporate these touches that make this his film. Oh, but then there’s also so much all Vishal’s own. Something that stood out for me was his take on good and evil. Bhaisaab, the kind of warlord who casually orders trains to turn around, bears more than a passing resemblance to Mahatma Gandhi; Iago, the articulate embodiment of all evil, is here called Ishwar.

Omkara is a very special film, the kind that comes around rarely, making you instantly long for a repeat viewing and the filmmaker’s next project. One hopes the wait won’t be long. Salutations, Vishal Bhardwaj, and thanks for the film.

PS: If this is what happens when a music director watches a Krysztof Kieslowski film, maybe we should send around box sets to Anu Malik and AR Rahman.

~

Published Rediff, August 2, 2006.

The nineteenth floor.

‘Paanch rupya.’ The dent in the kevlar was roughly the size and shape of a five rupee coin. It was also nearly a crack, and placed where it was, two inches inches below the heart, would be fatal if not for the added fortifications to the chest and rib areas. Even if the shell didn’t find its way past the midnight-shaded armor, the risk of trauma injury was too high. Through the frayed latex, he rubbed the almost-hole thoughtfully with a gloved finger while considering the plan of attack.

He was on the nineteenth floor, by the window. He couldn’t help looking outside, at the sea and the monument beside it. It would have been a lovely night, but for the stench of gunpowder and corpses, and a fog of despair cloaking the Gateway. He took a step inside, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. His boot immediately stepped into something wet, a macabre puddle splashing viscous fluid onto steel-toe.

He fished out a candle-sized stick and snapped it roughly with his teeth, even as his left hand undid a length of cord. The bright neon-yellow glow from the stick instantly illuminated the scene: first his teeth, and then the room. The first body lay two feet away from him, next to the writing desk, whole except for the head. He closed his eyes for a second. Not in silent prayer, but, his fingers flicking a button near his temple, to turn up the infra-red. There’s only that much neon can do, he thought wryly, tucking the yellow stick into his belt, alongside the oval buckle.

He stepped forward towards the bed and looked at the other body. Female, in her fifties. In the red tint of the eyewear, the neon of the stick and the pool of crimson she was lying in, her cotton nightgown was the colour of death: noone could tell what it originally used to be. Powder blue, he sighed, rebuking himself for watching all that sensationalist news coverage. ‘War,’ the bastards on TV called it, giving these nutjobs such a spotlight. An empty Kalashnikov shell clattered near his feet. And there were footsteps outside the door.

He stopped cold, as did the steps. The corridor was dark as tar, and in one swift jerk of the wrist, the yellow tube flew out of the window like a boomerang, right into the jaws of the ravenous city. There hadn’t been any firing for several minutes, making the prevailing silence a dominatingly still one. Convinced he heard a safety-catch being taken off, he crouched to the ground. His breathing slowed, as, he imagined, did his potential assailant’s. He let the cord slip out of his hand as he inched towards the door, slow as the blood seeping through the carpet. He reached near the door and calculated possible scenarios, all featuring the element of surprise. His hand crawled up to the doorknob, gloved fingers wrapping around the brass, when suddenly the door was thrown open, and his left hand pinned to the wall.

His right hand moved quickly towards a switchblade in the belt, but a boot caught him in the jaw. He looked up into the shaking nozzle of a machine gun held by a sweating young Sikh in black-cat outfit. He let out a sigh of relief even as the commando swallowed hard, looking in all the world like he’d seen a phantasm. ‘Who.. Who…?’ The lad stammered as he smiled and reassured him. ‘Yes. And I’m on your side,’ he said in broken Hindi. Usually it took more convincing, but here the soldier withdrew the gun and yanked him to his feet, giving him an awed once-over. He stopped the youngster from apologising, and shook his hand as the still-shaken boy briefed him on the current situation.

They stood in the corridor and waited. There had been sounds in the room five doors down from them, he was told. He handed the soldier his blades, explaining how much more effective than a gun they prove to be, in a compromised-space situation. Young Hartej listened intently, before suddenly glaring and hushing him. There was a crack behind him and he whirled around, barely in time to see a silhouette appear in the corridor unleashing white sparks of machinegun fire in their direction.

His jaw dislocated as soon as he hit the ground. The crack would have been loud in the silence instants ago, but was muted by the current crossfire. He’d been shoved roughly to the ground by Hartej, who was now literally on top of him, covering him on all fours as the firing got louder. He could feel the young man’s shoulder recoil shudderingly even as his arm stayed unwaveringly steady. The infra-red let him see another silhouette pop out behind the first one which was now falling, and he tried to warn the soldier. It was unnecessary, the youngster having already tossed a grenade with flawless accuracy.

It was over. He had never felt more helpless in combat. Or more relieved. Save for the crackle of walkie-talkies confirming the final target, silence resumed. Only this time, it didn’t feel like the air was holding its breath, but like it had finally exhaled.

He rubbed his paining chin as he stood alongside Hartej at the same nineteenth floor window. The soldier tried to stop him, but, ignoring many protestations, he stripped off his belt, gloves and the rest of his blades and handed them to the boy. Then he insisted young Hartej sign a slip of paper. ‘A reciept?’ the confused Sikh asked. ‘An autograph,’ he smiled. He told him that there would surely be more blood, and more sickening, cowardly attacks on the innocent, but that he wouldn’t be needed around. ‘You guys have it covered.’

He jumped even as Hartej gasped. He leaped from the nineteenth floor, eagerly ogling the magnificent, impossible city as he plummeted past the windows. He waited a good ten floors before unfolding his titanium-dipped fiber wings and gliding to a shadowy landing. Gotham needed him, India didn’t. And he really must come back in civvies sometime.

‘Paanch rupya.’

The dent in the kevlar was roughly the size and shape of a five rupee coin. It was also nearly a crack, and placed where it was, two inches inches below the heart, would be fatal if not for the added fortifications to the chest and rib areas. Even if the shell didn’t find its way past the midnight-shaded armor, the risk of trauma injury was too high. Through the frayed latex, he rubbed the almost-hole thoughtfully with a gloved finger while considering the plan of attack.

He was on the nineteenth floor, by the window. He couldn’t help looking outside, at the sea and the monument beside it. It would have been a lovely night, but for the stench of gunpowder and corpses, and a fog of despair cloaking the Gateway. He took a step inside, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. His boot immediately stepped into something wet, a macabre puddle splashing viscous fluid onto steel-toe.

He fished out a candle-sized stick and snapped it roughly with his teeth, even as his left hand undid a length of cord. The bright neon-yellow glow from the stick instantly illuminated the scene: first his teeth, and then the room. The first body lay two feet away from him, next to the writing desk, whole except for the head. He closed his eyes for a second. Not in silent prayer, but, his fingers flicking a button near his temple, to turn up the infra-red. There’s only that much neon can do, he thought wryly, tucking the yellow stick into his belt, alongside the oval buckle.

He stepped forward towards the bed and looked at the other body. Female, in her fifties. In the red tint of the eyewear, the neon of the stick and the pool of crimson she was lying in, her cotton nightgown was the colour of death: noone could tell what it originally used to be. Powder blue, he sighed, rebuking himself for watching all that sensationalist news coverage. ‘War,’ the bastards on TV called it, giving these nutjobs such a spotlight. An empty Kalashnikov shell clattered near his feet. And there were footsteps outside the door.

He stopped cold, as did the steps. The corridor was dark as tar, and in one swift jerk of the wrist, the yellow tube flew out of the window like a boomerang, right into the jaws of the ravenous city. There hadn’t been any firing for several minutes, making the prevailing silence a dominatingly still one. Convinced he heard a safety-catch being taken off, he crouched to the ground. His breathing slowed, as, he imagined, did his potential assailant’s. He let the cord slip out of his hand as he inched towards the door, slow as the blood seeping through the carpet. He reached near the door and calculated possible scenarios, all featuring the element of surprise. His hand crawled up to the doorknob, gloved fingers wrapping around the brass, when suddenly the door was thrown open, and his left hand pinned to the wall.

His right hand moved quickly towards a switchblade in the belt, but a boot caught him in the jaw. He looked up into the shaking nozzle of a machine gun held by a sweating young Sikh in black-cat outfit. He let out a sigh of relief even as the commando swallowed hard, looking in all the world like he’d seen a phantasm. ‘Who.. Who…?’ The lad stammered as he smiled and reassured him. ‘Yes. And I’m on your side,’ he said in broken Hindi. Usually it took more convincing, but here the soldier withdrew the gun and yanked him to his feet, giving him an awed once-over. He stopped the youngster from apologising, and shook his hand as the still-shaken boy briefed him on the current situation.

They stood in the corridor and waited. There had been sounds in the room five doors down from them, he was told. He handed the soldier his blades, explaining how much more effective than a gun they prove to be, in a compromised-space situation. Young Hartej listened intently, before suddenly glaring and hushing him. There was a crack behind him and he whirled around, barely in time to see a silhouette appear in the corridor unleashing white sparks of machinegun fire in their direction.

His jaw dislocated as soon as he hit the ground. The crack would have been loud in the silence instants ago, but was muted by the current crossfire. He’d been shoved roughly to the ground by Hartej, who was now literally on top of him, covering him on all fours as the firing got louder. He could feel the young man’s shoulder recoil shudderingly even as his arm stayed unwaveringly steady. The infra-red let him see another silhouette pop out behind the first one which was now falling, and he tried to warn the soldier. It was unnecessary, the youngster having already tossed a grenade with flawless accuracy.

It was over. He had never felt more helpless in combat. Or more relieved. Save for the crackle of walkie-talkies confirming the final target, silence resumed. Only this time, it didn’t feel like the air was holding its breath, but like it had finally exhaled.

He rubbed his paining chin as he stood alongside Hartej at the same nineteenth floor window. The soldier tried to stop him, but, ignoring many protestations, he stripped off his belt, gloves and the rest of his blades and handed them to the boy. Then he insisted young Hartej sign a slip of paper. ‘A reciept?’ the confused Sikh asked. ‘An autograph,’ he smiled. He told him that there would surely be more blood, and more sickening, cowardly attacks on the innocent, but that he wouldn’t be needed around. ‘You guys have it covered.’

He jumped even as Hartej gasped. He leaped from the nineteenth floor, eagerly ogling the magnificent, impossible city as he plummeted past the windows. He waited a good ten floors before unfolding his titanium-dipped fiber wings and gliding to a shadowy landing. Gotham needed him, India didn’t. And he really must come back in civvies sometime.

~

Unpublished. Written November 29, 2008.

A Screenwriter’s Tale .. or.. My Backstory

There is no clear how-to manual when it comes to screenwriting. Sure, there are books suggesting method and structure — Syd Field had a day like his last name taking those to the bank — but there is no definitive checklist of how to make scriptwriting your day job. Here then is what I can offer: my story, of how I randomly came to be in the position of having my first screen credit appear this week. And what better way to tell this story than in screenplayese?

SCENE 1:

EXTERIOR, MUMBAI AIRPORT, DAY:

(Super: Five years ago)

Our unshaven long-haired protagonist exits the airport with a tote bag and massive Aviator sunglasses. He is a Delhi boy who believes he needs a dynamic city to shove him out of inertia. Jobless and without even a specific idea of what he wants to do, but armed with an irrelevant Master’s Degree he treads into the sultry city hoping for, um, action.

SCENE 2:

MUMBAI STRUGGLER MONTAGE:

We see the protagonist go through vagabond-wannabe clichés: sleeping on his aunt’s couch, renting half a garage and living with a corrugated metal wall, working for a tiny advertising agency that doesn’t pay him, lots of bus rides and much super-budget dining. The entire montage is interspersed with several quick-cut shots of local train travails, and our man’s klutzy ineptness at the same.

SCENE 3:

INTERIOR, REDIFF OFFICE, DAY:

Protagonist is being interviewed by over a dozen people, spread over three days. He says the Formula 1 column he’s been writing for Rediff is something he enjoys the most, so can they use a sportswriter? They take turns hmmming and hawing before asking if he watches movies.

SCENE 4:

INTERIOR, MOVIE THEATRE, VIVAH PLAYING:

Protagonist yawns and soldiers on with his bad movie watching. We establish how he has become a full-time critic based on a ridiculous, almost-masochistic love for motion pictures, and because there aren’t that many critics around in the first place, he’s become oddly well-known – albeit much criticised across the Internet for lambasting an Aamir Khan or a Hrithik Roshan, as need be. He enjoys watching the Bollywood circus up close and is amused by how seriously the circus itself takes him.

SCENE 5:

EXTERIOR, COFFEE SHOP FOYER, SUBURBAN MUMBAI:

The protagonist sits across from Sourabh Usha Narang, director of the rather creepy Vaastu Shastra, who is inexplicably convinced — based on reading reviews — that the protagonist should pen screenplays. Our man grins and agrees, and they come up with a thriller called Sunday Morning, set in realtime from 7am to 9am on a Sunday. It is a thriller so clever it obviously gets shelved and hasn’t been heard of since.

SCENE 6:

THE BOLLYWOOD MONTAGE:

The protagonist has shaved. We see shots of him in movie screenings, in conversations with directors, making friends with the industry and digging how it really isn’t all bad. He’s surprised to discover that the people he admires the most are the most accessible and down-to-earth, and friendships are forged over hedonistic nights. (Note: possible item-song opportunity here)

SCENE 7:

EXTERIOR, SAME COFFEE SHOP, DAY:

Back with Sourabh Narang around the same table, the protagonist is told that Narang wants to make another horror movie. They sit around a table and spin random ideas, and Narang decides to get him contracted. Men from UTV are met (also at coffee shops) and work begins on a film called K11.

SCENE 8:

INTERIOR, SEN’S ROOM, NIGHT:

A dramatic internal monologue shot, the words are coming in as a voiceover while we see our character type intensely. We establish that directors and megastars are suddenly taking jabs against him on their blogs, calling him a frustrated wannabe director. He grins at the attention. Later Vishal Bhardwaj asks if he truly wants to direct. Protagonist says he has never wanted to direct, writing is fun. Bhardwaj says if he can do it anybody can. (Ref: Awesomest people are the most down to earth, SCENE 6 reference)

SCENE 9:

INTERIOR, MUMBAI LIVING ROOM, NIGHT:

Protagonist is learning to play poker. The two men teaching him are Raj Nidimoru and Krishna DK, a couple of directors who made the decidedly charming Indian-American Flavors. They are working on a fun script called 99, and wonder if our man would like to do dialogue. He gives it a whirl, they sign him on, and before he knows it, the film is shot.

SCENE 10:

VIDEO CLIP, 99 TRAILER:

99 is a cheeky caper-film set in the year 1999, with a hero who constantly bemoans the ‘almost’ in his life, about how he always falls short of a hundred. Everyone in the film does, really. 99 stars Boman Irani, Kunal Khemu, Cyrus Broacha, Soha Ali Khan and Vinod Khanna, and releases on May 15 — braving the IPL season. Heh. With this script, this gamble feels appropriate. Plus, our man is super-proud to have gotten paid to write in Hindi. (Take that, torturing Hindi teachers from Don Bosco!)

END OF ACT ONE.

It really is a gamble. Right now, it’s an admittedly exciting time with 99 releasing May 15 and K11 slated to start shooting real soon. Having said that, it’s important to realise that the fanciful Barton Desi screenplay above is made up of nothing but highlights. And that I’ve worked on K11 for almost three years before it’s finally inching towards production, while 99 happened with fabulous gusto. So you really got to hang in there, and have faith. You never know which side lightning strikes from. It’s an exciting time in the industry with great filmmakers positively hungry for scripts and ideas, and all you need to connect with people is enthusiasm. So good luck to you all from someone who is very far from having arrived, and do go catch 99. Peace.

~

Published Yuva magazine, May 1, 2009.