in the name of

why i can't dump the idiot box though i almost never use it

2011-09-15T13:40:00.004+05:30

Watching TV can be so therapeutic. I'm talking channel-surfing, post 11 pm. (And no rabid news channels). That fake feeling of vegetating. Of life having no purpose other than pushing the button. Again. Ah!

I indulged in this nothing activity last night after not only what seemed like aeons, but were actual aeons (when I couldn't recognise even one name off the guide list, I knew I was in trouble. Except for Na Aana Is Des Laado, of course). So, the sheer number of choices had me confused, at first, until I realised (remembered, more like) what it's about - SURF TILL EYELIDS DROOP. And hence it was that I saw a bit of I Am Alive on Animal Planet (when the guy's thighs had split in half, and one of his eyes seemed to be popping out, I switched); some Vicki chick sing Florence + the Machine's Dog Days Are Over on The Voice (there's a Team Cee-Lo?! What fun!), fantastically; a bit of some lame movie called Apartment, where there was an entire song-and-dance sequence between Rohit Roy and Tanushree Dutta (I know), about 'Moving In Together', which mostly had her shooing him off, anytime he attempted to inch close to her, in almost old Hindi movie fashion (He probably didn't pay up his share of the EMI on the 'Apartment', am thinking, but I didn't get that far); Zoom's Top 10 Hot List of 'best onscreen kisses', which might've been not-so-bad if they'd done like, maybe top three? No? So, I ended up watching most of some faltu timepass show called Rules of Engagement? Real crappy, but I found myself laughing at the whatever jokes by the end of it. 'Sink-humpers' sticks in the mind. That was kind of funny, at least more so than what followed. The Big Bang Theory. It's when I gave up ... But not on television.

things i love right now

2011-05-11T17:22:00.003+05:30

Adele on the radio. Haven't heard a voice like hers since, what, Janis Joplin?

Amaltas on the roads. Ooh, perfect summer yellow!

Steven Tyler's autobiography. Aptly titled.

it sure killed me (this lady)

2011-02-18T15:15:00.002+05:30

THE LADYKILLER
Cee Lo Green

Turns out Cee-Lo Green is the new James Bond. Smooth, suave, one of his kind. Except he knows it’s all a joke, and yet chooses to dive off the deep end. So, actually, that makes him better than James Bond. Plus, he’s got that build - the coupling of a Hummer and a mini-bar - which could give Daniel Craig a run for his money, in its own special way.

But then Cee Lo Green (real name: Thomas DeCarlo Callaway - doesn’t it make him sound like a Dickens hero?) is also the new Michael Jackson. He’s got that streak of genius, both eccentric and independent, and trendsetting. Except his production skills are more enhanced; he knows it’s a smart move to do an album that harks back to forgotten eras for a contemporary audience, and he collaborates with several smart asses. Both displayed prominently on The Lady Killer. A will.i.am version 2.0 of sorts; so, maybe, that makes him better than MJ too then. (No, I did not just say that!).

The album reels you in, hook, line and sinker, bang with The Lady Killer Theme Intro, so deliciously noir, bringing you up close and personal with the ladykiller, a character who parties hard and then ruminates on the drama of life and love, harder. ‘What do I do for a living? I do what I want’, he informs you, and a couple of seconds later, shimmies it up with Bright Lights Bigger City, an ode to weekends across the world (‘Fridays are good, but there’s something about Saturday nights…’), but especially to the drool-worthy photogenic after-hours of NYC. This track simply makes you want to hit the town with Cee Lo Green. Period. The mood shifts instantly with Fuck You!, and what more can you say about this phenomenal track, which melts down the ultimate break-up you never ever get over, down to its basics, all on a catchy-as-hell tune (‘I guess she’s an X-Box and I’m more an Atari’ is my favourite line off this one). And we’re still only warming up. Cee Lo thickens the atmosphere, fleshing out the plotline, song after song, delivering with those super-talented vocal chords each time, which can do nuance and soar above mundane detail, any given day. No One’s Gonna Love You (a Band of Horses cover) rethinks the ballad magnetically, and Bodies has you stepping away from the sound-system just a wee bit {you know how he gets that voice as creepy as creepy can be? Remember Run (I’m a Natural Disaster)}? ‘My love is old fashioned but it still works the way it is’, he claims on Old Fashioned, and though The Lady Killer is definitive of contemporary, Cee Lo stays pure, in an almost old-fashioned sense (since there’s no shred of autotune on any of this). Fool for You, featuring Phillip Bailey, is brilliant brilliant brilliant, the song I find myself returning to ad infinitum (besides Fuck You!), and Please, featuring Selah Sue, plays out the drama of a killer on the prowl, in slow-mo. I predict (urge?) Love Gun (featuring the sexy croon of Lauren Bennett - part Björk, part Portishead, part, well, Sheryl Crow) as the new James Bond movie theme, incidentally. Daniel Craig, practice that pout well, ‘cuz here comes Cee Lo!

It's Not Like I Love The Stones

2011-01-04T18:13:00.005+05:30

Go(ld)phish popped up with a thought bubble of a question the other day. 'Best band of all-time?' closely following it up, in her own special way, with 'Don't think. just say it'. 'The Rolling Stones' urged itself out of my mouth. Most strangely, I thought, one nanosecond later. 'Cuz that's not true, not to my knowledge, no. I don't even consider myself a fan. At all. I do think, yes, that Happy, Pass the Wine, Sympathy for the Devil, Paint it Black are special. Among others. But I think that declaration was a reaction to an eager beaver who was practically jumping at Go(ld)phish, with those obvious two words - 'The Beatles. The Beatles. The Beatles!' You know how you feel like countering The Beatles enthusiasm with some Stones cred. Just. Probably because I do think The Beatles are overrated; I mean, I LOVE, Getting Better, I Want You, Something, She Said, hell, even Come Together, but that universal mass appeal that their music has, guarantees them way too much attention than they deserve, I feel. Purely rationally speaking, of course.
But then, where's the room for reason, in this debate?
The question and its intended immediacy in response is meant to negate reason. Because music that echoes with you, just like books you love, is way too personal, way too abstract and much too beautiful for anything as mundane as reason to find a place in it. Reason tells me that my one word response to 'Best solo artist of all time?' {Goldphish was on a roll that evening} - Madonna - isn't correct. Like, factually. Because god knows there 's Prince and man, there was a Michael Jackson. But I shall claim, for myself, Madonna. And I'd like to amend my answer to the first question (mind rattling with The Doors and Radiohead notwithstanding) with - Pink Floyd. Bring it on!

delhi conundrum aka blast from the past question

2010-12-17T18:59:00.002+05:30

Why was (ok, is) The Mezz, that dingy-in-a-good-way rock-centric pub called that, when it was atop a flight of stairs, and not in the mezzanine? Irony?

word of the day: quietude

2010-08-12T16:26:00.002+05:30

One of those wonderfully rare words the otherwise sparse/inadequate English language can lay claims to. An apt coupling of quiet and solitude. What we all ache for, some days, and wish away, on others.

'that's sick, even for you' : julia roberts fans, stay away!

2009-08-02T19:57:00.007+05:30

Ever wondered how that jawline of Julia Roberts resembles the grin of a Great White Shark (except it's not grinning, the latter, it's preparing to well, disembowel, or something)? But I swear when she looks into the camera and/or co-actor etc, and you know it's that moment when she's gonna flash that world-famous Julia Roberts smile-for-lack-of-better-word * (and with her in a movie, any movie, you can always sense that moment; if you're like me, you dread it even), some of those great Nat Geo documentaries flash through my mind instantly, and I find myself stepping back a few feet from the screen. I mean, it's just the basic instinct of preservation, really.

PS: Was watching Duplicity the other day when this thought articulated itself in my brain. For decades now, I've been wondering why that up-close menace of a facial expression (and it's almost always in close-up) gives me involuntary jitters. On another note, though, it's a brilliant film; an extremely smart, tricky travelogue (even) through NY, Rome, Miami, Dubai (umm, and Cleveland), with sexy Spy vs Spy repartee, keeps you totally hooked. And it's got Clive Owen. A must-watch (even if you agree with moot point of this post).

* Cuz when your jaw expands beyond normal human measurements, it's not a smile. One has to come up with a better word. Invent it.

inked index

2009-05-07T21:45:00.002+05:30

I remember it as exciting. A thrilling day, full of promise and anticipation and something momentous, I wasn't sure what. I remember asking Maa what it meant. And finding the ink blot, not pretty. ‘An ugly blob of blue’, I would’ve said if I knew the words.
But then she showed me the map of India in it, Maa. At first, I couldn’t see it, but there it was, on her left index finger. Bengal and Gujarat and Kanyakumari, the tips and Kashmir.
Now I know it wasn’t actually there. But I saw it. It was like a bedtime story again, with all of them alive - Captain Hook and Arjuna, the fox in the Jataka tales, and the Brahmin in Hitopadesha. I thought she had the country almost in her palm. Balanced on a finger, like Krishna’s sudarshan chakra, in all those Amar Chitra Kathas she made so real for me.
“The power to decide who shall run the country is with me”, Maa smiled at me, when we came back home after standing in a queue for about an hour in the sun and pressing a blue button next to a funny picture at the end of it all, “and with everyone else who’s voting today.”
I remember I couldn’t wait to turn 18.

G World

2009-04-03T11:11:00.003+05:30

5 years since the world went G. Who'd have thunk?

It's 'cuz of this that blogging, IM-ing, chatting, video-chatting, our constantly online planet, exists and thrives. And it's 'cuz of this that no one can remember their yahoo or (god almighty) hotmail passwords anymore. Gawd, can't even remember we were even ever on it?! (Were we? In this lifetime? Seriously?). And suddenly 'ping' is a verb.

Happy 5, Gmail! (Please always stay free!)

iShuffle

2009-02-12T14:02:00.002+05:30

It's like radio, with the jockeys ignored, and the commercial breaks DELETED. The best station, hence!
The magic of radio, that charm of not knowing what track comes up next. So, current fave Dilli 6 (yeh sheher nahi mehfil hai!) can be followed up with Radiohead contemplating suicide, or Prince planning another successful seduction, or Dave Matthews going for another unsuccessful one, or Gnarls Barkley crafting loops around a syncopated heartbeat, or Jagjit Singh recreating Hazaaron Khwaishein, making you feel every word in Ghalib's amazingly-articulated pain, or the Black Eyed Peas pushing you to Pump It, or even Travolta and Jackson discussing the still-funny Royale with Cheese.
iShuffling forever!

karaoke your lungs out!

2009-01-02T13:05:00.003+05:30

Do not underestimate the power of the sing-along ever.
Nothing works well enough for heartache and nothing ups the upbeat tempo, more than the karaoke.

The power of knowing every word and throwing it out there.
Of being a ROCKSTAR.

Tracks best experimented with, in my book:

Merdith Brook's Bitch. Just when you think you got me figured out, the season's already changing.

Sheryl Crow's All I Wanna Do. Billy likes to peel the labels off bottles of Bud.

No Doubt's Don't Speak. I know you're good, I know you're good, I know you're real good.

Fiona Apple (seriously). And if you wanna make sense, wotcha lookin at me for? I'm no good at Math.

Aerosmith's Amazing and Cryin'. We're partners in crime, you got that certain something.

Michael Jackson's Bille Jean. She looked more like a beauty queen from a movie scene.

marketing

2008-11-10T15:43:00.001+05:30

Since when did going to the market start meaning the malls?
Was it around the same time that Almost Famous, that magical thunderbolt of a film you happened to see on Star Movies by accident (and not by planning DVD night based on the Salon list we shop at Palika Bazar for) became the name for a trite show on television?
'Cuz I missed when that happened too.

4 am haiku

2008-09-02T10:56:00.000+05:30

'Tis 4 am/And sleep's not all I'm missing.

wanted: harder candy

2008-05-27T15:02:00.006+05:30

So, was singing Like a Virgin at age eight or thereabouts. Complete with the oohs and aahs and ows. Much to the consternation of my folks, of course. But they didn't know what I already did. I had/have a connection with M. And so it is that I anticipate, listen, buy, dance to, appreciate (critically, ahem!) all of Madonna's albums. And so it is that I went through it all with her latest, Hard Candy too. 'Cept I just didn't feel the love this time. Even loyal me.

And to cope with adjusting to this brutally altered status quo (where Madonna can err and bring out an entire bad album), I did my recap:

Ray of Light (1998) The streak and bright spark of living and loving the world. Trippy title track, her post-Lourdes epiphanies (Drowned World/Substitute for Love), and an urging to convert (Frozen) in a parched landscape of your head. The one she's trying to talk to - 'Youonly see what your eyes want to see/How can life be what you want it to be?'.

The Immaculate Collection (1990). Okay so it's not really an 'album' album. But we all bought (into) it, right? These were the days when we didn't care for (or indeed knew about) that concept - Greatest Hits Compilations. We just found them all and loved them all in one place.Cherish, Like a Virgin, Borderline, Lucky Star, Material Girl, Crazy for You, Into the Groove, Live to Tell, Papa Don't Preach, Open Your Heart, Like a Prayer, La Isla Bonita, Express Yourself, Vogue, Justify my Love, Rescue Me. Neat. And for the taking.

Confessions on a Dancefloor (2005). All hail Stuart Price! Or the po-mo Thin White Duke (responsible for the sound). Once it was obvious that all she cared for now is to make people move and only in one way. This one's all volume, discoballs, groove, D.A.N.C.E.

Erotica (1992) Most favoured, I confess. Just the range of this takes my breath away. Not one track out of place, this is a perfect, genuine Madonna album. Why's it so Hard, In this Life, Secret Garden and gang take you through it all. Getting even (Bye Bye Baby), cunnilingus (Where Life Begins), feeling lust in your veins that's almost spiritual (Deeper and Deeper), loneliness (Rain) and infidelities (Bad Girl). Besides a cover (Fever), a brilliant gabfest (Words), Waiting, Thief of Hearts and the one she still performs (Erotica). Beautifully lyrical, with compositions (and awesome videos) to match, this one's in its own league. A Madonna album that gives the rest of them serious competition.

American Life (2003) By this time, things had started getting dangerously Madonna-esque. Taking on the unrenounced possessions (nannies, agents, bodyguards, trainers, private jets, lawyers) in a critical appreciation album, self-consciously cerebal. But the gimmicksworked, no matter what most people said, since tracklist included Hollywood, Die Another Day, Nobody Knows Me, and a stance that might've been politically weak, but then, that was the only weak thing about it. Also, this gave us Stuart Price in an underrated X-Static Process.

Bedtime Stories (1994) The lash-out feminism after she was lashed out upon, post-Erotica. 'Oops, I didn't know we couldn't talk about sex', 'Would it sound better if I was a man, would you like me better if I was?', and such conundrums in Human Nature (with THAT video!), sexysexy Secret, before you even understood 'Until I learnt to love myself, I was never ever loving anybody else'. Or maybe YOU did. And of course, Take a Bow, for those who thought she's always about the sex.

Music (2000) Uff! Title track to celebrate the diva's roots moved bourgoisie, rebel and everything in between. Plus, there was Amazing, the amazing cowboy fetish-ised Don't Tell Me, the impressively, almost depressingly written What it Feels Like for a Girl (with Guy Ritchie making that fabulous video outta it), Gone, Impressive Instant, Runaway Lover.

SOS: Thriller

2008-03-13T19:51:00.003+05:30

The undead grooving in a cemetery. Chills down spine like hell, but what cool moves!

Pure genius, the video of Thriller, which came out back when it came out. I still remember watching it accidentally (no, really), because the newest, freshest VCR tape (ah! VCR!) just happened to be lying around in my neighbour's house. Unclaimed! And of course, I popped it in! (of course). I cannot, for the life of me, remember this (coolio-in-retrospect) neighbour, though I do remember my first time watching it! I pop it in. And everything was fine, there was good ol' MJ whose moonwalk I was so sure I'd cracked by then (definitely more than my brother, who was equally sure he'd cracked it too), and MJ's talking to this girl who was all 'Oh, Michael. This and that'. There was a ring presentation ceremony somewhere and all that talk about 'me being different' with the girl giving us more of 'Oh, Michael. This and that.' And then.

The full moon. And MJ dropping to his knees, helpless. And looking up. Transformed. Creepy, yellow, bulging eyes. And fangs. 'Go away', he screams, and then becomes a werewolf. (As the girl, who I'd forgotten by this point, but who's shrieking constantly in the background is stupid enough to keep watching. And
screaming).

shitshitshit. I still remember thinking. also mummymummywhere'smummy.

Feeling rivetted and so bloody scared. Unable to find the remote control. Unable to walk out!

Not knowing then it was history I was about to watch unfold, on the screen. Or knowing it, in a way.

Absolutely. Thrilled.

I'm Not There...

2007-11-24T17:00:00.000+05:30

Never thought he would be. There. In the first place. Really. Bob Dylan.

The new movie by Todd Haynes, I'm Not There, is brilliantly titled. A movie on Bob Dylan's life and music, based on truths, real, imagined, exaggerated. Borrowing from the poet-troubadour's words, penned to the cheery-lament tone of his mouth organ. A movie made with with the man's blessings, himself. Counts for something!

It made me turn turn to Zimmerman and his
music after many, many years. A turn back of sorts. After detesting the pretensions and the hypocrisy and the POSE of Bob Dylan for so long. In this volteface, I heard it all nonstop and it's replaced the soundtrack of life for now. Just for the music, the words, the POETRY ('cuz who else could write 'For let us not talk falsely now/The hour is getting late'), and that Cate Blanchett seriously seems like a revelation to watch, CANNOT wait for it.

reader's block

2007-09-11T20:36:00.000+05:30

It's true, it's for real. If you've read something so amazing, you get readers' block. Cannot get yourself to read anything else. I'm talking the kinda book you're actually sad to finish, 'cuz you know it'll never be the same again, no. It's over, you've read it. Now you can only re-read it.

Gerard Woodward's A Curious Earth is one such phenomenon of a book. Causing serious readers'
block. When I finished it, I couldn't even get myself to consider my options, glance at the
potentials that surround me, let alone make that decision on actually reading something.
'What could be the next best thing?', I asked myself. 'Nothing, obviously', my mind reasoned back.

It's all about Aldous and the hours. His hours. Living on a borrowed Emily Dickinson phrase, 'a
curious earth'. An old man, a one-time art teacher, whose wife has recently passed away, the big deal in Aldous' day is the watching over of potato tubers that have taken over his cupboard, which happens to be in his line of vision. He observes their growth, from moment to moment, following it day by day, like the latest crime thriller. He spends his time thus, feels spent, and above all, drinks as if there's no tomorrow. But of course, tomorrow always comes. His only visitor is his daughter, who attempts to save him, by admonishing and indulging, failing to understand, in a peculiar way that only a daughter can fuly understand and appreciate. And though things begin to 'happen' as such only after Aldous takes a fall (literally) and has his blood changed (again, literally), the novel has a pace that is its own, and I can't call it langorous and I won't call it upbeat. There's a trip to Ostend, there's more of the children, problems with
children, women, many walks and meals across London, flirting and dates even, alongwith talk
of Rembrandt, false teeth and several trivial pursuits. And through it all, Gerard Woodward
controls perfectly, the overtones and subtleties of a life lived, being lived. Giving the
reader an unforgettable sense of life's complexities, ironies, heartbreaks and pleasures, as
he/she reads on, distanced and mesmerised. Somehow never alienated.
Nothing I can say will say it all. Read it to experience the readers' block.

the 'diss' in the dissident

2007-07-20T12:25:00.000+05:30

When words have enveloped you and yet stayed non-committal, you tend to remember what you were reading. Nell Freudenberger's Lucky Girls, a short story I stumbled across, a coupla years ago, about a girl in a situation (well, read it!), was everything you hope, wish (and in hindsight, pray) for a short story to be. You could see the house, hear the characters, listen in on the protagonist's thought process, and be all 'negative capability' like with the female narrative (Screw you, feminists, I'm calling it that! And why is a woman an actor, while we're on the subject?!). There was guilt in Lucky Girls, melancholy, fleeting happiness, and other familiar twists and head-on collisions. And all of this happened within those many pages that maketh a comfortable short story... And so it goes. Or rather, went. That I made the proverbial beeline for the Nell novel, The Dissident, in the Ed Room here, that's always bursting with books. (Believe me, sometimes, that ain't a good thing). I couldn't wait to plunge into good fiction (know that craving?), a debut by someone who had done all that (see above). And tempted fate with a title like Lucky Girls. And retrospect (precious, bites you in the ass later, retrospect) tells me I'd tempted fate myself with the expectations.The only diss in the dissident is disappointing. It has (had) such potential in premise, such anticipation in storyline, so much promise in just the landscape, that it kind of failed to take off. A malfunction that did not say, 'All systems go'. But Nell thought she could push it still.What she didn't manage, though, is to pull it off.PS: More disappointment with music follows soon. Waddya do when music and books diss ya?! Huh? Kill me. I mean, tell me...

Am not even a fan

2007-06-09T13:20:00.000+05:30

... But he has that MJ potential. And is smart enough to get his cool collaborations right. Is better lookin' also. And so, let's 'age gracefully' here.
Not sounding death knells yet, but an entire generation will grow up thinking Justin Timberlake is it. He's Michael Jackson. I mean, they probably won't SAY that. They'll call him Justin, or Justin Timberlake, or JT, or whatever else, but you know what I mean.
He tries hard to sound like MJ, and even pulls it off in places
(What Goes Around on Future Sex/Love Sounds, is freakish!). Now, he can't really moonwalk and so comes up with moves that are at best, decently close. And so, he's gonna pull it off. Most definitely probably.

Madonna, now THAT'S another story. Since she pretty much INVENTED reinvention...

WOR*DS

2007-05-25T15:50:00.000+05:30

Words are everything, some would say.
Ask an aspiring writer, a novelist, doing the rounds of publishers. Words are everything. Difficult to come. Almost impossible to grasp, sometimes. And freely flowing, some other blessed times. when there's divine intervention.

Words are nothing, some would say. Potentially meaningless. Easy speak. Still more cloaks and masks to face the world, your friends, your lovers. easy cop-outs, as and when needed. Convenient access into someone's mind, someone's heart, an intrusion into a sacred space. As if they could ever mean anything. Sorry. Thank you. Fuck me. Fuck you. Isn't that nice?

Words aren't all that important, some tell me. They're on the fence, the borderline, and any other mother-of-all proverbs I'm missing. They could be one thing, and they could seem something else, words. Benign. Unimportant. They could stand arrested in translation, unable to shape-shift and transform into another language, so obivously inferior. Hazaaron khwaishein aisi. And leave it at that.

Just for how they sound, make you roll your tongue, and yank something right outta the inner recesses of your mind, I borrow them. And am grateful for their existence. Even have favourites.
Under the I's, I find:
Intrepid
Intimate
Ironic

These just a few off the list, words. Don't they simply MEAN what they SAY?

INXS: Needed in XL

2007-05-08T18:33:00.000+05:30

The music shimmers and sparkles!

There are days when I need it shooting through my veins, INXS. They need to
invent something when you can take them intravenously, some days. When classic radio only gives you more of the Bee Gees and such tragedies, when you're craving for that spark and sizzle of Hutchence and co. It's not just the eye candy that comes to mind (I mean, ya it never hurts to have a frontman oozing sex appeal, adds to the LSD*).

It's the sheer power and pull, charisma of the high-voltage INXS music, like a mammoth disco ball, bright and sparkling silver,
sheer, sheen, Farris-like. Something that the post-2000 era cannot recreate. Especially not with a name like Fortune! So no afterglow for me, please.

If there's a dull ache somewhere, in the had, in the body, take INXS. And don't call me in the
morning. Seriously.

*Lead Singer Disorder - attributed to Steven Tyler, Mojo interview, May 2007

bheja fry: the sunday omelette you need

2007-04-23T17:47:00.000+05:30

Ain't got muchos to say, 'cept he rocks, Vinay Pathak. To say it again, he ROCKS! Just when you finished watching (and wished for more of him in) Khosla ka Ghosla, he pops up again. As Bharat Bhushan. The non-stop, unstoppable Hindi movie singer from hell. "Madan Mohan se AR Rahman tak". Who intends to take you through that trip, relying solely on the power of his vocal chords, which is at best, average, and at worst, don't ask (but nails-scratching-on-blackboard-gyrating comes close).

Vinay's BIGGEST strength is that he's inimitable. Right from the way he combs back his hair, to how he walks into the palatial house of the Thadanis, knowing it's not generally the ground beneath his feet that he treads, to the 'discreet' look he gives all and sundry while locking his briefcase, to just the way he says, keeps saying, 'It's ringing'.

Well-directed in the sense of how tight and bang-on it is, you can tell that Sagar Ballary, debut filmmaker, made the film he wanted to make. And more importantly, as my friend punky pjs pointed out, knew exactly what he wanted to make. Such that he did not get it wrong. 'cept for those few goof-ups when the 'continuity person' probably took the day off. Or summin.

Just to add, Ranvir Shorey's Asif Merchant ('khaata yahaan ki, gaata wahaan ki') is brilliant.

Also someone we couldn't get enough of in Khosla ka Ghosla, this time, he manages to look like something entirely unlike but not quite almost Ranvir. Or Bunty. Sparking off, in perfect chemistry, with Vinay. Put them together in a room, I say, and watch the fun.

Rajat Kapoor as Ranjeet Thadani ('no 1 harami') is not at his best. There's a nagging feeling that he's just saying his lines, and not doing much else with the character.

Who'd I miss? Oh right, Sarika and Milind Soman. But, then, you're meant to miss them. Got nothing to say about former. As for the latter, unless someone out there wants a quick crash course in how to make an incredibly sexy, goodlooking man look like shit, he's not interesting.

Running at a little over 90 minutes, Bheja Fry is the perfect Sunday recipe. When the week's actual bheja fry is behind you, and surely more to come, come Monday, is still a few precious hours away. Savour it until then. Maybe even 're-dial'...

pirates of the caribbean, down under

2007-04-10T21:24:00.000+05:30

Yes, yes, you don't want them to win, but then you know they will. It's that same old killer of a mind-over-heart situation.

They might be arrogant assholes (Ponting: "The team is more or less on auto pilot...", "The other guys have to do something extraordinary to beat us"), but then there's reason for the arrogance.

Good reason. Big, large, steady reasons like Hayden, Gilchrist, McGrath, and the new guy Hussey.

It's a quintessentially 'sigh' situation when the team you wanted to root for, hoped for (atleast till the goddamn Super 8!), gets out all too soon. And it all turns ugly here at home, with a different kind of sledging match.

Meanwhile, all action tells us that Ricky and his boys are the real pirates of the caribbean. Admit it. The sooner you do, the easier the pain will be later, mate! Even if you won't be ordering a round of Foster's to celebrate...

Care for Alanis' humps?

2007-04-04T17:11:00.000+05:30

First, watch- Alanis spoof

Now, read -

It's a bit hard to get your thoughts together on this one.

We've seen the lady, then a girl, swallowing much-needed jagged little pills and celebrating her former infatuation junkie state of affairs. She's done the Unplugged by now. She's a pro at the angst now, man!Hell, she gave us Uninvited and without her, there would be no Hand in my Pocket. No Head over Feet. You Learn. So Pure. Fuck, no Unsent. And I'm still missing some. For instance, how about 'Like any uncharted territory, I must seem greatly intriguing'. Place this next to 'Spending all your money, honey'. D-uh!

And so, the question is why? Why does Alanis wanna do this? Need to do this? Have to do this? Sorry, has already done it? Letting her hair down at our expense?!
Or, and perhaps this is the more important question: Why, oh why, does Fergie have this effect on established, talented female pop stars? Musicians?(First Gwen, now Alanis. Hope Fiona's not gonna bite the bait. Imagine an angry spoof of Fergielicious. Ouch!)

Taking the piss out of things might be a trip for you, Alanis, but us lesser mortals who like to put everything in neat, little boxes (how else do u keep it tidy?!), get all messed up! Damn!

Thank the stars for Eminem!!

PS: Anyone think the video's funny? Shoot me!

Calling Innarritu: This, the Real Babel - 102.6

2007-03-30T21:03:00.000+05:30

So then, if you KNOW it's a great song. I mean, if you already are fortunate enough to possess that priceless piece of information, 'that treasure trove of musical know-how', WHY (in the name of whoever/whatever you swear by), WHY would you ruin that brilliant track, that 'exquisite display of talent' by puncturing it every little now and then, breather of a nanosecond, to inform us, well just that.

'Notice the lilt of her voice' (seriously? lilt?!)

'Don't miss the great god of guitars there in that solo' (well, moron, you just MADE me miss it by talking RIGHT then, dincha!!)

'Ah! I just LOVE this song. Makes me think of nasty things, if you know what I mean'. You think he'll stop there, but then, you know, what if you DON'T know what he means? Not to worry, he'll tell you. In so many words... 'If you don't know what i mean blah blah in my heydays blah blah there was this girl blah blah...dude.... (manic laughter)'. All that history and geography while your ears strain, against the babel, to, maybe catch the last bit of the music.

Some more recent precious on-air moments:

Lose Control,Rang de Basanti OST, starts playing. RJ: 'Jaise woh sab bolte hai na, Lose Control, mujhe bahut achcha lagta hai'. Ok, not so painful. But then, sure enough, like the great white shark's fin portends impending, immediate doom, the RJ's voice returns each time, doing what Rahman had never intended, even in his worst Jaws nightmare. RJ in tandem with the singers holler out 'Lose control'. Each bloody time.

Beautiful Day, U2, starts playing. RJ: 'It really is a beautiful day. Rise and shine, people. Look outside your window. And for those of you driving to work, look on the bright side. Ha ha. I have always been an optimistic sort of person. Blah blah'. And you bid Bono a silent farewell, amidst tears of sorrow and joy, arising out of the inane situation you've just been subjected to, and that special brand of 102.6 FM irony you've been made a victim of. Yet again.

Love and Marriage, Frank Sinatra, starts playing. RJ: 'Well, I'm sorry, men. I have to play this track by ol' blue eyes. Do you know who that is? Are u gonna call me ancient now? Blah blah...'

Why do I tune in? Only to tune out...

PS: I swear, that the words in single quotes above ('') are actual words spoken by the RJs of 102.6 FM. God bless their Wren & Martin well-versed souls, but why can't they all just fade out? That way, they'll have something in common with the good, classic music they play in the background?!

mira nair's namesake: whither gravity, whither levity?

2007-03-23T18:44:00.000+05:30

It's The Namesake only in namesake.

Almost everything about it takes you further away from the book, else. In theory, it's all there. In spirit, sigh, not! If you've loved the book, like me, you'll sigh a lot while watching it. Actually, you'll alternate between that and feeling angry. Angry at seeing one of your favourite books being devastated cinematically. With almost every frame. Every look that Kal Penn can manage, muster up, trying hard to look and be an 'actor', when he'd rather be Kumar to Harold, anyday. (It's his stupid half-open mouth that irks throughout, and gives him away. Destroying the image of Gogol in the book-lovers' minds, forever).

The book is essentially about the journey that Gogol Ganguli, the protagonist, makes, in his life, with his name. How his moment in life, his zen, his wherewithal with the world itself, changes colours, depending on how Gogol/Nikhil feels about Gogol.

It is, first and foremost, about HIS relationship with HIS 'pet name' (daknam in Bengali). Across his equations, with his parents, his sister, women he meets, one he even marries.
The book makes you feel (and now that I'm re-reading it, even more so), the gravity, the levity of it all. Gogol's angst at being named after an almost-forgotten Russian writer, whose insipid life only embarasses him in his teens (when just about everthing about you IS embarassment-prone, anyway). His bittersweet emotions when his father Ashoke revals to him the real reasons for his choice of pet name. The re-aligning of his feelings yet again.
It's about days when he confidently says 'Nikhil' and responds to 'Nick', in the American way of shortening everything. And days when he heatedly argues with Moushumi about making 'Gogol' public, the stuff of wine-fuelled arty drawing room conversation. Which was never meant to be part of his name's destiny.

It's about issues of living as a second generation immigrant in a country that's your home, being a first generation immigrant, in a nation that can never be home. It's all narrated so beautifully in Jhumpa Lahiri's novel, via Ashoke and Ashima's (his mother's) story, who make the journey from Calcutta to Cambridge, Massacuttets. There's an all-too subtle weaving of stories, episodes and incidents, deja vu, running its threads through Gogol's. Which is so utterly lost in the filmic adaptation. Instead, we have exaggeration, bloated and unnecessary, making disparities, inner conflicts, complex emotions, India v/s West differences, too jarring and in your face. Staring at you, hitting and hurting your sense and sensibilities. Like Max's black tank top, standing out, amidst the Bengalis, in funeral whites. An aberration.

Just like everything else in the movie.

hope floats in trinidad

2007-03-20T17:58:00.000+05:30

Ya, all we knew so far was that there is a triangle which 'ships disappear into', a black hole that swallows you up. Very HG Wells meets Douglas Adams. After last night, we ALSO know that they play cricket. (And in case you care, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bermuda)

What else makes us wiser today? Oh ya, that we've beaten them whole. Whole and whole-heartedly. For those of us reeling from the shani graha of India v/s Bangladesh ('Of COURSE, we'll win it!', you said, admit it. Ignoring that little voice in the head which had flashes of 'Who beat Pakistan last World Cup, again?!'), for those of us who muttered 'I'm SO over cricket', after shaking heads in disillusionment (only to turn on the television AGAIN last night, 'cuz hope, the bastard child that lives and breathes healthily in the brains of die-hard fans, part of our much-bitten-much-shy mental armoury), India v/s Bermuda (and WHAT a v/s) was SO it!

It makes you wanna wanna...

Personally thank the fairy godmother who visited Sehwag's dreams the night before, lifting the curse off (hopefully, forever?). So, thankyou, Sehwaag ki maa. You just might have restored the faith.

Send Yuvraj flowers, the ray of hope during the Bangladesh disaster, even. When you just wanted to pat his head and say, 'I know your pain, bhai'. Last night, not just the knock (which was grrreat), but just his overall I-shall-play-like-it's-the-World-Cup-without-pretensions.

Chat up Munaf Patel. No, really. His all no-nonsense-spot-on bowling has something of the overawing about it. Makes you wonder what his favourite joke is?!

Fire Ajit Agarkar. Or, replace him with the spunky Sreesanth for a while. Not asking for much, just until the World Cup. No more chances, Dravid. Nahi, nahi...

Give Anil Kumble the ultimate 'we are not worthy' bow. It's like my wise friend said, words that ring true, amidst the convoluted logic of such wise things people tend to say, unknowingly, 'if you've never played kumble, you CANNOT play him'.

Look forward to Friday, with a distracted vengeance. And i'm no less superstitious than you, so shut up NOW!

world cup breaks: we can't escape them

2007-03-16T20:45:00.000+05:30

Maybe we should take drinks breaks when the match gets interrupted by these commercials, but then, you might just miss that VERY ball which got him out. Or that VERY swing which gained the crucial boundary. Also, 'ads nahi hote toh match nahi hota, bachchu', I'm told. And so, sigh!
Here's what I think on those in-between-overs words from the sponsors. There's, like everything else in life, the good, the bad, and the downright ugly.

Sprite: So, okay, the guy's funny looking. But clear NAHI hai.

Candyman: Such a cool kid. Super body language. This one goes out to ALL the irritating uncles driving on the road. And everyone in general steering around, reversing like it's their baap ki sadak.

Nike: The ONLY one taking the game to heart. The infectious mood, the actors, the NEED for cricket and the underlying, much-anticipated thrill of the game breaking through the banality of our lives, with one flick of the wrist, one throw of the ball. Wishing even the mundane traffic jams away. Just don't get the music, though, and don't get the need for Sreesanth suddenly popping up?! (Nothing against Sreesanth, per se. Love his breakdancing!)

Pepsi: Just TOO Pepsi, what else to say? World Cup ko-la is not the most amazing pun intended in the history of intended puns or indeed, commercials.

Coca Cola: Someone said it works along the lines of Agatha Christie's Murder on the Orient Express. And so, now I see it through those detective fiction lovin' eyes. But, does everybody? Aamir Khan's begun to annoy me, somehow, anyway.

Lay's chips: The worst ever. What the hell is 'main food'?! Who says 'main food' on television? Give us this day a catchy line...

Videocon: Gender stereotypes are dead. Long live gender stereotypes. The actors are what make the difference here. The she threatening to leave, the he not listening, cuz the game's too absorbing, is probably too cliched, but the onscreen couple makes it work. Goes to
show how hackneyed ideas can get that fresh breath of life, even.

Thums Up: If you want the thunder, Akshay Kumar's your man, these guys will have you believe. And man, you gotta see it to believe it. Taut moves (MI-III action guy directs our version of Ethan Hawke), lean body, and a cool liner, Bond-style: 'Aakhri Thums Up, woh kya hoti hai?', make this one exactly what an advertisement advertising a product should be.