I am moving ;)

Hey,

If you are reading this, you probably have been here before, or you are coming from a friend's blog, or you are a spamming bot.

If you are the first one, then I owe you my apologies for not having posted regularly here, for more than a year now. While work and my new film have kept me busy, it has also been because I have been writing elsewhere as well (mostly on social media and nothing earth shattering). Sorry to have kept you waiting and thanks for considering this place worth enough to come back to!

If you are a first time visitor, welcome to my World. Its not as much of a ghost town as it seems here ;)

If you are a bot then hey, you know the drill! Just go down on my post and blow it up ;)

Folks, the point of this post is to let you know that I have moved Filter Coffee to a different address. Mostly because Wordpress gave me more options to consolidate my stuff from other places and also customize. I hope the smell of fresh paint will motivate me to post more and better. Come over!

Cheers,

K

On Time Arrival...

It sure is a Dying Art.

Since time immemorial, one of the toughest questions ever posed to mankind has been “What is the best time to reach the airport for a flight?”

Millions of homosapiens including scholars, mothers, politicians, the common woman and the uncommon man, have tried different strategies over the last century (which is kinda time immemorial), without any credible answer. But on this fine June morning, circa 2011 AD, I might have cried ‘Eureka’ – Not while in a bathtub, not while running naked from there, but while taking a piss in this unreasonably cramped Jet Airways 9W 822 toilet.

The answer my dear friends, has nothing to do with flights. In fact, it hardly has anything to do with travelling. ‘Be the last person to get in, without dissing anybody’ is IT and I request you to hold your applause for a moment.

Let me first explain.

Imagine that your friend invited you and another person over for coffee. Or better still, beer. Now, if your friend is anything like my friends, she is likely to reach the place 15 minutes early (its not about the beer. My friends are just made that way). And if You are anything like me, you are probably going to reach there ten minutes late. Of course this would have been caused by bad traffic (which, contrary to popular imagination can happen on Sunday afternoons. Sometimes.) or an asteroid missing you narrowly. And when you walk in, questions will be raised about your punctuality, repeat offending, birth, etc. I don’t blame them. But the real, logical truth of the matter is that your friend was 5 minutes more unpunctual than you. And you my beloved, are the only person in that room who arrived closest to the scheduled time.

Relax your brows.

Think about it honestly. When beer is being served at 3:00 PM, you should arrive as close to 3:00 PM as possible. By arriving 15 minutes early, you are taking the host for granted, you are running the risk of catching him unprepared, you are patronizing warmer beer, you are being non-optimal in the usage of your lifetime, you are being a global warmer, but most importantly, you are just being an ass. Now, how that is better than arriving at 3:10 PM, is beyond me. In fact, the guy arriving at 3:10 should reserve the right to criticize, make fun and question the birth of anybody who came more than 10 minutes early. I am sure your high school math teacher will agree with me.

By the same logic, the most punctual guy on a flight is the one to board on the dot, without dissing anybody. Not the guy in 16C, who boarded a full 37 minutes before take off. Loser. Now this is by no means an easy ask. Your loved ones at home are gonna experience some high BP. The cab guy who you asked to break neck, will curse your unborn children. You might end up having a man-to-man chat with the guy at the check-in counter, who would claim that ‘Delhi is closed’, as though it was a fucking sandwich box. He will eventually let you check-in. The restless souls who have been in the security queue for hours will open their jaws in a synchronized manner when they see you ‘officially’ cut the queue, escorted by an airline staff. But then my friend, like Aamir Khan will tell you, you cannot aim for success, if you don’t have the stomach for excellence.

Like I said, it is a Dying Art. One that our friends and family, should help us revive.

PS: Please appreciate presence of the Salvador Dali picture on this post even though it doesnt have any bloody connection to the topic.

with Love & a DSLR...

I saw two amazing films on Saturday night, made with love and with absolutely no artificial lights. One was a commercial and the other, Amol Gupte's "Stanley ka Dabba". More on the former, later.

"Stanley..." is an impossible film. Not just because the synopsis would have struggled to go beyond three and a half lines, but because it was shot on a still camera, on real people, with the only equipment hired being Love and probably a tripod. At a time when films are shelved for 'lack of overseas investors' and when pre-production starts a year before shooting, 'Stanley' is a slap-in-the-face reminder of why people started making films. And also, of why we go to the movies.

The worst thing one could do to the picture is to call it a 'Children's film'. Amole Gupte, who wrote 'Taare Zameen Par' (and was at the helm of that film for the most part), does not have a brilliant idea that he had made into a film. There are no soundtracks that will soar in the charts. Hell, the climax is not even a surprise, considering you figure that part out by scene 3. But you lose yourself in the screen, right from the first scene because the world he recreates is one where you have been. And one, whose smells and sights you remember intimately.

Apparently, the film was shot only during the 'theatre workshop' periods on saturdays and everybody but the protagonist (Partho Gupte), was just sitting through a class while the film was shot. But how a film 'is made' should never decide how 'it is viewed'. The details on this one - the mafia don-ish air of the kid playing 'Aman Mehra', the searching nostrils of Amole Gupte playing the Hindi teacher (I could almost smell the pan he was chewing), the tilted sticker of 'Mother Mary' on the glass door and the 'tadka' on the dal, couldnt have been captured better on the most expensive Arriflex on earth. For once, I absolutely did not mind the noisy kids inside PVR Saket or their squeaky shoes. In fact, it was a refreshing change to see such a long queue of boys and girls lining up for popcorn!

Watch this film, not because you were a fan of 'Children of Heaven', not because you support independent film, not because you want to take your child to a film without item numbers - but because this is the purest transition of an idea from heart to celluloid, that you will see in a while.

PS: Dont miss:
1. The opening animation of 'Amole Gupte Cinema'
2. Divya Jagdale's brilliant portrayal, which is an ode to all science teachers in India!

Ode to the comic fan

I first saw 'Unbreakable' when it was released in 2000, in a theatre in Brigade Road, Bangalore. I last saw it on TV yesterday. In between, I must have seen it at least 10 more times. Thats almost once every year, but I am still excited about it. Ironically, this is exactly how I feel about my superhero comics as well. I know exactly when Batman or Phantom or Bahadur is going to deliver the punch that'll put the villain out. Yet, I crave for it and feign the surprise that lets the goosebumps appear in key, pre-decided scenes of the comic. Surreal.

It was Shyamalan's absolute best as a writer and definitely up there as a director. It was also the time when the creator was always one step ahead of his audience - be it the climactic shock of 'The Sixth Sense' or the fantastic unraveling of 'Signs'. Far cry from the present, where he is huffing and puffing to catch up with his audience by the end of the first hour. Exhibit A: The simplistic 'Lady in the water' and the bizarre 'The Happening'. 'Unbreakable' though, is completely different from the rest of his cinema. Yes, it has the trademark 'shyamalan moment' at the end which hits you hard and 'ties it all together', but it is not a deceiving script that is written backwards from there. To borrow Elijah's (Samuel Jackson) words from the film, "This is a piece of art".

Some of this film's most powerful aspects are its smallest touches.

Like how all key moments in the film begin with a frame that is upside down - like how David Dunn's (Bruce Willis) son looks at the TV news reporting the accident of his dad's train, lying upside down on his couch. A brilliant metaphor for our askew perceptions.

Like how just the frames give David's character that super-hero shadow, though he is written as a regular guy. Five minutes into the film, you see the silhouette of David, standing inside the stadium with his regular raincoat on. Except the hood is exaggerated into a cape-like look; Even the name David Dunn has the same 'syllabic' ring to it as a Peter Parker or a Clark Kent.

But the most brilliant part of this film is how the character of Elijah is etched out. The absolute anti-thesis of a 'villain', because of his own frailty. Also the reason why every single scene that involves Elijah's character is associated with 'glass' as a metaphor. The opening scene of the film where Elijah's mother gives birth to him is almost entirely shot as a relflection on a mirror; The conversation between Elijah - the boy and his mother is shot as a reflection on a TV screen and he chooses David's car windshield to leave his note. And of course the more 'in your face' metaphor of his glass walking pole. When he announces to David in the last scene of the film "The kids. They used to call me Mr. Glass", you not just go through the 'Shyamalan moment', but also momentarily get nostalgic with all your favourite villains from Lex Luthor to Evelyn to The Joker.

The film also had some fantastic lines. There is a scene when Elijah asks David if he wakes up every morning with a 'feeling of sadness' and when David says 'yes', Elijah explains how that is because 'you are not doing what you are supposed to be doing'. That was a powerful line, one that everybody watching the film - comic fan or not, would remember and replay in their minds. I did, for a long time and I still do. In a scary, sentimental way, I even get what he means.

The film did not win any major awards, except from the Academy of Science Fiction, Fantasy & Horror. It is not even top-of-mind among Shyamalan fans. But for me, it will always remain his best and probably the only film that ever married real life to the comic fantasy of our childhood.

of kings, freedom fighters and childhoods

Weekends in the 80s were worth looking forward to for a few reasons - The prospect of He-Man on Sunday morning TV, followed by episodes of Mahabharat and 'Fairy Tale Theatre'; The hope of a long session of underarm cricket on the road in front; Weather permitting, even an hour or two on a bicycle hired by the hour. But nothing had us more excited than Dad coming home from work, carrying new issues of Amar Chitra Katha. The prospect of being transported to a whole new world through those colourful, graphic pages was and still remains overwhelming.

I have not known a childhood without ACK. So for me, it has been a grand parent, an encyclopedia, a friend and an oracle, all rolled into one! Those pages always had a way of breaking down profound revolutions, complex epics and mythological mysteries into simple rectangles of conversations that you would always understand and always remember.

Stacks of ACK was pure currency for a kid in the 80s. Worth much more than a pile of Enid Blyton or Hardy Boys or even notes from the science class. And definitely more trade-able than any of them. And come vacation, the most painful bit was to split your stack with your sibling. Of course in my case, it always helped to have a sister whose taste did not overlap with mine - mostly. She chose the Panchatantras and stories of Kings, while I chose the Mahabharata and the freedom fighters biographies. It of course never mattered that both of us have read every single comic, five times over. So the real fight was over the one thing that we both loved - The Jataka Tales. And till date, my favourite issue remains the fascinating tale of the entrepreneur who started off with a dead mouse.

Today, it pains my heart to see these books selling more as collector's items for thousands of rupees, in fancy bookstores, way out of the reach of a majority of this nation's kids. May be it is time to create a phone app to take it back to the masses? Or publish it in major newspaper publications as comic strips, in place of 'Beetle Bailey' or 'Peanuts'? Are you listening, India Book House?

It was only when news of Uncle Pai's death came out last week, that the enormity of what he has achieved finally dawned on me after all these years. On Twitter, I found people from three different generations recalling their childhoods memories reading ACK and Tinkle. How amazing is that? Three generations, whose knowledge of most-things-Indian, coming from the same source - a comic. I guess this tweet by Anand Ramachandran sums it all up for the rest of us.

The Jessica Lull and the Trivedi Storm

The word french word 'Montage' is a beautiful term. In modern day film making, it refers to a combination of sound and visuals, edited together in a way that takes the narrative forward. It is the first thing that came to my mind while walking out of the theatre after watching 'No One Killed Jessica', because this film is as much Amit Trivedi's narrative, as it is Raj Kumar Gupta's - and that is high praise for any music director of a film, unless he/she is Andrew Lloyd Weber.

NOKJ is a foot tapping, adrenalin kicking, (supposedly) badass drama where the opening or climax is of little consequence to the viewer, as everybody knows what happened. Having said that, the film opens with an uber sexy credit sequence that is very original and fun. Right there, you know that this one has been 'crafted' and not just made. That feeling remains with you throughout the first half and that is thanks to some great casting, 'easy on the stomach' lines and 'easy on drama' scenes. Raj Kumar Gupta who gave us the Fabulous 'Aamir', obviously has learnt a trick or two from his 'Black Friday' days and wastes no time in getting over with the murder within the first 5 minutes. This is important because the Jessica Lal story (probably unfairly, but truly) is more about a nation's outrage, than the murder itself.

And I guess that outrage was what the second half was all meant to be. And for that, the writer's challenge was always going to be 'making the obvious, interesting'. And interesting it ends up being, but only because Amit Trivedi jams up a soundtrack that props the film up in many places in the second half in an almost 'Jacques Kallis'esque manner, even while everything else is crumbling around it. Case in point is when Rani's character confronts Vidya's in her house. Just when you are expecting the lines to crackle in arguably the most important confrontation in the script, the writer lets you down with some really ordinary stuff, completing a total KLPD. Cut to the candle light scene, but the audience is still bemused and fuming over the previous one. A few seconds later though, Amit Trivedi comes to the rescue, thundering over the candle march scene and voila - all is forgiven and the adrenalin is back.

What really works in the film is also its lighter moments - not just as relief from an otherwise emotionally draining subject, but also in bringing out the absurdity and irony of it all. There is a priceless scene in which the politician comes to Jesscia's house and after an uncomfortable silence, the dad asks 'chai?'.

Eventually in a film like this, I guess it all boils down to casting and that in my opinion is the best and worst things going for NOKJ. The guy who plays Jessica's dad and Rajesh Sharma as the cop are absolute gems. Rani looks like a million bucks in probably her best possible comeback film and I actually think she fits the bill perfectly as a renegade journalist. However, you can tell that the woman doesnt enjoy smoking or swearing and every time she is made to do it, you can almost see the gun next to her head. Vidya plays Sabrina like only she can and is great throughout. But I am not sure if her take on Sabrina works for the film entirely. Could it be because the audience is unable to contrast the never-ending restraint with any outburst of meaningful proportion?

There is a placard at the beginning of the film that says something like 'we have rolled all media into one entity'. That notwithstanding, it was still quite weird to see a Tehelka expose being called an NDTV sting. And the lack of any other journalists covering the case in the film gives it a slightly 'ghost town'ish feel. But then again, I guess it is that kind of a 'creative license' that also makes it possible to dramatize my all time favourite Sagarika-bashing episode on screen.

Disclaimer: My opinions about this film could have been completely influenced by the 'True Delhi experience' I was treated to at the theatre (PVR Saket) - complete with an unclaimed child running in the aisle with squeaky footwear, laughter at inappropriately emotional scenes and a loud couple in the row behind.

110 minutes

I love early morning flights. The alarm, hot shower, the sleepy good bye hug, the Meru ride to the airport, empty sodium vapour-lit roads, the bright smile of the check-in lady, the lazy yawn of the x-ray guy, the fresh brew of coffee at the Jet Airways lounge and the phone buzzing constantly with emails from countries that are about to sleep and those who have just gotten to work - pleasant reminders that all is well with my world.

The coffee had just hit its spot when the public address system announced the departure of my flight. Gate 12. This means I have about eleven minutes before they closed the gate. A five minute walk to the gate means I have another six for the 'breakfast'. I begin to work my plate. Two of life's greatest mysteries:
1. How the chefs in Jet lounges across the country, manage to make the most wonderful coconut chutneys, but just cannot make a single soft idli.

2. Why are airline fruit bowls always made of papayas and pineapples and the sourest of grapes? Is there a papaya lobby?

Pondering these, I grab 2 water bottles, put one in my bag, open the other and walk towards gate 12, which is comfortably placed right next to the escalator.

There is a spring in my step because I know that after today's meeting in Mumbai, I am going on a week's vacation for Deepavali. This also means I have till end of the day to wrap up all 'work-related work'. So, the 2 and a half hours in the flight becomes very critical. Factoring in 40 minutes for take off and landing, I should have 110 minutes of quality time with my laptop. Even if I finish 50% of my to-do list, I will have a peaceful, non-pre-occupied vacation. That is the reason I am not carrying a book on this trip. I pat myself on the back for a wise decision and appreciate the relative lightness of my knapsack.

At the aerobridge, I do the customary 'Indian aerobridge twist' - a dance movement designed to show the guard your boarding pass and also the rubber stamp seal on the tag on your knapsack, in one fluid motion - crafted after years of practice. Remember Mallika Sherawat in 'Dasavatharam', bending down to show her rack and then twisting to jut her butt in your face? Now replace Mallika with me and a knapsack and you get the drift...

A couple of cabin-crew pleasantries later, I settle down into my usual seat. Now, there is a myth that there are only two classes in a domestic flight - business and (as Tharoor would put it) cattle class. That is a myth. There is a third 'Trishanku' class and that is the 'rear exit row reclining aisles' - quite a mouthful, but totally worth it! I am a man who is not particularly popular for doing things ahead of time, but over the years, I have come to appreciate planning for 'Trishanku' - because there are only two seats in this class (14C and 14D, if you are flying a 737) and you need to web check-in at least a day and a half before if you want to beat the other Trishanku-seekers.

What follows this is one of the main reasons I prefer to fly Jet or even fly, for that matter - The fresh lime juice. When it comes to my all time favourite liquids in the world, the Jet Airways fresh lime ranks in the top 5 - along with Kingfisher, the Big banyan Cabernet Sauvignon, the Kabaleeshwarar temple 'thulasi theertham' and water.

After savouring the last drop of it shamelessly, I get ready for the take off - which usually means a quick nap. As much as I appreciate my safety, I just cannot listen to another safety briefing again in life - even if it means that I will never again witness an attractive young woman, seductively put on a yellow mask, or even if this means that someday I will end up with a life jacket that I wouldn't know how to blow into, in some faraway ocean that is rapidly freezing my balls.

Cruising altitude, seat belt signs are off and I jump to open my bag and pull the laptop out. And that is when it hit me.

There is a sign on the bottom-right part of my screen which tells me the amount of battery left in my laptop. Over the years, this particular piece of information has become more valuable to my life than stuff like blood pressure, love, world peace or sex. And presently, it is showing 3% and that means I have just about 10 minutes left - evidently, I have forgotten to put the switch on, after plugging the laptop for charging last night.

Ladies & Gentlemen, at this point, I need to clarify what this means to me. Not that I would not be able to finish my backlog before my vacation begins. Not that I will be missing a crucial deadline with a client. More than any of these, I am now left with 110 minutes and nothing to do. Not a fuckin thing! I pull out the magazine from the seat jacket, only to find that it is the same issue with the cover story on Sikkim tourism that I have read so many times, that I can recite it as a poem. I did not carry the iTouch because it is 'unsocial' on a family vacation. No book. No newspaper as this is a Jet Konnect flight. No nap, as unfortunately I had a good night's sleep. The man to my left started snoring even before I boarded and so no scope for conversation.

My worst nightmare.

I try to close my eyes and think of something useful to do. The bladder isnt full and so a trip to the rest room will be pointless. Besides, they have just pulled the food trolley out and I wouldnt wanna wait behind it like a jackass. I briefly consider reading the safety instruction booklet and decide against it. It is funny how at 32, I am prepared for most things in life but not 'Nothing'. In fact, it is quite scary. What the fuck will I do if I am ever 85, on a wheel chair, presumably blind and without a liver and in all likelihood, stuck with an unattractive mallu nurse? How will I kill time? I make a mental note to buy a pistol and a bullet on my 50th Birthday.

Back to present. The customary co-pilot announcement! (Message to co-pilots: Dear retards, let me tell you a couple of things. Stop waking people up in the middle of their naps to tell them your cruising altitude. We dont give a rat's ass if you are flying at 30K feet or at 3 feet. We gave you loads of cash, so you can worry about this shit inside the cockpit and get me to my destination. And whats with the 'outside temperature' crap? Look around you. Do any of us look like we are about to open the door and take a walk in the clouds? Why the fuck should I care if the temperature outside is -25 degrees? )

Back at 14C, I am still awake and bewildered. I rearrange the contents of the seat jacket, dust off a spot on my trousers, uncross my legs and look at my watch again, hopefully. No luck - 70 minutes to go. Now I am seriously considering switching on my phone to play poker. My thoughts drift - wife, car, boss, obama, business idea, sachin, college hottie, deepavali...and magically, I relax. The to-do list fades into oblivion, the laptop gets stowed away, the legs gets stretched and I suddenly realize that I have not done this in a long time. I have not 'just sat down' and drifted along with my thoughts, without an agenda or a care, in a long long time. And boy it feels good. In fact, liberating! I indulge for a while and look at my watch again, reluctantly. No luck - it is landing time...

Kal-man chronicles - Part I

Close

2006 US Open. Round 2. It is past 10:00 PM and I am speeding in my '97 Avalon to Kiru's beautiful apartment in San Antonio. Home away from home. I have just realized that the match is still on. That means he's gotta chance. I knew that if this thing was going down to the fifth set, Andre's got it. I park, run up the stairs and settle into the most comfortable sofa in the world.

We watch the 5th set. What a set! Andre wins. He lives to fight another day. Typically Andre. That also means he is not retiring tonight. Phew!

He loses his third round match 2 days later and retires. Ironically, he loses to a kid called B. Becker.

Cut to: 1991

I am a 10th grader, living in Virugambakkam and watching the 1991 French Open final on Doordarshan. He loses to a freak called Jim Courier, who I end up hating. Being an Andre fan since childhood means that you hate his opponents - especially the ones who beat him in a Slam final. In Andre's case though, this is a long and growing list of people - Connors, Ivanisevic, Sampras, Courier, Martin and even that midget called Michael Chang. So I hated them all, growing up.

I am not sure what prompted my admiration for this guy to begin with. The Sportstar centre spreads? The rebellion? The return of serve? The double-handed backhand? or was it just the audacity of wearing denim shorts, ear rings and a pink shirt, for a French Open final??

But denim shorts go only a little far in a making an idol. What makes Andre my most favourite athlete is his ability to bounce back - not from the floor, but from deeper in the dungeons! My tennis coach at Loyola told me something on a fine summer morning in 1995, that I will never forget for the rest of my life - "Fitness is not running 1500 meters fastest. It is about how soon you recover from that 1500, to run another 400". And Andre was that guy who could run those 400s in real life (literally & figuratively) again and again and again.

That means being #1 and managing to go down to #132 and bouncing back to #1 and doing this shit all over again for over two decades. He was the most flawed perfection ever in Athletics!

When the girl friend gifted this book last year, the first thing that stuck me was - 'wow, that is a big close up on the cover!'. Why this rugged, disturbing picture? Why not the one with the 92 Wimbledon trophy? or one of those Aus Open moments? Or one from when he had hair? Or one with Stephanie?

The answer is quite clear after the very first page. This is as honest an autobiography as any you will ever read. This one is not for the gallery. This is all about the flaws, the quirks, the embarrassments and also the triumphs and the fun of it all.

If you are one of those tennis fans like me, who rooted for this guy for most of your teens and twenties, this book is a fascinating read. He takes you through all of it - right from when he won a hustling match against Jim Brown at age 7, till that marathon against Baghdatis in 2006 - His introduction to Pete as a kid with a flawed game, his Canon commercial, Nick Bollieteri, Wendi, Gil, Brad Gilbert, Brooke Shields (in very intriguing 2 chapters), Stephanie and of course the slams! The 8 he won and the million he lost.

I remember most of those slam finals. Strangely, I even remember what I was doing at the time, while watching it on TV. But now I also know what was going on the previous night, on match day, at the court, on the ground and inside his head! And that is much bigger and closer than any ball he might sign and lob at you!

Once upon a time in Mumbaai...

These days, it is a cliche to say 'I love Mumbai during the monsoon'. Who doesnt? There is something about taking the 'black and yellow' taxi and driving around Juhu and Worli, with the high tiding ocean on one side and getting drenched through the broken rear window on the other. Let me not start on the late afternoon coffee, for I will never get to what I Really wanted to write about today.

'Once upon...' is a lot of fun. A few years back, I had sworn never to watch a Emraan Hashmi film and up until last night, I would not have believed you, had you told me that I would watch a Milan Luthria film in theatre. This is not just my kinda film. But watch I did and had a reasonably good time.

It is impossible to not like a song like 'Pee loon'. Something about the lines 'Let me drink in....for it is the season for drinking in' is very intoxicating. And Rahat Fateh Ali Khan's version of 'Tum jo aaye' is blissful.

I of course did end up squirming in my seat (something about the sofa seats at PVR make you squirm generally) multiple times during the film. It is impossible not to do so, when every line in the film is a 'punch dialogue' and said for the effect. Half hour into the film, you are desperately craving for a normal conversation. FYI, it doesnt happen until the end.

I just do not buy the fact that gangsters generally drink, smoke and play cards all day. I am pretty sure they have a life and may be even do other fun stuff! It was a technique that worked quite well in the 60s and 70s in bringing out the 'bad-ass'ness. Not anymore. It is hilarious to see Milan run out of ideas in engaging his characters and constantly letting them light cigarettes and breaking bottles for the effect.

And there are other things that put you off. But at the end of the day, it is impossible not to warm up to Ajay Devgn's swagger, the racey background score, the cuts (oh the cuts!) and the charm of the 70's Mumbai. I was especially surprised (pleasantly) by how much Randeep Hooda looked the part.

Disclaimers before the film notwithstanding, your own inner voices tell you this is Haji Mastan and Dawood - gangsters you and me loath in real life, being glorified on screen. But you just cannot quell the 'sense of history' as the film unfolds. For history doesnt differentiate between the good and the bad. There are only those who changed the world we live in.

Watch it. Like I said, it is great fun. I am glad I saw it in Mumbai and took the auto back, holding its 'leather parda' with one hand and still getting drenched a little in Mumbai's monsoon.... 'Drinking it in' and wondering if the stories shape this city or does this city shape her stories.

a film by Maniratnam

I think it was 1987. One summer night, I lifted my head from my home work to see two see two men on television, talking in a strange Tamil-English tongue, about a national award their film received. I was just a kid, but even then I was quite militant about the correct pronunciation of my mother tongue. But something about these guys was very endearing and I remember going back to my homework, thinking that they were probably from a different state.

That was Mani Ratnam and GV, talking about 'Mouna Raagam'. I saw the film eventually after many years, on VHS. Thats how we normally watched film at the Nagarajan household. Going to a theatre was pretty close to a vice for a student and the only exceptions were Kamal Haasan and Balachander - our 'white list'. You see, my dad was regimental about his views on cinema, but he did have taste.

1987 was a strange year. I was in 6th Standard and my world was rapidly changing in front of my eyes. We lost the World Cup. I finished reading the best book ever written (I was quite convinced at that time!) - 'Detective Dog Ranjha'. I fell in love with Keerthana. I saw 'The Last Emperor' and decided I wanted to make films for a living. I scored my first 100% in Maths (It will also be the last time). Quite a year for a sixth grader, no?

The year was not quite done yet. On a stormy monsoon night, I came out of Devi theatre with tears in my eyes. Velu Nayakkar had just been killed. Both me and the skies were bawling. And my stone-hearted dad was pulling me along to the bus stand, with my mother and sister trailing. Dont these people have a heart? Such a good man has just been killed so needlessly and they want me to board a crowded 17A with water pouring in from every hole on its roof?

I have seen Nayakan about a million times after that and strangely, I was not surprised when Time magazine decided it had to be among the best 100 films on the planet.

I think The Ritual started about that time. My family did not miss watching a single Mani Ratnam film in theatre for many years after. He slipped in with ease into the white list. The Ritual usually began with me and my sister listening to the advertisements on All India Radio - the 30 mts slot that was sponsored every Sunday night at 8:30 PM. Later on in life, when the Nagarajan household became economically liberalized, we even started buying the soundtrack before hand and let Ilayaraja soak our senses in his symphonies.

Then came the posters. Ah what posters! Finally, a man who appreciated white. A man who understood that a poster is not about what you fill it with - It is about what you dont.

Then came the anticipation. During the bus rides to college, the morning run, minutes before u sleep and other times when you let your mind be. What is it gonna be like? How would be have shot this song? who is this new girl? why is this Madhu Ambat and not PC?

Then the film happened. The seat that was carefuly bargained for, with the box office assistant. The biscuits from home. And then the multiple emotions.

mmm...wow....what?...wow....huh!...mmm.

Then the reviews on Ananda Vikatan. And then, the hangover.

I am no more a 6th grader. I dont think Maniratnam will feature in my list of top five film makers. I have matured enough to hate him - some times. But he is an inseparable part of a generation of film goers. Their psyche and their taste. My psyche and my taste.

Even today, as I get ready to watch Raavanan in a couple of hours from now, I am living the ritual. And I know that a Maniratnam film is not measured in hours, but in weeks and months.

Inception...

On a day when Apple overtook MS as the most valuable tech company in the World, here is the defining interview of The Two. I have probably seen this about 20 times in the last two years. It is still hair raising.

Wolfgang, you beauty!

oh, and thanks Titan Industries ;)

Short put

So Tharoor tweets...

ShashiTharoor

Naxalite KanuSanyal's suicide ydy confirms that violence&destruction hv never achieved anything positive.Wish RDB had been more constructive

really now? Kanu Sanyal led a very happy life of violence for over 3/4ths of a century. He was old, senile and unwell. And so decided to end his life at 82, as violently as he had lived it. How the fuck does this suddenly become an anti-violence message? The man must be turning in his grave ;)

How Manmohan Singh stole my burp from under my nose

Mumbai is hot. Too hot for March. And too hot to be choosing your brand of soft drink in the middle of the day, under the unforgiving sun. You just drink what you get, first. In this mad rush between your dying throat and your out-reached hand, there is no time for thought. Not the least, for the story of how the bottle you are clutching, arrived into that refrigerator.

Get out of your house. Go to the nearest department store, put your head into their fridge, close your eyes, pick any bottle randomly and look at the label behind. If it does not read 'product of Pepsico or The Coca Cola company', you can take a flight to Delhi and cut my balls off.

It is not just your cola. It is your water, orange juice, mango, apple, lime, energy drink, your pack of chips and even your breakfast oats - most of these brands are all owned by one of these two cola companies. When I was growing up in the 80s, things were a bit different. There was this company in Vile Parle, making this absolutely stunning drink called Thums Up, with cool ads. This other company making 'campy' orange drinks and heck, I even had a local manufacturer making cola under the name of Kali. In other words, I had a fucking choice. And boy, I can still taste those solid burps after that first gulp of Thums Up in 'Abilash Bakeries' as a school kid.

Things changed after 1991. A man with a blue turban opened up the gates of the Indian market and 2 bulldozers came inside, muscling their way in with superior advertising budgets. The Indian companies obviously did not have deep enough purses and so they caved in. In what was one of the most baffling moves ever in Indian corporate history, Thums Up - the then market leader with an almost monopoly in the cola market, sold itself to Coke for a measly $60 Million. Far cry from today, where we are buying global steel and auto giants at roughly 75 times that price.

And what happened to my neighbourhood Kalimark? Those visionaries, who identified the power of rural India, decades before McKinsey did? It has been reduced to a company without a website.

I read this interesting piece the other day about how Pepsi and Coke are pulling out of schools. Now I have not done an extensive research to fully understand the quality practices of these two companies or judge them from an ethical or scientific perspective. But then I dont have to. If an organization like the Centre for Science and Environment, which has MS Swaminathan as its chair person tells me that there is more pesticide content in my bottle of Pepsi than in Obama's, then I have a problem. And if you tell me they are using 7 lakh litres of water a day per plant, when some families in my town cant manage 1 litre of clean water in a week, then I have a Big Fucking Problem.

But what foxes me is that even today, with consumerism at its peak in India, we do not have a mainstream soft drink player. Yeah, the Daburs of the World (read 'Real') still try, but lets not kid ourselves. Your neighborhood tea stall is more likely to stock 'limca' or 'nimbooz', than 'Real'. Why do we call it 'fair trade' when marketing muscle can beat innovation? Why do press releases by the CSE have a shorter life than a Ranbir Kapoor Pepsi ad? How come the press is more interested in Indira Nooyi's power than her pesticides?

I dont drink Thums Up these days, as the burp brings many disturbing pictures to my mind. In the mean time, the only guy who seems to get this drift and even find humour in it is Simbuthevan ;)

PS: Remeber the famous Andy Warhol quote? "A coke is a coke and no amount of money can get you a better coke than the one the bum in the corner is drinking. All the cokes are the same and all the cokes are good. Liz Taylor knows it, the President knows it and you know it". Really? mmm...

WTF moments of this week

Read this interesting piece the other day about the academy awards jury. This is scary. You know which part? That a bunch of wheelchaired seniles warmed up to Brokeback Mountain, not long ago! Ah, proves my theory that we always underestimate old people.

Totally enjoyed another interrupted YouTube coverage of an IPL match. This time, slightly more because of the CSK win. However almost fell off my chair the next morning when I read Dada's comments. I have a question for him: Please explain to me the concept of 'death bowling' in a T20 match. With only 20 overs, isnt it more like a 'Death Match'? Whats next? calling the last ball of the inning a 'genocide ball' and that of the match 'the armageddon'?

And yes, how can you do a WTF segment without Mayawati! Read about the garland-gate yesterday. Cant help thinking it is probably up there among the funniest and the most ironic moments in Indian politics, especially coming after this press release. Ofcourse, the saddest tragedy of it all is that we can never be a caste-free nation, with people like her around. And most dont realize that.

Anyway, while on WTF, did anybody see that really annoying Hero Honda CBZ ad? The one where the guy says 'Thinking is such a waste of time'? If that doesnt go off air in the next few days, I think India might lose interest in motorcycles altogether. and more people like me would puke during supper. PIL anyone?

3 idiots and 2 hoots

I read an absolutely exhaustive account on the Chetan Bhagat controversy yesterday by Sudish Kamat. Whether you are a Hirani basher or a CB hater or a fence sitter, I strongly recommend you read this. It kinda answers the million dollar question of last week - What percentage of 3i is FPS? If you care two hoots, that is.

Honestly, you needn't.

BTW, The film is absurd at multiple levels. There is a priceless moment, which goes something like this:

Rancho: you miss your mom, no?

Pia: yes, but how did you know?

Rancho: you are wearing an old watch that is completely out of place with the rest of your attire. so it must have been a gift from your dead mom

Thats got to be the best sherlock-mush moment in World cinema history. The film also has other duh moments like man leaving home without pants, almost-dead baby waking up to a word it kinda liked from inside the womb, hero getting his girl in the end, caricature professor gags, etc. It can come across as seriously hare-brained. if you care two hoots about 'analytically reasonable' cinema that is.

But honestly, you needn't.

Coz 3 idiots is not about adaptation, finer film making, performances, etc. It is a glimpse into 'The World According to Raju Hirani' and that is an extremely warm and beautiful place that we all love to spend time in. You can have a thousand discussions regarding the book vs film but ultimately, the spirit of the film is all Hirani. And you cannot credit him enough for that.

3i will probably end up being a film that will be acclaimed and loved mostly for reasons that do not have much to do with the craft of film making. However, it does have a soul that rises from the screen and gives you a tight hug. And this, it does without 3D!

There are some fantastic moments in the film. Sadly though, some of the funniest ones have been roped into the promos. For me, the most priceless one was the operatic score that Virus shaves to, which works brilliantly in the scene when Sharman contemplates his choice between rustication and betrayal and jumps out of the window. That entire scene is as simple and hard hitting as a Haiku poem.

Then there is the scene when Rancho completes the helicopter project of Joy and flies it. When the camera hops from Chatur's room (where he is seen in his funky underwear) to Joy's (where his dead body is hanging), the theatre moves from erupting laughter to dead silence, in a matter of seconds. Coming at the end of a song, the effect is dramatic. All the news that you read about real life IIT suicides come back to you at that instant, as you realize that this scene is not an exaggeration by any means.

And then there is Sharman. He reminds me of good old Michael Bevan. Hardly the centre point of the hype surrounding the movie, this actor delivers a performance that deserves the man-of-the-match award. While he shines through the entire film, the interview scene is an absolute peach.

In the early 90s, when I walked out after watching 'Apoorva Sagotharargal', the biggest question in my mind was: fine, you can look shorter. but how does one 'act' shorter? I had a similar question while watching the hospital scene in 3i. How can an actor be so aware of his facial muscles, that he can use them to deliver a youngish grin? But I forget we are talking about two thespians who have mastered the art. The latter ofcourse has also mastered his business skills, which the former continues to struggle in.

Madhavan is too good an actor for his role and Boman can sleep walk through this part. In fact, we have come to expect so much from Boman, that even his excellent subtleties have started to come across as normal. Even then, he hits hard with the 'space-pencil' scene towards the end.

At the end of it, for me 3i is a triumph of superior screen writing. Hirani and Abhijat have created something that is resonating with almost everybody who has seen the film. And only those who have put 'pen on paper' or 'finger on keyboard' can imagine how hard that is. And for that reason alone, it is ironic that this film has run into a writing controversy. Anyway, as far as I am concerned, the lasting image of the film in my mind would be this:

remember seeing this in the film?

The only Thamizh film I am looking forward to! ;)

Kerala Cafe

Dear Anwar Rasheed,

I hope you are doing great. And why wouldn't you be. You have just made a film like no other. I want to let you know that it has been more than a week now since I saw 'Bridge', and I still cannot get it out of my mind.

When I went to the theatre on that Friday night with family and a friend to watch 'Kerala Cafe', I had bargained for different cinema. I had bargained for 10 short films. For the kind of story telling that has endeared me to Malayalam cinema over the last two decades. I had bargained for 2-3 good ones out of the 10. I had even bargained for a bunch of films that would reflect the rot that has set into Malayalam cinema of today.

What I did not bargain for, was a bulldozer of a movie to hit me head on and change the way I would look at cinema forever. I had not prepped for that and I was not ready. May be thats why I dont remember much about the 3 films that were screened after 'Bridge'.

It was the second movie after intermission I think and I had just taken another big swig from my cold coffee, when I noticed a peculiar opening shot of the camera panning down from a height, closing in on a school boy in a red hood, running on a bridge, clutching a pendant. Even in those few seconds, I could tell that this was a different kind of film. And over the next ten minutes, I did not move. I just sat there, taking in frame after frame of meticulous composition, cuts that blended with my pulse, performances that brought a lump to my throat and a music score that went straight to my head.

I did not know that it was your film, Anwar. Even after the end credits, as they were in Malayalam. And when I googled the film later on and saw your name, I was shocked. Because I always associated you with a horrible film you once made called 'Rajamanikyam'. Mmm...how we judge a book by the fist few pages!

Anyway....It is difficult to review your film Anwar, as I still have not recovered from it. May be I'll be able to do it in a month or so. But suffice it to say that it was one of the finest I have ever seen on the silver screen.

Thanks for rekindling my fires. Thanks for making me fall in love with Cinema all over again.

Ant & the Elephant

Do you like mysteries? Is there a King Solomon or an Indiana Jones hiding inside you? Is your favourite book "Treasure Island"? Have you ever contemplated Sudoku over Sex? Did you like Nicholas Cage better in "National Treasure" than "Leaving Las Vegas"?

If you answered 'yes' to at least 3 of the questions above, pack your bags, book a Kingfisher Red and relocate to Bengaluru. This is your kinda place.

wanna know why?

Bengaluru is a book of mysteries waiting to be solved. Take her roads for example. Road names are the best kept secrets in this city. You could be at the junction of 4 major roads, but there might not be a single fuckin sign telling you which is which. Moments that bring out the Sherlock in you - in every walk or drive. Magical!

Or consider the traffic signs. What is, is never what it seems to be. Take this sign for example.

What do you think it is? No Turn? That may be the right answer from 100 mts away, but as you draw closer.....

Voila! Welcome to Neverland! Its a 'No Free Turn' sign. Subtext, My Dear Watsons!! Those finely painted white letters that are visible only when you are 2 feet from the sign!

If you think it is all about just magic tricks, think again. Bengaluru also respects history. You might find a million cities in India that are modeled on Paris and Rome - stupid white-ass licking wannabes! Why look outside for inspiration when you have so much history & tradition in our own country? Bengaluru is the one and only, patriotically inspired city of our times. It is modeled exactly after Harappa & Mohenjadaro. The most striking similarity is the drainage. Just like those twin cities, Bengaluru has adopted an approach of having open gutters running along roads, for miles together. Be it the airport road or the more populous church road. Even the unbearable stench will not deter the city from its single-minded goal of following history. Bravo!

Puzzles! Did I mention them? Oh they are wonderful. Take a traffic light for example. In normal cities, you will have road signs before you cross the signal, so you choose your route. What a nonsensically boring thought! But Bengaluru is different. The signs are on the other side of the signal and so small that by the time you are close enough to reading it, you have already crossed the signal, made your decision and committed yourself to a road. Just by this one bright idea, Bengaluru makes every single commute an eventful journey that you will never forget in one lifetime.

If that doesnt excite you, there is more. Did you know that there is only one road in India, where you have to drive on the right? I will let you in on a secret - It is right outside the Garuda mall. Keep your eyes open, o' traveller, coz there are no signs and you might miss it. And if you do and keep driving on the left, you might just get mowed down by a truck and you will miss all the magic! And that would be tragic!

Oh, I can go on for another 10 days, but I would'nt want to break the surprises to you. They are meant to be enjoyed in person. So travel, one and all!!! and make that journey of a lifetime.

How did it all start? Most people say that the city became a wonderland only after corporates invaded it in the last decade. I dont know about that. I just like to think of Bengaluru as this lucky ant that a huge elephant made love to. A love that continues to charm the Ant.