Review: Sharat Katariya’s Dum Laga Ke Haisha

There’s a lot to be said for the nineties, and Kumar Sanu doesn’t make the list.

Not only is it hard to look past the impossibly nasal voice, he’s also a singer who flourished at a time when Hindi film music was actively choking the Hindi film, forcing formulaic ditties into movies made for the sake of holding them. Looking back from here, he had a few good ballads, but that’s it.

And yet, twenty years ago, the very idea of  a young man — in this case an an audio-cassette retailer — falling in love with a singer’s voice automatically meant it could only possibly be for Sanu, who unquestionably ruled many a male heart.

Our Haridwari audio-cassette shopkeeper is named Prem, a fact that must indubitably have thrilled him to bits when Hum Aapke Hain Koun? released. We meet Prem a year after that in 1995, a barely-educated good-for-nothing who is being shovelled into a financially convenient marriage. His bride, Sandhya, is a sharp and well-educated girl with ambitions of being a teacher. She’s fat, he’s foul-tempered, and they have nothing at all in common…

And so it goes, a truly simple story. So simple, in fact, that Dum Laga Ke Haisha never gives you a single moment of unpredictability. It’s a two-hour film, and yet drags its feet enough to feel long and stretched. There are superb actors performing a sweet script, but after a while all you have is flavour. And we’ve tasted it before.

Or something like it, anyway. The fascinating Haridwar — its tongues, its street-side sass, its love for the metaphor, its intricate signboard-painting — might not itself have been the sight of many a recent rom-com, but several approximations have. From Bombay to Banaras, we know flavour.

Sharat Katariya’s film, however, is beautifully seasoned, with utterly fabulous detailing: a community wedding featuring rows and rows of scarlet brides dressed like thalis at a Jagran; a morse-code like frugal missed-call based moneysaver (two-rings-for-this, one-ring-for-this); pastries handed out instead of birthday cake, and — most critically — the shakha Prem attends.

The Shakha, the local branch of the right-wing nuts, is a fascist group, the type of thing Roderick Spode ran in Wodehouse’s  The Code Of The Woosters: Spode’s boys were called The Black Shorts, and included the measurement of male knees in their manifesto. Prem is the member of that very kind of wooly-headed organisation where grown men walk around in half-pants, and that’s what, we assume, shall define him somewhat.

Yet the potentially groundbreaking role of the Shakha starts with light humour, and is eventually completely ignored. It’s the same problem throughout the film: Katariya assembles a fascinating ensemble of quirky characters but worries more about the 90s feel and their lovely turn of phrase — “in a hurry to get your name on the in-law’s ration card?”, laughs a teasing aunt — as opposed to where the character is going.

The actors make it work, though. Ayushmann Khurana is great, giving his mostly pathetic character a sort of sullen, defiant dignity, and biting into the role rather sportingly. The new girl Bhumi Pednekar has a delightful smile, and is — part sassy, in part pitiful, part heroic —  mostly impressively real, creating a genuine character. Sanjay Mishra and Seema Pahwa from Ankhon Dekhi show up and shine here too, as does the excellent Sheeba Chaddha as the boy’s tyrannical aunt.

A word for the music: Anu Malik’s soundtrack is hugely enjoyable, retro in an affectionately genuine way — with Moh Moh, a tender, aching song written by Varun Grover, being the highlight — but there is one massive problem: Kumar Sanu’s truly distinctive voice doesn’t sound the same anymore. Too many digital bells and whistles are protooling it to sound better and better; but the nose is gone. Sadhana Sargam may as well be Shreya Ghoshal. Wherein the heart?

It’s not easy, making a Dum Laga Ke Haisha. A film with an overweight heroine that is, to a large extent, about that heroine’s weight, requires a finely sensitive balance. And while the film is perched loyally and well-intentionedly on Sandhya’s side, it still uses words about weight as insults — moti (fatty), saand (buffalo) — and also, sadly, leans on them for laughs.

For a second at the very end, I felt the film was about to flip predictability literally upside down and do something highly eventful, but the filmmakers backed out of it, happy with how far they’ve gone.That’s the regrettable bit, even though applause must go Yash Raj’s way as far as breaking the mould — I just wish they wouldn’t smugly keep pointing at it.

My other issue is with romance itself. The film dawdles so frequently on neighbourhood chatter and well-etched details that both leading man and leading lady get no chance to conjure up chemistry, they just get tired of fighting instead. Instead of making them connect, the film applauds the arranged-marriage theory of how being nice and resigned is the key to love. Settle, settle, settle.

And so may you, for this sweet, underachieving little film.

Rating: 3 stars

~

First published Rediff, February 27, 2015

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Why the 2015 Oscars are worth celebrating

The good guys won.

Actually, it was bigger than that. I’ve annually whinged about and berated the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences shortsightedness and predictability in columns like these for far too many years now, and this is the first time I sat back through the Oscars — occasionally tense with fingers crossed as often as befits the occasion, naturally — but with a smile on my face. It was very clear that despite the eight nominated films, there were only three frontrunners this year, and each was majestic.

I loved ‘em, I loved ‘em to bits, these brave and visionary and beautiful films: Birdman, which I reviewed breathlessly, Boyhood, which I reviewed with moist eyes and lumpen throat, and The Grand Budapest Hotel, which I reviewed with jaunty fingers and a candied grin.

And this was their year.

inarritu1Just let that sink in for a moment. That the three films tipped to win, the three films that held the most nominations and got the most awards, the three directors singled out for career-revolutionising triumph… were all masterworks. They were all brilliant and incredible, films any cinephile around the world should be proud of. The fact that it was these three films who led the pack and battled for the spotlight — instead of some dastardly Academy-friendly choice that upset a great yacht —  made this year’s Oscars a spotlight worth sailing through.

There was no King’s Speech to mug The Social Network, no English Patient to shoot Fargo in the foot, no Crash to rob Brokeback Mountain, no Forrest Gump to hold up, unforgivably, both Shawshank Redemption and the revolutionary Pulp Fiction. No, this year, instead of the big, the gun-toting, the maudlin, the British — and, most criminally, the obvious — films, the cool kids this year, the ones tipped to win were a Boy, a Bird and Budapest. How can you not love this year?

Sure, signs pointed to a Birdman/Boyhood split, with Alejandro González Iñárritu possibly taking Best Director for Birdman and Richard Linklater’s Boyhood taking Best Picture, or vice versa, a peace treaty that would leave the filmloving world in peace, but that wasn’t, alas, to be. As Iñárritu said while picking up the Best Director trophy, moments before he picked up Best Picture, “We’re talking about that little prick called ego. Ego loves competition, right, because for someone to win, someone has to lose.”

And that’s possibly why it hurts us, the film fans. Because we don’t want to see Linklater win over Iñárritu, or Budapest director Wes Anderson leave the other directors in the dust, or even young Damien Chazelle, helmer of the electrifying Whiplash, be left behind or spoil anyone’s party. We aren’t used to seeing these underdogs competing at the top of the heap; we just want ‘em all to enjoy playing together and all go home happy.

To a large extent, they did: Boyhood won for Patricia Arquette, Whiplash for JK Simmons, The Grand Budapest Hotel for everything to do with how beautiful films look. All while grumpy veteran Clint Eastwood sat grouchily, his American Sniper not showing up to ruin our film-lovin’ fun, while Oscar host Neil Patrick Harris wagered he’d do a Kanye West and disrupt the proceedings.

As for Neil Patrick Harris, alas, he didn’t sparkle. He started with a terrific musical number about the love we have for ‘Moving Pictures’ — as I’ve written elsewhere, rhyming “Brando” with Sharon Stone going “commando” is a moment of genius that will linger forever — but the rest of the evening he was flat and unfunny and just not very good.

But — and here’s the thing — are we expecting the wrong thing from an Oscar host? Earlier the Oscars were the only show we’d all watch, and we’d eat it up because it was the only choice. So we’d love Steve Martin and tolerate David Letterman. Now, not only do we have far more wicked and irreverent, alcohol-aided shows to watch, from the Globes to the Independent Spirit Awards (which, seriously, is must-see), but we’re all tweeting and pronouncing judgement immediately, rating a joke on a sliding scale before we even get through with the show.

Last week I assembled a list of the best ever Oscar hosts, an amusing (albeit cumbersome) process that made me realise something. In this age of sharp, biting jabs — started by Globe host Ricky Gervais and surpassed by Amy Poehler and Tina Fey — we’re too quick to dismiss anyone who doesn’t immediately match up. That Frank Sinatra opening monologue from 1963, for example, one of my very favourites, would be ripped apart mercilessly on Twitter.

The Oscars are in a quandary: they’re classy, they’re big, they’re universal and they need to be family-friendly — otherwise morons like Seth MacFarlane sing about breasts. It’s clear they can’t be like other wilder award shows. Perhaps they just need to concentrate on the class and the charm and leave out the comedy, except in little unscripted bits and occasional dance numbers. No matter what people say about too many dances, this year’s top moments had to include the touching Glory performance and Lady Gaga’s Sound Of Music tribute. Pomp, done well, shines bright at the Oscars. Leave the jokes to the other shows who can perch out farther on the limb. Let the grandeur do the talking instead of the gags.

wes1Overall, as I said, it was a show to celebrate. Because with every gunfighter on our side, we’re all winners.

~

First published Rediff, February 24, 2015

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Review: Damien Chazelle’s Whiplash

“There are no two words in the English language more harmful than good job,” says Terrence Fletcher, the black-clad perfectionist conductor driving his orchestra insane with his demands. Fletcher wants more, always. Emotion, excuses, bloodied hands, commitment: none of it impresses him unless accompanied by actual greatness. And it never is. “Good job,” words many an American parent uses to condition a child, a verbal pat on the back for tying shoelaces or finishing a plate of spaghetti, thus, is naturally something that isn’t quite Fletcher’s tempo.

But then what does measure up? Fletcher demands the best, and his students bend over backwards trying earnestly, dutifully, vainly, suicidally to give it to him while he bites their heads off like an easily irked dragon. JK Simmons plays Fletcher with firebreathing abandon, using awful verbal guillotines every bit as lethal as the cymbal that almost decapitated Charlie Parker and spurred him to become the legend known simply as Bird. Near-death, Fletcher seems to feel, gave Parker his wings.

IMG_5430An unforgiving silhouette teaching at New York’s famed Shaffer Conservatory of Music, Fletcher’s longstanding dream of finding a Bird and letting him loose seems all but impossible till he runs into Andrew (Miles Teller), a young man craving to be pushed to perfection, one who fanatically sees himself as one of the greats, one who deserts romance because it may possibly distract him from the drums some day. After all, as the Buddy Rich quote on his wall screams at him, “If you don’t have ability, you wind up playing in a rock band.”

Director Damien Chazelle’s stunning and absorbing Whiplash takes these two freaks – this old man with a tongue made of daggers and this youngster with alarming amounts of focus – and pits them against each other in a delicious, deadly battle of jazz. They glide toward unscaleable peaks forsaking their lives, their careers, their families, their sanity… and all for what?

Whiplash is a sexy, sexy film, strikingly shot and beautifully paced, a film that captivates right from the start and reels in the viewer in that seductive way only the finest jazz can. The music is jawdropping and works its magic regardless of how unschooled the viewer may be, perhaps because of how Fletcher makes them play the same sections over and over again, especially the Hank Levy piece, ‘Whiplash,’ that lends its name to the film’s title.

Teller, playing the surly, self-absorbed Andrew, does spectacularly well as a character impossible to like, not to mention a phenomenal banger of the drums, a man savaging drumheads as if he were doing kung fu with chopsticks. Simmons, playing the maniac, is even better, all quips and one-handed quietening and the single-minded focus of a fascist who truly believes in himself. Scary good.

Chazelle’s film starts brilliantly and soon turns brutal, and it can be construed by some as a romanticisation of tyranny, a film that gives far too much importance to unrealistic standards and puts striving for them on a pedestal, but my reading is that Whiplash doesn’t idealize either of its two leads – though it is at times a tad sympathetic toward them – but rather shines a glaring, (mostly) unforgiving spotlight on both sets of unreasonable expectations, a spotlight that is best witnessed flashing across Simmons’ eyes at the very end of Whiplash.

We dream different dreams, and if two men tear their own lives apart in pursuit of something they treasure above all else, then who are we to dictate the price they ought pay? As a certain Mr Inarritu will attest, there’s something to be said about embarking on an impossible hunt for a Bird.

Rating: 4 stars

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First published Rediff, February 20, 2015

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Review: Sriram Raghavan’s Badlapur

Let the right one sin.

Right, of course, depends entirely on where we’re standing. Is this character in the right, or is he merely stage-right? Or should we be standing here instead, where we can see what he’s holding behind his back, an anniversary present or a bloodied knife? In the world of noir, Right is less a fact and more a perspective — a shifting perspective, even — and one that must ideally be questioned.

badlapur1No Hindi film director treats noir as finely and uncompromisingly as Sriram Raghavan, making the most of each shadow and each secret, feeding us lies and making us read between them, his films unfolding with the stark alacrity of well-thumbed graphic novels. Badlapur is all fury and fog, a revenge saga that plays out with such eyebrow-singeing intensity that I could imagine a gravel-voiced narrator filling us in on dames and dreams and dark, stormy nights.

The absence of this all-knowing narrator — or one, at least, made wiser by hindsight — cleverly obscures Raghavan’s own position in the whole affair: Is he showing us a simple good-versus-bad tale? Is he taking a side at all? Is he shifting allegiances from performer to performer nimbly, like a tightrope-walker with a roving eye? Raghavan, like the film’s leading man Raghu, plays his cards close to the chest and lets the audience simmer in anticipation as he slow-cooks the meaty, meaty plot and lets the story unravel.

As a premise, Badlapur appears simple enough. A young man shockingly loses his wife and child, and is hellbent on revenge — revenge that is hard to come by because he isn’t sure exactly where to look — and helplessly wrings his hands in despair as his world falls to shreds. It is a fascinating, frightening origin story, in a way an antithesis of the Batman origin, where a child sees his parents shot dead; here Raghu, who fancied himself Batman, has his son, named Robin, snatched away. The superhero threads run strong as the father emotionally tinkers with his son’s Thor figurine. By the time the film winds down, Raghu, who was struggling to grow a moustache when he became a father, has gone full-Thor: he wears a heavy beard and wields a heavy hammer.

On the other end stands Liak, a slimy criminal imprisoned for twenty years, the only man who knows who killed Raghu’s wife and child. He’s a bristly one, making his way into many a jailyard scrap, but he holds his ground and continues to dream ambitiously — often absurdly — of escape. What he lacks in terms of hope or future, he makes up for with swagger. Razor-tongued, brusque, packed to the gills with suicidal bravado: say what you want of him, Liak is a character. So much so that while this film might well be Raghu’s story, the first half has a lot more Liak — he gets more narrative heft, if not more screen-time.

Raghavan hides both their endgames very effectively, weaving a murky tapestry of femme fatales and false leads and fat policemen, the ever-intriguing narrative taking turns being sharp, funny and brutal. There are ruthless scenes in Badlapur, moments where the background score is as hushed as the disbelieving, squirming audience in the theatre, and there are scenes dripping drily with the tense humour the director played with so wickedly in his Johnny Gaddar. That film, in fact, is a fine companion piece to this one; that was sexy and relentlessly stylish while this is a moody, less aesthetically overt tale, and three Johnny actors shine bright amid the brilliant Badlapur ensemble. Like in the new film, Johnny unravelled tightly, its protagonist almost always ahead of the audience, but only the last few frames of Johnny are about vengeance; Badlapur, as the superbly chosen name suggests, is a roaring rampage.

The acting is exceptional. Varun Dhawan, playing Raghu, sheds his easy-breezy charm — but, crucially, not his slightly hapless natural likeability — and bubbles up volcanically, his eyes frequently doing the talking. There are moments in which he single-handedly commands the film, scenes where we have no idea how far his character is willing to go, and Dhawan handles these with just the right amount of inflammability. This is the kind of performance that opens up a career, and given what he did in Humpty Sharma Ki Dulhaniya last year, Dhawan looks to have the kind of range his contemporaries should fear. Nawazuddin Siddiqui, meanwhile, coats his Liak in oil and desperation, creating a powerful yet slippery character — one hard to get a handle on — with a reckless, go-for-broke energy. He might be a villain, but in his eyes he’s the wronged hero making the most of it, and the balance Siddiqui strikes between loathsome and irresistible is striking. You can’t take your eyes off him.

badlapur2There are some terrific women in Badlapur. Yami Gautam looks lovely but doesn’t quite get enough material to shine. Huma Qureshi (who also played Siddiqui’s love-interest in the second Gangs Of Wasseypur) is hauntingly good as a call-girl, especially when she distances herself while dancing for a customer she doesn’t like, gyrating freely but disconcertingly enough avoiding all eye-contact. Ashwini Kalsekar is super in a small role as a female private-eye — the kind of character that demonstrates how everyone in a Raghavan script could well deserve their own spin-off movie — and Divya Dutta is characteristically perfect as a woman who looks tired of knowing better than the men she talks to. Radhika Apte is sensational as a wife willing not just to go out on a limb, but to kill herself doing it. One particular scene where her character is forced into a corner shows her dig deep and give us an uncomfortably stark and superb moment, possibly the film’s finest.

Alongside Apte, a major part of the scene-stealing is done by Kumud Mishra, playing a portly policeman who sums up the last decade and a half as 3 promotions and 2 bypass-surgeries. He’s clever, canny and almost alarmingly credible, and there are moments he quivers with apoplectic rage, fit to burst, where he’s fiercely good.

Raghavan — who kicks off this movie with a thank-you note to Dirty Harry director Don Siegel, and has a character reading Daphne DuMaurier’s Don’t Look Now on a train — makes it clear Badlapur is less of a thriller (his earlier characters read James Hadley Chase on screen) and more introspectively chilling. It is a film where a husband and wife, each innocent of their crimes, weep vainly to convince the other that nothing happened. It is a film where an alert policeman spots something through an eye-hole but, a few inches below it, is another opening that could well be a glory-hole. It is a film that broods, and one that refuses to put a fun spin on things, Raghavan preferring instead to put the ‘dead’ in ‘deadpan.’ The last one-third of the film drags a bit — the final lines of dialogue are jarringly laboured, especially compared to the rest of the film’s flawlessness — but overall this is a stunning, beautifully crafted film. Like an expensive, gorgeously made revolver you just want to run your hands over even if you don’t dare shoot it.

As the curtain falls on Badlapur, any argument on rightness feels both moot and muddy. This is a noir world, its aftertaste like chocolate with 85% cocoa, and the answer is deceptively simple: Who gets right of way? The one in a greater hurry.

Rating: 4 stars

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First published Rediff, February 20, 2015

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Review: MSG The Messenger

This is not a movie.

MSG, formerly known as Messenger Of God and now retitled as The Messenger (one of the options for the title indeed was “MSG The Son Of God”), might be a theatrical release but this can, by no means, be called a piece of cinema. A whopping 197 minutes long, this is a poorly assembled, terrifically tacky and tremendously ill-conceived showcase for a self-styled spiritual leader — self-styled because no costume designer in the world could match up to this man. Never ever.

The film opens with Saint Gurmeet Ram Rahim Singh Ji Insan — the MSG leading man credited for everything from script to cinematography to direction — sitting in a black Mercedes, wearing a neon-green boa and diamond-topped sunglasses, singing a vaguely hiphoppy song called Never-Ever. It is like the intro video made for some particularly bizarre pro-wrestler in an over-bhangrafied version of the World Wrestling Federation.

Nobody’s seen anything quite like this: a godman casting himself as quickfix superhero in a film that claims he is the answer to some of our most pressing social and medical evils: farmer suicide, female infanticide, AIDS, thalassemia, rehabilitation of prostitutes, and the increasingly rampant drug problem in Punjab and Haryana. It is the latter that make up an unbelievably dead-eyed bunch of villains in this film, angered drug cartels who put a hit out on Saint Ji, sending incompetent assassins to try their best. (There is, as one can barely imagine, very little subtlety involved; the politician in charge of the cartel is unambiguously named Chillum Singh. I assume rejected names include Hashish Kapoor and Ganja Grover.)

msg1The very idea of taking this propaganda piece and making it a feature film with an actual plot is a horrid one, and I can’t help but picture — in an ironic twist on the status quo — a godman misled by his yes-men and followers, going along with this preposterous idea because enough people said “Wow, Guruji, you look awesome” and “Guruji, fly through the air on a motorcycle one more time while playing a (muted) guitar-solo because that’s what people want.”

Saint Ji himself, in my book, comes across as harmless enough, his excessive swagger more than tempered by a beatific smile. He might use the lyricless interlude of a song to drop to the ground and give the crowd a few sudden push-ups, but — in complete contrast to his loud purple outfits — he speaks with a sweet, childlike shrillness. His character is always tender and never aggressive except perhaps during choreographed song performances, when Rock Papa — as his younger fans call him — breaks into hardcore, aerobic-style jigs, shaking his stuff in full-on Bollywood fashion.

He isn’t an actor — and he barely attempts to act — but the release of MSG is the story of how Saint Ji is surrounded by genuinely incompetent folks, from technicians to filmmakers to advisors, who have clearly feasted on his bucks and given him an shamefully sloppy product. The whole film looks like those Pakistani VFX videos we laugh at on YouTube and — while there is definitely, definitely something to be said for a film where a talking Barbie doll tells the hero how a little girl in a bride costume is in danger, and where a villain uses a Quidditch ball to drug people — at 197 minutes it is sheer torture.

There are, as said, distractions, not least of which is Saint Ji’s wardrobe, a searingly eye-scorching assortment of technicolour bling — think Ramleela costumes designed by Ed Hardy. It’s bewilderingly loud and often hilarious, but then looking at the astoundingly unselfconscious way Saint Ji wears them and the way his (self-composed) music clearly has an impact on real crowds, we might be looking at a new kind of excessively fashion-forward spiritual leader, one who wears this stuff because only he can (and believe you me, only he can) and it is truly, completely clutterbreaking. Remember when PK said he wanted to wear a bright yellow helmet so god can see him from afar? Well, say what you like about Saint Ji, but you sure can’t miss seeing him.

This feature-length advertisement, on the other hand, you’d be best advised to forego. Unless, that is, you’re an Insan already, which means this review doesn’t mean a thing. Go embrace the Insan-ity.

Rating: NO RATING. THIS IS NOT A MOVIE.

~

First published Rediff, February 13, 2015

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Review: R Balki’s Shamitabh

This just in: Amitabh Bachchan, an actor some of you might have heard of, has a pretty good voice.

What? Not exactly breaking news? Yet director R Balki seems newly aware of that revelation, and, it appears, believes that mere worship of the Big B-aritone is enough to make for a fine film. An ode to that voice might have made sense in the 70s, before the Bachchan voice was absolutely everywhere, mimicked by anyone, used to sell us anything. The radio stations who rejected Amitabh Bachchan have become as legendary in their infamy as the record producers who first passed on The Beatles; that voice has literally launched careers; and, even today, over 40 years since we first heard it, it overwhelms — in fact, as evidenced by the televised reaction of unsuspecting citizens across the country when they receive a gameshow phone-call that starts with that silken-yet-growled Hello, it strikes like lightning.

To dedicate a whole film to applauding that voice, then, seems like a stretch… but then Balki, despite ingenuity and quirks, always ends up tugging at initially inventive ideas out till they feel like week-old bubblegum. Shamitabh, a film where a mute actor is voiced by an older actor, sets up the premise so completely and obviously with the opening scene that it’s hard not to wonder where the film will go over the remaining 150 minutes. The answer: it meanders on and on, like an old man lost in a car park. Bachchan is excellent, Dhanush does well, but both are straitjacketed by a flimsy, uneven story that is eventually just exhausting.

It starts off with promise. Dhanush plays Danish, a village boy fathered by the movies, a mute boy who believes he can act better than the biggest superstar, who turns his head at 48-frames-per-second, and is passionate enough to believe his voicelessness won’t get in the way of his impending stardom. Starting off as a bus conductor (just like another superstar you may have heard of) he makes his way to big bad Bombay, impresses an assistant director, and is then whisked off to Finland.

It is at this point that I decided Balki was giving us not a film aiming at truth but a preposterous fable, because his Finland is a ventriloquist-worshipping country dedicated to making state-of-the-art human puppets, fitting voice-boxes inside human throats and letting the mute person lip-sync someone else’s time-delayed conversation. It’s awful writing, immediately removing the “How?” struggle from the equation; in Woody Allen’s Hollywood Ending, when a blind director tries to direct a film without anyone knowing he’s blind, the results are hilarious because he’s trying to find on-set help, memorising floor-plans, and so on. Here we see Dhanush speaking in the Bachchan baritone and when we wonder how it’s come about, we’re told simply that the filmmaker wanted to make it happen.

Add to that a drunken mentor — Bachchan, as an old drunkard hired to voice Danish — and the first half of Shamitabh is basically Nagesh Kukunoor’s Iqbal with a lot less heart and a lot more indulgence. It’s tiresome, poorly shot, suffering from an atrociously patchy sound-design and inconsistent dubbing, and — despite an an energetic Dhanush, and Bachchan revelling in his self-aggrandizing role, painfully armed with ‘look-how-great-my-voice-is’ lines designed to elicit taalis  — the film never quite gets going. And that’s the good bit. Following intermission, it careens off the rails so catastrophically it feels an uncredited Bhandarkar/Bhansali lent the writing team a hand.

shamitabh1Dhanush is a highly effective actor (and when miming actors, his shorthand from Hrithik to Ranbir is particularly brilliant), but Balki, keen to keep the focus on The Baritone, doesn’t show us any of Danish’s skills; his audition is ordinary, his histrionics mediocre, with the point underscored by Bachchan repeatedly telling him that he doesn’t look good, and (in a particularly distasteful line) that The Baritone is enough to make even a dog shine on screen. Danish’s part is a thankless one, that of an ambitious, opportunistic jerk who never cares for those around him, while Bachchan is given everything from the idiosyncratic life to longwinded Scotch-and-water soliloquys to a horrible face-off with a Robert De Niro poster. All that and, like Captain Haddock, he can curse in every letter of the alphabet. It’s a depressingly one-sided match. (Somewhere in the middle is a frustrated, interesting yet occasionally too-loud Akshara Haasan, perhaps thinking wistfully about the time her dad Kamal did a silent film…)

What Balki subverts truly cleverly, though, as an ad-man, are his advertisers: there’s a whole lot of product placement here — Lifebuoy, Amazon, Seven Hills — but each brand is mocked: the soap’s tagline is ridiculed, the online-retailer doesn’t have the books they need, and the hospital only holds bad news. In a way, also, this film can be considered a commentary on the unfair, unbelievable omnipotence of the superstar in Hindi cinema: he chooses the project, the story, the director, the co-star, and even decides how to shoot the song.

Or maybe Balki’s okay with all that. Just like he’s okay with taking a clever Rekha cameo that should have been a sly moment and stretching it into a long, wordy, needlessly dramatic scene. That, in essence, is the problem with Shamitabh: it spends all its time explaining its own jokes. And that never sounds right, no matter the voice.

Rating: 1.5 stars

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First published Rediff, February 6, 2015

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AIB knockout: Floats like a butterfly, stings like a bitch!

Bloody hell, they pulled it off.

And, to be quite honest, we didn’t see it coming. I’ve faced my share of growls from a humourless Hindi film industry for over a decade now, which include threats and lawsuits, and thus it was most heartening to see not just two actors sporting enough to proffer their chins for some thumping but to see other stars in the audience egging them on, and one of the country’s most prominent (and influential) filmmakers play Roastmaster.

And then they released the whole gloriously foulmouthed thing on YouTube, with nary a bleep in sight. Wow. Take a bow, All India Bakchod.

As roasts go, it was pretty solid. The gang followed the tack of picking one particular thing about each person on the panel, and went after them with politically incorrect gusto. Karan Johar got gay jokes, Ranveer Singh was ragged on for womanising, Arjun Kapoor was spanked with the nepotism stick, Rajeev Masand was criticised for being a critic, Raghu Ram was sworn at for swearing, Gursimran Khamba was called ugly, Tanmay Bhat was called fat, Ashish Shakya was called dark, Rohan Joshi was teased for dating a Bhatt, while Abish Mathew and Aditi Mittal were singled out for being unknown. In the audience, Alia got dumb-gags, Sonakshi got fat-gags and Deepika Padukone got how-can-a-girl-like-you-date-Ranveer-gags.

I watched the show surrounded by friends and shotglasses last night, and it resulted in many a high-five and neighbour-waking peals of laughter. It is, without doubt, a show you need to watch in its entirety online instead of reading 18-gag compilations. I remember a similar night a few years ago, watching Comedy Central’s Roast of William Shatner and the one of Pamela Anderson back to back, laughing and complaining wistfully that we’d never see anything quite like this in India, well, we have and these AIB lads have really pushed the envelope right from their very first go. Bravo.

The concern, however, is how even a subversive off-centre activity like a roast has to be mainstreamed and Bollywooded in order to really take off. Out there in Comedy Central land, the roasted are (usually) old and fading, celebrities who haven’t been relevant in a while, people on the fringe… The roasters are usually all stand-up comics plus a mix of handpicked funny friends of the roasted. Plus insult comics known only for being on roasts, like the late Greg Giraldo. There are the usual jabs, sure, but there is also some genuinely vicious invective — the one thing I found missing in the AIB show, but hey, I’m sure they’ll get there.

Khamba, Rohan, Aditi and Tanmay were particularly good, but everyone did well — even though the tone was so consistent that it made it too-visible that the whole thing had been scripted together, by committee. No matter. The thing to remember is that Bollywood, which has way too many sacred cows — like nepotism, relationships and sex — that aren’t spoken of outside of gossip columns and the most interesting corners of parties, got itself turned into hamburger meat by these kids. Go ahead, lick your lips at the thought of what comes next; I’m sure they have something edgier around the corner.

Some of the reactions to the roast, however, have been rather befuddling. Not just the articles taking gags seriously and being outraged that Ranveer Singh took Deepika Padukone’s now-infamous Times Of India “a cleavage” photograph (he didn’t) but the slew of thinkpieces commending Karan Johar for sitting through an evening of gay-themed leg-pulling, and treating it almost like an unofficial coming-out party. Many salutations to Johar for taking it all on the nose and being a sport, but the truth is that laughing at gags about being gay does not, in any way, indicate that you are gay. All it says is that you have a sense of humour about the way you’re perceived in public. James Franco, for example, grinningly takes gay-jokes in his stride so frequently that it’s turned into cliche; similarly with Johar, many of we believe this is one big coming-out party because we already think we know his sexual orientation and have been waiting for confirmation forever. It’s not. Just because Rajeev Masand laughed when it was said that he charges money for his star-ratings, doesn’t make it true at all. Like Karan, he’s just a man who can laugh at himself.

But when did Bollywood suddenly develop a sense of humour? How is this industry, normally apoplectic with self-importance, laughing out loud? I’m not sure it is laughing, honestly, but it’s seeing the importance of laughing. And, more importantly, the importance of being seen laughing. In this era of oversharing, retweeting and everything-instagramming, the star is not any kind of enigmatic figure of mystery; s/he is one of us (except their selfies have better lighting). And Alia Bhatt knocked it out of the park with her AIB video making fun of her own meme-fied ignorance, and now everyone wants a piece of the chilled-out pie. By now, it’s considered uncool to not laugh about oneself. Just ask Parineeti Chopra, who chickened out of the roast.

Anyway, much applause and many cheers, All India Bakchod. (Especially for making Bakchod a word we all use in print now.)

First published Rediff, January 30, 2015

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