Paan Singh Tomar: Glory that lost the verdict..

7 time steeplechase National Champion, sole representation of the country in 1958 Tokyo Asian games and the winner in 1967 International Defence Meet.

Paan Singh who?? I am sorry but pages of history don’t speak and we by our own confessions, have the inimitable ability to ignore, forget and most importantly, never augment the commencement of myriad future. Alas, we never realised when and how a national champion was gutted while the nation was with its oblivious self.

A sensitive and almost sunk biopic about one of our non celebrated champions, ‘Paan Singh Tomar’ is arguably, Tigmanshu’s most potent work. Extracted from true events, it has the stamp of addictive filmmaking. I was thrilled to watch the protagonist grow from the tracks to his traumatic lull back home and his stint with the Army that looked formidable, yet appeared off the hook. He was a Phoenix with ashes of gold, and yet, his perennial necessity was survival amongst the gory gods soaked in a culture of savage minds.

It’s a pity to watch our governments and administration turning a blind eye and a deaf ear to our heroes (though, it was never acknowledged) and we forget that glory is probably the most dangerous visitor. We know when it comes, but it leaves without a trace. But what it leaves behind is probably man’s most despicable assets. Rest, as they say, ceases to exist. For Paan Singh Tomar, the latter never bestowed upon him and he wasn’t the punter to sail without hamstrings. Local police and Army failed to punch the holes Paan Singh wanted and he found the system void for them to comprehend what aam aadmi has to say. The result was inevitable. A gold medallist took the reins from the guns of blood and resorted to the world of bandits in the Chambal valley.

Neither did the headlines flay when he was shot dead. But your hearts will when Dhulia’s Paan Singh Tomar dies, battling a 12 hour ordeal. He didn’t live, but worse, even his death didn’t.

Irrfan Khan delivers an astounding act as Paan Singh Tomar, no one else could have lent this precision to a character of grit and compulsive patriot. ‘7 baar record toda lekin kisi ne poocha nahin, ek goli maari aur poora desh hamari pooch raha hai’: a statement that brings the state of affairs to our deterrent footsteps.

Technically, the film sufficed. Chowta’s background score was pulsating and editing top notch. This beats Dhulia’s SBAG (though I won’t hide my fondness for Shagird), he gets the primal focus right and brilliance is written all over it.

Paan Singh Tomar, thumbs up!

Arth – Mahesh Bhatt: Retro Marvel!

There are filmmaker’s who make films. And then, we have filmmakers who churn epics. They resonate and come back to us with a trace of fervour. ‘Arth’ is such a product of pandemonium class.

Mahesh Bhatt ranks amongst the country’s finest minds and this probably was his most honest trade. Human relationships have always intrigued me, and I continue to mend my ways to attempt not to meander desires. ‘Arth’ flashes human paranoid in every frame of life. Inder, Pooja, Kavita, Raj – they are all etched out of our pedestrian lives. Insane, talented, desirable, greedy, dreams, obsession. The characters are immersed in such juggernaut that they fail to miss you and you are glued with your gums stuck to the walls. The floundering means of Inder, Pooja’s desperation to possess a family that refrains to let hold and Kavita’s psychotic bliss take you to a fold of manned pandora that refuses to bleach naked carousels.

Few scenes stand out. ‘main keh raha hoon, keh raha hoon, keh raha hoon’ fused humane madness, Pooja’s proverbial outburst in the party where she spots Inder & Kavita together and Kavita’s oscillating moods define masquerading battles within. Raj’s acceptance of Pooja’s refusal establishes the fact that people with such beautiful feelings do live and breathe amongst us.

Pravin Bhatt is excellent with his camera, editing flays yet restrained and the script palanquins the stamp of vulnerable wannabes. ‘Tum itna jo muskura rahe ho’ is my forte and the late Jagjit Singh’s soulful rendition renames melancholy. Background score rests beneath as the writer creates his own playground of fatal tombs.

The performances: What can I say? It features some of the finest this country has ever seen. Khulbhushan Kharbanda plays Inder like a man possessed. If this generation has to know what KK could do as an actor, then ‘Arth’ is your destination. Shabana Azmi as Pooja is astounding. Raj Kiran as Raj sinks and does so with aplomb. Finally, my toast. Smita Patil delivers a stunner. At an age when women centric roles were orthodox and venturing out of the commercial territory was almost impossible, Smita lived Kavita in every frame. The swinging mantra of her loneliness, her insecurity to retain a man in her arms and the insatiable wants of a marauding woman – Smita had it all. Hats off!

An autobiographical monument, ‘Arth’ became a path breaking phantom. 31 years since, and Mahesh Bhatt’s mangled human yore oozes brilliance.

Fables disconnect..

Wondrous moments never occur in sequences, they are meant to be beautifully derailed and viciously famed. Not to mention, unexpected and curative to add as incentives. My days are good with coated pleasure and the former have self confessed turbid thoughts.

My ordeal isn’t a tale, but has gorgeous elements of miscarriage. And, would not slid away from those credentials of pampered futility as long as a force merges itself with the condiments of hope, safe and persistence.

Unsurmountable isn’t mine, though. It doesn’t require a meagre to fume hearts, nor does it require a famished belly to quench your fist. Both, mind you, are irrelevant and significant oaths of perennial paths.

Statements, quite petite and wrenching, would seldom quote marvel at its despicable veins. And emotions, ah! those that define vulnerability at its moulded worst would patiently wait for the discreet collapse of the inner mettle.

Incomplete, yes. But not in the mirage of a contained barracks. If the little one’s precious is garbage cans of discarded patents, I am, at my disposal, to fret and rise at the brink.

J. Edgar: Cliched & Tampered Genius

Biopics have always been addictive affairs for me. And, magnitudes of such maverick proportions are rarely depicted with such audacity. Forte, remains magnetic. Class, oozes envy and a legend survives the most dramatic chapters in American history with quantum poise and touch of evil debonair. Perhaps, Nixon’s final words describe the powerhouse of a man J. Edgar Hoover was.

We can debate, ponder and remain at awe to merely flash through the exploits of Edgar (as his mom likes to call him) as he spectacularly weaves the web around the then little known bureau of investigation. I could easily throw hoodlums to enface the indispensable-like facet of Mr. Hoover – without a hugely submissive yet pierced Tolston or the vivacious yet intelligent Miss Gandy, I for a moment of periodicity that mangles the test of times, could ignore a titanic with bruised icebergs.

The radical movement, the primitive ways of dealing criminology in an environment of rarity and growing emulation of torrid communist fallacies – it was a tailor made featherbed for the young and immensely inquisitive Edgar to get himself stamped all over in the leaflets of the attorney general in the Justice department. A monopoly of guts, severance and marque observations, Mr. Hoover held sway in a department of classy lounges and over the moon officers. When he gets appointed as the acting director of the bureau, few could sense the vigour of an imperious renaissance. Rest, as they say, is history.

Post 1935, emerged FBI and still amongst the most notorious talent, Edgar romped home with the savouries of America’s most privileged and eminent with consummate ease. He bought stories, re-developed scripts, maintained files that spit fatality and treated the Roosevelts + Kennedys + Nixon with paranoid stigma. Rather, they disdainfully adored him to make themselves poorly comfortable.

Clint Eastwood is the ‘Master’ but disappoints in technical arenas. The make up and the face recognition could have been so much better, at times felt like watching a comic strip from a faded sequel of a dud. At times, individuals looked glued to their masks and it severely tarnished the hindsight of an otherwise ensemble cast with brilliant performances.

Naomi Watts as Helen Gandy was as effective as it could have ever been imagined. Tolston (little known to me though) does a superman like effort and runs himself in to a greatest ally that I have admired in the recent past. DiCaprio, I have to salute you for being the perfect Edgar, almost. His histrionics and rendered body language with a cheese of cult is stuff that mammoths are made of. An enactment of a lifetime, he surpasses his ‘Aviator’ act with miles to squander and plethora to bask in glory.

In all, a massive effort with colossal performance and basic spoilers take the sheen off from a crafted artisan.

Valentine? Pseudo..

Roses galore, petals kiss your thirst and mountains spit collages of serene kiosk…
At a time of penchant vows, I courageously demean the dawn to caress and make love.
Very, astonishingly, brave, mild, grizzly moan and fetish desires engulf paradigm.

I, fake, not to diminish but to flourish with pretentious glory.
Ah, my pittance of a mimic glows through the veins of malicious pun.
And, respite doesn’t meet me until I devour the known to giggle the unknown.

Yet, women, mostly, are paradoxical occurrences of my mingle minds. No, they love me.
Why? Where? Hmmmm… How? No, let’s go back and fend actions that mattered.
Am I to love and perish with substance that usually forges anonymity?

Guess what, I still love thee to elude wrath and flaunt insatiable within core.
Ecstasy, mind you, is a state of being you and inviting magnetic proportions.
I, think to be devoid, but, known to be alive despite.

While the world basks itself in ballistic hormones of youthful bliss (well, evolution might not alter few that scream from within), I, the most laudable of niche, wish you all, the memoirs of a beautiful and a voluptuous lifeomaniac. Or, perhaps, for the one that’s in the making.

Agneepath (2012): When the legend met his nemesis..

In the 90s, Vijay Dinanath Chauhan epitomised the fallacy of a celebrated gangster. It was touted as THE film of the Shahenshah and famously earned him the national award for an iconic performance.

21 odd years and we have Kancha Cheena rocking Mandwa with his ubiquitous aura. Rauf Lala becomes an aid for Vijay to avenge his father’s death and reclaim the little picturesque near the sprawling Mumbai.

For me, KJOs Agneepath is a far cry from what his dad crafted with Mukul Anand at the helm. Vijay was the consortium of an outcry in Kancha’s devious motives. He topples his empire with ferocious charm and flaunts a heart of gold. The latter is visible in the Vijay of KJOs but the former is completely gone. And, that for me, relinquishes the very soul of Karan Malhotra’s Agneepath. With few notwithstanding, Kancha Cheena, the Bollywood baddie is back rocking and Lala will remain etched in me for sometime to go.

Again, this version survives on splendid performances from its lead actors who are the antagonist. Like the original, the ladies have nothing to cash in on, though Madhavi was a critical leaf in Vijay Dinanath Chauhan’s blood-immersed life of goons. Kaali, is hardly there (except in the song and dance sequences) and her frames with Vijay lack the desired chemistry. Zarina Wahab falls prey to the script she was handed over and does justice (Rohini Hattangadi as Vijay’s unapologetic mother was an irreplaceable venture). Om Puri as Gaitunde was ordinary, and one of the finest actors in our country has been wasted. Katrina does the stealer act with ‘Chikni Chameli’ and leaves quite a few hearts famished.

You could easily blame me for rekindling past a bit too much, but then, nostalgia defines the roots of our lives in a mysterious fashion. I missed these sorely: the confrontation between Vijay and his mother on his ways, her constant attempts to keep him away from his little sister, the delicate relationship between Gaitunde & Vijay and above all, the camaraderie of Vijay Dinanath Chauhan and Kancha Cheena. And, how could I ever forget the ferocious talent of the abusive ally in Tinnu ‘Nathu’ Anand? I will always miss when stamps are bygones.

Sanjay Dutt is my favourite devil here and gives a knock out performance. He is back and look how! The muscle baldie with lingering tattoos of the ‘Shaitan’ is a look borrowed straight from hell and I adored it. Rauf Lala’s inclusion is the biggest saving grace of this Johar remake and Rishi Kapoor deserves an ovation for his stand out feat as the wrecker in chief amidst the Vijay – Kancha despair. His exit post interval took the sheen away and I had to wait till Kancha comes back for the penultimate. The dialogues fitted the bill of the need but Kader Khan’s rendition in the ’91 classic was powerful and remains undisputed.

I don’t believe in comparisons, but I revel in legendary moments. The cash registers are singing the swan song and Dharma Productions will certainly take that. But I am sure KJO will lose the reins over a cup of coffee with his dad at the outcome. And, I would, by all means, take the senior Johar’s side.

Souvenirs from the lasting braces..

# The first day of 2012 was just another day, and not surprisingly, the ones that followed suit replicated the former. Phew! It’s so agonisingly hard to believe that things would venom upon its itself and alter to take a shape of fervour goodness. I trust and always have, that I, as human, cannot remain indispensable for the most of what this planet subscribes to.

# I came across couple of invigorating and sparsely written articles that count amongst the finest of 2012, as equations stand today. A flashback like endorsement for the inimitable Mohd Rafi was not always required, but at times, to rekindle the past could be of such palatial pleasures. I loved every frame and revived the golden era of playback rendition.

‘Unsexing Marilyn Monroe’ was an astonishing document of unravelling facts. Her mystique, stunning beauty and the blatant controversies have intrigued me for long, and this was worth a sublime read.

Scanned many others, but significantly, few could grasp my attention with trance.

# Indian cricket’s dark moments have loomed large since the whitewash in Thame waters, and the annihilation down under has only reinforced the tame truth: this playing eleven might not be capable enough to win a 5-day battle overseas. Failures are apart of this mercurial game, yet the manner in which the most vaunted brigade has faltered in the last 7 duels in the 22 strip has to be a lot more than mere coincidence. I am shocked at our gameplay, and I am not ready to point fingers at one entity. Neither am I terse to proclaim disaster by relegating few legends of the game to tatters. Yet, BCCI has to bridgett much more than minting frivolous cash out of the celebrated IPL and gorge some focus on the fundamentals of a playing eleven which has forgotten to essay its role in the longer and authentic version of the game, which for me, still breathes test cricket as oxygen.

# Ah! Films quote statements. And trademarks slide away for such notes. Couple of Tamil films impressed me and watched ‘Nanban’ with dialysis of the known. Guy Ritchie’s ‘Sherlock Holmes’ was a visual stunner and Rohit Dhawan continued his father’s legacy with a dud-dish ‘Desi Boyz’ which was a poor rehash sans Chitrangada Singh (I have got used to the leggy Padukone now ;)) who stole the squib show with élan.

Not quite impressive but then you can expect me to have rugged weeks with less pomp.

Not wonders, but hoping for the next few weeks to embrace with perfidious nonchalance. Again, I chose restraint while over-boarding appears vicious.

Is adequacy a deterrent?

As events come to a close with 2011, I have been quite evasive in introspection (though it has never been a forte). Me, to remain as I, has been a conflict of sorts with battling aspirations.

I am denying a dud of a 2011 but have my reservations to claim it as an accomplishing one. Fighting yourself is a greater challenge than fighting tangible components of physical influences. Your capabilities slew away from your inhibitions to confront questions of meagre yet astounding nature. Few, I answered. Few, I am struggling to. Many, I cease to avoid with timid corners.

With all the cordial occurrence in close quarters, I got to know myself better. I suffer from self inflicted supreme chaotic syndrome, and honestly, bear this possession with titanic pride. Moreover, realised that PPP (patience, perseverance, potent) have become my ferocious allies with seldom prick. I battle, get down, again battle, fend but not brood (I am guilty of not acquiring this attribute in it’s infancy) and decide to have faith in abilities with the right compass.

As 2011 eclipses and 2012 surfaces unsurmountable desires, I prepare to get myself equipped with instincts of my own.

As I enter the memphis amidst self, I take the onus on me to wish all my readers, a courageous and phantom 2012!

Mayakkam Enna (Tamil Film): Gutsy and Glorious Few!

If human relationships could be bracketed under mystic wraps, then I would be the most prominent protagonist to breathe life with pretentious fame.

‘Mayakkam Enna’ is one such tantalising epic that miscodes and quotes life in phonetic modes. A great ‘hounds and fur’ portrayal of versatile characters in situations of despicable abyss, ME enthrals most of it with flaws of pardonable stature.

Once again, the foundations of a film has been rested on the most curative and blissful relationship known to man: friendship. A spurious gang with a heart of gold, the best friend with an inexplicably beautiful date and the primitive ‘genius’ who gets the better of the both to marry his best pal’s so called girlfriend: the plot and the sequences have been put in place with casual importance. Struggles and veracity are parallels to this bunch of youngsters who fall and blossom with the timeless vein.

The screenplay has been the lynchpin of this Selvaraghavan courage and I was surprised (quiet honestly) to see the maturity in the script. Performances have been top notch and are praiseworthy. Seldom in the elite annals of Tamil cinema has a woman been showcased to be the epitome of man’s evolution (even though the current crop of generation has been able to come to terms with this lost but chrome reality) with such powerful grace. The 8 minute magic were Yamini is requested to embrace infidelity by one of their best buddies owing to Karthik’s pitiable state and her stunning response to his lustful penchant was pure aesthetics from a woman who was very much in love with her husband. It remains to be one of the finest moments crafted in Tamil cinema and I remain loathed till it flows away.

Dhanush delivers a sedate and impressive performance, once again. Here is one actor who is coming of age, never mind if it’s touch unorthodox and lacks pomp. Richa Gangopadhyay’s histrionics are a testimony to Selvaraghavan’s stint with a filmmaker’s pantheon. The supporting cast doesn’t go over board and Karthik-Yamini roll it over with calculated restraint.

I have always penned Selvaraghavan’s works with disdain. With ‘Mayakkam Enna’, he is realising his doses well and is an improved talented version of what he was with his earlier mishaps. An inspiring film with the right ingredients, I look forward to his future assignments with unpredictable glee.

When dominance was ecstasy..

As I watch the ‘Agneepath Series’ at the spectacular MCG, I had my notions revisit the legacy of the OZ juggernaut.

When Sehwag was dropped by the wicket keeper (few minutes before tea), I was like “Omigosh, this isn’t the Aussie side I have witnessed in the last 18 years” and my pandora wasn’t hinting at nothing.

I still remember those days when I used to cuddle myself up to watch a series down under (I refused to replicate those efforts when I had my exams knocking the door and usually, I am under prepared) and an inevitable Indian scorecard of 33-3 or 21-2 would invite my sober eyes. We would end up losing the series by miles (Boss would have scorched few relentless knocks during the course of those defeats but for a losing cause) and we would end the tour with McGrath and Warnie going home with buckets of wickets. I am talking about the world champion Australian side of my era. It doesn’t belong to them any more.

With due respect to the Pontings, McGraths and Warnes, but they were an admonishing asset to the Aussie armoury for years and I, by all means, miss their valour on the inimitable cricketing field. An Adam Gilchrist will be hard to find in the vicinity for half a century, to say the least. Evidently, great bowling attacks had the demeanour to destroy the famous line ups of the world and to our dismay, this generation doesn’t have even one to it’s credit.

The Windies were a Prophet in the cricketing annals for heralding such fire with the ball. Garner, Roberts, Holding, Marshall, Walsh, Ambrose.. I look back at those names with awe and their superiority was stuff that legends are made of. The OZs had that touch of blemish-less arrogance for almost 2 decades but then, as they say, “Even Caesar’s rule came to an end”.

I loved watching those stalwarts as much as I hated watching India crumble. Today, we are the world champions, but with all my oscillating emotions in close quarters, I don’t think we have an Indian bowling side that could take 20 wickets in a test match. We are a phenomenal batting colossus (my equations would change when I fork out the Big-3 out of the playing eleven but I will talk about that in my next ordeal) but our exploits with the adjacent quarter is pedestrian.

As I craft my thoughts over, we are at a steady 147-2. I am smiling with plummeted resistance.

Lifeoholic’s memoirs..

Our ability to emote is a variable widget in our lives. It’s preinstalled but comes in to use depending upon the circumstances and the kind of people we are surrounded by. I, conspicuously and by finesse of nature, am not an emotional creature. But, moments of poignancy does take its toll. When it did evolve this week, I was stranded precariously. And to my fluid pride, my battle with human relationships continues to amaze me.

I believe, places have souls. Cities breath a different aura of tenacity and I get myself constantly sucked in to it’s culture. The same feeling waved along as my third visit to the Charminar city plunges in to some fine moments of my life.

I am not a person who solemnises ceremonies. I conduct myself to the highest order, when confronted with one though. And this time, my presence was a prerogative as I watched my little angel getting in to a holy movement of quick distress and vital fulfilment. I wasn’t very me as the usual phonetics embedded within me gave away to the little one’s grimaces. All well, alright, but for me, it was a resident feeling. Never do I let myself in for such occasions but this one invited itself for a rare celebration and my obligation was customary.

I felt like adulthood was basking itself in such organic gestures and once more, I salute the DNAs for drafting what’s inherent of myself. Being so very human.