as the calypso sang..

As I watched Gayle’s exploits at the Premadasa while the Windies lifted the World T20 championship, the glares of the past could be seen lingering within.

Can’t say ‘ghosts’ since any sport and its defeat stand distraught in terms of performance and the characters that hugely inflict the impact of such profound greatness.

Dad chipped saying that it’s time Windies see some glory patches but didn’t forget to bucket the fact that when they roared for almost 2 decades, arrogance and dismissive apartheid was a mutual forte that all 11 carried off with panache.

Not to discredit their triumph today, but for me, it’s a vicious circle and the boys from the land of Jamaica and Barbados have realised that planet is round indeed.

All sporting nations witness transition, but the aftermath of a Llyod led West Indies is nothing short of an iconic downfall in the books of world cricket. From being lions in the jungle of the so called cricket propaganda to being relegated upon a minnow status that failed to cement itself in the top 5 in the last two decades, Gayle led Windies have seen infamous vertical limits. Their outburst, hence, was widely understood and felt. But sport is an amazing leveler of life, and, I strongly believe that it’s vice versa, with a pause.

Not that I am not fond of the Lankan methods of cricket swan-song, but my inner hormones routed for the West Indies. I don’t think the same reaction would have evolved for, say, the Aussies or the Pakistanis, even if their legacy was to be considered sparsely.

Time, is a healer and comes around often with prudent flair.

Barfi! – Sweet..

Landscapes woven out of an artist’s dream, streets that flush meadows in daylight, people who appear and are human, love that has touched the arms of divinity. ‘Barfi!’ is straight out of a folklore that doesn’t exist. Rather, you and me don’t know if it ever did.

In the last 15+ years of Indian Cinema, filmmakers have evolved, writers got back to the drawing boards that was probably alive during the early 70s till mid 80s and audiences are demanding more than a mere 150 minute potboiler sans sense and sensibilities. Anurag Basu, for me, has joined that elite bandwagon. Or at least, he has embarked on a fascinating road.

Barfi, Shruti and Jhilmil are rare protagonists in a script that’s woven around their vulnerable lives. One is disabled minus speech and sound, an autistic young girl who still is alive enough to emote and the third, is fulfilled with the right organs but without the sting that makes life meaningful. Barfi and Shruti share beautiful chemistry but the sustainability matrix falters in the ask of a society that never understands the intrinsics of human yore. It does also reflect upon failed relationships wherein we start living our life on the staircases of compromise and ‘that’s my fate’ attitude. Desires play a vital role as well, and seldom do they go hand in hand with what the heart says. Shruti exits (briefly though) and Jhilmil squashes in with a cherubic dose of innocence. Barfi, despite his limitations, is notorious and charming. His camaraderie with Jhilmil is magnetic and keeps you engrossed. Shruti shrugs her inhibitions (along with her family) to come back but she loses Barfi to Jhilmil. A limitless story unwinds in the backdrop, but for me, the 3 stand out as the yolk remains enriched. Obviously so.

Terrific performances make ‘Barfi’ memorable. Post ‘Rajneeti’, and ‘Rockstar’, Ranbir Kapoor’s big ticket is ‘Barfi’. His histrionics gave us a glimpse of an actor in the making and he has carried it off in style. Priyanka Chopra gives us a stunning Jhilmil with lots to rave about and has showcased immense courage to take up this act at this stage of her career (7 Khoon Maaf still remains a personal favourite though). Ileana D’Cruz is my surprise pic of ‘Barfi’. Not out of this world, but certainly a notable performance as debutante. She still has that plastic touch but saw less of it here and Anurag has worked well with her. A performance well within herself, she does look ravishing as the Bong girl. A well written script with precise screenplay treated impeccably, Anurag Basu has delivered a thorough winner.

I wouldn’t claim ‘Burfi!’ to be unique though. ‘Black’, ‘Taare Zameen Par’ and ‘ Guzarish’ have been such marvels in their own zenith but I would rate this as ‘audaciously penned’.

Oscar or no Oscar, ‘Burfi!’ is a craftsman’s delight. It would have worked very well in Mars or Jupiter, it most definitely doesn’t belong to the inhabitants of this planet. I might just head to the theatres next week to taste the sweetness of life, again.

romantics unleashed – an amateur classic!

a new arrival terms the beginning of an evolution,
budding flowers blossom meandering fragrance amidst vane,
fewer mortals discreet farther feathers,
yet, I love to fall and emerge unravelled.

tinsel town connotes me at a level of subjugation,
a celebrity of self invokes within..
gallops like highwayman when confronted ballistically,
quiver, shiver and smell the fervour of faint, frantically.

an isolation that was felt for minutes that compounded of ages,
ultimate gift of love came in with waves of profound glee,
met with ventilations of pestering values and desires..
squadron that ceased to exist and conquer with patents.

nation dances to tunes that is felt and is the beat that misleads..
new leader at the helm procures emotions and fallacies on a spectrum,
an artist stops weaving his brushes over a 21 yard strip..
baked at the future pokes as a legend withdraws from the realms of the empire.

premier consumer giants provoke and tantalise with oomph..
yet, embraced with goosebumps that yore and yell..
as governments play with inflow and outflow of booty,
big and small battle as the game crouches over the survival of the gamers.

Erodes, as always, and comes in till the following perched unknown.

Gangs of Wasseypur – 1 & 2: Blood Throttle Saga!

Menacing. A rendezvous with the devils of Wasseypur could only produce venom that bakes vengeance. And Kashyap minces no skin as flesh and barbarians in the name of preposterous empire rule a frail yet gawd-ish Wasseypur in Jharkand.

Inspired by true events, Anurag’s GoW has class written all over it. It begins where it ends as the plot converges itself on a rare plateau that speaks a language of it’s own. Shahid Khan’s nemesis and debutante Tigmanshu Dhulia as the verenable Ramadheep Singh sways a web of deceit that runs the soul of Wasseypur. Shahid Khan falls short of his anarchy as Ramadheep eliminates him but escapes the fact that his son would weed the veins of a barbarian revolution.

Sardar returns with an intent of a tiger and soon puts Wasseypur in a shred of wimp that Ramadheep would never mend with his hazel. Thus begins a war that has an end but no means. Sardar rises as Ramadheep gets a ticket in to the house of parliament and becomes the patriarch of Wasseypur. His son doesn’t belong to his mettle of manned arms and evolves behind the shadows of a Sultan. Even though Ramadheep wanes away from Sultan but doesn’t keep him out of his treacherous mandates. But an infuriated Sultan murders Sardar as his younger sibling falls for Danish Khan, Sardar’s eldest. Just when Waaseypur felt enough of bloody baits, it wakes up to an emergence of a gory legacy.

Sardar’s execution paves way for plethora of dynasties that poke belligerent guns and gloom. Danish is shot and after a series of juggler antics around Perpendicular, Tangent and Definite (Sardar’s son from the fetish Durga), Sultan brutally pins Perpendicular. While Sultan still goes around on a savage bout, Faizal Khan gorges and broods and fumes to avenge the murders of his father and brothers. Faizal isn’t as sharp as his dad neither does he have the flinch of his brother. Yet, comes out of his addictive self to wheel of the remains of a fallen empire. With raw guts and balls to pound hearts, Faizal’s rampage gives Ramadheep goosebumps. He wanes, and his vulnerable instincts merges with Sultan’s blood wrenching desires. Faizal finally dismantles Sultan as he loses the final string of life, his mother. Definite becomes Faizal’s aid as Ramadheep sows his seeds of poison in Durga and he becomes an inevitable end to Faizal’s inexplicable taunts. Though, not before Faizal bathes in Ramadheep’s blood soaked organs and Indian Cinema has rarely witnessed such degree of vengeance in human psychotics.

Oops, I forgot to mention that GoW has dollops of romance in this blood soaked vendetta. Sardar with his two damsels and later, Faizal’s marauding yet blatant lines packs pleasure in an uncanny fashion. Dialogues are ‘chew & chomp’ genre and Kashyap is fantastic here. Screenplay, one of the finest I have come across in a long long time and for a butcher plot, it’s perfect. GV Prakash’s background score is stupendous and Kashyap’s stamp is evident. Songs are straight from the UP- Jharkand backwaters and folk oozes with lyrics of a vanquished motherland.

Do I need to mention performances? I owe it for my sake. Manoj Bajpai as Sardar Khan was paradoxically brilliant. But the greatest surprise and find of GoW is Nawazuddin Siddiqui. Faizal Khan never looked to be a heir to the pervasive Sardar Khan but he becomes more. Wasseypur, for a while, lives with a God who looks meek and has bottles of glory squashed over the reins of his gunned family. Not sure if another ‘Bhiku Mathre’ has bestowed upon us, but for me, Nawazuddin Siddiqui has arrived in style. Tigmanshu Dhulia as Ramadheep Singh is courageously awesome and too much an ask for him to term this as a debut affair. But his performance hasn’t surprised me as his credentials overweigh his exploits as Ramadheep.

An out and out Anurag Kashyap epic, it’s a knock out punch to an era that’s basking in versatility. 20 years down the lane, and GoW will go down in history as a cult film. Bravo!

Kaka: The Retrospective

@ Anand

A story of a terminally ill messiah, Hrishi da’s masterpiece lingers high above all other RK’s blockbusters. Anand Sehgal is your next door juvenile guy who weaves you in to a web of fragrant waves. He brings laughter with a unique sense of magnetism and the people around him revel in his presence. RK mesmerises with a performance of a lifetime and Amitabh ‘Babumoshai’ Bachhan becomes an aid to an iconic character. Gulzar Saab writes magic for Anand and his lines become cinema’s most cherished ones. Mukesh’s songs and Hrishi da’s script gel like it never has. Rest, as they say, was just pure history.

@ Aradhana

RKs first brush with super stardom, Shakti Samanta’s greatest blockbuster became Khanna’s own. A story that SS ideally made for the beautiful Sharmila Tagore, Khanna made it his own with exploits of a charming air force officer wooing his girl with Kishore da’s eternal voice. ‘Mere Sapnon ki Rani’ and ‘Roop Tera Mastana’ are crazy numbers even today and SS saw the peak with the musical that catapulted Khanna to stardom where his career soared with the flagship of a superstar.

@ Bawarchi

Another Hrishikesh Mukherjee classic, Khanna relives God in the shape of a cook who literally does everything. Coming in to a house of splattered relationships, Ramu breathes fresh lease of life in to a bereaved family. People adore him, neighbours envy him and he spreads simplicity with a meaning of life that exists within ourselves but seldom cared to be explored. Khanna’s charm visible in every frame, he carries the film on his own and lives every frame as a portrait possessed of self. This remains a personal favourite.

@ Ittefaq

A thriller from Yash Chopra, this film is a classic that often misses out to be widely acknowledged in the sphere of few others. A genre that Khanna rarely ventured in to, this one stood out in terms of the plot and treatment. A sexy Nanda and a bewildered Khanna embroiled in a smart conspiracy, Ittefaq was a fresh breathe of air in an era that believed in candy floss romance. In an age of feminine innocence where casting women with grey shades was taboo, Nanda’s portrayal was benign class with touch of lustful cacophony. My unconventional RK pick.

Satyamev Jayate: Slogan or statement!?

If I wander across borders in search of peace, will I get quantum or suffice the unknown elements of this planet?

My school gave me the assets that defined the lanes of my life, but conspicuously, they were intangible. Guess, meant to be that way. Present talks language that preach the fetish collages of our celebrated life. Yet, always, seldom, we are plagued by great animosity and the revival of it’s legions in the hand of god. I am blessed and then, I am not.

Country, barriers, values, history, legacy, courtroom, justice and we. I loved combinations till the light of realisation struck that options are like kid’s play, they have moods and are seasonal. Autumn never faced summers, they didn’t because Jesus never said, I don’t sink. East, west, north or south, we remain divided as songs of togetherness lashes our ears at every dawn. Yet, our roots inspire to remain grounded. Is it what we survive for to end up on a side that fights and vents futility?

Every corner of rose petals shed stories of blood, heaven begets gory palettes and we, despite famed coins, are pretentious about ‘aal izz well’ mantra. Is it helping us, you or again us, to poke deluge?

Satyamev Jayate!

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.