Luck needs some luck

Soham Shah's Luck, starring two generations of actors from Hindi movies (make that three if you consider Sanjay Dutt to be a later than Mithun Charaborty and Danny Denzongpa), needs all the luck to be credible as a film.

There is that cliché that to watch a Bollywood blockbuster, one needs to leave one's brains at home. While this may have been true earlier, the recent spate of Hindi movies begs to differ. And so I ask, why should I leave my brains behind?

The answer, my friend, is this: To enjoy this movie as a paisa vasool (getting your money's worth) entertainer, you need to watch it, enjoy the rather expensive thrills and forget it. In fact, it is more of a series of campaigns stitched together by common characters, than a single movie. That Soham is a brilliant visualizer shows — from the stylized title/logo, to the brilliant promos, to the thrill-a-minute stunts. But unfortunately, this is where the film falls flat. The soul of a film is its story... and this film has none. Thus the opening credit that mentions Soham as campaign designer is ironic in the sense that he remains that... he doesn't progress to be the film's director.

If this was a soap or a saga, the characters and their backgrounds could have been fleshed out. But what we get is very sketchy.

A few things leave a bad taste.

For example, Mithun's character. Not only is the disco superstar of yesteryear made to reprise an army man's role done to death by him in numerous B-grade flicks, he is also made to mouth the horrendous "Koi shaque?" dialogue. I was of the opinion we used the dialogue to poke fun at the veteran actor, not make him an object of ridicule when he is starring in a film.

While it is unfair to compare, what Mani Ratnam did with Mithun in Guru is a lesson in using this actor. Mithun, too, seriously needs to think hard without signing on the dotted line, even if it is for friends. For those of us who've seen the brilliance of his acting (especially in a few Bengali films), feel disappointed that he is reduced to acting out such characters.

I think the industry needs to have some fresh ideas about bhais (mafia dons). Sanjay Dutt has been seen in such roles so many times that whenever we see this face, fatigue sets in. I'm sure the actor can walk through these films blindfolded, like the death-defying stunt at the beginning of this movie. Sanjay Dutt as the lovable Munna scores any time over Moosa.

While Chitrashi Rawat's character was again, without much of back story, it was enjoyable to a certain extent — especially the scenes with Mithun and Imran Khan. But she should try exploring roles which are a bit different from Chak De's Komal Chautala. Whether in Fashion or this movie, her characters are always loud-mouthed.

Imran Khan's character is possibly the most incredible one, and not in the good sense. Ram Mehra is a banking executive who robs ATMs and gets away scot-free. Don't ATMs have cameras installed? Can't the guards shoot at a fleeing thief? What is "ek ka char"? What does he plan to do in the US? While the young actor's acting prowess tries to do justice to the role, it is the writer's fault for letting this character down.

Danny, as Tamang, gives an understated performance, which comes as a breath of fresh air in this film. Again, the character is not fleshed out. How does he confront his demons? How does a habitual gambler like him stay away from the sport? Even then, this is possibly one of the well-written characters.

Ravi Kisshen as the lucky psycho is credible. Again the character could have been fleshed out better. But within the limitations, Kisshen performs admirably. Will he be the next Ashutosh Rana? Only time will tell,. Meanwhile, he should try and act in a few more Hindi movies.

Shruti Haasan. With that name, those looks, that pedigree — are you God's favourite child? While one hopes the pedigree bit doesn't hang too heavy on her, she is possibly the best thing in the movie. Agreed, her vocal variations are still raw and need some polishing, but my, what a presence! With drop-dead looks, hats off to this youngster for doing all those stunts herself. Not to mention the fact that acting is just a tiny facet to the girl — she's a singer, lyricist and composer as well. Only time will tell if the Kamal Haasan-Sarika product is a winner, but she's got it all. Now it only needs a good director/mentor to nurture it.

A special mention must be made about the fabulous stunts, but then isn't that what we expect from Allan Amin?

And the styling for the movie was superb.

A word of advice for Soham. The next time he directs a movie, he could request Anurag Kashyap or Imtiaz Ali to write him a story. He could, in turn, become the stylist/campaign director for their films.

My Friend Sancho — Reflections

I have three things in common with Abir Ganguly.

I'm a journalist, a Bong and spend most of my earnings on books and music. But it ends there and I seriously start ruing the fact that other than the journalist bit, I don't have much in common with Abir's creator Amit Varma.

And I'm sore that I'm an unsuccessful blogger. Having been a very early convert to PCs and the like (early 90s), I started blogging in 2004. But the total visitors I've ever had to my blog are possibly lesser than the views of Amit Varma's immensely readable blog scores in one second.

Now that I have expressed my interest, lets get back to the task of talking about the book My Friend Sancho. I didn't tell you, did I, that Abir is the protagonist
in this book.

A fairly racy read, I finished all 217 pages of it in one go. While it took me about two hours, I'm certain if this wasn't after office, I'd have finished it earlier.

Varma's debut novel, is realistic in so far as its characters and events are concerned. In fact, it's a perfect example of how a simple incident (a brief as the book mentions) can be turned around to a chain of events aka a story (novel).

While the premise is just perfect, it's what it leads to a little fantastic. Or is it my 'domesticated' bias? While I'm sure any young man (and this is when I turn gender-insensitive) who has experience such pangs will identify with, the characters seem uni-dimensional.

And by the end of the book, even after we are privy to snippets of Abir's 3,000-word feature, do we get the full picture of Mohd Iqbal or what really happened that day? This is where the book fails.

However, if you're prepared to take off your thinking cap (and stop thinking like an editor on the crime beat) this book is a good read which doesn't tax your intelligence too much.

You don't need to think. Just loll in bed with this book.

The only time you need to think is at the end — which is open ended. In these days of options, the author provides you with three separate endings, before the book ends. You are welcome to pick yours.

 

PS: I think the book has the potential to be made into a play/radio play. Just pay attention to Abir's exchanges with the lizard. Can't see it as a film though — the essence would be lost.

A Comedy of Fire Mishaps

A

Admittedly, the title is a misnomer.

But that's exactly what has happened to me. While I did have a serious fire accident while a toddler, the rest, though quite painful, seem comic in hindsight.

The first instance comes to mind is one that goes back to my days as a fresh university student. I was in the first year of my graduation.

My parents had provided me a kerosene stove so that I could prepare my morning tea. Our classes used to commence at the ungodly hour of half past six in the morning. Since my boys' mess was half a kilometre bicycle ride away, I had to start off at six.

That fateful morning, around half past five, I started preparing my morning tea. I wasn't an expert at lighting matches (I'm still a klutz), but that was the only way to light a stove.

Lighting all five wicks took long... the matchstick singed my fingers and I dropped it in agony — on my foot. Havin managed to get both hand and foot burnt by a single matchstick I proceeded to spill boiling water on the other foot while pouring it into a cup.

But I wasn't done. I had to put the stove out. Having tried all ways to extinguish it, I tried blowing it out. Suddenly, a flame shot high and singed my face, burning my beard and moustache (I cultivated facial hair then).

I should have known better to stay away from flames then on. But I kept getting into tight situations with fire, though my memory fails to recall any other major incident.

Till yesterday — Sunday.

Having been informed rather late in the day that my cook wouldn't be coming, I tried preparing some instant soup for lunch.

I selected a matchstick, whose strength seemed suspect... but I proceeded.

As I struck the match, I heard the familiar flaring sound, but was aghast to find that I held the bottom half of the stick. Then where was the flame?

I realized a moment later, with an yelp of pain. The flaming tip had broken off and flown down to land below the sole of my left foot. Needless to say, I was barefoot.

I guess matches manufacturers will have to design special safety matches for a klutz like me. For I've realized the hard way that safety matches for mere mortals are as safe as a keg of gunpowder for me!

Lamenting a talent lost

It has been a rather disturbing day. 

Yes, I'm yet to fall asleep...

Early on the 30th Headlines Today journalist Soumya Vishwanathan was  shot dead 200m from her home. 

The fact it was a murder came to light only after the post-mortem found a bullet lodged below her earlobe. Initially, it was taken to be an accident.

Soumya's shift got over at 12am — but she stayed back thanks to the Malegaon and Modasa blasts story breaking late.

I should know. Our Frontpage was delayed, initially because of the above incidents and then because of the US bailout package being rejected... Both leads on the page turning on its head. The day was a typical nightmare situation for the desk.

But Soumya volunteered to stay back to help her channel — her skills as a troubleshooter were legendary.

As my flatmate often told me about Soumya, his colleague: "If you assigned any task to Soumya, you could rest assured it would be taken care of with no cause for complaint."

No wonder she rose so swiftly to the position of producer.

I've never met her yet I,ve heard a lot about her from many... from my friend who was with Headlines Today when Soumya joined as a trainee to my flatmate whose colleague she was.

But from what I can understand, she was ever-redy with a smile to help others and go the extra mile.

Which makes the incident all the more tragic and scary.

She belonged to that rare breed of TV journalists, ok let me be blunt, desk people, who are experts at what they do, are not hungry for attention or fame, humble and helpful, who go about silently with their work — the faceless footsoldiers of media.

Tell me, how many of you knew of her before this tragic incident? I doubt if it would be many outside the profession, friends or relatives.

People like us, who cut their teeth in Calcutta, often find fault with a lot of stuff.

After I shifted to Delhi, I often used to lment that the desks in Calcutta were more meticulous. Often I'd express disgust at the "Chalta hai" attitude of the desks.

My friends here refuted my arguments with one exmple — Soumya. If only all desk people were like her.

And all the stuff her colleagues spoke of on her channel, they weren't made up... most trainees at Headlines Today generally look up to Zakka or Soumya.

In fact its a pity so many more journalists have been denied her presence in their formative years... that girl would have gone far.

She imbued so much of the values that were hardwired into us at Calcutta. She was a gem.

I remember my early days in Calcutta when I would stay back or go in early or do both... such was the addiction for news.

I hope this incident does not scare people who want to follow her values. I sincerely do. Indian media is in serious shortage of desk-staff. It would help if such people even had 10 per cent of Soumya's dedication. It sounds heartless, but even in her death she's possibly gifted her channel their highest TRPs.

Such incidents may be commonplace in the Capital, but it hits you hard when someone so young from your fraternity is snatched away.  It makes you think if it's worth all that. 

We journalists can handle a non-existent social life, odd and long working hours, intense pressure and  impossible deadlines. But is it worth paying for with your life?

People, please wake up. The next one could be someone you know. 

Soumya, I regret that I never met you. But I hope we meet a million Soumyas in our lives.

And then I'm sure you'll be smiling away to glory wherever you are — for having helped so many.

Rest in Peace 

Angst unplugged

Guess I shouldn't have made Kafka staple bedtime reading a couple of weeks back. And it didn't help that I added Camus and Mann to the repertoire. I'm currently reading Mann's Confessions of Felix Krull.
And I was on night shift last week. Altogether not the smartest thing to do when you don't feel particularly good about anything. And now I'm hit by an overdose of angst — urban angst they call it.
Not particularly good when you stay alone. And so I've been ranting about virtually everything under the sun these days. Just check out my Independence Day woes on my other blog.
I need to do two things to get out of the rut — write to expunge the angst and read some stuff which will fill you with hope and a sense of redemption. Hey where's my local copy of Segal's The Class? This is a favourite of mine and I seem to buy a copy wherever I go and leave it there :-(
Don't know about you , but this book really peps me up.
And I've been writing a lot in the last few hours.
I've also discovered a new passion — reading ebooks on my E61i while on the move. Try doing that while you listen to your iPod — it's exhilarating. But peeople driving, a word of caution — I don't drive and do this stuff only on the Metro or in an auto.
But my phone is giving me some trouble. Apparently I've gotta get the latest pdf reader to view all the ebooks and the stuff costs a cool 13 euros!
Mentioning the Metro, I guess everywhere it's the same. Why do people like taking joyrides on them, especially on holidays? We poor sods who work on such days are badly inconvenienced. But guess my rant isn't gonna make these thickheads here anymore conscious.
Omigosh!
there see I've started ranting once more. Gotta cure myself.
In other news, my eyes seem to be failing me — gotta see a doc soon. I don't see as well as I was used to. And if I wasn't so hard up financially, I would have considered buying a digicam or an iPod touch, just to read ebooks. And any new jobs I'm being offered isn't giving me that much of a hike. So I'm caught in the rut till my office agrees to a hike. Its a tough life!
Excuse me please, I feel waves of angst overwhelming me.
Bye

In remembrance (written on the night of 24th June)

Forgive me. This post is a bit personal.
Tonight is the first time I'm spending a night at my grandparent's place in Cal since my Didan passed away. And I cannot sleep. Memories keep flooding me, and yet, no tears.
A couple of things seem to have fired my nostalgia:
I visited my old office the first time after I left. And it felt good to be back, even though temporarily. Today, realisation dawned that my true calling lay here - in Cal with my old team. I think I've always felt that way. But just as a young bird needs to go on its first flight alone to strengthen its wings and return home, so do I. It's not yet time.
There is another painful reason: I can't think of working in Cal staying in this house. Its sacred to the memory of times gone by.
I did not have the luxury of showing my anguish when I first heard the news, dumbstruck as I was with shock. Also, I got the news in the middle of a mass meeting with top bosses. I felt and still feel strangulated.
I'm awake at that point of time in the night when I used to get back. More memories flood me, but still no tears. Guess I'm being selfish, but she was snatched away when I needed her the most. I was close to her in an unlikely manner. All her grandchildren felt closer to her than their own mothers. She was often a sounding board for most of my decisions in life. And I've reached the crossroad thinking about what the rest of my life holds. I needed her words of wisdom now.
yet I can't come back before proving myself.
She had decided on my shift. She was after me to take this decision. The least I can do as her grandson is to abide by it.

A million cars to Noida (written on 13th June)

I had got out of office a bit early tonight. Coming down Nizamuddin bridge on my way home, I was greeted by the tail lights of a million cars. Well, not exactly, but quite a few, let me tell you.
I made a few deductions:
a) a sizable population of the capital was visiting the suburbs
b) most journalists in the capital live in Noida
c) it was a Friday, so everyone wanted to go on a drive on the highway