Such appalling has been a scribe's culture as recently as some 'hatchet' being thrown so wantonly into plebian attention. Some very conscientious person said, Publicity good or bad, is publicity. And its been a rhetorical event in our quotidian lives, like this kissing mishap that's been so earnestly covered by channels across the satellite's spectrum, that inadvertently the generic prime time viewing at homes has been debauched to hog over issues like these. Sometimes, beneath all that attention you are complementing them with, you question the wannabes of showbiz, are they anointed with controversies, are they just so felicitously present along with the media, that every hair they shed becomes manna for atleast irresponsible magazines. Incidents, they are sprawled across recent history, every recent I mean. These so called 'starlets' have apparently struck the gold of reaching out to the people, however vexed the method be.
They are a team, an endearing couple, the unscrupulous celebs and the shrewd and disgraceful media. But they are such bimbos, eggheads! Any incident like this is covered with a vigoristic commitment, and also provide a twofer to recount all such events that happened like these, but only with the sedulous participation of these celebs. Every day, worse and heinous incidents are betiding the invisible complaint registers, they are so fritteringly forgotten. talk about journalistic ethics. Facts, fabricated and promptly defenestrated are a glaring example of hypocrisy. These coverages turn out to be an efficacious showcase to laud all the devoted public figures. In all their swarthy indulgences, not only some Page3 party.
But is it so, apart from the harebraind majority of television junkies, do such pathetic stunts help. This floozy having the initials "R.S." (I wouldn't jeopardize the sanctity of this page by taking the name) is nothing more than decorative garish brummagem ware, who speaks like she is straight from the fields catching snakes and collecting berries, her rhetoric for 'justice' is so preposterous, if I was the cameraman, I would bang her head with the hot filament of the halogen, but then it wouldn't be fatal, since its probably empty. the bitch cavorts with the host for straight two hours doing the same thing that became so objectionable to her, being so profligate in her dwellings, being a 'modern' shitpot of fashion mismatch, that its fad to be get kissed in parties, and now the 'woman' is awakened. Astounding!
"Party Workers" are seemingly 8 year old kids, who don't know the capital of India, are ransacking IT offices to admonish some righteous officer's notice one of their party's bigots.
Monday, June 12, 2006
Sunday, June 11, 2006
Court de Cowardice
I am rarely so fretful and spooked out. No scenario is so edgy and flustering with jitters, than a Roland Garros Final of Federer and Nadal. God, am I so scared stiff to see Federer lose. I can't stand it. My folks are doing much better, whenever the channel is switched to the match, I perform a depleted walk-out. Every serve, every volley, Nadal is etching his way past, almost being a progenor of history. I don't know what will the match lead to, but I just cant stand to see Federer fall. Nadal's winning streak on clay, already in a league of its own, is piquing Federer and this ardent fan, like millions across the world. Its posing a daunting question, when will the tables turn? When will the reality be in accordance to the facts? The immaculate shot-making which is on a flamboyant display across all surfaces, seems to be tattered and rickety. C'mon Federer! I have a dinner bet on you. Anyways I wont have to nerves to swallow something after the unbearable happens. Come on grass if you wanna feel a child of a lesser god. You are a Hewitt or a Roddick, you are sure to be perfunctorily dispatched in three sets straight. There an ATP rank loses meaning. In a pragmatist's book, Federer ranks No. 1, and there is none from 2 to 100. Yes, a 6-4 is considered exceptional, yours being the latter figure. But this impasse on clay... I am heaving, out of breath. Federer has suvived such scares of overnight successes raising their flaccid heads once in a while. Nadal is much better I know, but all this seems to carry on just a bit too uncomfortably long. There is no one I'd look up more to in this world, Roger Federer is a luminary to reckon with, my God. Not just in his field, but as a prodigy, inspiring as a mind boggling consistent success at 24. I want to be reborn atleast as a fraction of him.
I watched his archived matches. Right from 1999, when a confident 19 year old under-17 Wimbledon champion flabbergasts the world ending the 6 title array of the indomitable Sampras, commiting his ouster. And the world has never recovered since from the realtively staid, infallible god of the serve and volley, who maintains an unemotional stupor through a tournament, and falls to his knees, tears of contentment develop as he aces Roddick for the Wimbledon 2005, the scene is still alive in my mind. He talks through the latex strings, enveloping the world to its beat and rasps harder than a yelling and irant Hewitt. Federer just missed a drop shot, not even making an effort to reach out. Federer is two sets down, and its 5-5 fourth set. Things aint looking good.
And I pray Federer wins. Nadal, I'd love your energetic movement across the turf opposite any other dude, but that is tantamount to an insult to Federer. I as an astute supporter should, and ought to believe in Federer.
I may not be a court trotting hopeful, but I admire the sport through the mesh of the racquet, and on numerous occasions finding my self engrossed in the sport's intricacy. Be it Borg or Connors, every shot across the net, and my neck is oscillating up and down.
Tennis.
Game Set Match.
Friday, June 09, 2006
Mission : Accomplished
The summer is great, sunny and succulent, more to the vexation of its inhabitor's critters, and probably it takes some amount of slick direction to create a more thermodynamically radical installment to variegate the exquisite canvas into the shady world of Agent Ethan Hunt. The movie, goes without saying was M:I:III, and after a whole day of chagrin over lack of tickets, I got reciprocation of my earnestness. My cerebral creature was squirming in disgust, firstly accounting the astringent cold, yes you do get that, all you need is a bad day and lots of dust, and of course its most paradoxical confere, the torched climate. Armed with a grouchy demeanor, I was literally lambasting anyone that did not suite my peripheral gaze, atleast what I managed to focus through the throbbing headache.
My twisted and fatigued musculature was efficaciously replaced with a plasticised one of Tom Cruise, and I was one again. One again with the mien of a spy, an agent, an emissary, conjured up through my limited but deeply gratifying devouring of Robert Ludlum. I needed this, after all the spoony candy-ass romances, porcine 'Bollywood', I beg your pardon, villains and non sensical story lines, more aptly described as perfunctory copy-paste jobs. Tom Cruise delights, to the bone. Never has he been Ethan Hunt handled with such panache and aplomb, and this time, whatever the big shots of critique would say, Ethan Hunt is reborn with a more operative persona, a relief to the wits end original version where he seems like a hapless quarry. Yes, the original did give you the thrills, tangentially defining the essence of the Mission series, but you feel a bit for Ethan there. The first sequel was more of a sleep walk through deliverance. John Woo falls just short of making an advertisement. No deft agent work, no espionage. Our agent seems infallible, threatening the very conscience of a spy thriller. Debauching the relatively better standards created by Brian De Palma, Woo was flagrant. He took the celluloid to be a drawing book, making a lurid picture bulldozing the entire crayon box, making a garish visual mistreat. But this time, though all the emotional capers of Hunt, he seems plausible. But I miss the singularity of Hunt in the original, where he is not coerced into missions for relationships or worse, love. That, according to me would give his character plenty of leverage, both as a man on job and as an unencumbered logistic. But this time however, J.J. Abrams, a television 'phenomenon', riding high on Alias and Lost, treats Hunt with his canny craft, and doesn't make the 'I'll be there, honey' rhetoric distant to the plot. You'd count Julia as one of the 'mission objectives' rather than Hunt's personal indulgence.
A good pyrotechnic job, last minute alterations, witty dialogues and cinematic glisten is all on an intelligent display here. Hunt saves the day with a mandatory luck. Lady luck, eh? Well, Michelle Mohanagan is a good girl, a warm woman, who doesn't know anything about the double life of Ethan Hunt, who she believes works for the traffic department, and all her friends believe is too boring, and thinks that traffic is a creature with a memory. Their scenes together are however cold and weak, and doesn't setup a reasonable enough premise for our hero to go halfway across the world to save her. It needed more footage.
The movie opens up with a taut interrogation scene with Cruise and Hoffman (I have a paragraph dedicated to this guy!) leaving the viewer revved up, neck deep into the story. The object of everyone's contention is something known as a Rabbit's Foot, not some ultra expensive animal appendage, but some chimerial compound, a bio weapon But like these comma separated list of inferences, its a classic McGuffin! The plots unfolds through the habitual briefing of Agent Ethan Hunt, although through different modes, all intricate in their own right, this time its a camera, with the usual caveat of immediate self destruction. Hunt is in semi-retirement, until he is lured back into active service when one of his protege, Keri Russell, Abrams' apparent favorite, goes missing in Berlin. Yeah yeah, the same old dingy recesses of abandoned factory compounds shielding entire fleets of Apache's and enough weapons to support a small army, and the intrusion is one snazzy piece of agile screenplay. Check that sequence out, its amazing, but only a filler to more bizarre sequences that Abrams is so successful in creating. Reminds me of Sam Fisher meets Solid Snake.
So we have tiny explosives implanted into heads through noses, and not to miss the playful masquerade into the Vatican to kidnap Philip Seymour Hoffman. Now this man is discerning. Everything about him, most attention seeking is his dead pan sadistic voice. He plays a black market 'provider', who is willing to furnish anything to menacing militias in the Gulf given the right price. And he does it with a disturbing composure. No he isn't a maniac, he is not an excessively sanitized power hungry freak, and certainly not a cheap gangster. He is an ingenuous mix of all these. He throws swank parties but talks like a sullen misanthrope. He threatens Hunt, "I am gonna find her and I am gonna hurt her' He says it with such a terrible mocking seriousness, that I believed him. He is an unexpected package, right from the first scene, embarks as a mean, one on one vengeance seeking behemoth, like there is no escape than to kill him, his ominous intones conveying a profound message, "Somebody stop me! And there is noting you can do..."
Mission is a clever tale, which innocuously hides the superfluidity with quick turns and twists that the viewer is too transfixed to question. The movie's most laudable and extravagant sequence of the bridge where Hunt is double crossed, he scurries across a six meter wide gap with a machine gun bringing a plane down with that, highlights the achievement of Abrams. Mission is banal, but too garnished to feel the difference. A simple
agent-recovery mission leads to a gripping trail into the highest corridor's of the IMF. Billy Crudup, Hunts immediate senior, provides the enigmatic suspense in the movie. The trick lies there. Even the most shocking moment is hackneyed, but you are too awed to be compromised. Abrams creates, and boy does he do well. All the car chases in Shanghai with a building arched drop, and Hunt shoots two guards on his head first slide
down a giant glass pyramid on the top of a building, the deadal gadgetry in the Vatican, Cruise sneaking in as a bishop, the protracted explosions in Berlin, all showcase Cruise's commitment, a contractual allegiance. Cruise gives it his all. And boy does he love to run. His sprint is a fixture in every Mission installment, the dude just loves to do it. This time through the crammed slums in China, and he never seems to collide. Whew!
The Vatican affair provides a relief from the other edgy sequences with a welcome humor. Watch Hunt tip walk over a wall and lay supine beside a camera over all by a computerized pulley, to come down on the other side stopping inches above the ground. Maggie Q comes in with something that's makes me forget her in the frame, A Lamborghini Diablo, only to be blown up. The meticulous planning here is fun, including that mind blowing latex mask 'developer', shall I say.
The plots weaves into China, where a desolate apartment finds Hunt etching formulae on a window pane with a wax pencil, to something that belies Cruise's age. The plot culminates there eventually constructing an electric climax, and we find Hunt crying. Such an anti thesis isn't it? But Abrams manages to cover that up with smart screenplay. Abrams doesn't make compromises here experimenting. He uses all his crew, to do something Alias does almost perennially, even brings in his trusted composer for the soundtrack. The match is hot, damn the fire engulfs you! Chasing the can (rabbit's foot) across the streets, ensuing in a tense car chase, Abrams familiar stomping grounds, you are treated with a cinematic richness. We also see the staid Mohanagan picking up the metal, and go berserk, she exhibits a primal comfort for the weapon. Too much for a first timer Abrams!
Hunt's cohorts, Ving Rhames' Luther and two new additions, Maggie Q, who is sheepishly underused and Jonathan Rhys Meyers, the football-shootball coach of Bend It Like Beckham. He like Q is sidelined after Match Point. Luther, now a veteran in the Mission series takes on some preaching liberties this time, commenting on Ethan's predicaments. That's character evolution, a welcome change by Abrams, from the wooden beefy geek. He does it this time too, but with a humane involvement. Not to trade off with his terse one liners, sample this, "The Rabbit's Foot is in that building. The good news, its small enough, so we can steal it. The bad news, we have to steal it." Lawrence Fishburne, the indoctrinating and brusque boss, is satisfactory, more liked for his witty one liners again. He doesn't care if your daddy plays golf with the President. Cool!
Its the perfect mediocre relief, one of the best this summer has beckoned, apart from the impending hopeful bonanza, Casino Royale.
PS: Click to enlarge the images. Some have taken an experienced eye of a pointless mobile cameramen who draws unwilling glances. So much for the contentment of my efforts. I dont take any responsibility for any misunderstandings for recognition, and Ving Rhames is really that dark! Rhys really does look like a chicken, who says bird flu's over? Maggie Q I am sorry, no photographs of yours, was busy checking out the Lamborghini and some passenger...All the third party names are expected to be kept unspoken...
My twisted and fatigued musculature was efficaciously replaced with a plasticised one of Tom Cruise, and I was one again. One again with the mien of a spy, an agent, an emissary, conjured up through my limited but deeply gratifying devouring of Robert Ludlum. I needed this, after all the spoony candy-ass romances, porcine 'Bollywood', I beg your pardon, villains and non sensical story lines, more aptly described as perfunctory copy-paste jobs. Tom Cruise delights, to the bone. Never has he been Ethan Hunt handled with such panache and aplomb, and this time, whatever the big shots of critique would say, Ethan Hunt is reborn with a more operative persona, a relief to the wits end original version where he seems like a hapless quarry. Yes, the original did give you the thrills, tangentially defining the essence of the Mission series, but you feel a bit for Ethan there. The first sequel was more of a sleep walk through deliverance. John Woo falls just short of making an advertisement. No deft agent work, no espionage. Our agent seems infallible, threatening the very conscience of a spy thriller. Debauching the relatively better standards created by Brian De Palma, Woo was flagrant. He took the celluloid to be a drawing book, making a lurid picture bulldozing the entire crayon box, making a garish visual mistreat. But this time, though all the emotional capers of Hunt, he seems plausible. But I miss the singularity of Hunt in the original, where he is not coerced into missions for relationships or worse, love. That, according to me would give his character plenty of leverage, both as a man on job and as an unencumbered logistic. But this time however, J.J. Abrams, a television 'phenomenon', riding high on Alias and Lost, treats Hunt with his canny craft, and doesn't make the 'I'll be there, honey' rhetoric distant to the plot. You'd count Julia as one of the 'mission objectives' rather than Hunt's personal indulgence.A good pyrotechnic job, last minute alterations, witty dialogues and cinematic glisten is all on an intelligent display here. Hunt saves the day with a mandatory luck. Lady luck, eh? Well, Michelle Mohanagan is a good girl, a warm woman, who doesn't know anything about the double life of Ethan Hunt, who she believes works for the traffic department, and all her friends believe is too boring, and thinks that traffic is a creature with a memory. Their scenes together are however cold and weak, and doesn't setup a reasonable enough premise for our hero to go halfway across the world to save her. It needed more footage.
The movie opens up with a taut interrogation scene with Cruise and Hoffman (I have a paragraph dedicated to this guy!) leaving the viewer revved up, neck deep into the story. The object of everyone's contention is something known as a Rabbit's Foot, not some ultra expensive animal appendage, but some chimerial compound, a bio weapon But like these comma separated list of inferences, its a classic McGuffin! The plots unfolds through the habitual briefing of Agent Ethan Hunt, although through different modes, all intricate in their own right, this time its a camera, with the usual caveat of immediate self destruction. Hunt is in semi-retirement, until he is lured back into active service when one of his protege, Keri Russell, Abrams' apparent favorite, goes missing in Berlin. Yeah yeah, the same old dingy recesses of abandoned factory compounds shielding entire fleets of Apache's and enough weapons to support a small army, and the intrusion is one snazzy piece of agile screenplay. Check that sequence out, its amazing, but only a filler to more bizarre sequences that Abrams is so successful in creating. Reminds me of Sam Fisher meets Solid Snake.
So we have tiny explosives implanted into heads through noses, and not to miss the playful masquerade into the Vatican to kidnap Philip Seymour Hoffman. Now this man is discerning. Everything about him, most attention seeking is his dead pan sadistic voice. He plays a black market 'provider', who is willing to furnish anything to menacing militias in the Gulf given the right price. And he does it with a disturbing composure. No he isn't a maniac, he is not an excessively sanitized power hungry freak, and certainly not a cheap gangster. He is an ingenuous mix of all these. He throws swank parties but talks like a sullen misanthrope. He threatens Hunt, "I am gonna find her and I am gonna hurt her' He says it with such a terrible mocking seriousness, that I believed him. He is an unexpected package, right from the first scene, embarks as a mean, one on one vengeance seeking behemoth, like there is no escape than to kill him, his ominous intones conveying a profound message, "Somebody stop me! And there is noting you can do..."
Mission is a clever tale, which innocuously hides the superfluidity with quick turns and twists that the viewer is too transfixed to question. The movie's most laudable and extravagant sequence of the bridge where Hunt is double crossed, he scurries across a six meter wide gap with a machine gun bringing a plane down with that, highlights the achievement of Abrams. Mission is banal, but too garnished to feel the difference. A simple
agent-recovery mission leads to a gripping trail into the highest corridor's of the IMF. Billy Crudup, Hunts immediate senior, provides the enigmatic suspense in the movie. The trick lies there. Even the most shocking moment is hackneyed, but you are too awed to be compromised. Abrams creates, and boy does he do well. All the car chases in Shanghai with a building arched drop, and Hunt shoots two guards on his head first slide
down a giant glass pyramid on the top of a building, the deadal gadgetry in the Vatican, Cruise sneaking in as a bishop, the protracted explosions in Berlin, all showcase Cruise's commitment, a contractual allegiance. Cruise gives it his all. And boy does he love to run. His sprint is a fixture in every Mission installment, the dude just loves to do it. This time through the crammed slums in China, and he never seems to collide. Whew!The Vatican affair provides a relief from the other edgy sequences with a welcome humor. Watch Hunt tip walk over a wall and lay supine beside a camera over all by a computerized pulley, to come down on the other side stopping inches above the ground. Maggie Q comes in with something that's makes me forget her in the frame, A Lamborghini Diablo, only to be blown up. The meticulous planning here is fun, including that mind blowing latex mask 'developer', shall I say.
The plots weaves into China, where a desolate apartment finds Hunt etching formulae on a window pane with a wax pencil, to something that belies Cruise's age. The plot culminates there eventually constructing an electric climax, and we find Hunt crying. Such an anti thesis isn't it? But Abrams manages to cover that up with smart screenplay. Abrams doesn't make compromises here experimenting. He uses all his crew, to do something Alias does almost perennially, even brings in his trusted composer for the soundtrack. The match is hot, damn the fire engulfs you! Chasing the can (rabbit's foot) across the streets, ensuing in a tense car chase, Abrams familiar stomping grounds, you are treated with a cinematic richness. We also see the staid Mohanagan picking up the metal, and go berserk, she exhibits a primal comfort for the weapon. Too much for a first timer Abrams!
Hunt's cohorts, Ving Rhames' Luther and two new additions, Maggie Q, who is sheepishly underused and Jonathan Rhys Meyers, the football-shootball coach of Bend It Like Beckham. He like Q is sidelined after Match Point. Luther, now a veteran in the Mission series takes on some preaching liberties this time, commenting on Ethan's predicaments. That's character evolution, a welcome change by Abrams, from the wooden beefy geek. He does it this time too, but with a humane involvement. Not to trade off with his terse one liners, sample this, "The Rabbit's Foot is in that building. The good news, its small enough, so we can steal it. The bad news, we have to steal it." Lawrence Fishburne, the indoctrinating and brusque boss, is satisfactory, more liked for his witty one liners again. He doesn't care if your daddy plays golf with the President. Cool!Its the perfect mediocre relief, one of the best this summer has beckoned, apart from the impending hopeful bonanza, Casino Royale.
PS: Click to enlarge the images. Some have taken an experienced eye of a pointless mobile cameramen who draws unwilling glances. So much for the contentment of my efforts. I dont take any responsibility for any misunderstandings for recognition, and Ving Rhames is really that dark! Rhys really does look like a chicken, who says bird flu's over? Maggie Q I am sorry, no photographs of yours, was busy checking out the Lamborghini and some passenger...All the third party names are expected to be kept unspoken...
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Robert Frost's Parody
This is a humiliating piece of trifle poetry, insolent enough that it may sour diplomacy between the Queen's Knightly concerns and the Indian mental fecundity
Ok check this out..
An abject parody of the miles that Frost was to go before he could sleep, and they said he died in a car crash....
Joking, anyways.
***
If it ever once would be a possiblility
That an average boorish Indian in Frost's deep dark woods be
Walking for too long, and among all greenry
He would suffice to describe his buffoonery
What would his reactions be?
I guess he would be Saying this to thee,
The Woods may be lonely dark and deep
But I cant find a dense canopy
To exhibit such an embarrasing humanity
To restrain my self from moral larceny
To hell with Frost, I cant care to be
Foolish enough to wet my baggies
For something so immaterial as society
How do the English plant their trees?
It'll be long before I can walk free
And miles to go before I pee
And miles to go before I pee
***
Ok check this out..
An abject parody of the miles that Frost was to go before he could sleep, and they said he died in a car crash....
Joking, anyways.
***
If it ever once would be a possiblility
That an average boorish Indian in Frost's deep dark woods be
Walking for too long, and among all greenry
He would suffice to describe his buffoonery
What would his reactions be?
I guess he would be Saying this to thee,
The Woods may be lonely dark and deep
But I cant find a dense canopy
To exhibit such an embarrasing humanity
To restrain my self from moral larceny
To hell with Frost, I cant care to be
Foolish enough to wet my baggies
For something so immaterial as society
How do the English plant their trees?
It'll be long before I can walk free
And miles to go before I pee
And miles to go before I pee
***
Cheers!
The R'a'mbunctious Rhymer.
The R'a'mbunctious Rhymer.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
