The Bang Redux

It takes charisma and supreme, unaffected confidence in that charisma to pull off corniness. It's an attitude. Salman Khan has that in generous supply. Chulbul Pandey -- the deliciously massy, iconic supercop of Dabanng 2-- whips up dust storms as he lands feet. He kicks and punches hefty, scream-face thugs into orbit and does that little jig with his goggles. He looks the devil in the eye and gives sasta sarkari advice. Khan does all this with a half-grin; you can almost hear him think: "Boss, whistle now!" before another one-liner, another full-swing punch or another street ditty with Rajjo (Sonakshi Sinha). He doesn't perform. He doesn't have to, he just has to be there.


It's this assured, infectious presence that makes Dabanng 2 -- despite its huge predictabilities, plot holes and a very weak antagonist (Prakash Raj goes wide-eyed intense again, sigh.) -- an engaging watch. Kanpur is Pandey's new hunting ground and Bachcha Singh (Raj) and his brothers are the local lords who play it down because there's an election on (damn well you know That!). While earnestly treading masala ground (this is a film that has item hottie Kareena Kapoor singing she's tandoori chicken, asking men to have her with alcohol) that extends till the 1970s-style wind-down, with a new-born and a family photograph, director Arbaaz Khan also nods to the small-town India of home-spun riddles, pizza-lover cops and Young India underwear (the last one comes up during the terrific first face-off between Pandey and Bachcha).

Deepak Dobriyal as Bachcha's wild brother Genda has a good time. The action choreography is patented South ('Anal' Arasu, finally, changes his name to 'Anl' Arasu, dropping the a for obvious reasons). There are a few annoyingly tacky product placements and they could've done with a better theme score for Pandeyji. But subtleties are inconsequential distractions in a film that runs on Bhai's style and in-the-face coolth.

In Chennai, the Big Daddy of style -- after suffering many pretenders in his own backyard -- can take heart in the rise of a worthy successor. The man at the ticket counter had asked me, TheBang? On my way out, I had half a mind to tell him, "Oh yes!"

Review: Endhiran -- The Robot

It's easy to get carried away, even for the ones who do the extra bit of introspection to bring in that elusive, nice-sounding thing called objectivity, with a Rajnikanth film on Mojo overdose. Easier when it's Endhiran -- The Robot, Shankar's audacious, go-for-broke shot at home-spun Sci-Fi that seems to have nudged the staunchest among non-believers into a herd of converts flocking to the cinemas. I got, but only just.

But out of the spell that Rajnikanth's performance -- when did you last catch the actor in nerdy, all-flawed humanness shifting to detached, robotic cheek and then, to deliciously OTT badass? -- and Legacy Effects' path-breaking (by Indian standards, at least) graphic-work created in Endhiran, I also returned to the film's core man-machine debate, its endearing, cleverly spun-in Indianness and stray bits of engaging writing.

The debate is cursory and understated but it doesn't, thankfully, reflect the preachy angst that Shankar has patented through his anti-establishment vigilante films. Chitti (Rajnikanth), the lovable humanoid Dr Vaseegaran (Rajnikanth) creates, also serves as a pointer to human incongruities. When Vasee reprimands Chitti for eyeing his girl Sana (a seriously dishy Aishwarya Rai), all Chitti can offer in response is a bemused "I too love her", as if he doesn't Get this whole fuss over ownership when it's about love. For Chitti, life is worthier than the 'shame' of having been stranded naked in a crowd. The logic that powers him doesn't help him realise why a girl should adjust her mundhaani when he, a 'male' humanoid, is around either.

A good share of these establishing shots also comes as montages in a racy first half where the writing (Shankar, Madhan Karky and the eminent Tamil writer, late Sujatha) deftly captures Chitti as a Tragic Hero, a misfit in a world that wouldn't flinch before it lies, cheats and moves on. Sana, who calls Chitti her best friend, disowns him even when he's trying to help her clear a tough paper in college. Vasee -- Chitti calls him his God -- doesn't hesitate to terminate him after realising that his creation could be a competitor in love and a pointless research investment.

The sources of inspiration are across the range: from Star Wars to Bicentennial Man to The Matrix films. For a film built around the concepts of Artificial Intelligence and dealing with Neural Schema and such, Endhiran is also formidably desi. Shankar goes spoofy with a segment set around a temple festival where the Robot, flashing an assortment of weapons, sends a bunch of yellow-clad women into spiritual delirium. It feeds off its in-the-face Indianness, tapping on to all cliches from the masala genre. Here, A R Rahman's songs (the refrain from Arima Arima loosely translates to 'When his name's uttered, when his fame's mentioned, the oceans applaud') and BGM (check out the zingy electronica theme as the rogue Chitti unleashes havoc on Chennai roads) are vehicles to celebrate The Rajnikanth.

Endhiran lines up a top crew (cinematography: R Ratnavelu, editing: Anthony, art: Sabu Cyril, sound design: Resul Pookkutty and stunts: Peter Hein/Woo ping-Yuen) and the film, for most of its runtime, looks stylised-rich. But the budget-triggered compulsion to play desi also punctures the narrative in the second half, where the songs (though shot with spunk and ambition) cram it up. There's a dreadfully executed sequence that leads up to the gorgeously shot Kilimanjaro and a random bit about talking mosquitos (solid fun, but a bit stretched). In its run-up to the climactic segment, the film keeps drifting between jaded camp and drop-jaw spectacular.

The final 40 minutes hit a new rush, thanks to Rajni's smashing return to bad-boy mode (there's a nod here to the stylised, crowd-pleasing Alex Pandian from Moondru Mugam) and stunning VFX formations and stunts that, rightfully, cap this mad joyride of a film. The post-climactic segment is a fine footnote that winds down with a suitably profound teaser of a line. The sub-texts are worth biting into but Endhiran, in spirit, is make-believe entertainment that showcases its iconic lead player in his absolute elements. Respect. And Whoa.

Glorious kill

There’s a certain duality about Quentin Tarantino – the idea, and not necessarily the filmmaker himself – that reinforces faith in his work. At least, among those who have followed him as an adroit dissenter building films around thugs in suits, whistling assassins, highway stalkers and other fascinating oddballs.

Tarantino represents an unlikely, engaging mix of sensibilities. He’s an impossibly deft writer, able to beef up the blandest of stereotypes with delicious quirks and attitude; someone who can have you hooked even to what appears to be wordy, drawn-out sequences. As Bill runs The Bride (Kill Bill Vol 2) up to the five-point-palm-exploding-heart-technique, he punctuates the narration with slow blows into his flute. It’s a pause-peppered monotone you don’t want to miss.

"Once upon a time in China, some believe, around the year one double-aught three, head priest of the White Lotus Clan, Pai Mei, was walking down the road, contemplating whatever it is that a man of Pai Mei’s infinite power contemplates; which is another way of saying, Who knows?"

Tarantino, concurrently, channels a free-spirited bludgeoner with a thing for the base, extreme torture and indulgent camp. Though detached as he is from his foul, murderous players – as reflected in the sorry, abrupt ends they largely meet – it’s hard to miss the relish with which he colours these men, as they hit orgasmic highs after head-on car collisions (Death Proof), rent out comatose women to freaks looking for kinks (Kill Bill Vol 1) and quotes Ezekiel before gunning hapless boys down (Pulp Fiction)

This dichotomy – both of instinct and intelligence – makes Tarantino an interesting artist, greater than who he is for ambition and universality. It also helps him connect with an urban viewer grappling with extreme instincts that seem to be in conflict with a moderate self shaped by social manner.

Inglourious Basterds also feeds off this trait. The premise – a band of violent Jews out to hunt down the Nazis in occupied France – is right up the filmmaker’s alley. Led by Lt Aldo Raine (a hammy, yet effective Brad Pitt), the boys clobber and kill through the towns, even as Col Hans Landa (Christoph Waltz in terrific form) tries to close in. Playing out in parallel is the double-life of Shosanna Dreyfus (Melanie Laurent) as she plots to avenge her family, eliminated by the ‘Jew Hunter’ colonel. The Basterds and Shosanna, on their own separate paths, are undercover at the premiere of a propaganda film made by Goebbels. The catch? Hordes of Nazis caught unawares on a happy film night.

The Tarantino essentials – randomness that tantalizingly builds imminent action, the bleakly comical (Goebbels’ eyes well up when the Fuhrer himself lauds his film), absolute detachment from the kill after the act (Raine steps on a dead soldier as he walks to make conversation) – are all there. Strangely, I was hoping for an off-hand reference to the Big Kahuna Burger. Bad idea.

Basterds, however, is short on characters. That’s a downer, considering what Tarantino has done with history – no spoilers here – and it shouldn’t have hurt to probe more into men on the fringe, like Sgt Donny Donowitz a.k.a Bear Jew (Eli Roth, all manic and fired up). This is one of Tarantino’s more organized efforts and its straight structure, at one level, may appear conforming to the tradition of other films made around the Third Reich. It only appears to.

Shosanna’s steely, audacious shot at retribution and the Basterds’ go at the Man himself make a stunning, outrageously imagined climax. As Donowitz fires at screaming, hopelessly cornered men and women, the action shifts to slow-motion. The gunshots are now separated by longer intervals. They are music on a close-up of Roth’s face, that’s at once tense, evil and aroused. Quentin Tarantino’s back. That’s not a bad thing, really.

Actor, again

An hour into Bhramaram, there’s a chilling, unhurried scene that captures the manic edginess of its protagonist. The man (Mohanlal) walks into a bar with a dopey, apologetic grin. He eases out for a drink with his “friend” (Suresh Menon) who’s already downed one or two. He sniffs off the glass and ascertains – with a bit of derision – that it’s whiskey. He asks for rum, two at a go.

The friend, still grappling with the swinging temper that seems to propel this stranger, says something that upsets the man. Drifting to a wise-man drawl, he tries to reason with the friend. There’s no hostility. He just talks. The friend insists. The drinks are on the table. The man swills them down raw, in one shot. Now, he’s a menacing hood who wouldn’t flinch before the kill. In about two minutes, it’s a Mohanlal master class.

Writer-director Blessy’s latest is an engaging experiment with the road-thriller genre. Bhramaram, even with its scraggy pace and modest production values, is a riveting detour that also feeds off some top-class writing. But what really gets it going is Mohanlal. This is the finest at work. The actor sheds the superstar buckram for a character that calls out for all the showy tics and sundry voice tricks that we’ve come to attach with “psychotic” men on screen. Mohanlal, though, is another breed. This is the smashing reinvention of a supremely gifted actor who’s far from done. I'll keep the faith.

New bonding

The burn mark on Camille (a fetching Olga Kurylenko) underlines the change. The world's longest running spy-film franchise, now, comes with a grim real-worldness. Suckers for the old, happy swagger can make do with Sean Connery re-runs. Casino Royale had famously effected the bleak drift for double-o-seven. Quantum of Solace -- the 22nd film instalment featuring Ian Fleming's debonair agent -- takes the mode forward.

James Bond (Daniel Craig) is nursing wounds of betrayal by a woman. That's a sort of first for the super-stolid agent who has his girls and work all sorted out, as smooth as his Martini stir-ons. The heady chases and action set-pieces -- erected on a pan-global sprawl, from Haiti to Siena to Kazan -- work well within the franchise's trademarked template. But it's hard not to pit Craig's bare-knuckle rage against the cocksure poise of Connery. The spy who could kiss his women with all the heart and move on with baffling detachment is, now, someone who forgets the hard way. A killer, bloodied and not done.

The shift in Bond's bearings also, in parts, reflects his new beat. He's on the trail of Dominic Greene (Mathieu Amalric, flashing moments of edgy evil) who eyes potential in the business of water, in the drylands of Bolivia. Bond has had a rather interesting assortment of antagonists: from metal-mouthed hitmen to egomaniacal media czars. It was, perhaps, also a given that the MI6 agent would have a sham environment crusader like Greene to battle in these days of meltdowns; of the glaciers and otherwise.

Quantum of Solace is, often, a patently snappy Bond vehicle. But what really powers it is the clever, yet intriguing positioning of its protagonist. It's a choice of the maker (Marc Forster from Monster's Ball and Finding Neverland) and his writers (Paul Haggis, Neal Purvis and Robert Wade) who sift through the darker half of their lead player, that may put the formula-seeking purist off. But it's a supremely engaging detour that deserves a look-in not blinded by endorsement of the cult, as against the film. The name's still Bond. Only, he's getting real.

Goosebumps

A day off work. Vodka-high. Fist of Fury on the television. This is the real deal. Damn the pretenders.

Singapore and all that

Legislation, combined with persuasion. Take that for a potent, inclusive development model. The city-state of Singapore -- all of 700+ sq km -- offers a distinct look at political savoir-faire for those who care. The development is top-down: The state advertises, legislates and implements. The people fall in line and endorse. Things work.

The state jacks up car prices to get more people on public transport. The state beats its water concerns by recycling water from the sewers and branding it NEWater for potable use. The state lines up massive public housing blocks (where more than 70% of the population lives) in the central district. The state, also, sexes up integrated water management projects by promoting them with a leisure-and-high life feel-good. The state is, also, opening a casino and is calling it an Integrated Resort. There was initial resentment over the casino. That's where the persuasion helps. Things work.

The city sits easy and quiet on its spotless roads. On the flanks, the Young Rich hit the teeming, noisy malls and splurge. You are warned ahead of traffic snarls. You are told how long would it take for you to get where you are getting. The MRT is a cruise. You get change after the cab ride. Life moves like clock-work. Sometimes, things are better when not working. Really.

The brilliant Tan Dun was in concert at The Esplanade, playing his Academy Award-winning score from The Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. There was some divine beef, Indonesian style (Garuda Padang, Orchard Road), Guinness and exotic wine (assorted parties), a staggeringly beautiful skyline (view from the Pan Pacific hotel room) and some hurried shopping (Marina Square, Farrer Road and Little India). The best deal? Saravana Bhavan, near Mustafa Centre. A spicy, full meal. Burp. That was contentment.