Friday, November 04, 2011
I loved Ra.One so much that I want to work as a celebrity PRO or be involved with Bollywood and Hindi movies in some way. Has the world completely lost it? The horrible reviews I’ve been reading about Ra.One for over a week had almost put me off watching the movie altogether. I’m glad common sense prevailed and I shut out these so called self proclaimed “movie critics” and decided to form my own opinion.
When we can digest a Batman, Superman, Spiderman and an IronMan performing impossible and near death stunts on screen, why can’t we accept an Indian superhero? I wonder do these “critics” understand how difficult it is to direct a movie? I’ve dabbled with short film making briefly in college for five years (UG and PG) and let me tell you, it is hard! I’ve also dabbled with journalism briefly with a magazine in Bombay and the first rule of journalism is to be unbiased and not be a crusader/interpreter of information! Leave that to the aam junta. They have brains you know.
As a communication and media student, ex-journalist and amateur movie director it becomes my right and duty to enlighten the world about this wonderful movie called Ra.One. The animation is spectacular; you will have Goosebumps watching the beautiful and historic CST station falling apart. The make-up on G.One’s face was impeccable. SRK looked the part of a video game character who tumbled out of his gaming screen and into the real world.
I admit the relationship between G.One and the late video game creator’s son Prateek and G.One’s farewell scene with the boy looked right out of Terminator 2 : Judgement Day. But so what? Let me tell you as an amateur movie maker, the first rule of movie making if you are a newbie is to copy someone else’s style and eventually you will be able to create your own signature style, but that takes time and practice. So it is absolutely not wrong to take inspiration from previously made movies or styles of directing.
I cried twice during the movie. One when Shekhar Subramaniam is killed by Ra.One and his body is being taken in a wooden casket and second when G.One tells the little boy Prateek “I think I will miss you too” and his body forms little square boxes (once again inspired from the Terminator 2 villain’s body) and he vanishes into oblivion.
As for SRK speaking in Tamil and quite badly at that, I ask once again. So bloody what? Sense of humor, much? Don’t we south Indians also make fun of Hindi movies and Hindi speaking people every once in a while in our Malayalam, Telugu, Tamil and Kannada movies? Yes, we do.
Good job SRK, good job Ra.One team, you’ve done us Indians proud. We can hold our heads up high and tell the world that we have an Indian superhero now who looks cool, kicks butt with panache and I would (without hesitation) buy the action figure and put it up on my shelf along with miniatures of Batman, Spidey, IronMan and Superman.
Friday, August 26, 2011
All fathers have this disease. This disease of opposing every full stop, semi colon, comma, exclamation mark and sentence that pours out of their daughter's mouths. Around the world every little girl is born dreaming of her daddy as daddy the hero, daddy the best, daddy the cutest and daddy the easier half of the parents to bend. But as that little girl grows up so does her daddy and sadly they grow apart. Daddy dearest turns into this argumentative monster who is just waiting to tear you apart with his sharp tongue.
Little Girl : "Daddy, I think the sky is blue"
Daddy : "Absolutely not. It's purple"
Little Girl : "Daddy, do I look round today?"
Daddy : "I think so, yes. Lose some weight"
I'm that little girl and that's my daddy. We fight, till we turn blue in the face, every minute of every hour of every damn day. I'm tired. I'm done fighting. I'm officially hanging up my boots. This morning I saw a little girl sitting behind her father on a bike and she had her hand placed firmly on her father's mouth. I think it's safe to say that every little girl around the world is born to hen-peck her father. And what does this equate to? A hand pecked husband and terrified children.
I blame fathers for women turning into nags and hen-peckers. Our old man gets on our nutcase and argues with us for random reasons which in turn builds an impression in our minds that all men are mad. Sorry future hubby and children. I live with mad dad.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Mumbai. A city I’ve grown to love because the man I love lives there. Period! Three years ago I left home, didn’t take up my first amazing job offer and slogged it out in an alien city doing a job I hated – all for the sake of love. I would never let my children be so stupid, that I guarantee you dear reader. I was stupid; I don’t know what I was thinking. But my stupidity paid off. I am the happiest woman in the whole world now.
I had a refreshing five day break in Mumbai the past week – my millionth trip to the city by the way and on the flight enroute Mumbai, guess which movie I saw? ‘Going the Distance’ It’s a rom-com about a couple who try to make their long distance relationship work. Relationships are a bitch. It either fucks you over completely or makes you feel like a billion bucks. Throw long distancing to that equation and it’s a living nightmare. Poopie and I (Yes, we call each other Poopie. Don’t ask how. I don’t remember the details too well either) have spent so much time apart that when we are together for the first two days I’m a little disoriented. It takes time for it to sink in that I’m finally in a functional adult relationship and it’s not ending. Ever! Even if we have the worst fights, I know we’re for life.
I’ve had my share of non-relationships. I’ve met the slimey kind, the stinky kind, the musician kind, the smart alec kind, the pervert kind, the God complex kind and the just plain jerk kind. Poopie’s not perfect either, but he’s perfect for me. He accepts me with all my flaws which would include (1) my violent mood swings, (2) my not so great social skills (he is super friendly and has an army of best friends) (3) my perennial hunger and then guilt for binging just to name a few.
I hate leaving Mumbai and I hate (right up to the bottom of my toes) leaving him behind. Without Poopie my life is in shades of grey. I hate dolling up. I lose interest in food. I hate just being happy. I’m tired of missing him and I’m tired of long-distancing.
We have a three year plan which I don’t want to mention now. The ball is in motion and we’re chasing it. Once we get there I will blog about it. It will be titled, “The Victory Dance”.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
I've officially become a healthy couch potato. Healthy because I don't keep stuffing my face as I sit in front of the idiot box. I swim, i run, i walk and am well on the way to becoming to my old skinny self again. Plus, I've got this sexy new hair-cut. The point is, I'm just generally happy these days, must be all that "post exercise natural chemical" stuff pumping up my brain. (Do we have a doctor in the house to point out what those chemicals are, so that I sound less vague!)
Anyway, moving on to the subject at hand - Transformers. This is the second time I'm blogging about them. The first post is here (in case you're curious):- http://bonappetite.blogspot.com/2008/02/transformers.html
I love Optimus Prime and his Autobots, especially Bumblebee. He is just SO cute! And when i see them fighting with the Decepticons i just want to pinch their metal cheeks. The Autobots are huge metal toys that are every little girl's dream come true. I've had my eye on all the talking action figures for quite a while now. Mommy has promised to get me the whole set one birthday at a time.
It's so easy to forget reality while watching movies like this and wish for something fantastic to happen to you as well. How easy it would be to ditch my boring classes and become Sam Witwicky just for one day. All hail Micheal Bay! You're a genius sir for bringing alive these cartoon characters.
Thursday, February 03, 2011
For 136 minutes that night, I felt someone slapping me hard on my face and I felt anger and hatred towards the shooter (a spoilt brat politician's son whose language would put a prostitute to shame), the witnesses of the murder (the ridiculous page 3 junta who watched the episode unfold in front of their eyes and a good for nothing small time actor whose movies I refuse to watch anymore). She was 23 years old! 23! Thats a whole year younger than I am right now. How could all the witnesses and the legal system in this wretched country have denied someone so young justice? I am sending up prayers to the lord everyday to send them all to a place worse than hell.
I googled extensively on what exactly happened on that fateful night and I discovered that much of what was shown in the movie was accurate. Kudos to NDTV for taking on the "Fight for Jessica Lall" SMS campaign. It took seven years and one news channel to push forward the cause and put pressure on our corrupt legal system to do something about this heinous crime.
My respect for journalists grew even more and my seven month journalism stint came flashing back in front of my eyes all over again. I wondered whether I'd made the biggest mistake of my life by stepping away from that field of work which could have been my path of life right now.
I cried along with Vidya in the last scene of the movie, when the journalist played by Rani informed her "Sabrina you have won!" The Delhi High Court had FINALLY (only after intense media and public pressure) decided to conduct the proceedings of the case on a fast track with daily hearings over 25 days.
You will stay on in our minds and hearts forever Jessica. I hope wherever you are, you have found your peace.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
And then I committed a terrible crime. I left her behind on a rushed holiday and for six months I missed her terribly. Waking up every morning for a jog, seemed like an ordeal without her. My soul was filled with a void. Nothing could replace her. I tried finding solace in my mobile phone's FM radio stations, but I began missing my iPod even more.
I was finally able to reunite with her three weeks ago and I apologized profusely to her tiny face for neglecting her. My life was complete again and then something happened. I tugged her USB cable out of my laptop while she was charging without hitting on the "Eject" option. Hours later I tried turning her on, but she remained motionless. I tried for fifteen heart-breaking minutes and nothing happened. She was dead and I was responsible.
I cried for a long time, wondering what to do. I had lost her again. I finally mustered enough courage to explain what happened to a tech junkie and he laughed on hearing me sob hysterically. He had the older version of my baby and apparently the same thing had happened to him as well. He asked me to keep two buttons pressed for six seconds and then i saw a faint appley smile light up her face.
I thanked the stars and the boy who saved my iPod's life. A special mention of the person who brought this tiny piece of eternal joy into my life, my big brother Swaroop Mohanlal or better known as Swaroo Schettan.
Friday, January 07, 2011
The whole family had flown down from different parts of the globe to welcome the next generation. The pressure was on the mommy to be. Each day we would go to the hospital and tell her, "Please make it happen today, I have a flight to catch on the 2nd or the 4th". Each time she saw me she would tell me her gastronomic desire for the next day and I would promptly bring it for her. I presume she imagined a big roshogulla walking into her hospital room, each time she saw me. She requested Pizzas and Burgers from a restaurant called 'Ambrosia' on New Years Eve and the very next day the baby was born. I'd like to secretly believe that she had that baby thanks to my Ambrosia trip.
On the hot sweaty afternoon of New Year's day, when the family and I were lolling around wondering whether to sleep or eat, we got a phone call from the hospital saying that the baby was born at 3.13pm. We finally got to see her at 4.30pm. She looked soo tiny, fragile and helpless that I was scared to even hold her. When I finally mustered up enough courage to take her in my arms, a single tear drop flowed down my cheek and then I understood the meaning of being a kunjamma.