Dangal: A Masterpiece Of Brawn and Brains

The greatest sports films of all time, as I said before, are not necessarily about the sports themselves. Rather, they are about a bigger game. 

And, as 'Dangal' proves, the game between what can be done and what needs to be done to win the game. 

Nitesh Tiwari's marvellous new film is the rousing real-life story of Mahavir Singh Phogat and his near-suicidal bid to achieve glory minted in real gold. He himself had done it once in his young and muscled days but harsh reality set in- when his gold medal won him only fame and not enough of a livelihood, forcing him to settle for a mundane existence in his village. 

His eyes are still aflame with the desperate desire to see his preferably alpha-male offspring win another medal that will make not only him but the whole country proud. But fortune plays its own game with Pogat- instead of being handed a slew of tough-limbed sons, he is given four daughters, for whom he has all the love and care, but not enough of hope to make all his gold-tinted dreams come true.

And then, one morning, just when he has closed shut his trunk of hopes and aspirations, a miracle happens. And 'Dangal' begins to soar to the skies, as Phogat realizes, literally, that gold is gold, irrespective of gender or other considerations.

Initially, this prelude plays out like a delightfully amusing yet no less astute version of Shyam Benegal and Vishal Bharadwaj, with Tiwari and his utterly dedicated crew peppering the gorgeously textured rural flavour with sparkling wit and wordplay that astounds. Not only is there an authentically lived-in feel of an all-too-believable world of dung-coated walls and dimly lit family dinners- from the little daughters Geeta and Babita playing snakes and ladders to women blushing at impromptu wrestling bouts in offices populated by men- but the well-crafted aesthetic has enough quirk- a timid husband who repeats his wife's every word, phrase for phrase, a scruffy boy idling instead of fixing a TV antenna and a wizened old-timer who advises Phogat to try to conceive a son only on a Sunday. It is these deft and pitch-perfect touches that make the buildup so particularly convincingly and compellingly real. 

It is when the real drama begins that we find ourselves sticking close with the characters. We are bemused when Phogat insists that his daughters, both of whom had the bravado to beat up boys who abused them, should give up all their interests and aspirations as girls and instead train hard as boys for fights in the mud pits. We cringe when he goes beyond restraint, even subjecting his daughters to the jeers and insults of a pigheaded world around them. And yet, we are dazzled and spellbound when Geeta and Babita take it all in their stride- the leg locks, the tall glasses of creamy milk and the toil and sweat on their way to glory.

As a rousing tale of rise from bare origins to a starry-eyed victory, 'Dangal' strays away from the standard cinematic template by offering a barrage of impressive, intriguing insights that lend the often-dramatic tale a very solid heft of intelligent realism. For one thing, this is the first time that we see sporting in India as something that is evolved from a grassroots-level of improvised training and support. When Phogat does not have the sufficient funds to buy even 'mats' for his girls, he instead settles for beddings and mattresses to teach them the basics of international contests.When his old methods are questioned by one of his older wards, it is his determination that persists- as he openly mouths scorn at new-age methods and sizes up his daughters in a bid to tell her how it is done. 

As he himself puts it, medallists are not grown on trees but rather have to be nurtured and nourished for greatness and the film gets that truism right brilliantly.

The bigger challenge at the heart of the tale is one of a collective mindset and it is when Tiwari and co-writers take it on is where the real beauty of 'Dangal' is unveiled. Phogat's relatives and neighbours laugh off his foolhardy determination. And why wouldn't they?; after all, aren't girls supposed to stay only indoors and for chores rather than duke it out in the heat and dust? Little by little, however, we see their incredulity turn to resounding faith and the director captures this crucial moment with absolute storytelling confidence. In Geeta's first breakthrough as a wrestler, there are all-male crowds sniggering at the little girl as she sizes up an ideal contender for her on the pit. Yet, it is after she has made her mark all too clearly on the dazed crowds that they are willing to admit that her male opponents will fall flat. 

Yet, for all the weighty subtext- of traditional training pitted against modern-day methods and of digs at the country's collective laissez-faire approach to winning only medals instead of glory- 'Dangal' really scores when it brings out the brawn to match its buzzing brain. The superbly muscular narrative is brilliantly paced and switches perspective mid-way, contrasting Phogat's hell-bent paternalistic determination with Geeta being temporarily seduced by the irresistible glamour of forging her own way to success. There are real emotional stakes here while the wrestling scenes are themselves absorbing and spectacular. Tiwari and cinematographer Setu Shriram sneak up and close to the players as they engage in meticulously sculpted scuffles that are thankfully left to unravel rather than be cut short by convenience. Pritam's normally ribald, rustic soundtrack is hushed in the pivotal climactic scenes too as the film tugs us right into the titular standoffs with terse tension. It is a sports film soiled with real mud rather than masala.

Masala does come in odd helpings in the form of the film's all-too-obvious villain- the limelight-hogging coach Pramod Kadam, played by Girish Kulkarni. The actor, who shone as the rude Bombay cop in 'Ugly', embodies his Machiavellian character with a shred of dignity but even as he results in a slightly odd contrivance in the edge-of-the-seat climax, the way how Tiwari tosses it around is something to be seen to be believed.

But then, everyone in 'Dangal' keeps things so darn real.

Aamir Khan plays Phogat, who transforms from being rugged and muscular to rotund and thick of waist, and delivers a nuanced and utterly dedicated performance that sears and stuns with intelligence and emotional ferocity. This is the actor at his best, playing his character's inexorable determination with seething fury but also making it less heroic and extremely gritty and real.

The way he gazes mercilessly with his icy eyes at his weeping daughters while a barber chops off their lice-ridden locks is as devastatingly powerful as him gingerly pressing their feet at night and laying down an aphorism for ages. 

This is a performance of almost De Niro-like pinnacle of commitment and the actor knocks it spectacularly out of the park. 

Equally powerful against him are stellar newbies Fatima Sana Shaikh and Sanya Malhotra playing Geeta and Babita with real spirit and spunk, while Sakshi Tanwar, as Phogat's empathetic wife, steals every scene in which she attempts to gauge her husband's intentions. Special mention should go to the delightful Zaira Wasim and Suhani Bhatnagar playing the younger, doe-eyed versions of the film's heroines with a wonderful lack of self-consciousness while Aparshakti Khurrana, as the wily cousin Omkara, is a find. Tiwari and his team hand this impeccable cast a chunk of incredible dialogue phrased beautifully and poetically in credible Haryanvi that is never overplayed for effect. Even the subtitles are inspired- at one point, Sehwag and Dravid are referred to as 'tiger' and 'elephant' respectively.

Is 'Dangal' the finest Bollywood sports film ever? The answer could lie in the fact that, by the end, you will feel that you have lived through the game of life itself.

My Rating- 5 Stars. 

Rogue One: A Star Wars Story- A Riveting Ride To A Grand Galaxy

Spectacular cinematic stories need equally spectacular cinematic backstories. 

That would explain why some found 'The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey' a tad too bland and, to hit closer to the franchise, 'The Phantom Menace' as a tad undercooked and ponderous. Audiences served heady doses of thrills, spills and spectacle expect that their favorite tales of heroes and villains, of good and evil should be backed up with equally awe-inspiring stories serving as the backdrop to all the drama on the screen. And when their favourite entertainers get too busy or self-indulgent with their methods, the results can be understandably disappointing. 

Of course, you can always argue that, in both cases, these prequels did set up a solid groundwork for the existing narratives. But 'Rogue Nation: A Star Wars Story' is something different- a thrilling, crackling prequel that renders, with its furious, economical storytelling, pretty much all of Lucas' prequels (at best expansive, at worst self-indulgent) a tad redundant for the hard-core franchise lover. 

It does not meander into entire multitudes of characters and creatures or even introduce fan-alienating concepts and elements. Instead, director Gareth Edwards and his team play it safe and stellar- weaving an intriguing story that lets us into a whole new perspective into the central dramatic arc. Instead of letting us see wannabe Jedis duke it out with lightsabers or wizened old spirits talk mumbo jumbo, it lets us see a battered bunch of divided rebels laying everything down on the line to do their bit to defeat an evil Empire. 

It is revolution in the galaxy as a cornered and clueless Rebel Alliance is waging a losing war with the tyrannical Empire that is scrambling the barrel for new ways to let loose its reign of terror. The greatest cinematic villain of all time is at the helm of things, Grand Moff Tarkin (here a digitally resurrected Peter Cushing) is still his henchman of choice and big plans are being finalised for an all too well-known weapon that is called by many as a 'planetkiller'. 

In such a critical time, disillusioned but determined Jyn Erso (played evocatively by Felicity Jones) emerges out of oblivion as an unlikely crusader entrusted with a crucial task of transporting possible sabotage plans to the Rebel Alliance. Her wide, exquisite eyes are sad and knowing- her father Galen Erso (an effectively sober Mads Mikkelsen) has been tugged away to be a part of the Empire's new devilish invention and her mother has been killed by the hard-nosed ruling authority. Yet, the film's enthralling, urgent narrative sees her banding up with misguided insurgents and free-booters on a heroic quest that will prove ultimately utterly important in paving ahead a whole series of adventures. I hope that I have not spoiled it for you.

What distinguishes 'Rogue One' from the rest of the Star Wars canon is how it looks and feels. While all the other films are showy, grandiose space opera crowdpleasers, Edwards' film is visibly gritty and grimy; the film has a grubby, sordid and slummy atmosphere to its plot, shifting stealthily from rusty innards of cavernous ships to the ruins of a destroyed order- at one point, we zoom out of the decaying sprawl to see a fallen rock statue resembling a famous Jedi warrior. There is little to take your breath away in terms of sheer wonder; in its place, there is only a wistful, brooding air of gloom over what has been lost in the war. Even the obligatory cantina scene looks more dreadfully dangerous rather than flat-out amusing. There is not even an introduction crawl to keep most fans satisfied. 

The brisk, serious air of the proceedings, however, does not disguise the film's splendid and well-judged sense of delivering the big goodies. While the unreasonable fans can whine about there being no lightsaber duels, Edwards knows certainly to dole out the action in large, delectable and deliriously rollicking chunks. The battles are big and monumental- cinematographer Greig Fraser delivers bang for the buck with the relentless barrage of dogfights in the star-studded galaxies, blaster standoffs with armies of Stormtroopers and explosions of planets at mere flicks of switches. They are not only immediate and tense but Edwards also gets his influences right- from industrial galactic hellholes fashioned after the cityscapes of 'Blade Runner' and a monster fashioned after the terrifying emissary from 'Dune' to frenetic ghetto riots and battles fashioned after modern geopolitical terrorist thrillers to a Zatoichi-style blind warrior to the fervent climax in the sunny lagoons and palm groves of tropical Scarif, which could mirror Vietnam War classics like 'Full Metal Jacket' and 'Apocalypse Now'. These touches are superbly done and work great on their own. 

As a plot that heads in a starkly different path, 'Rogue One' does well, bolstered with a taut, flab-free and frequently action-packed script by reliable hands Chris Weitz and Tony Gilroy. The marriage between pulp and plotty sophistication is all too evident in how the film unfolds with both a breakneck pace and enough genuine smarts up its sleeve. The film flits dynamically between the adventure amped up with enthralling stakes to the tumult of emotions that accompany the bigger reveals that follow with trademark Star Wars-style flourish. There is a compelling cast of new characters, all of whom are refreshingly unconventional in their own ways and among them, Diego Luna's conflicted Rebel hitman Cassian Andor, Donnie Yen's sight-impaired swordsman Chirrut and Alan Tudyk's endearingly sly-witted K-2SO emerge as wonderfully fleshed creations. Bringing an equal level of sinister menace is Ben Mendelsohn's Orson Krennic, a power-hungry Imperial Military head, whose quietly devilish presence lends startling fireworks to the events- especially one moment with the great, great Lord Vader that must not be revealed.

Refreshingly enough, Edwards plays out his film like more a rattling World War II action thriller rather than a typical space opera. Its heroes are dogged soldiers fighting for a cause and its villains are dictatorial geniuses hell bent on decimating entire worlds without a shred of emotion. Hell, it also unleashes the angry beast inside the galaxy's most powerful kingpin. 

Yet, with all its iconic cameos and clues pointing at the epic story that lies ahead, 'Rogue One' is ultimately, as its title says, a Star Wars story. However, as he had never really believed in the powers of 'hokey religions', this blaster-wielding badass prequel might be the Star Wars movie that Han Solo would have loved gladly.

My Rating- 4 And A Half Stars Out Of 5

Befikre- Carelessly, Callously Predictable

There is an overlooked scene in 'Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jaayenge' that would best sum up the experience of watching 'Befikre'. When the gala dinner at Paris is announced to Simran and her friends, one of them, played by Anaita Shroff Adajania, gushes excitedly about there being singing, dancing and boys. But the subsequent dinner turns out to be a saddening bore before, obviously, it is enlivened by Shah Rukh Khan's Raj shaking his leg. As the said friend puts it, 'Yeh party kitni boring hai!'

Alas, Aditya Chopra, who made both the films, does the same mistake, promising us a hell of a party and then giving us one hell of a big, albeit beautiful, bore.

'Befikre' starts off on an appropriately rollicking note, its lusty tongue firmly in its shiny cheek. A wonderfully scored and equally beautiful opening credits medley introduces us to Paris and its helplessly romantic lovers of all ages and sizes French-kissing with free, reckless abandon on the staircases, cobblestoned streets and wide open boulevards. Things feel potentially thrilling at this stage and one might be forgiving to expect that Chopra, the most hard-boiled mainstream Bollywood storyteller, can be Woody Allen too.

Unfortunately, folks, that is all you will get.

Dharam, a cocky and ribald Delhi boy who is apparently lost in this pretty city, has just broken up with Shyra, a leggy lass who cannot stand the fact that he chooses to watch 'Game Of Thrones' in full volume. They split, then reunite in between odd coincidences- it helps that Shyra, normally a plucky tourist guide debunking all the myths of the city's romantic legacy, moonlights as a waitress in her father's restaurant. The two are still wondering out aloud, ala Alvy Singer, what exactly went wrong and the film cuts in from a frolicsome past that went awry to the present day where they decide to bond as friends and not as lovers again.

And while that might sound like one crackling rom-com script on paper, trust me that 'Befikre' might be visually sumptuous and even try its damn hard to pile up both sexual fireworks and slapstick gags but it lacks the most important thing- a proper plot along with actual stakes that would make us root for the romance being served.

To begin with, there is not much of a romance being served here as well. Dharam and Shyra's moment of truth is one that is devoid of sparks and chemistry and we only get to know that both can shake a leg together with flawless grace and spunk before both of them slip into bedsheets with easy convenience. Yes, that is all it takes for both of them to start a relationship; the pair starts daring each other, like a bunch of juvenile adolescents, to do a number of preposterously silly things- from slapping stern-faced cops to stealing away kinky lingerie- before breaking up with all the inevitable arguments and squabbles between them. Sure, all this is fine but there is little or no sizzle between the leads- as we see them doing wild things just for the heck of it rather than to set the stage actually on fire.

Still, there is a slick style to 'Befikre', a certain, unabashed breeziness to the proceedings that tries to disguise the absence of a solid narrative beneath all the pomp and show. Post-interval, we expect things to take an intriguing dramatic turn, to help unexpected things develop between them but Chopra starts throwing away his bag of tricks right away. Vishal-Shekhar's rambunctious soundtrack is wasted away mostly on lengthy song and dance numbers that take Dharam and Shyra on a whirlwind tour of Paris' most spectacular sights, shot deftly by Kaname Onoyama, which don't quite make sense and when the time comes for the stakes to come up, for conflicts to arise and challenges to overcome, the film presents us with a bland stew of the same ingredients. 

One of the biggest mistakes that our seasoned directors make while trying to be all hip and cool with romance is that they try every darn trick in the book without ever overcoming their own inherent shortcomings. Karan Johar's 'Ae Dil Hai Mushkil' gave us an uncommonly spunky romantic pair but lost its way by trying too hard to be serious and unconventional. 'Befikre' has the opposite problem. Chopra tacks on plot elements ripped off from his peers in the field. Like in an Imtiaz Ali film, its leads succumb to romance even with blissful denial while, like in a Johar film, they are also essentially good-looking and even self-sufficient folks without a shred of empathy to them. And even with these touches, the end result is pure Aditya Chopra- utterly predictable, cliched and unnecessarily long-winded and ponderous. 

And yet, even as both 'Mohabbatein' and 'Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi' were far from even remotely memorable, they were at least films which infused some ham-fisted drama and emotional conflict in the tales they told. There is nothing new in 'Befikre'. Even as things take a new turn with the arrival of Shyra's potential suitor, the way the film deals with him as well as the troubled feelings of the lead pair is utterly devoid of believability. And this is because, for all the film's ideas of fun (from bastardizing Bollywood songs in karaoke parties to taking fancy trips to picturesque escapades on luxury boats), there is nothing where there should be a throbbing heart of love.

This is all a shame since everyone, apart from the director, seems to be trying his or her best to make it special. Sharat Katariya, who directed last year's 'Dum Lagaa Ke Haisha', co-writes with Chopra some snappy dialogue (from equating a relationship to a mutual fund to tweaking the word 'prayaschit' with hilarious effect) and there are a few stray splendid sight gags- Dharam stirring a cup of tea tersely while facing Shyra's mother doing the same nervously, or the latter rolling flour for parathas with a bottle of liquor. There are a few wisecracks hurled at Paris too- at one point, Dharam wonders whether there is even one place in the city when people are not romancing each other. 

The actors themselves are far from awful. Vaani Kapoor's Shyra is a severely muddled-up character; the way she morphs from all fiery and feisty to troubled and conflicted is tough to stomach. But at least, she nails her French quite well and brings some energy into both her left leg and her ribald tropes, though she could do with better dialogue delivery. And Ranveer Singh can do this now in sleep, filling up his Dharam with a hefty blend of irresistible sincerity and split-second spontaneity. From nailing a hilarious scene with a corn flake and a Deadpool bathing robe to gobbling up chicken wings to shaking his leg with an unabashedly impulsive streak of mischief, his Dharam is a delightfully goofy soul with wide-eyes and a bushy tail that alone propels the film's most ridiculous parts easily. 

And yet, above all the little glints of promise, it hurts that Chopra, the man who made that immortal classic of romance, has churned out a film that pretends to be all cool but is glaringly out of touch with reality. The beauty of that film, as in all great Bollywood romances, was how it rooted its unconventional premise with a wonderful traditional backbone. And that is not the case here at all. As Bowie sang, don't believe in modern love. Especially, not this kind of modern love. 

My Rating- 2 Stars Out Of 5. 

The Best Bombay Films Of All Time

10- Aamir (2008)

Forget the overrated 'Slumdog Millionaire' which claimed to be a thrilling plunge into Dharavi but turned out to be content with merely scratching the corrugated roofs of Juhu and Airport tenements. Raj Kumar Gupta's turbo-charged debut- a crackling take at the Fillipino thriller 'Cavite'- dug even deeper, taking its helpless and harried eponymous protagonist on a Hitchcockian-trip through the gullies and ghettoes of Bhendi Bazaar and Dongri. Sure, the film's politics seem muddled and the end is rather ham-fisted for a film boasting of such realism. But there is no denying the terse, taut punch of the spectacular first half. Aamir (Rajeev Khandelwal) is a chocolate boy doctor who is pulled and pushed into a secret conspiracy that also has him discovering harsh, never-before-seen truths of the city's communal underbelly. In between, the sweltering streets, the flea-infested restaurants and wet abbatoirs are bustling with anonymous spies. And in the backdrop, Amit Trivedi's breakout score brings poetry to the pathos.

9- Jewel Thief (1967)

If the 50s was about hungry capitalism and the 70s was about angry nihilism, the 60s in Bombay was all about the freewheeling fun and frolic that defined the same decade in other lands at the same time. Along with the jazz and cabaret, and the bootlegged liquor and bouffants, this was also the era of the rollicking Bollywood caper and Vijay Anand was at the helm of this game. As a welcome respite from the intensity of 'Guide', 'Jewel Thief' is a masterpiece of Bollywood at its most pulpy and preposterous. It is essentially a classic whodunnit armed with a genuinely classic twist and it boasts of some of the most seminal sartorial flourishes that Dev Anand was known for. But it is also a swinging Bombay potboiler- recreating the grand old jewellery stores of Hughes Road and the saucy cabaret clubs and frolicsome club pools with pomp and show. You cannot imagine films like 'Johnny Gaddar' and 'Bombay Velvet' without its undeniable impression. 

8- Rangeela (1995)

By the mid-90s, Indian directors had started giving up on Bombay. And it was then that Ram Gopal Varma made his mark- giving audiences his thrillingly gritty portraits of the sordid parallel city of crime and corruption in 'Satya' and 'Company'. But 'Rangeela' lingers even more distinctly in the mind as a portrait of a city at the turn of a paradigm-altering national revolution. To begin with, it sums up the city's still-throbbing fascination with films and filmflam. As we see the plucky Milli (Urmila Matondkar) make her way- from girl-next-door to screen sensation- we see all our starry-eyed dreams mirrored with shattering resonance. There is enough film snark to enjoy- to drunk party guests boasting of exploits to directors who try to be Spielberg- and there is the post-1991 middle class staring wide-eyed at new-found wealth and gushing about Suzuki sedans. And above all, there is Aamir Khan's street rat Munna, infusing reality and becoming a most delightful archetype Bombay tapori.

7- Jaane Bhi Do Yaaro (1983)

Bombay comedies alternate from being lovably goofy Hrishikesh Mukherjee and Basu Chatterjee side-splitters to Sai Paranjpe's social satire. And yet it is Kundan Shah's rip-roaring, outrageously loony and perfectly pitch-black comedy that captures the city with astute perspective.Set in the backdrop of the uneasy early 80s, a time when the bigwigs recaptured the city, 'Jaane Bhi Do Yaaro' is, for all its hilarious gags (the Mahabharata fiasco) and endlessly quip-worthy one-liners ('25 is a round figure'. 'Thoda khaao, thoda phenko'), the harshly all-too-relevant tale of a common man pitted fatally against the evils or urbanization. The film's arch villain, the devious Tarneja (played by a comically sly Pankaj Kapoor), is every bit the unscrupulous Bombay kingpin, building illegal skyscrapers, bribing bureaucrats with Swiss chocolate cake and having the last laugh in the tragic climax. And the film's heroes (played deliciously by Naseeruddin Shah and Ravi Baswani) embody the helpless disillusionment of the unfortunate Bombayite perfectly.

6- Choti Si Baat (1975)

Of all the Eastman Color comic yarns of the 70s, none of them brings out Bombay alive as vividly as 'Choti Si Baat'. Basu Chatterjee's beautifully simple film is about what Bowie could call a 'godawful small affair'. Arun (played by Amol Palekar with quintessential earnest charm) is an everyday office clerk who fancies his office crush Prabha (Vidya Sinha) but does not quite know how to win her heart. After every trick in the book goes kaput (from a rusty motorcycle to a restaurant date that goes awry), he seeks the consul of a ridiculously named aging colonel (Ashok Kumar) who teaches him a thing or two to make a lady go weak at the knees. So much for the plot, which is made hilarious and poignant by the way how Chatterjee lavishes love on his city. From the matchbox office skyscrapers of Nariman Point to the restaurants and streets of Churchgate and Colaba, this is a wistful Bombay locked in an elegant time-capsule. 

5- No Smoking (2007)

Among all the new generation directors, no one captures Bombay as spectacularly as Anurag Kashyap. From the gritty street flavour of 'Black Friday' to the barely furnished suburban landscapes of 'Ugly' and 'Raman Raghav 2.0' to the gold-tinted Technicolor glory of the vastly underrated 'Bombay Velvet', his portrait of the city is versatile, immersive and exceptionally nuanced. And 'No Smoking' stands out because how it creates a surreal, dream-like Bombay that we have never seen in movies. Its twisted Kafka-meets-David Lynch tale- of a chain smoker forced to give up his habit- takes the arrogant K (a perfect John Abraham) on a soul-scorching tour- from svelte South Bombay highrises to the sordid innards of Dharavi tenements, from bizarre underground hellholes to jazz clubs named after Bob Fosse. Regular lensman Rajeev Ravi shoots both the dust and the neon and Kashyap unfolds a nightmarish vision of a city where the normal Bombay ground rules dont quite apply. 

4- The Lunchbox (2013)

The most recent film on this list is Ritesh Batra's stunning and soul-stirring debut- a most unusual epistolary romance set in motion by a lunchbox packed with a wife's love and delivered to the wrong (?) address. To begin with, it is Bombay's very own near-flawless system of tiffin carriers which brings together, by written word and miracle, disgruntled Saajan Fernandes (a superbly nuanced Irrfan Khan) and the lonely and lovely Ila (Nimrat Kaur). The two exchange secrets, reflections and sweet nothings through their now-magical steel containers while, in the background, Bombay aka Mumbai pops out and becomes another compelling character. Through Michael Simmonds' naturalistic visuals, Batra laments the changing times- the isolation of the old and the corruption of the young as well as the old facades being destroyed for urbanization. But, with equally beautiful nuance, he praises Bombay for still being capable of wide-eyed wonder and wistful romantic longing, of both beauty and sorrow and ecstasy and agony. 

3- Shree 420 (1955)

Those, who think that Raj Kapoor was inspired only by Charles Chaplin, had it all wrong. Sure, his Raj, the leading man of this immortal classic, had borrowed the butter-fingered, bumbling demeanour from the Little Tramp but the actor-director also had the Nehru-era milieu of urban capitalism in his mind. As we see Raj making his foolhardy way, from sleeping on the city's pavements to falling in love to rising illegitimately to the elite of scoundrels at the top, we see the everyday tale of rise and fall from grace of every Bombay struggler who wishes to make it big even today in the City Of Gold. Never mind the wonderfully cheerful climax in which Raj regains his innocence. Khwaja Ahmad Abbas' whip-cracking script, Shailendra's astute lyrics ('Mudh Mudh Ke Na Dekh' is Bombay's de facto anthem on moving on without regrets) and Radhu Karmakar's immersive black-and-white visuals of a glittering 1950s Bombay make 'Shree 420' as an everlasting portrait of the sinfully thrilling allure of this city. 

2- Parinda (1989)

Get this right- without 'Parinda', we would have never got 'Satya' or any of those thrilling Bombay gangster films that have now become so commonplace. Back in 1989, Vidhu Vinod Chopra was not quite the cash cow filmmaker that he is now; hell, he was still the lean and mean storyteller with a flair for tension and bold violence. So, never mind that 'Parinda' has its own share of well-worn Bollywood formula. Sure, the plot is extremely pulpy- Anil Kapoor's doe-eyed Karan is tugged away into a world of darkness and vengeance after a bitter tragedy. However, the beauty of 'Parinda' lies in how it alternates from gushing lightness (those frothy moments of friendship and that lovely 'Tumse Milke' ballad) to gritty gunplay in the ghettoes. Through its tense, sweltering tale of ruthless crime and corruption, Chopra directs a rollercoaster ride of a city where hope and horror co-exist. Iconic locations play a great role too- from a blood-splattered murder at Kabutar Khana to Renu Saluja's brutal editing cutting from an anguished Kishen (a superb Jackie Shroff) to the roaring crowds at the Gateway Of India.

1- Deewar (1975)

Where would all our Bombay films be without 'Deewar'? By the mid-1970s, Yash Chopra has comfortably proved his mettle as a formidable Bollywood filmmaker, with more populist fare like 'Waqt' and 'Aadmi Aur Insaan' contrasted with the more daring 'Daag' and 'Ittefaq'. And yet, 'Deewar' is not only his finest hour as a teller of powerfully entertaining cinema; it is also the finest film about the city- a film which has made Bombay an indelible canvas for the silver screen. 

Essentially, there is little new in 'Deewar'. Like the other blockbuster of the same year, the plot- of a pulpy ideological war between blood brothers- is about at least a decade old. And yet, everyone and everything in Chopra's film fires on all all cylinders. The direction is enthralling, Salim-Javed's narrative packs in incredible dialogue, drama, action, emotion and romance into the film and that extraordinary cast- Amitabh Bachchan playing the vengeful Vijay with gusto and emotion- works miracles from the material. And in the process, 'Deewar' leaves us with a rich wealth of the city's various shades to choose from- from the docklands, where we can imagine long-legged heroes taking on local gangsters to Vir Nariman Road, where we can still imagine boys with boot polish, from the railway tenements to the sexy highrises and down to a nocturnal chase in the city's streets. Today, take a trip inside the twisted gullies of Bandra and you may still find Vijay, with a wrongly painted red shirt, on the walls of an old bungalow. 

An Experience Of Life On 'The Dark Side Of The Moon'

Alex DeLarge best put it about his favorite music- 

'Oh, it was gorgeousness and gorgeousity made flesh. It was like a bird of rarest-spun heaven metal or like silvery wine flowing in a spaceship, gravity all nonsense now. As I slooshied, I knew such lovely pictures!'

When it comes to lovely pictures and gorgeousity, however, few can rival Pink Floyd. The London-born lineup was founded in the wee end of the freewheeling sixties by crazy diamond Syd Barrett, was commanded in the turbulent 70s by the de facto genius Roger Waters and was then left for the musically gifted but a tad-too-low-key David Gilmour to handle. And while they might have leaped from style to style- from Barrett's freaked-out visions to Waters' blazing philosophical and social commentary to Gilmour's self-indulgent nostalgia for the past, nearly everyone could agree on the band's indisputed ability to churn out music that enlightened, entertained and felt as gloriously out of the world as DeLarge would want it. 

And there is a lot of clamour among the Floyd fans, regarding which particular song or album was their finest hour. There are many, who will laud the psychedelic work of the late 60s; there are many, who (like me) absolutely adore the challenging and provocative concept albums of Waters in the 70s and there are also many, who will defend the post-heyday band and their ramblings in the 80s and 90s, mostly because of Gilmour and his guitar.

And yet, everyone will agree upon 'The Dark Side Of The Moon'- that seminal 1973 album that not only proved Floyd as the new-found pioneers and masters of progressive rock but also cemented their credentials which were being held in doubt. Indeed, intriguing but inadequate works like 'Atom Heart Mother' and 'Ummagumma' had lovers of girls named Emily and space trips to the Sun wondering if they had lost their mojo. 'Meddle' - with its soft-spoken, sunlit elegance, was a sort of comeback but not quite as sensational as the journey to the alternate universe that the band presented.

And yet, despite its rich wealth of extraordinary music, it is not really my favorite Floyd album. I have a weak spot for 'Animals'- for its roaring politics- and I can listen to the whole of 'Wish You Were Here' and 'Meddle' without a hiccup. I like 'The Division Bell' too, even as it lacks the lyrical intensity of these other works but my absolute favorite will always be 'The Wall'- a magnificent magnum opus of rock, theatrical drama, agonizing pain and scorching storytelling all blended into one massive masterpiece. That is an album that I can never tire of- clearly the whole of Pink Floyd at their monumental best- churning out Waters' incredible plot of a rockstar going berserk with the demons inside him as he builds a wall from the rest of humanity. Gorgeous, gorgeous stuff.

And yet, 'The Dark Side Of The Moon' is absolutely wonderful simply because it is about one of the simplest ideas that all their albums have ever addressed- life. It is about birth and death, about hope and despair, about the allure of wealth and the 

inevitability of time, about choice and destiny. And listening to it is about experiencing all that life has to throw up.

'Speak To Me' might sound like the words that you would whisper to your newborn child as it makes its first arrival into a world beyond its comprehension. Floyd present us with a suitably thrilling sound collage that introduces the album and its themes to us. The way it segues into 'Breathe' is jaw-dropping mastery- Gilmour's lap-steel pedal guitar strums out a rich, wistful and melancholic sound that serves as an ironic backdrop to the words that float out of his voice like puffs of cold breath. 'Long you live and high you fly but only if you ride the tide', he sings, promising a plethora of bliss to the newborn but also hinting cautiously at reality. Richard Wright's synthesizer and Waters' downbeat bass add to the languid atmosphere.

What follows this calm moment of reflection is sheer frenzy. 'On The Run', living up to its title, amps up the tempo and the four band members, now armed with synthesizer effects, organs and tape effects, hurl out to us an instrumental surge of adrenalin. The song captures the crazy, nearly suicidal fervour of catching up with time and it ends, devastatingly, with a twist that will leave you reeling. Listen to it yourself and discover it.

'Time' recovers the balance but Waters' unforgettably powerful lyrics hammer hard the sheer futility of time wasted for once and for all. Gilmour sings Waters' words with true gusto but it is his guitar that really delivers the punch- a trademark solo, bursting with sadness and pain, bridges his verses beautifully and the song signs off, by morphing elegantly into the 'Breathe (Reprise)'. The lyrics now are of surrender and homecoming instead of new life and beginnings. 

What follows next is one song from the album that makes time stop. Richard Wright's tinkling, even menacing, piano is first heard along with mutterings on death and being afraid of the same. And once we hear Nick Mason's drum beats, we are taken to a completely new level- I am of course talking about 'The Great Gig In The Sky'.

Clare Torry's roaring, sensuous, heart-wrenching cries of agony and ecstasy are superbly backed up by Mason's loopy drumming, Wright's beautiful keys and, in a masterstroke, Waters and Gilmour's guitars lending a backdrop of soul-stirring devastation. The song lasts a little less than 5 minutes but every second of it aches with a throbbing core of spectacular sorrow. Simply unforgettable.

The latter half of the album kicks off with the grand and glitzy 'Money'- possibly the only song in the album that makes you tap your feet even as you wince at the cynicism of the words. Money, according to Waters, can be everything- from something as transient as gas to a crime that is the root of all evil today. And yet, as Gilmour's pitch-perfect, snazzy voice reminds us, we all need it. Dick Parry shows up in the middle with a classy sax solo that takes us back firmly to the groovy seventies and Waters' bass and tape effects are meshed with Gilmour's guitars to create a truly trippy and deliriously drunk rock song.

'Us And Them' brings back the introspective core of the album and while it lasts for almost a whopping 8 minutes, all of it is beautifully judged and brilliantly performed. In an album bursting with mind-numbing experimentation, it is this song- sung soulfully by Gilmour and Wright- that makes for its beating heart of pain. Essentially a song about war, everyday conflict and the fragility of life, it is also sensational and profoundly poetic in its emotions.

Waters does not have any credit on the stunning 'Any Colour You Like', an instrumental passage written and composed by the other three Floyd members with its name taken from a classic Henry Ford quote. It is surprising since this number, along with the rest of the 'Moon' catalogue, boasts of some of the finest bass that he has played. Sure, Gilmour, Wright and Mason do their job well enough but it is his background bass that gives the whole song its real pulse. Its makers intended it to be a reflection of the ironic lack of choice in the real world. 

What begins so well must also end well and so it is up to Waters to bring up the rear with two brilliantly edited songs. The first 'Brain Damage' is an everlasting classic and clearly further vindication of Waters' spectacular songwriting. His voice is smooth yet sneering, as he complains of 'lunatics' on newspapers and in his memory. But in the stunning, operatic choruses, he becomes thoughtful, now extending a hand of hope to those who are on 'the dark side of the moon'. The song's emotionally naked sound also addresses its themes of insanity and hope, both of which stemmed from their fallen comrade Syd Barrett.

It all fits magically into 'Eclipse'- Waters' penultimate lament on how everyday life is tinged with darkness. The lyrics are relentless, the drums and guitars are spectacular and the song ends with a shattering conclusion that serves as a spectacular climax to an already seminal album. 

A Clockwork Orange- 45 Years Of Real Horrorshow Cinema

Disclaimer: Not all of this review is in plain English. 

It had to be David Bowie, of course.

Not only did the late and great rocking-and-rolling Englishman borrow the mascara and the wild eyes from Alex DeLarge for his glam-rock avatars; he also borrowed the weird, Russian-inflected slang of Alex and his droogs for one of his last songs as well. Yes, that is Nadsat, Anthony Burgess’ fabulously twisted language of the young that you can hear in ‘Girl Loves Me’- the sneering singer lacing his menacing mutterings with a heady surge of unhinged absurdity.

It is done like a true maestro, real horrorshow.  Or to come to the point, as deliciously good as having the great Stanley Kubrick take a shot at Ludwig Van Beethoven, no less.

‘A Clockwork Orange’ is one hell of a ride. It might be easily called as one of the most disturbing films ever made. Indeed, even today, more than 45 years after it first shocked and scalded viewers alive with its blistering nihilism, the violence, sex and anti-social anarchy, even presented as sheer satirical farce, hits hard indeed. And yet, if you can just take it all and gulp it, preferably with some milk-plus, you may even end up loving it really. 

Chances are, however, that you will want to hate Alex DeLarge with all your heart. 

You will despise him as a vicious, ruthless psychopath. You will fear his unrelenting stare, you will be sick at the sight of bloody eyeballs on his cuffs. You will be repulsed at the way he lets loose his cane at an old vagrant and the way he will change forever the meaning of ‘Singin In The Rain’ in the most disturbing way ever. You will be revolted by Alex DeLarge; you will hope the worst fate for him.

And Kubrick, that uncannily gifted director who has a penchant for making even the most challenging novels instant masterpieces, takes you inside his bizarre and brutal world in the film’s chaotic, almost off-the-wall first hour. We are shocked and shaken by his exploits but already, we can root for him, despite all our loathing for his deeds. Already, we can see beneath that the showboating swagger and the intense stare there is only a bratty, spoiled boy who wants to have his own way. And that is not asking a lot in the strange, cold and alienating near-future London that he lives in- a world where trust is as rare as sympathy.

And then, everything changes. Charged of a murder of a woman, Alex now becomes the film’s sufferer- a subject of humiliation and violence that is more upsetting than whatever he did in his milk-plus-fuelled craze. Smartly enough, Kubrick treats Alex’ exploits with almost cold-blooded indifference- we gaze at the horrors, terrified but not yet sympathetic towards his victims. Or let’s admit it- we are even thrilled, perversely in a sick way. Yes, that is exactly the kind of yarbles that it takes to make us feel for an utter psychopath.

Nah, it is when ‘A Clockwork Orange’ shows us how a criminal can be turned into something worse by unforgiving millicents and a callously manipulative state that the director aims the real tolchocks to our senses. And boy does it then rock and roll.

In a suicidal and utterly sincere bid for redemption and acceptance, Alex opts for being ‘cured’ by the still-experimental Ludovico Technique, masterminded by the sly-smiling Minister (Alexander Sharp). And what ensues destroys something- or rather, everything- inside him. To be revolted and disgusted at the sheer sight of violence and rape is bad enough for him. To be rendered totally incapable of choice and dignity is even worse. And even all these things are not even half as bad as being repulsed at the sound of old Ludwig Van. 

Kubrick has always been called by his harshest critics as something of a cold, distanced thinker. ‘A Clockwork Orange’, with its anarchic ride of emotions and conflicted feelings, might serve as a solid defence for him. This is indeed a violent form of sinny, even irresponsible. There is no moral justification for Alex’ actions and yet, we are asked the inevitable question- is the cure for a problem worse than it? Does Alex really deserve the fate that he goes through? And is it enough to cure a criminal or should a whole social system be put through the grinder too?

A tough question, indeed but the director, faithfully sticking to Burgess’ magnificent novel, poses them bravely and even delivers the unexpected answers. To be honest, there are significant differences between the source and the film. Burgess’ book focused on Alex’ droogs Dim and Georgie, and the world around the characters. The newly arrived social and political order of futuristic Britain, hinting at a possible dictatorship, is vital to the book’s proceedings. All of this is treated ambiguously and intriguingly by Kubrick, who also foregoes the symbolic meaning of the title. But the director more than compensates with bringing his typically cynical view of law enforcement, family and friendship, government bureaucracy and the loss of freedom of expression and personal choice. And he creates, in DeLarge, one of cinema’s most enduring and influential anti-heroes.

Malcolm McDowell lunges into the role of Alex, creating a rippling character so full of convincing bravado that it is hard not to fear him, hate him and, in the end, even like him. His performance propels the film into a whirlpool of utterly breakneck chaos. He nails the wild-eyed, crazy look perfectly, inspiring a whole slew of other versions (most notably, Heath Ledger’s The Joker) but it is when the wicked-witted actor turns Alex into a creature desperate for sympathy that his performance becomes truly memorable. Be it the Cockney accent or those blue eyes, both vivid and sad- it is one spectacular performance.

As the film’s melancholic, almost elegiac, second half unfolds, we have our feelings tossed and turned but the anarchy remains intact and the film still roars with a fury, orchestrated to the swelling tunes of classical opera. And like all Kubrick classics, ‘A Clockwork Orange’ hammers our senses with a sublime form of poetic chaos. Kubrick and fellow lensman John Alcott shoot the proceedings with long-zoom, low-angle detachment and slow-motion style but plunge themselves in the midst of the gromky frenzy of debauchery and bloodlust, the camera jumping, leaping and hurling at us with an unabashed fury. Meanwhile, Bill Butler’s slapdash editing cuts away from what could have been a fatal tolchock to trippy imagery, and from the stillness of a prison library to the violence and lust that pops up from pages of sacred scripture. 

Irreverence and misogyny is all over ‘A Clockwork Orange’- from naked mannequins in the Korovo Milk Bar to Alex tinkering with a phallic statue in his ill-fated last job. There are no appy polly logies from Kubrick and his team.

 And yet, this is also the film in which a hitherto stiff and stern prison guard watched, open-mouthed, at an almost nude woman while Alex, supposedly the criminal of the film, raises a glass of his favourite drink to a woman who happens to sing one of his favourite songs. This is also a story rooted in an actual world and not a wholly fictional one. Those glitzy record stores might not look real but you can always spot a copy of ‘Magical Mystery Tour’ on display. 

How much of a legend is this film? Denying its immense influence would be an utter crime; it would be better for anyone to snuff it. You can feel its trademark, wide-eyed, long-zoom visual style in subsequent accomplishments like ‘Brazil’, ‘Trainspotting’, ‘Punch-Drunk Love’ and more. You can feel its radical, ribald sex and violence influencing a whole new generation of provocative, vellocet-fuelled cinema and music (Danny Boyle called the film’s psychedelic final scene- of Alex cavorting with a girl wearing nothing but black gloves- as an indelible impression on his imagination). 

And despite it all, you can always come back to ‘A Clockwork Orange’ to viddy a real achievement of mind-bending, shocking and confronting cinema delivered by a true master of the format. As Alex would insist, ‘Viddy well, little brother. Viddy well.’

PS: To find out the meanings of the Nadsat words, please watch the film immediately.