Doomed Twice!

I am nobody there. Nobody to think. But since I pay, I do. To watch movies is Indian. Nor does this exemplify Indianness, neither have ever been tangentially past Mumbai. But the ballets they dole out every week makes you wonder, how much does it take to mint a bill? And how much of their guts does it take for them to spill them out in 75mm of space every week, pushing the bar for illegitimate freedom of speech higher and higher every time? They will make even Late Mr. Ambedkar wonder, what was I thinking while I was framing the right to freedom of speech? Now this gamut has not been delimited to our national borders. Pakistanis suffering highs and lows every Friday due to these barefaced terrorists of human will, and we still talk of revenge? Bollywood, a kitschy name for The Great Indian Film Industry, is fraught with discontent... What does it take to make the perfect script, and to choose just the right amount of glamor to do justice to those barrels of glycerin and those Camlin Water Color(TM) bottles, primarily red and yellow, just to add that hint of master artistry, just to make the perfect Hindi movie? The term Hindi is what substantiates the entire quest, discerning it from any other filmi quest, from any boring novel published by some NY school of acting and getting-the-act-together returned junkie.


I have been a distant appreciator, some can say a benefactor of the Indian Cinema. This song-and-dance, the pomp-and-vigor, the drama-and-emotion, this whole camaraderie. These guys have even got Clooney on their sides, who thinks it would be a whole fun thing if ever these guys manage to get more than fifteen theaters in his land. But these maniacs have let me again strain my braincells, or what has remained of it through this incessant pounding of dialogues over the years. If relevant statistics are consulted, Bollywood causes more natural deaths than mineral water and paani-puri vendors throughout this land put together. But of course there is always the chance that you'll trip over the stairs of "the cinema near you" every time you are startled by that shrieking YashRaj films jingle. YashRaj Films and Ventriloquists limited, another booming enterprise, basking under the aegis of brand equity.


I stood witness to one of the latest stallions from their stylized stables, the one synonymous with the advent of biking in India and with numerous guys performing nose-wheeling with their 100cc trinkets each time they stop at a crossing or to pay their toll. It sounds like a gunshot, and leaves you fumbling for answers till the end. What a masterpiece, what a masterpiece (chorus) Bravo YashUncle, the avuncular voice of Bollywood, whatever he and his sons talk over sweets after dinner, we all love to watch and some conscientious critics love to appreciate. He has touched rare chords that resound philosophy to me. It seems he has taken to sensible reading, rather than senile works of senile people read and appreciated by even more senile people. This one has action. This one has drama. This one has three star sons! The fruits of years of shooting and earning underworld contacts. If not the others, Hrithik Roshan stands a fair chance than anybody out there, of warding off any underworld threats. If a sleuth's senses were to be aroused, each one of us is familiar by that overplayed news of his father getting threats, and pat comes the consequence, his marriage. Coming back to his latest fanzine stuff, this flick also has the eternally intellectual sides of human nature, to pardon. And like its prequel, this one also has a cliff, the warring parties reach these cliffs on bikes, there is a fall, there is a slow motion, frame by frame portrayal of the demise of the infallible thief, but he comes back, to be a changed man. And Captain Courageous pardons Sergent Sodomy of all his previous crimes against his budding romance and of course society.


I even performed Coke's mantra of viewing this one with their crisp dispensed drink. But, it did not work. Bravo Coke, Bravo! The way you fooled me. And I knew it all along. All I'll recollect is the designer and plasticized Police dressed and the geometrical patterns that they make in the shooting range on the dummies. And of course the more real chicks all around.

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