Desicritics Author: greatbong

Movie Review: Casino Royale - The Re-invention Of James Bond

greatbong — Sun, 19 Nov 2006 07:57:13 EST

Last time, in Die Another Day[2002] we saw the Bond franchise speeding towards certain demise, descending from its characteristic "over-the-topness" into the murky swamps of undiluted camp with lesbian sword-fighters, castles made of ice, invisible cars, a satellite emitting death rays, a villain with diamonds embedded in his cheek and dialogues so full of double entendres, you would think that Dada Kondke was ghosting the script from the great beyond. There was talk of spinning a Modesty Blaise-type "female Bond' series based on the Hale Berry character from Die Another Day because the men in suits with the cheques had figured it out: the Bond mystique was gone and the cold-war warrior had outlived his times (just like CPM's Harkishen Surjeet). There were unconfirmed rumours that the Bond franchise would shift to Ooty and Gunmaster G9 (the secret agent who fights mad locust armies, calculator-wielding bionic men and who can hit any G-spot within 9 attempts - hence the G9) would take over the mantle of the man with the license to chill.

And then Casino Royale [2006] happens. Martin Campbell takes over the reins after being shunted out after GoldenEye. And Pierce Brosnan gets replaced by Daniel Craig. The result is indisputably one of the best installments of the twenty-one movie series - in fact I would go even further and call it one of the most satisfying action movies in recent memory.

I went in with serious misgivings however. Despite not being terribly enamoured of the Bond movies in which he acted, I had nonetheless been a great fan of Pierce Brosnan as he was the picture-perfect embodiment of the Bond ideal - cynical, ultra-meterosexual British dandy, the kind of man who actually means it when he says: 'drinking Dom Perignon '53 above 38F is like listening to the Beatles without earmuffs', a man who can stop an entire Soviet Army division without creasing his impeccably tailored suit. I was sceptical as to whether the more plebeian-looking Daniel Craig would be able to fit into Brosnan's polished shoes and bring the suaveness and style that had been epitomized by his predecessor.

He does not even try to do this. And that what makes Casino Royale so refreshing. Throwing away the done-to-death, formulaic trappings of the quintessential Bond movie, Martin Campbell re-invents James Bond - not so radically different that you would feel cheated but distinctive enough for you to realize that a deliberate detach has been made. Here James Bond bleeds, he is vulnerable, he avoids all kinds of juvenile double-entendres and unthinkably has his choice of dinner jacket corrected by a female agent. And what's even more jaw-dropping is that in a particular tense point of the movie when a bartender asks Mr. Bond whether he wants his martini shaken or stirred, Bond says: "Does it look like I give a damn?" What next? Bond sipping Haywards 5000?

It is this conscious attempt to stay off the beaten path that makes Casino Royale so enjoyable. If you are going in expecting to see a typically lavish, long-drawn-out action set-piece just before the credits roll, you will be pleasantly disappointed by the brevity and brutality of the opening sequence. If you are expecting silhouettes of sexy ladies dancing seductively in the opening credits, forget it. If you think there will be people hanging from the Eiffel Tower or a kidnapping in the Vatican or an assault on a nuclear silo, then you are mistaken. Of course that does not mean there are no spectacular action sequences - my favourite being a chase through a construction site in Madagascar - it is just that their spectacularness is less defined by their location but more by their picturization. And unlike most modern action movies, Casino Royale realizes that real drama is not realized through grand explosions, fast chases and high body counts. The most dramatic and exciting moments take place in relative stasis - around a poker table where the protagonists face off against each other, with millions of dollars and their very own reputations at stake, where the power of a piercing glance or the action of the gambling chip being placed on the table packs as much punch as that of a bullet from a silenced Beretta.

The credit for making most of Casino Royale work has to go to the new Bond, Daniel Craig. Exuding barely-suppressed violence and physical strength (unlike Pierce Brosnan), he cannonballs through the action scenes but is savvy enough to pull himself back and rely on the glance, the smirk and the well-delivered line during the non-action ones. Bond's nemesis (who sheds tears of blood - perhaps from watching too many Shahrukh movies) is also a vast improvement over last time's villain Toby Stephens whose evil facial contortions were exactly identical to the "Oh God spare me" expressions he sported when he made love to Amisha Patel in Mangal Pandey, the Rising. The production quality is top-notch and special mention must be made of the credits sequence, which is extremely original and visually stunning.

Summing up, I announce with great joy that, thanks to clever direction and a re-imaging of the Bond persona, 007's license to thrill has been given a fresh lease of life.

Mr. Bond is back, oh gaon-walon.

And this time, he is taking no prisoners.

Movie Review: Don

greatbong — Thu, 9 Nov 2006 12:15:07 EST

'Tis the season of remakes. Taking a break from its well-established habit of cannibalizing Hollywood for plot ideas and sequences, the Hindi film industry has decided, almost en masse, to seek inspiration from its own rich celluloid heritage: with a remake of Don and Umrao Jaan playing in the theatres and a remake of Sholay in the works.

Remakes aren't necessarily a bad idea (as long as proper acknowledgment is given and copyrights being respected ) especially for movies from earlier eras that have "aged" thematically and/or technically and could do with an effective re-packaging for a new generation of movie-goers.

Which is what Farhan Akhtar attempts in Don (2006). Taking a typical 70s style Bollywood potboiler, he scissors out the "dated" psychedelic colors, over-sized bow ties, bell-bottoms and tacky tiger masks (remember the one AB comes out wearing in the song "Main Hoon Don"?) while retaining the legendary, oft-repeated lines of the original. On top of that, he layers in novel characterizations, several plot twists and most importantly, oodles of camera-angles, split screens, greenish hues, breath-taking locales, stunning set-pieces and Hong Kong-style choreographed fights (as opposed to what in the 70s used to be referred to as "Thrills").

What emerges is an extremely contemporary, cool-looking escapist fantasy that can compete stylistically with the Bonds and Mission Impossibles of the world.

However Farhan Akhtar has a challenge that Steven Soderbergh didn't have to deal with when he redid Ocean's Eleven on similar lines (which incidentally is an excellent example of a remake that totally reinvented the original). That challenge being the success of his movie will be critically measured by how well the actor playing the title character can match up to the sheer aura and presence of India's biggest ever superstar, Amitabh the Big B Bachchan who played Don in the original.

Which is quite impossible---the B cannot be replaced.

People who are expecting a performance from Shahrukh Khan that supplants Amitabh's will be disappointed with the new Don. They will be seen coming out of the theatre shaking their heads saying "Shahrukh Khan is no match for Amitabh Bachchan". Absolutely true. He is not. He does not have Bachchan's machismo, his raw screen presence and his amazing dialogue delivery skills.

And here's the thing. He does not need to. Shahrukh Khan is his own Don---in a way totally different from the role Amitabh essayed in the original. If Amitabh represents the hirsute caveman masculinity of the Sean Connery school of sexiness, Shahrukh Khan epitomizes the more modern David Beckham-Pierce Brosnan ideal of the well-groomed, somewhat wimpy meterosexual for whom a broken nose is preferable to a poorly-ironed suit. Essaying the role of the over-the-top mega-villain in a movie where believability is of no concern, Shahrukh Khan's lip snarls, goat laugh and quivering eyes do not appear out-of-place for once and actually help him in forging a distinct identity for his character, independent of the towering shadow of the Big B.

This also explains why the weakest part of the movie is during the two song sequences where Farhan Akhtar tries to slavishly follow the original ---the "Yeh Mera Dil" sequence where Kareena Kapoor totally flops out compared to the command performance from dance-legend Helen and the "Khaike Pan Banaras Wala" where Shahrukh looks like the biggest fraud Banarasi Babu ever. (that song was ideal for the Bachchan version of the Don but not for the SRK one) If only Farhan Akthar had bothered to re-adapt these two songs like he did with the "Main Hoon Don" song, then he would have had a much stronger product.

In conclusion, I have to say that I went in with very low expectations for Don, fearful that I would have to start my review with "Don dekhna mushkil hi naheen namumkin hain". However I was pleasantly surprised by Farhan Akhtar's clever direction and deft re-characterizations which while not elevating Don to anywhere near the level of a masterpiece still manages to make it deliver on its promise of non-stop, brainless, totally low-brow entertainment.

Which is more than what I can say for the other big budget releases of this year.

Book Review: The Mephisto Club

greatbong — Sun, 5 Nov 2006 01:24:00 EST

Tess Gerritsen's The Mephisto Club is a frequently disturbing but nonetheless arresting, intensely atmospheric crime thriller with more than just a touch of the supernatural. Despite being bound by the confines of its genre and demands of its target audience, it still manages to pack in a twist or two for even the most jaded of us horror aficionados.

Jumpstarting the narrative with a ritualistic murder, the book alternates deftly between multiple tracks and subplots -- from the personal trials and tribulations of the two investigators: Boston medical examiner Maura Isles and Detective Jane Rizolli, to the backstory of a not-so-normal child and a girl on the run from a supernatural evil force one step ahead of her. To her credit, Ms. Gerritsen does not let these 'context-switches' slacken the pace of her narrative nor does she fail to weave in each of these subplots into the main texture of the story in such a way that each of them contribute significantly to the underlying theme of the book and none of them appear superfluous.

More than the plot, the main strength of The Mephisto Club is that its beautifully-etched word sketches of places and people serve to create an atmosphere of foreboding evil and supernatural dread much more effectively than lengthy descriptions of sadistic blood-letting -- a device that most authors of books in this genre take recourse to in order to create terror. In this respect, Tess Gerritsen is a lot like Elizabeth Kostova in The Historian except that The Mephisto Club manages to maintain pace and reader interest much better than The Historian.

Recommended.

Saving Terrorist Mohammed Afzal

greatbong — Sat, 30 Sep 2006 01:09:56 EDT

Nothing much makes an old news-warrior like me sit up and say "Holy Smokes, are you effing serious?" nowadays----except perhaps "little people" break-dancing in front of Rajnikant.

Which is why when I heard that Kashmiris had taken to the streets in support of a terrorist, I was like "Tell me something I don't know already". Also expected was Mehbooba Mufti asking that Mohammed Afzal, Jaish-e-Mohammed terrorist mastermind, not be put to death----after all she is one of the biggest supporters of Kashmiri extremists...sorry misguided youth. The "spare the terrorist" crowd is also blessed by the august presence of Ghulam Nabi Azad---again no surprise there.

Also according to script is the coverage of the whole issue---Mohammed Afzal's tear-choked wife moaning the fact that her husband has lost all faith in the Indian justice system and the focus on his seven year old child --- after all if the bleeding-heart liberal press doesn't give us these compelling images, who will? Obviously, they will not show the tears of the widow of the Parliament guards killed and how their children are coping --- because they were guards whose job it was to die. Tough luck. This is different --- this is a soft-hearted Jaish-e-Mohammed killer mastermind we are talking about. Which is why he deserves our full attention and sympathy.

But then I read this. And I have this "Whoa dude" moment.

The main opposition party, the National Conference, has backed this argument.[to release Afzal]

"The court had given a verdict in the case of Azhar Masood. He was let go and the government of India saved that situation and may be rightly so.

"They can do the same thing - defer and postpone this punishment so that it sends a positive signal," said Mehboob Baig, Provincial President, National Conference.

Azhar Masood ! If I am not wrong, Mr. Baig is referring to this guy---Maulana Azhar Masood. Founder of Jaish-e-Mohammed, considered to be one of the world's most dangerous terrorists, who was "let go" as part of the hostage deal for the hijacking of IC 814. This Baig chap thinks that the "government of India saved that situation and may be rightly so" and also "sent a positive signal" by handing him over to the Taliban in Kandahar. Which is what he, in a barely concealed fashion, proposes the Indian government do with Mohammed Afzal: defer and postpone his punishment so that he can be let go when the next flight is hijacked or the next VIP kidnapped.

Priceless.

Let me clarify---it's not Mr Mehboob's Baig's love for Azhar Masood that surprises me but the fact that he would choose to articulate his true loyalties thusly.

I have always maintained that the death penalty is too easy for terrorists, far better to make them stay in solitary for the rest of their lives. Also dying makes them martyrs---which is what these Fidayeen types want in the first place. So putting them to death plays into their hands or more precisely into the hands of their handlers----the merry men in Islamabad.

However it is also undeniable that Mohammed Afzal alive will act as a lightning rod for incidents like the IC 814 hijack, a fact that people like Mehboob Baig are counting on. Which means as long as he is alive in an Indian jail, many innocent lives are at risk.

This is also around this time that the issue of capital punishment is brought up--mostly as a smokescreen for those with an agenda. Whether retributive justice is as barbaric as the crime is indeed a morally ambiguous topic with strong bodies of reasoning on both sides. I do not intend to go it into here but just point out that the people who are campaigning for clemency for Mohammed Afzal are not the ones who have a general issue with capital punishment---they just do not want a fine man who attacked the Indian parliament to die. After all he is not Salman Rushdie or the Danish cartoonist.

Let me conclude with an anecdote. Dhananjay Chatterjee was a security guard who was put to death for the rape and murder of a 14 year old in August 2004. When some nuns (if I remember correctly from the murdered girl's school) were asked whether as women of the cloth they supported the death sentence on Dhananjay, their reply was: "We pray for his soul"---nunspeak for "Yes we want him dead".

Likewise I also pray for the soul of Mohammed Afzal.

Third World Groove

greatbong — Thu, 14 Sep 2006 00:23:44 EDT

Shailaja Nilkantan of GigaOm (one of the world's top blogs with an international audience) writes in the context of the recently concluded blog-camp.

And some of them were, thanks to Sify providing WiFi and the organizers Kiruba Shankar et al ensuring plug points for everyone to connect their laptops to--a rarity in electricity-starved India's buildings. Getting into the first world groove, the first thing most did on entering the large auditorium was to whip out their laptops and check their mail

Am I the only person here who finds this more than a little patronizing? I wonder why in a report on a conference on blogging, does Ms. Nilkantan need to suggest, not so subtly, that the so-called first world ambience of WiFi and electric plugpoints (Duh!) is something that poor Third World, electricity-starved Indians are unaccustomed to.

It's something you can never escape in the West. Despite our status as a fast-growing, economic superpower, whenever we get mention in the media it is almost always as a weird, desperately poor nation of magicians, snakes, elephants, strange gods, venerated cows and boys who have flies coming out of their urine--- condescension being the underlying theme of most of India-centric coverage. [And the other times we are mentioned is as cheap labour, speaking in pidgin English, who have taken American jobs because so poor are we that we don't mind working on a slave's salary----what's almost always forgotten is our competence.]

And I am not talking about media asses like Bill O'Reilly of Fox News whose ignorance of anything outside US is only matched by his pomposity (he referred to Pakistan's ISI as SIS) or borderline-racist Lou Dobbs on CNN. I am talking about the so-called smart people---the Jon Stewarts, the Steve Colberts and the Bill Mahers of the world who regularly tag on the worst kind of stereotypes to anything Indian and Hindu and consider it to be funny. And indeed it seems to be. Pictures of Lord Shiva or Lord Ganesh provoke uproarious laughter from the studio audience with Jon Stewart's goofy grin implying: "They worship that?"

Things would be fine if they were equal opportunities offenders. Which they are often are not. They make fun of right-wing Christian conservatives like Pat Robertson and right-wing constructs like "intelligent design" but never of Christianity and Christian symbols. Islam they wish they could but they value the heads on their necks. So it's open season for India and Hindusim (which to them is indistinguishable)--because we are, as always, easy targets.[To be fair to Stewart, he is the only person who has run a positive piece or two on India----when he once interviewed Thomas Friedman. That's about it.]

Unless the news item is totally bizarre, India is never ever considered newsworthy. Sometimes it gets to the point, where we do not even exist. Whenever I hear acts of Islamic terror being mentioned nowadays, it's London, Madrid, Bali.....and almost never Mumbai. But when it's the opening of a school of magic in a tribal region of India, it's on Keith Olbermann's countdown as we are witness to a scene from Indian daily life---an emaciated Indian man in a white langot setting his tongue on fire. Issues of importance that affect India are never covered or at best, relegated to the inside pages. But when it's Sushmita Sen pacifying a snake on the sets of "Zindagi Rocks" it's on friggin CNN !

Okay so perhaps they are ignorant. Perhaps they don't really care about people who are not white and don't have oil. Perhaps India as a nation of dark magic and flying sadhus is a more comforting stereotype than of it as a vibrant, progressive democracy with a booming economy, a nation that no longer holds a beggar bowl.

But what about Indians themselves ? Why do Indians, the moment they write for a foreign media outlet, start pandering to the stereotype rather than trying to puncture it? Why don't they define their own vocabulary instead of talking in the language of condescension? Mind you, India has many problems and highlighting them is essential. A post about the power problem in India (a fair one, not suggesting that it is abysmal compared to other regions of the world) would be fine. Criticizing what we do wrong (and there are many things we do) is kosher too. [I am the last person who equates grounded-in-fact self-criticism with unpatriotic].

However this "poor Indians salivating over first world facilities" is not self-criticism. Hardly so. It's a dash of "first world" patronizing injected ironically into a piece that should have been celebrating India's embracing of the 'new information age media' (wonder how many of the non-snake-charming advanced nations would have so much enthusiasm for a conference on blogging). [Incidentally, my first world apartment has a woeful paucity of plug points]

And the tragic thing is that the GigaOm piece I led with is relatively inoffensive considering the other muck that is churned out about us, often by Indian and India-born writers.

In case there are any first world people reading this piece let me make it clear. We do not have a cow racing C1 circuit in India. We do not have motherf**** snakes in our motherf*** houses. We do not fight on the streets about caste. What you see on TV as "India news items" is as symbolic of today's India as the cross-dressing man, who comes on Jerry Springer confessing to having a secret affair with his midget brother-in-law, is of American/Western society.

Please do not misunderstand. Do write about the crazy things that happen in India. After all Sushmita Sen, with sand in her chest, seducing a snake is as newsworthy a thing as anything else in the world. But then be even-handed and also highlight the more mainstream things--like bomb blasts, terrorism, elections, progress-- just like you would do for England. And even France ( a country US loves to hate).

Okay that's enough for today. Let me now get into my third world groove by partaking a bar of cow dung before I start practising for my show on Saturday----pulling a bullock cart with my moustache while a snake plays around in my white, stained dhoti.

Book Review: Hippo Eats Dwarf

greatbong — Fri, 12 May 2006 00:11:11 EDT

With so much information available on the Net in addition to all those emails rotting in your inbox about the terminally-ill girl who will be given a dollar for each person you forward this mail to, deadly flesh-eating bacteria on toilet seats and the extremely attractive business offer from Ms Bogote of Nigeria, the question that needs to be asked is:

"What should you believe?"

Not much if you go by "Hippo Eats Dwarf" written by Alex Boese that serves in a easy-to-digest fashion a fascinating road map to navigate hoaxes, viral marketing strategies, urban legends, gimmicks, body modifications and dishonesty of all shapes and sizes.

I am sure we all have our ways of deciding what to believe and what not. First there is the common sense test which should tell us that if Ms Bogote of Nigeria , who does not know how to spell my name correctly, still considers me to be the most trustworthy person in the world to whom she can entrust 100 million of her ill-gotten wealth, then perhaps there is more to it than meets the eye.

And once the story passes the common sense test, (after all cats can be grown in jars--right?) then you do check on snopes.com.

However "Hippo Eats Dwarf" goes beyond merely urban legends-busting. Sure the classic urban legends (Bonsai kitten and the like) and well-known confidence scams find honorable mention in its pages.

But that's not all.

There are stories of viral marketing campaigns, dishonest reporters who file "frontline" war reports from their bedrooms, Zionist conspiracies that consist of stealing your private parts, dishonest advertising engaged in by some of the biggest names in the corporate world and PR firm/government supplied promotional information/propaganda being passed of as news by otherwise respectable media outlets.

This is precisely where the imaginatively titled "Hippo Eats Dwarf" becomes truly interesting.

A caveat. This book is not a serious, scholarly analysis of media trends--the name and the cover art should have been enough to convey that. However, beneath its fluff of frivolity, it still manages to convey its central theme, anecdotally, that while our common sense can filter out much of the garbage that passes for information in today's connected world, there are also insidious well-thought-out falsehoods , coming from seemingly trusted sources, that are cleverly designed to pass under our tripwire of credulity.

While this realization itself is not a surprise, the way this diffusion of falsehood is achieved is rather illuminating.

In conclusion, if not for anything else, just read this book to see how wild and wacky the human mind can be.

Editor's Note: Sujatha Bagal's review of Hippo Eats Dwarf is also available on Desicritics.

Skeleton in the Wardrobe

greatbong — Thu, 6 Apr 2006 00:05:17 EDT

Chunari gayee Sarak sarak sarak

Devdas (2002)

Shocking. Simply shocking. Unless you have been living under a Stone, you should know by now about the cataclysmic attack that was inflicted on Indian culture and our traditional way of life during Lakme India Fashion week.

Yes I am referring to the wardrobe malfunctions of Carol Gracias and Gauhar Khan which lay bare to the watching eyes of millions a set of female breasts and a woman's derri�re.

Of course the debauches will try to convince us that these were accidents and there was no foul play involved. The pseudo-logicals and the apologists will put forward the argument that if people are already 85% naked, how does 87% make it any worse?

To the first group, all I shall say is that lightning does not strike twice in quick succession. Even if one has 15 girls showing off 35 outfits in 20 minutes. And to the second group I say that it is that 2% which is the titting sorry tipping point---why even Carol realized it when she slumped on Marc Robinson's shoulder and cried copiously after the event.

And why do you think she was crying? Well I think she realized that it is going to be tough to get her married off after this horrible event. If it really was nothing, then she should have been saying "Gracias"--right?

So yes--yes it is a big deal. That 2%.

Indian culture cannot and should not tolerate the display of naked breasts, even for a blindingly brief nanosecond. We are addicted to the boob tube. We have old boobs for politicians. Any more will surely rupture the country's moral fabric and expose the junk in our trunk.

And that cannot be tolerated.

This "wardrobe malfunction" thing has always been an euphemism for the worst kind of vulgarity. Its origins are in the infamous Justin Timberlake-Janet Jackson rumble during the Superbowl half-time when the entire US population was treated to a gratuitous display of breasts as Ms Jackson's top was torn away by Timberlake. According to Justin, he was expecting something underneath it, Janet claimed she did not know Justin was going to do that - in short, it was all an accident.

Did anyone buy it? No. They however did buy a shitload of Janet Jackson CDs after that---in the process giving a huge boost to her sagging career.

And why did they not buy the "accident" theory? Maybe because Mr Timberlake was performing a number that had the line "Bet I'll have you naked by the end of this song" in it.

In the Carol-Gauhar case, things are not so open-and-shut. Correction: they are open but not shut.

Which is why I welcome the initiative of one of my favourite politicians: Deputy Chief Minister R R Patil who, in a transport of immense sagacity, has directed City Police Comissoner A N Roy to check all video clippings of the slips and investigate if this was a deliberate act.

A brilliant use of our policeforce's time and taxpayer's money as roomfulls of hyperventilating men shall watch and rewatch (in super slow motion) the offending video clips late into the night and try desperately to find hidden clues, exercising the mythical "kanoon ka lamba haath" (long arm of the law) for the good of the people.

But I am not sure that merely watching the clip a 100 times will be able to solve such a delicate case as this. Clues may be revealed but the case will not be solved. In order to make the case "stand" we should have re-enactments of the act in front of an audience comprising of politicians and other eminent beings who have the total interest of the country in hand.

The models should be made to recreate the scene over and over again while the Patils and the Thackerays compare notes so as to get a grip on the situation. Fingerprints should be collected from the exact "scene" of the crime and for that special agent Amar Singh should be brought in so as to get to the bottom of the case pronto.

What is worrying for me is that if this goes unpunished, it may start a new age of copycat malfunctions. What is there to prevent Laloo Yadav, who like Carol Gracias reportedly has an aversion for underwear, from stage-executing a dhoti malfunction during a Janata Dal rally to win back his Yadav support ?

Is that the kind of open government you want?

I do not think so.

And to all those slaves of the Western world who say we are over-reacting over a small issue, I have one thing to say:

Zip it.

[Update: The case has been solved. It was an accident. A cover-up if there was ever one. Disgusting.]

An Indian Aesop's Fable

greatbong — Tue, 28 Mar 2006 18:10:11 EST

Aesop was sitting on a tree stump. Around him were the townspeople--eager to hear a story.

"Not so long ago" began Aesop, "there was a husband and wife."

"Once they went to a shop to do some gift shopping for Durga Puja. The wife was selecting the saris and the husband was watching paint dry on walls.

Presently, she was shown a sari by the officious storekeeper. It was worth 50 gold coins. The excited wife told her husband:

'Wow what a beautiful sari'.

The husband looked into her brown eyes and said:

'You want to buy it for yourself?'

She said 'No no, not today. Today we buy gifts for others.'

He said: 'Buy it for yourself since you like it so much.'

The shopkeeper piped in: ' Excellent choice madam. Only one such beautiful sari in the entire boutique in this price range. Else we can go up to 100 gold coins, and then saris are all this beautiful. But at this price, only piece--it's a steal madam'.

'Actually this is your mother's favorite color. Why don't we buy it for her?'

The husband exclaimed: 'For my mother? Oh we can get her anything...I know you want this...so go ahead buy it'

'No really, my darling hubby. I so want to buy this for your mother. She will like it so much. '

'But you liked it..'

'It's okay darling. I really mean it. She is your mother and I know you want to give her something really special.'

Turning to the shopkeeper: 'Please pack this up'

The husband looked at his wife wistfully and held her hand as if saying 'Thank you'

The wife glanced back with a sweet smile and went on choosing other saris.

The next day, the husband went to another shop, bought a sari for 100 gold coins and gave it to his wife.

'Surprise' he said as his wife exclaimed in delight...

With tears in her eyes, she exclaims: ' Oh you shouldn't have....oooh it's so lovely....'

'You are the best wife a man could ever have.'

'Likewise' she said as she rushed in to try on her new gorgeous sari."

Aesop stopped.

"So what's the moral of the story, oh wise Aesop?" asked a listener.

The sage smiled. And just said:

"Kahe do na, kahe do na, You are my Sonia."

The Greatest One Day International Ever?

greatbong — Thu, 16 Mar 2006 16:13:38 EST

Damn. One of the downsides (among many) of being away from my "homeland" is being unable to follow cricket matches on the telly--even if I am barely able to catch the ones involving India sometimes, there is absolutely no chance of following matches played by other countries.

Which is a pity because you can only appreciate the subtlety of this great game when you are watching a match between two teams--none of which you feel emotionally tied to.

Double damn then because I missed out on watching live the South Africa-Australia game (even though I followed the last overs on Cricinfo) and thus was deprived of seeing what is being touted as the greatest One Day International in history?

But wait, here's my question. Based on what criteria is this the greatest ODI ever?

In general, I have issues with the use of absolute superlatives like "best" and "greatest" in serious sports writing. Of course we do use such terms always--like "You are the best husband", "This chicken is the greatest", "Anna Nicole Smith has the biggest..."

However, we usually confine such hyperbole to informal conversations.

We don't use such words in a research paper. Neither in a presentation to the boss. Not also in a job interview (Saying "I am the best candidate for this job" may not be the best way to ace it--perhaps Gautam Ghosh can tell us more).

If such be the case, then why do serious sports writers use superlatives in such a loose way?

Coming back to the main question: What makes this the greatest ODI ever?

It would be a combination of these three, non-independent reasons.

1. An unheard-of, unbelievable number of runs (434 ) were scored by Australia and even that mammoth total was overcome by South Africa.

2. The finish was extremely close.

3. The cricket was of an exceptionally high standard --so high so as to have never been seen before in cricket.

With respect to point 1, it is undeniable that this match has set a new standard for what a safe total is---it has now been shown that even a required run rate of 8.5 over 50 overs is attainable. Anyone who has ever played cricket (as opposed to Stickcricket) knows how nigh-impossible this rate of scoring is. And yet it has been done-a barrier has definitely been broken.

But such barriers have been broken before too. There was a time in the not-so-distant-past when a dream start meant 50 runs in the first 15 overs. Krish Srikkanth's over-the-top hitting in the 1985 B&H Cup changed all that. No captain had the courage to go into a ODI match with spinners--and that too with two of them. Gavaskar did in 1985 and India became the best team in the world. This was pretty revolutionary for that age. And then Jayasurya came in 1995 and 100 runs in 15 overs now became par for the course.

However none of the matches where the bar was raised on scoring rates would ever deserve the label "greatest" --would it?

Now point 2. There have been several matches as close or even closer than this game. At least South Africa was on course for the total from the get-go--there are countless games where one of the teams have fought back with their backs-to-the-wall and scrapped out a miraculous victory. How come one of these matches do not qualify for the sobriquet "the greatest"?[For example: the India-Pakistan Shajah Cup Final 1986]

Lastly point 3. It is very difficult to quantify "standard of cricket" and almost nigh impossible for anyone to say that the high standards (if they were indeed high in the SA-Australia match) have never been attained before.

Here's the bigger issue. How is "standard of cricket" quantified ? Merely by the number of runs scored? There are pitches where scoring 30 runs takes more skill than scoring 178 on such feather-beds. Also remember (and it is difficult to remember this) that cricket is a battle between "bat and ball"--if the batsmen can pile on runs at 8.5 p/o over 50 overs: how does that translate to great cricket? Great batting-perhaps. Great bowling--oh no sir.

In this respect, this match was not a close contest. It was total domination of bat over ball--a one-sided battle where one of the fighters had no chance. How is it in any way different from one of those myriad Australia-Bangladesh matches where the only point of interest is to see if Rajin Saleh crosses 10 or not?

A four and six are exciting because they are supposed to be few in number. That will not be the case if teams regularly make above 400--as a comparison, how exciting would goals be in soccer if they became as commonplace as baskets in basketball? [There was once plans to do away with the goalkeeper to make soccer more exciting---ridiculous]

I fail to understand how this match is any "greater" than a match in which a side chased down 270 in 1988 [Getting 270 then is about as miraculous as getting 440 now] or a match where 123 was successfully defended?

Call me an old timer but I pine for the days when chasing 250 was a challenge. Even then we had close finishes, dramatic reversals, moments of drama but the game in itself was more equitable.

I remember an unofficial (I am not sure of that) match in 1984 in Delhi (day and night) where India squeezed out an almost-impossible victory against Pakistan. There it was Kirti Azad who played a dramatic, hard-hitting innings that helped us win once our top order collapsed (somethings don't change). At the height of his orgy of sixes, Mohammed Nazir the Pakistani spinner bowled a maiden over to Azad with supreme skill.

That was what defined the "greatness" of cricket--a seamless interleaving of two battles --one between two teams and one between bat and ball.

Not any more.

Movie Review: Chingari

greatbong — Mon, 13 Mar 2006 00:09:10 EST

[Caveat: Mild spoilers. And some dialogues have not been translated from Hindi because the charm would be lost in translation]

Kanti Shah and TLV Prasad, two of the masters of the craft of celluloid, have stiff competition.

There's a new camera-slinger in town. And she is taking no prisoners.

Say hello to my not-so-leetel friend--Kalpana Lajmi who delivers an M-class (Mithun) movie with "Chingari".

It is not an exaggeration to say that the whole of India was awaiting "Chingari" with bated breath. After all this was the movie where Mithun-da allegedly inappropriately touched Sushmita's appendages during a rape scene. This was also the movie where the hero, Anuj Sawhney claimed that Sushmita sexually harassed him by intentionally messing up her love scenes a record 36 times so as to repeat the intimate sequences again and again.

And would you believe that the actual culprit behind the rumours was none other than the movie producer Vikas Sahni who thought he could recover some money by spreading such spicy canards?

Frankly I was a bit apprehensive about the movie--would Kalpana Lajmi, the uber-feminist be able to bring out Mithun-da's true potential, honed through acting with some of the most noted anti-feminists in world cinema like Kanti Shah ( whose dialogue from "Loha": " Chatri hoti hain kholne ke liye, chador hoti hain udne ke liye aur chokhri hoti hain cherne ke liye" led to worldwide protests from bra-burners)?

But now I can tell you the answer: Yes.

Adapting a story as original as any B. Subhash could think of, stacking it with dialogues Kanti Shah would be proud to sign off on and extracting histrionic performances from the protagonists in the same subtle way patented by TLV Prasad, Kalpana Lajmi has truly entered the pantheon of Gods.

Starting from "Classic Dance of Love", Mithun-da has gradually cast himself as a "religious villain' in the process perfecting the art of Sanskritized vulgarity--leching and molesting in Kalidasian style. Throughout his life, Mithun-da has played the hero, bringing much grief to his screen sisters who have never been able to go past the fifth reel alive or unmolested. And so in the twilight years of his reign, Mithun-da has decided to cross over to the dark side---doing onto others's sisters what had been done to his through the years.

"Chingari" opens with a sequence Kanti Shah would have wholly endorsed. Cast as Bhuvan Panda, the all-powerful, hyper-fornicating village priest, Mithun-da's baritone pierces the pregnant silence with a primal "Aiyeee Mahakali".

A naked virgin sits on the lap of Mithun-da, as his voice, dripping with unbridled lust calls out:

"Nirvastra ladki mere jaang ke upar baithke mere vasna ki aag bujhayegi".

Amazing. Kanti Shah, for all his genius, may have made Mithun-da say:

"Naam hain mera Bhuvan Panda, Ghumta hoon haath main leke danda".

But I doubt whether despite meaning roughly the same thing, it would pack the same punch as the one in "Chingari".

Demonstrating that Ms Lajmi has her finger on the ahem hearts of the male population, the next scene is a catfight between two scantily-clad female extras, their bodies intertwining in a way some lesser souls may find vulgar. (I did not). And Sushmita Sen, playing the role of prostitute Basanti is introduced into the mix dramatically as she cheers the fighters along while shouting "Chinaal", "Randi" and other assorted terms of endearment.

Truly a "woman of substance".

The cause of the dispute: the two fighters had engaged in a threesome with a client (yes this is the typical North Indian village) and they were fighting for their share of the revenue (like the Ambani brothers) while Ila Arun, the golden-hearted madam who no longer has to ask "choli ke peeche kya hain" since she knows it is saline solution or sand , derides the customer for "eki ticket mein do do maaja" [Pay for one ticket, enjoying two movies])

In this rather functional world, comes an innocent postman Anuj Sawhney who falls in love with Basanti. This is the cardinal crime in the village because Basanti is Bhuvan Panda's mistress. But that does not stop the postman who keeps on writing love letters to the prostitute--using the knowledge he gleaned from Pablo Neruda.

Sorry wrong movie--no Neruda here.

But there is an effeminate gay tailor (arent they all?)--Chintoo Darji who has a photographic memory for the vital statistics of all the denizens of the house of ill repute.

Mithun-da and Sushmita's sex scenes are what hold the movie together. While lesser directors might have tried to make such scenes exploitative of women, feminist director Kalpana Lajmi turns the stereotype on its head. Though she does give into commercial considerations and lovingly follows Panda's lascivious glances over Sushmita's sand castles, such aberrations are mercifully brief.

For most of the time it is Mithun-da who exposes more than Sushmita as Kalpana Lajmi uses innovative camera angles to capture Mithun-da's ample man-breasts. Verily it is Mithunda who shows more skin than Sush and honest to God, it took my breath away.

But what took the cake for sheer eroticism was the almost-conjugal pillow talk between Mithunda and Sushmita -samples of which are provided without translation.

Sample 1. Mithunda :"Tera kaam bistar pe charna, cycle pe charna nahin"

Sample 2. Mithunda: "Manoranjak Kutiya"

Sample 3: Mithunda: "Kitne doorgandh a rahi teri shareer se"

Sample 4: Sushmita: "Noch loon teri aankhen, kaat loon teri jib"

It would have been very tempting to let Mithunda walk away with all the command scenes. But like a true feminist director, Kalpana Lajmi allows Sushmita Sen her time in the sun. This is truly Sushmita's movie and she elevates herself to M-dom (Mithun-dom) by not only attaining the "top" but by going over it by some distance.

Eyes rolling, lips frothing, hair swinging, hollering and whispering Sushmita does to method acting what the Boston Stangler did to door-to-door salesmen. It is solely due to her histrionic abilities and Kalpana Lajmi's inspired direction that "Chingari" becomes a horror movie at the very end (kind of like "From Dawn to Dusk") when Sushmita penetrates Mithun-da (with a trishul--what were you thinking?) after playing the drums and subjecting him to a crazy war dance.

If this movie does not arouse the audience into action, then nothing else will.

Let me conclude by describing a small scene that crystallizes the essence of "Chingari".

A client comes and offers Sushmita Sen (Basanti) five rupees for service.

While in a bygone era when men ruled, Gabbar might have said " So ja beta so ja nahin to Gabbar Singh a jayega" in Kalpana Lajmi's brave new world it is Basanti who holds the phallic whiphandle.

Hence Basanti says to the stunned client:

"Let ja, Basanti a rahee hain"

Yes - it's that kind of movie.