Varma brings a crisp, international feel to the story of three juvenile roommates in a dingy Delhi one-roomer who inadvertently get involved in a search for a babushka doll containing diamonds. Their madcap adventures around Delhi make for many laugh-out-loud moments, though when the tagline of a movie is “Shit Happens,” one doesn’t expect quite such a literal interpretation.

Delhi Belly belongs to the post-modern Indian film movement inhabited by movies like Vishal Bharadwaj’s Kaminey, though it is much lighter fare; think Ben Stiller in a Tarantino movie. Disastrous events like a roof collapse and a claustrophobic gun fight in an enclosed hotel room are dealt with breezily. There seems to be an implicit understanding between the movie and the audience that none of the principal characters will come to any harm and that the bad guys will get their just desserts. This makes it possible to enjoy the dramatic moments without stress, though it also makes you care less about the characters.

It is a also tad annoying when you see Indian stereotypes being exploited, like the ball-scratching street vendor, but Delhi Belly more than makes up for it with the crackling dialogues, entirely in English, but also very grounded in Indian situational humor, not an easy feat to achieve. Director Abhinay Deo, who also directed the stylish but poorly written Game, does a first class job with a much better script, though mainstream audiences will blanch at the constant swearing and casual sex.

I was surprised to find many Indian English films on Wikipedia, though they are largely art films or productions outside in India. But the language feels comfortable and natural here, as do the sexual situations the characters are portrayed in. Like the characters in Monsoon Wedding, it is obvious that the trio of Tashi (Imran Khan), Arun (an excellent Vir Das), and Nitin (Kunaal Roy Kapoor) belong to the educated Delhi elite, and it is a reality of modern India that a whole generation is growing up in the metros without wanting to or needing to speak in the vernacular.

Aamir Khan, who produced DB, pushes the envelop again; with movies like Peepli Live and Delhi Belly, his production house is doing what NFDC used to do in my youth – support emerging filmmakers with innovative ideas who want to explore ideas outside mainstream Bollywood. He’s not the only one, but his presence is surely encouragement for all the other experimenters out there. Plus, the economics of multiplexes obviously makes it possible for these movies to be made – the existence of filmmakers like Dibaker Banerjee and Anurag Kashyap is proof of that.

In Delhi Belly’s case, I suspect much of the revenues would have accrued from the music rights way before the movie released – the songs are wacky, irreverent, and fun. “DK Bose” created an internet sensation when listeners realized what the words actually were when the chorus was repeated. Aamir makes an appearance before the end credits with the peppy item number “I Hate You (Like I Love You)” dressed as Austin Powers…it is a hilarious end to a funny movie.

With its expletive-ridden dialogue, crude humor, and casual sex scenes (no nudity though!) Delhi Belly is about as far from a “family movie” as you can get. If you like the genre, it is a worthy addition. But if what you look for from an Indian film is comforting escapism, this is not the ticket for you. While audiences in India might walk out of screenings, viewers in my local Union City multiplex were roaring with appreciative laughter and unwilling to leave their seats even after the credits started rolling.

Notice I said “Indian films.” DB makes it amply clear that it is time to shed the Bollywood tag. Jai Ho!

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I saw Dum Maaro Dum at my local Cineplex last night and, for a change, the Hindi film felt right at home among the early summer releases that the Friday night crowds had thronged to.

Slick, glamorous, and frenetically paced, DMD has all the hallmarks of a summer blockbuster – a terrific plot, great music, and the non-stop action that doesn’t leave the viewer any time to ponder the script’s absurdities or inconsistencies.

When local student Lorry (Babbar) receives admission into a U.S. college but without financial aid, the Goan drug cartel sees an opportunity for a mule. After much persuasion Lorry consents, and lands at the international airport with his cocaine-laden bags. The next sequence introduces us to the “heroes” of the movie, and is worth the price of admission. Each character is battling demons, from newly- reformed ACP Vishnu Kamath (Bachchan) to the susegaad Joki (Daggubati), the networked but powerless singer.

Lorry becomes a hapless lever used by Kamath to shake up the Goan mafia in search of the elusive Michael Barbossa, a shadowy entity that appears to exercise control over the various international drug factions that have divided up Goa.

Crackling dialogue and crisp direction move the story along. The one-liners and cheeky references to Amitabh films (Mere paas maal hai!) elevate the film from a by-the-numbers underworld movie and provide comic relief to the grim proceedings. Sippy captures the sex, drugs, and rock and roll atmosphere of Goa perfectly without forcing it on the viewer; the playground of the world is beautiful, sinister, and charming at once. One scene, shot in only the ambient light of a starry night, is a testament to the world class cinematography of modern Bollywood.

Unfortunately, the ensemble cast is picked with an eye to mainstream audiences, exposing the shallowness of Bollywood talent. But Babbar’s turn as the beleaguered Lorry is memorable; he manages to erase the memory of the humble Munna from Dhobi Ghat and the insouciant Amit from Jaane Tu with a sterling performance as the misguided teenager. Daggubati is eye candy and has the most sympathetic role of the lot; the actor from the South makes an impressive debut. Bachchan is competent, but he seems to playing variations of the same role –the suave crime-stopper- in every movie. If he has any plans of salvaging his career, he needs to step away from Bollywood and search out the offbeat indie directors who can give him a new lease on life.

As a gangster flick, comparisons to Vishal Bharadwaj’s Kaminey or Ram Gopal Verma’s Company are inevitable but unfair. DMD has a visual and story-telling style of its own, and makes no bones about being nothing more than a commercial, paisa vasool, time-pass entertainer. It lacks the mad genius of Bharadwaj or the gritty realism of Verma, but it is an unpretentious, highly entertaining piece of work on its own.

As with Kaminey, the director is unable to resist providing a quasi-happy ending for his characters-are Indian audiences not ready for the messy realities of life?

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TWM attempts to cash in on BBB’s success by hewing to the same formula. The script is crisp, the language salty, and the plot heavily depends on the raucous chaos of an Indian wedding.

Despite the tradition it seeks to exploit, TWM’s wedding celebrations are more Monsoon Wedding than Hum Aapke Hain Kaun. In a clever nod to the changing times, we have Tanu (Kangana Ranaut), a foul-mouthed, cigarette-smoking Kanpur girl who sole raison d’etre is to rebel, but who is, nevertheless, adored by her hapless parents. Her antics only endear her to Manu (Madhavan), a London doctor in town to get married by his parents.

Much plot-twisting happens before the two get together in classic filmy ishtyle at the end.

Indian filmmakers (at least some of them) seem to have woken up to the fact that a good script and screenplay can achieve decent box office returns and have the advantage of being able to keep costs down by reducing the need for star power. TWM chugs along briskly, with excellent turns by the accompanying ensemble cast. There are a couple of holes in the logic, but the pace keeps you from pondering them too long. But if the movie is representative of the social mores in India today, boy, have things changed. Tanu is obviously sexually experienced, but this fact appears to be a mere footnote in the proceedings, daunting neither her parents nor her suitors. Kya baat hai! If it wasn’t for the fact that there are still incidences of honor killings of caste-crossed lovers in India, I could almost believe the premise.

Where the movie stumbles is in the casting of Ranaut as the feisty, trash-talking Tanu. Ranaut has a chameleon-like ability to blend into her movies physically, so that her look here is a 180-degree turn from the drug addicted model in Fashion, but her voice modulation is just awful. And, let’s face it, she cannot do “chulbuli.” Her talents are much better suited to the dramatic roles that have been her forte so far. One can see why she would seek out a role that would stretch her as an actress, but she is just not right for this role. Kareena Kapoor’s turn as the irrepressible Geet in Jab We Met somewhat approximates the Tanuja Trivedi character, and while that performance was not exactly award-worthy, Ranaut as Tanu falls far below even this standard, and drags the movie down. Madhavan, on his part, is endearing as the lovelorn Manu, and his lack of charisma doesn’t affect the movie much.

Another plot weakness is the denouement. Without spoiling it for the reader, let me say that Tanu’s volte face in the final moments is quite unbelievable and I wouldn’t give the new relationship a snowball’s chance in hell of succeeding. The rapid turn of events in the climax leave a slightly sour taste in what should have been a fairy-tale ending.

Still, TWM is a pleasant watch for the most part. Director Aanand Rai puts in some clever touches, like the sangeet performed to the oldie “Kajra Mohabbat Wala,” and the supporting cast, led by Swara Bhaskar as Tanu’s clear-headed friend Payal, is excellent. Krsna’s music is pleasant, with touches of the Hindustani semi-classical tradition. Watch TWM on a good, legal print on DVD when you’re in the mood for a nice Bollywood film.

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By Rohini Mohan

Guzaarish is another larger than life, flamboyant, grandiose offering of Sanjay Leela Bhansali.  Like all his productions, it seems more like a play than a movie. I enjoy high pathos, but I am not generous enough to call this one a tearjerker.

Hrithik plays Ethan, a quadriplegic, who petitions for the right to die. Sofia (Aishwarya), is his stony faced nurse and Omar(Aditya Roy Kapur)  is his apprentice.

The film is set in Goa and at first you have the unreal feeling of being transported back to the early 1900s- mainly because of Ash’s dreadful costume. With her ankle length red, white, and black skirt and blouse and outlandish jewelry  she looks like she is ready to dance the flamenco any moment (she actually does, in one surreal scene.)

However, I will say that, other than looking like a Gitana with moon eyes and garish red lipstick, the role suited Ash – it needed someone wooden and she delivered. I would question her very relevance to the plot, but will refrain. Movies do need to sell after all.

The house is a bhoot bangla in the boonies; apparently you can get to it only by boat, except when it does not suit the director. Ethan is an RJ and broadcasts from the relative comfort of his bedroom, because of course he has not left the house in 14 years since his accident. (When will we stop making these obtuse references to Chaudah saal ka banwas?)

The doctor, lawyer, and apprentice are all impossible characters – none that you actually come to love, mainly because of the consistently sub-par performances.  Nafisa Ali, on the other hand is absolutely wonderful in her brief cameo role as Ethan’s mother. She has aged with dignity and grace and remains the powerful performer she always was. Her short monologue was probably the only part worth shedding a few tears over.

Hrithik was…well good, I admit, albeit reluctantly, the reason being some moments where I believe he forgot exactly what disability he was portraying and appeared positively maniacal. However, he is, needless to say an extremely talented dancer and an equally talented singer. His rendering of “What a Wonderful World” was quite beautiful. Mercifully, he kept his shirt on.

The theme is euthanasia (or “Ethanasia,”  if you will) which if treated right could make a powerful and poignant story. I have seen it handled much more creatively and effectively in ABC’s Grey’s Anatomy.

The worst casualty of the movie was subtlety. What happened to symbolism and the art of suggestion?  What happened to saying something without shoving it down your throat? I have seen Mili, and Anand, and Million Dollar Baby and countless other movies which utilized these subtle techniques and made me cry buckets. Sorry Sanjay, you pressed and you pressed on my tear ducts, but they would not give.

Good music, lovingly photographed. Ok for all ages.

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The movie, which has created hysteria in the otherwise sanguine Indian diaspora, lives up to its hype at first. As we watch Dr. Vasigaran build a robot (technically an android) in his image, the special effects measure up to international standards. Even Rajni’s makeup is marvelous, making the 60-year-old grandfather’s romance with the lovely Ms. Bachchan way more credible and way less creepy than it should have been.

It’s easy to see why fans are crazy about this humble bus conductor from Bangalore. There’s a cheekiness in Rajni’s portrayal of both Vasi and the robot Chitti that suggests the actor is in on the joke—it’s all a big spectacle for the audience’s benefit and not one bit’s meant to be taken seriously. (Memorable lyrics to Rahman’s peppy numbers include comparing the heroine to honey-soaked wasabi, for the express purpose of rhyming with gulabi (rose)).

As Vasi delivers his quips with panache, and Chitti the robot breaks into bharatanatyam moves, the audience claps and howls in appreciation. Even the plot moves along at a fairly crisp clip, as the good doctor enhances his robot to make it more and more humanoid. There’s plenty of opportunity for situational comedy arising from the robot’s literal interpretation of language, and there are a couple of bumbling sidekicks thrown in for good measure. The yawning cultural gap between East and West is never more apparent as when it is revealed that the robot is built for the express purpose of being used in the military, usually the point in Hollywood movies where the hero gasps and resolves to liberate the lovable machine from its nefarious destiny. Instead, the villain in Enthiran has a far simpler, ethically unquestionable motive for stealing the robot; he just wants to sell it for megabucks.

At intermission, an hour and a half later, Chitti has been programmed to have feelings, and the plot has been set up for an exploration of what it means to be human, previously tackled in movies like the darkly thrilling Blade Runner and the sentimental Bicentennial Man.

Except for the unfortunate circumstance that this is a Tamil movie with an apparently bottomless budget.

The second half of Enthiran goes completely haywire, as director Shankar indulges in what can only be his fevered adolescent fantasy of more and more improbable special effects, culminating in an orgy of Chitti clones that stack like Lego pieces to form shapes that the zombie priest in The Mummy would be proud of. The internal logic that exists in the first half (yes, I can live with a futuristic Chennai, even if the cops don’t seem to have evolved) just vanishes in the second, with every scene prompting the question “Why?”

Then there are the dozen or so song and dance sequences, filmed in baffling international locales, with Bachchan gamely peacocked up in bizarre outfits that would have made Telegu heroines from the 80s proud. My thumb furiously savages the cell phone in my hand, vainly searching for the fast forward button.

Only the 20 bucks I have paid for my ticket prevents me from leaving the theater (I believe ticket prices were as high as 30 dollars in some places). The ending, which arrives after about the 500th time I check my watch, is amazingly tame, glossing over the fact that the body count numbers in the tsunamis, and that the robot has destroyed property and technology worth the equivalent of current Indian GDP.

In the end, Enthiran is just a special effects indulgence, sprinkled with enough genuine Rajni to keep the fans coming. It is easy to see why the actor is so beloved; even in the stupidest of scenes he plays it straight and true, with a sincerity and humility that is at odds with his fame.  Despite the challenging characterization and the double roles, the movie uses him and lets him down. Watch the entire movie only if you are a hardcore Rajni fan. If not, leave during intermission, content to have seen an ageing superstar still bring his A game.

Kid advisory: Not suitable for kids under 10.

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Director Milan Luthria, known previously for pale Bollywood remakes of Hollywood B movies ( Chori Chori, Kacche Dhaage), also reaches for the real life drama of the Mumbai mafia to give his sagging reputation a boost, and the magic of the underworld rubs off on this movie as well.

But Once Upon … is no Satya. Rather, it is a somewhat sanitized version of the conflict between Haji Mastan and Dawood Ibrahim that played out against the backdrop of the Bollywood industry in the 1970s, a period brought out with great care by the film’s designers. The dialogues are cleaner, and a touch florid, as in a play. The violence is muted and the characters larger than life. The plot is quite predictable to anyone familiar with the story arcs of mafia movies, but the editing is tight, and this makes the movie less tiring than you think it would be. Competently directed, Once Upon is a far more palatable movie for the family audience than previous movies on the subject have been.

Adding to its mainstream value is a stellar cast  – Ajay Devgn plays Sultan Mirza, the gangster with the heart of gold , with his usual panache. Kangana Ranaut, as his movie star love Rehana, displays her amazing chameleon-like ability to look entirely different in different roles. Her diction and voice modulation need work, as do those of most Bollywood heroines, but she is well cast and performs competently. Emraan Hashmi is perfect as Shoaib Khan, the young upstart, chafing at the constraints set up by Mirza, and itching to prove his worth and supersede the king. Randeep Hooda as ACP Agnel Wilson, the police chief who unwittingly sets off a train wreck of events, is excellent as ever.

But because of the conscious attempt to create an epic of sorts, the movie ends up losing a little bit of the grit and the dirt that give Mumbai movies their realism. Instead, as the name suggests, Once Upon a Time in Mumbai is a fairy tale, albeit one without a happy ending.

My rating : 3 out of 5 stars.

Note: I’ve heard that Haji Mastan’s children have tried to stop the screening of the film. Given how positively the film treats the Sultan Mirza character, that is a bit of a mystery.

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I’m writing to appeal for your support for the film HIDING DIVYA, a small independent film opening in theaters on August 20th.

Please purchase tickets for August 20th or for that opening weekend. Thank you in advance for your support.

Rehana Mirza
www.hidingdivya.com

–
*****************
Rehana Mirza
www.rehanamirza.com
Writer/Director
www.hidingdivya.com
718.986.7828

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The idea was to create a complex fable of good and evil; how they both can lurk in the same human being, and how circumstances can bring out surprising elements of our personalities, to our shame or pride.

Mani Ratnam takes that basic idea and weaves it into Raavan, a lush, atmospheric epic that plays similarly with the moral grayness that is the central trait of humankind. Beera (Abhishek Bachchan) is the jungle lord who rules his domain with a firm but just hand. After his sister Jamuniya (a lovely and husky-toned Priyamani) is assaulted by a group of policeman under the command of SP Dev (Vikram), he decides to take revenge by kidnapping and killing Dev’s wife Ragini (Aishwarya Rai Bachchan). Other elements from the epic are randomly sprinkled. There is the forest guard, Sanjeevani Kumar (Govinda) who bounces from tree to tree, Jamuniya is obviously Surpanakha, but there is no cohesion or chronology to these allusions; they are placed at the will of the director, not Valmiki.
I won’t give away any more of the plot, but suffice to say that Beera is not the inhuman monster that he has the reputation of being, and Dev is not as morally pure as his name and position suggest. Only Ragini is created as a paragon-brave, fearless, and compassionate, with a luminous beauty that can drive men mad.

Abhishek hams it to the hilt as Beera; manic eyes invoke the rakshasa, and schizophrenic mumblings suggest the ten heads. Vikram as Dev is perfectly cast; there is a credible moral ambiguity in the typical cop get-up – aviator glasses, tucked in shirt suggesting the beginnings of a paunch. Aishwarya does quite well; she is not a great actress, but here she is the personification of Sita, a delicate vine with a core of steel.

But the real hero is the atmospherics, richly shot by master cinematographer Santosh Sivan (V. Manikandan began the movie, but left early on). The opening scene, where Beera’s large craft bores down on the Ragini’s fragile vessel, is stunning, and the visual gifts keep coming. The scenes in the jungle are a rain-sodden gray green, and set up a terrific contrast to the bright colors of the flashbacks to happier times. Spectacularly shot on location in parts of Kerala, Karnataka, and Maharashtra, the cinematography is a revelation of the many unexplored places in India that are still unspoilt and gorgeous.

Indian critics have been divided on the movie, but if there’s one thing Mani Ratnam can do, it is tell a story with style and panache. Raavan is a feast for the senses, and I highly recommend you watch it in the theater, where you can best experience the oppressive power and the thrumming beat of the jungle. Rahman’s music does not stand out on its own, but it sets a good percussive mood towards the inexorable cliff-top conclusion.

Every element of the movie is beautiful, but it is not an insubstantial beauty. This is a strong tale, well told.

My rating: 3.5 stars out of 5

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Director Prakash Jha uses contemporary Indian politics as a setting for Raajneeti, his version of the Mahabharata, and it makes perfect sense. Despite the focus on the climactic 18-day war, the epic is more about the politics of kingship and the toll the quest for power takes on families and relationships. In this case we have the political family of the Prataps, two brothers who control the politics of a central Indian state. When the older brother gets disabled by a stroke, the delicate power equilibrium gets disrupted, leading to an all out war between the younger generation of cousins. Elements of the Gandhi dynastic rule are also woven in, with a foreign-returned brother being co-opted into the family business.

Many themes from the Mahabharata can be quickly identified; Raajneeti is not the most subtle of adaptations. Ajay Devgn’s character, playing Karna, is left as a baby in a basket on the river. He also wears the trademark kundalas (earrings), and has a riverside showdown with the mother who abandoned him.

Raajneeti is bolstered by a large celebrity cast, with some unlikely faces like Ranbir Kapoor and Katrina Kaif obviously signed on to give a touch of glamour to the project. They are supported by a commendable ensemble cast. Nana Patekar plays the wily Krishna and Manoj Bajpai is dependable as ever as the perpetually frustrated Duryodhana. Every actor has the opportunity to emote, given the drama inherent in this story of family rivalries, and they all do a good job. The one sour note is Arjun Rampal as Bhim (or Sanjay Gandhi, depending on which epic you’re referring to at the moment) whose Hindi accent is even worse than Kaif’s at times.

Where the movie stumbles is in its predictability. I could foresee nearly every plot twist before it occurred, and assassinations are telegraphed seconds ahead by ominous music and obvious setups. When Ranbir’s character, Samar, returns a cell phone to a traitor with the instruction to always pick up his call, you know that the device is going to be used to blow the guy up pretty soon.

Despite the strong and complex plot, courtesy Ved Vyasa (who, I think, should certainly have been given screen credit) Raajneeti ends up being more ho-hum that hoo-haa. The movie will leave you with nothing more than a faint regret of having spent 3 hours in the theater (yes, it is that long) and a slight trepidation when you unlock your car in the parking lot and put your hand on the door handle to open it.

If you have a hankering for a reworked epic, wait for Mani Ratnam’s Ravana, out on June 18.

Update: I wanted to mention that this movie gives you a frightening picture of law and order in central India. Desis planning to return should watch this movie and reconsider! ( though I believe the situation has improved tremendously these days. Or so I hear.)

Update 2: I hear there are several elements from the Godfather movie too. Not having watched the movie recently, I wasn’t able to catch the references.

Update 3: Watch the previews for upcoming Bollywood releases. Then notice how the odd one out is the mainstream, Dharma Productions rom-com I Hate Luv Stories with the big production numbers and the good-looking leads. It is a testimony to the maturing of the Hindi movie industry.

My Rating: 2.5 out of 5 stars

Kid advisory: Not suitable for kids under 13 years.

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Well, here goes – I hope this helps.

Kites is mostly a paean to beauty; the sculpted, six-packed fabulousness of Hrithik Roshan and the olive-skinned exoticism of Barbara Mori. To my Indian eyes she wasn’t a patch of any of our desi kudis, but I am willing to concede that this may be a cultural bias and that she may be, in fact, drop-dead gorgeous to any red-blooded male west of Mumbai.

The film therefore spends most of its time leisurely panning over the two lovebirds as they gaze soulfully at each other. Well, Hrithik does the soulful bit mostly; Mori just looks (again, could be cultural bias; I had a real problem with the Close-Up smile that didn’t quite reach the eyes). There is a story around this hazardous romance between English/Hindi speaking boy and Spanish speaking girl, but that story is just a vehicle to display the awesomeness of the two. Every scene moves at glacial speed as we contemplate the sheer physical perfection of the lead pair; they are displayed in the rain, on a train, in the desert, at the casino, in the pool, in the sea, each at various stages of undress. Even the chase scene, where the lovers are in immediate peril, feels like a weekend outing to the country, as a soft ballad plays in the background.

Director Anurag Basu has been a staple of the Vishesh Films/Bhatt family stable, churning out decent movies like Life in a Metro and Gangster and Murder. His forte is style, and Kites is a very stylish and stylized movie. What is lacks is pacing and drama. Perhaps that was intentional, but I think having a producer like Mahesh Bhatt would have made Basu haul up his socks and fix the problem double quick. Instead he has Papa Roshan, who probably has no problem with the many, many minutes devoted to the admiration of his gorgeous son.

Ultimately, cross-cultural romances work if there is a sizzling chemistry between the lead pair. Hrithik and Mori do look good together, but I didn’t get it (CB? Maybe?) The last one I remember was Ek Duuje Ke Liye with Kamalahasan and Rati Agnihotri, which worked because there was a charming awkwardness between the lead pair and you could believe that, as teenagers, they would do stupid and grand mistakes. But here both Hrithik and Mori are just too well put together. They are just not credible as down-on- their-luck deadbeats. Seriously, can anyone think of the six-foot, green-eyed Hrithik as a struggler?

There is a silver lining, though. As I mentioned, the key problem with the movie is pace. Now this Friday the English version of the movie, directed by Rush Hour director Brett Ratner, released. It is 40 minutes shorter than the Hindi version, which means a lot of the pacing problems may have been taken care of. It still won’t be a terrific movie, but it may be passable. If you are a fan of Hrithik, it might be worth checking out. Plus, the pirated DVD has awful subtitles! (And unless you know Spanish, you’ll need them.)

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