Connoisseurship is Sham

Connoisseurship in India is sham. Connoisseurship in India is a propaganda of the so-called elitists to control audience. India must be the only country in the world where there is an ongoing lobby for class divisions in the name of cinema. The self-proclaimed protectors of “good cinema” condemn people who watch movies for entertainment, but the same elitists have no qualms when people revel in T20 cricket for entertainment. Why is honourable to watch cricket for entertainment but unpardonable to watch cinema for the same? What’s wrong with varied cinema? Why can’t feel-good films co-exist with austere films? They can, but the elitists don’t want that. They want absolute control. The biggest problem is their khap mentality.

Sangh Parivar and their honchos tell India to shun western culture but they deride Indians who don’t like Hollywood films. They ridicule people who don’t like American television shows: anyone who doesn’t like Breaking Bad, Dexter, or Game of Thornes is called uncultured. What kind of a deranged, self-contradictory mindset is this? This aptly describes the confused, conflicted state of mind of Indian audience. In the 2000s when lip-syncing songs reduced, Indian audience whined, calling song-and-dance routine a part of heritage. Now again they are again embarrassed of songs. These days they hate South Indian remakes of masala films. But they were the ones who made such films fashionable at the first place by fanatically supporting cinema like Wanted, Rowdy Rathore, Ghajini, Golmaal 3 etc. How confused can Indian audience get? It’s about time that the rabid organisations stop thrusting their personal quirks on society.

Indians are more fervent about Hollywood than U.S. itself. In U.S. if anyone didn’t like The Dark Knight trilogy, it wouldn’t be given a second thought. But in India any such Philistines are ridiculed and browbeaten by power brokers. Indians crave for realistic fight scenes. But the same scholars don’t spew any vitriol while watching even B-grade Hollywood movies like Shoot’em Up and Cave.

The pampered film critics of India moan that henchmen in Hindi movies are cheerful compared to the joyless henchmen in world cinema. Clearly, their information library is licked by termites of mental slavery. Way back in Sholay, Veeru was a humorous outlaw, while Jai was a silent, solemn man. There was a reason why Amitabh Bachchan was known as the angry young man in 1970s. In recent times too, Ek Villain — a drab film nonetheless — showed a joyless henchman in the lead role. These critics throw tantrums that films are detached from reality, yet they don’t complain when Indians themselves are detached from reality in real world. How can a privileged Indian show such callous indifference to the poverty and social inequality around them? How can an average Joe ignore the 2002 Gujarat riots where 2000 people were massacred with impunity? In other words, they want realism in cinema but not in real life. It turns out that that they are the ones who are detached from reality.

‘Hasee To Phasee’ — Cricket’s Perversion in Popular Culture

In Indian popular culture, IPL or Twenty-20 has become a superseding synonym for cricket. The movie Hasee To Phasee, despite being refreshingly unconventional, pays pimping service to T20 cricket with shameless sycophancy. Is it a mad scientist’s influence or the director’s kinky predilection? It is a great example on how popular culture indoctrinates the impressionable minds of Indian audience.

In a scene set in 2006, the girl supposedly prophesies that cricket should be of twenty overs, hence finishing in three hours. Three hours? The length of cricket is three and half hours, not three as fiendishly proclaimed by her. Secondly, the scene is supposed to show her innovative tendencies and foresight. But in truth, twenty-over cricket was England’s invention, already in existence at that time. But of course that’s overlooked in the film. Another subliminal message given there is that T20 cricket is for intelligent crowd only.

After hearing the girl’s sick views on cricket, the boy proffers some creepy ideas about the game:  a total of thirty-three players in a team — eleven separate bowlers, batsmen and fielders. (Why would anyone need eleven specialist bowlers and batsmen in a short twenty-over innings? Eleven bowlers would be too many even in a timeless Test. Eleven specialist batsmen would be wasted in T20 game. What would this stupid rule do to all-rounders?) Then he vomits a rabid suggestion that cricket should be played on a revolving ground and have two (literally) flying fielders in the inner circle. According to his sick mind, it would complete the evolution of the game. How? What? Why?

Are these mad scientists a part of the cabal formulating the tenets of cricket? No wonder why cricket nowadays is run by bolshies like Srinivasan and his rabid sycophants.

How can any sane human being spew such militant ideas on a sport? Although it’s the girl who is shown to be a “mad scientist”, in reality it’s the boy who is unhinged. Under the facade of worldliness, he is a craven and insecure flagellant. Under the delusion of pragmatism, he is a martyr of masochism. He lives in denial of not loving his girlfriend, which he professes for stability. He considers domestic violence a connubial norm. He dutifully bears abuse and blackmail from his disagreeable girlfriend, who threatens to jilt him at the drop of rain. In return, he grovels at her to save their bondage-domination relationship. He gives up too easily on his ambition of becoming a police officer because he is too lily-livered to stand up to his father. Bankrupt of self-respect, the bootlicker frequently implores his prospective father-in-law for money. He is a crackpot who blathers on asinine business schemes as an escape from his miseries. Since he has no control over his personal and professional life, he conjures a fantasy world filled with sick drivel on cricket.

The girl’s malevolent schemes for cricket are at least offhanded. It’s easy to make allowances for her because of her rough childhood, of being abused by her demonic patriarchal uncle. However, the boy is not worthy of any sympathy. He is such a rabid bore that it is difficult to blame his girlfriend for being a psychological browbeater. How can one expect her to stay attracted to that yellow belly? How can her animal instinct let her respect that doormat? It’s no wonder that she keeps him on his toes.

Every astute entrepreneur snubs his loony business propositions. (Why would a common entrepreneur be bothered with the laws of cricket?) Then he squirts his diabolical schemes about cricket to a shady businessman who looks more like a pimp. It’s no wonder that the delusional pimp — possibly a drug addict — loves his drivel. (What that pimp has to do with cricket is a mystery. And again, looking at the draconian state of contemporary cricket, you wonder if such pimps are really controlling cricket.)

Watching this movie makes one realise that this is what happens when mad scientists run the show. There are rabid suggestions that LBW rule should be eliminated since it is based on conjecture. Some fanatics recommend that boundary scores should be changed to five and ten (instead of four and six), ensuring a rounded metric system; an over should be of five balls, making T20 game a total of 100 balls instead of 120, ensuring an easier calculation of run-rate. (How stupidly they forget Tests and their pet ODIs). There are proposals for split-innings ODI matches, as if the current changes weren’t enough. A crackpot journalist, Rob Steen, made a hideous suggestion that an Ashes series should incorporate all three formats. (It happens in women’s cricket, but one must understand that women rarely play Test matches; hence it makes sense for the women’s Ashes to be sprawled across all three formats.) People like Steen are sick power brokers, in other words: trans-national pimps, who would stoop to any level for their perverse pleasures. As much as I dislike BCCI, I can’t help but thank heavens that at least BCCI isn’t infested with rabid minds like these.

‘Humpty Sharma Ki Dulhania’ — Anurag Kashyap Ki Dulhania

A juxtaposition of old-world simplicity and modern-day savagery.

The poster of Humpty Sharma Ki Dulhania is a “selfie”, aptly depicting the pretentious times we live in. On face value it is a lightweight tribute to the feted blockbuster Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge, but at a deeper level it is an ode with a sociological twist and an introspection of our modern times. It is as much a reflection of Aditya Chopra’s opus as it is of new age auteurs like Anurag Kashyap. It is juxtaposition of the old-world simplicity and modern-day savagery. We live in tough times. We live in brutally competitive times. We live in a society that champions libertarian socialism, yet is consumerist to the core. Kavya won’t settle for anything less than a  500,000-rupee highbrow wedding dress. She, nonetheless, has the oomph, enterprise and chutzpah to raise the required money. Modern society is full of contradictions and paradoxes. Perfection is new-age imperfection. Lowbrow is new-age highbrow.  Kavya rejects Angad, who is better than Humpty in every way. He is a doctor; he is financially successful; he has more brawn and brains than Humpty; he has good social and clubbing skills. But despite that, it is Humpty who charms Kavya with his glaring flaws.

Like any self-conscious modern film, it pays obeisance to Facebook. But it saves us from the seeing Humpty imploring her with stupid and creepy platitudes like “I want to do friendship with you”. Instead he sends her a friend request at Facebook, which unkbeknownst to his mental powers is a subtle approach to take things forward. Their transition from friends to lovers is seamless without any melodrama or jingoistic rhetoric.

The film’s most hilarious scene — the teary-eyed Humpty while watching his favourite movie — is rendered subservient in the opening credits. It’s a big waste. Shashank Khaitan (the director) does well in fashioning unsophisticated characters. But like many Indian directors, he makes the mistake of confusing unsophisticated characters with unsophisticated filmmaking. A story like this needed a more polished approach.

Both films centre around patriarchy. In Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge, Amrish Puri was a non-violent patriarch. He didn’t rely on rage or rants to exert his authority. His commanding presence was enough. However, subtlety doesn’t sell in today’s snobbish times; hence, the modern patriarch has to have violent tendencies to be accepted by the impressionable modern society. The patriarch here, Ashutosh Rana, from his humble beginnings as a mechanic, is now a rich and powerful transport honcho. He could even be a disciple of a libertarian-socialist Godman, whose feet he washes with mineral water and then drinks the same. He believes in solving his problems without any authority’s intervention. He is his own authority. He is the stentorian voice of a once-common man he was. He sends Humpty and friends packing in a truck, battered savagely by his sycophants. The father-daughter relationship is relaxed. She’s daddy’s princess, pampered and over-protected by the typical modern-day big poppa daddy. But he can impose his preferences on her when it comes to her marriage, for he believes that his choice would be better for her in the long run. The patriarch knows that he is not a perfect husband to his wife, but he aspires to be a perfect daddy.

Humpty is a run-of-the-mill exponent of yuppie breed, who any average six-pack Joe can relate to. Like modern-day heroes he guts it out in the gym and flaunts six-pack abs with pride. Many social commentators look askance at the shaved torsos and muscular physiques of modern heroes. In the past, heroes didn’t need gymnasiums to exhibit machismo: hirsuteness was an emblem of masculinity. But things have changed. So have the ethos of machismo. The parameters of modern masculinity are tougher, as drudging machinery in the gym calls for hard work and dedication. Humpty strips himself of dignity to seek the patriarch’s approval, ready to undergo an excoriating examination under his daunting supervision. At the patriarch’s behest he could submit himself to humiliating stress positions, holding his ears by looping arms behind his knees. The patriarch doesn’t literally put him through the aforementioned murga punishment, but one can feel that Humpty has lost his soul. It is apparent that even if Humpty succeeds in marrying Kavya, he will never get respect from her family. In Kavya’s family there will always be gossips of their epic mismatch and how Humpty’s insistent implorations, like a singing beggar, led to the patriarch’s reluctant approval.

When Kavya decides to elope with him, Humpty’s paternal instinct kicks in and he persuades her to stay under the patriarch’s aegis. In spirit, he is a younger version of the patriarch. He is a conformist like him. His methods are different but his ideologies are the same as his. Like the patriarch, he is a savage at heart. When his desperate attempts of critiquing Angad fail, he almost gives up, but Kavya’s wit saves him. She artfully incites Angad to pick a fight with a lecherous hooligan at the dhaba. But instead of getting in a mad-cap brawl, Angad calmly calls the police; whereas, the frantic Humpty, throws himself on the hooligans. Although the patriarch reprimands him for his imprudence, he cannot help but see his younger self in the savage Humpty. But he snaps out of it: Humpty is too big a risk for him. He cannot let his daughter marry a lad from unfamiliar background with rickety finances, compared to Angad who scores heavily in familiarity, finances and personality. Angad is not a bad boy like the patriarch’s reflection, Humpty, but the patriarch would rather prefer a good boy than a like-minded bad boy for his daughter. It is ironic that he himself was a mechanic at the time of his marriage; but like every big poppa daddy, he seeks a better life for his daughter than he did for his wife.

The climax has an oneiric feel — a salute to Martin Scorsese’s Taxi Driver. At the eve of Kavya’s wedding, Humpty is guzzling a bottle of alcohol in despair. And he does something that is considered uncharacteristic of the modern breed: he bawls. Thereupon, the patriarch emerges to bless his approval for Humpty. But he is too brutal a pragmatist to have a such a romantic change of heart. It is a very dream-like scene. Then Kavya’s standing on the patriarch’s decorated truck, calling Humpty, is another surreal moment. Angad’s abrupt dismissal seems more of Humty’s reverie, which had no room for Angad. Humpty always yearned for a Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge-like idealistic finale to his love story. Alas, he should know that idealism does not exist in the modern civilisation. It’s a Kashyapian world.

‘Dhoom 3’ — Rhetoric On Ropes

© Yashraj Films

Iqbal Khan (Jackie Shroff) is a misunderstood artist of his generation. He is a visionary. He is not interested in rendering a generic circus machinery: that of hackneyed antics, animals (ill-treated behind the stage) and forced glamour. The callous bank executive — metaphorical of Philistine corporations and close-minded audience — is predisposed to reject his plea, with hidebound contention that viewers only expect puerility from circus. The director, Victor Acharya, sets the scene of Iqbal Khan’s plights within seconds of his introduction. Jackie Shroff, a seasoned campaigner that he is, portrays the character’s frustrations with ease. It’s hard to imagine anyone else in this role, albeit the length.

The casting of the young Sahir is crucial to the narrative. For one, he has to be a gymnast. And he has to be a good actor. He evades bullies in an act of mini-parkour. It’s a swift and effective introduction — a tap on his potential, for things to come. Siddharth Nigam is a real-life gymnast, so that takes care of acrobatics; where he excels the most is with his innate skill as an actor.

The trial circus show of 1990 is filmed very well. There’s soft “malang” tune in the background. (It would evolve into a full song and a proper circus act in future.) The circus props would also evolve in the future acts. The hat-throwing trick of the father and the son would later be replicated in the final robbery with motorbikes replacing hats. So far, so good from Victor Acharya.

Although Dhoom films are set in real world, they are quasi-fantasy films. The director makes sure that the implausible stunts are shot aesthetically. This is what separates a good director from an ordinary director. Every scene in Dhoom 3 has a function. There is a circus motif in each robbery. Tightrope walking is a common feature in circus and riding bicycle on a tightrope is a possible feat. Accordingly, the motorbike on high-rope is fully thematic in the quasi-fantasy realm of Dhoom. Since motorbikes are essential in Dhoom series, it makes for a thematic correlation between the Dhoom trope and circus. (Upon a closer inspection, preferably in high-definition, one can see that the tyres are mould in the shape of the rims to grip the rope.)

Victor Acharya uses slow-motion and ultra-slow-motion to a great effect in the motorbike scenes, without relying on gaudy tableaus. Then he immediately gets back to the normal speed: it enhances the effect of motorbike’s acceleration.

The second escape adventure is a riveting spectacle. The taut background music underlines Sahir’s predicament when the motorbike reaches the bridge. Sahir underplays well through his countenance of predicament. The scene also harks back to James Bond films where Bond uses gadgets to get out of trouble. Herein, the motorcycle unbelievably transforms into a Jet-Ski. After all, magic is meant to be unbelievable: a mix of sleight, contrivance and deception. Sahir, again, relies on circus acrobatics and magic tricks to escape. The VFX transformation is top-notch.  The entire scene is wonderfully executed without any toffee-nosed rush or jumpy chopping. The editor does a fine job in knowing when to chop and when to spare.

In both robberies, Sahir uses the disappearing trick (taught by his father) to circumvent the police.

The “malang” song is well-timed at a crucial juncture before the interval. The prelude has a sense of grandeur, silhouettes representing the young Sahir and his father, with an oration of the poem “bandey hain hum uske” in the background. Sahir’s father passes a flambeau to him and the curtain opens. Malang has so much potential that it could have become a meta-movie in the song itself. But it is still impressive, grandly expressionist with colours, shadows, outlandish creatures and magic. The qawwali version of the Dhoom tune is noteworthy. The epilogue has a sense of achievement, as Sahir somersaults out of the box to a resounding applause. The movie shows an extended version of the song, which is not there in the official video or soundtrack.

Unlike Hollywood, background music seldom gets due appreciation in Hindi cinema. Like the previous Dhoom movies, the background music is superlative. Julius Packiam blends it finely in the narrative: at times subtle, at times prominent as per the situation. It lingers on even after the movie ends. One gets to appreciate the background music more during repeat viewings. (For the record, Salim-Sulaiman did the background score for Dhoom and Dhoom 2.)

A big revelation comes at the point of interval. This scene, again, is very well directed. The good thing about Victor Acharya is that he knows when to accelerate and when to slow down. Following the confrontation with Jai, Sahir ensconces towards his room. It’s a long take with no dialogue. The length engenders a feeling of suspense. As Sahir sits on the chair, probably facing a mirror (a common mode of cinematography), one can hear his breathing. The camera circles slowly, the silence adds to the anticipation. The interval point is worthy of applause.

Abhishek Bachchan delivers his best performance of the Dhoom series. He shares more screen-time with Aamir Khan than he did with his adversaries in Dhoom and Dhoom 2. He shows a menacing streak in the scene where he interrogates Sahir. Since everything has to be done in the Dhoom framework, the film misses out on opportunities of what they could have done with Jai’s character, as well as a few other things, because in many ways, it’s Jai Dixit who comes across as a stubborn antagonist. The result, however, is still effective. Jai’s beard in the amusement park scene is shoddy: almost a blot on the great picture. Although it is probably done on purpose since he is working unofficially and he is no master of disguise like the Hrithik Roshan of Dhoom 2. It almost seems like an unintentional nod to the ostensible masquerades from the old movies where a hero (or sometimes a heroine) would put on a moustache and become unrecognisable by one and all. The computer-generated shorter beard in the later scenes is much better.

Much like Dhoom 2, Ali (Uday Chopra) is in an adjutant position. He is affable, unsophisticated character who listens to lowbrow music, wears tawdry clothes, but considers himself stylish and poetic. He is a polar opposite of Uday Chopra because of their disparate backgrounds; in spite of that, Chopra gives an unaffected performance. And that makes his performance special. 

A propos the act in India, the idea was to play it to the gallery with a rustic fight scene. The auto-rickshaw feature, however, is unbefitting to the Dhoom template. Ideally they could have harked back to the brilliant chor bazaar (black market) scene from Dhoom 1; that scene had a riveting escape (with Jai and Ali being the absconders instead of chasers) and a little story behind it. But here, there is no back story, no motif and no Dhoom twinge on the rustic tableau.

© Yashraj Films

There is an unsubstantiated criticism that Dhoom 3 lacks the essence of the Dhoom series. In that way, Dhoom 2 was very different from Dhoom 1: Dhoom 2 showed robberies, while the first Dhoom barely got into robberies; Dhoom 2 was also a love story, while Dhoom 1 wasn’t. Similarly, Dhoom 3 doesn’t show any robbery, and much like Dhoom 1, it emphasises on escapes, yet it has its own identity while inheriting the quintessence of the series. Besides, just adding a new antagonist without making any changes would be assembly-line cinema, much like The Hangover Part II.

Dhoom 3 also succeeds in bringing old-school rhetoric to the fore. The poem “bandey hain hum uske” is orated throughout the film in different tones, each at a key moment. Sahir and Iqbal Khan disperse a few memorable dialogues: “Jo duniya ko namumkin lage, wohi mauka hota hai kartab dikhane ka. [What appears impossible to the world is an opportunity to perform a feat.]” This also makes the implausible stunts apt.

Katrina Kaif plays a spirited and somewhat quirky girl. Her smile after “malang” is moving, so genuine and heart-warming. She leaves a strong impact in songs with her adroit moves and expressions. And none of the songs are forced in the narrative. This time she really unleashes her inner kamli (her passionate self), which she couldn’t do in Jab Tak Hai Jaan.  Although, excluding songs, she has a small role, her character is vital in the grand scheme of things.

It’s hard to think of any other actor with such a wide-ranging repertoire of films (acted or produced). Aamir Khan takes care of aesthetics and nuances in a remarkable performance. As always he stays true to whatever character he plays. There is no reliance on past glory, self-reference or braggadocio. His poised countenance and that remarkable stance make the motorcycle scenes more effective. He gives Sahir an aura of mystique when he goes to meet Jai Dixit at the police headquarters. His fine hat, tilted a tad upwards, gives him an air of a sly jester. In a brilliant cinematic moment, we hear Samar speak for the first time, stammering “bandey hain him uske—” in pain.  It is Aamir Khan’s brilliance that enhances the scene’s effect. In another noteworthy scene, Sahir impersonates Samar. Aamir adds a bit of Sahir in that impersonation. Since he is acting like Samar from Sahir’s point of view, not his own, he has to act not only like Samar but also incorporate Sahir into the act. It’s a subtle difference but crucial. In the same scene, where the audience cheered the loudest, Sahir says, “Hoshiari, tarqeeb aur dhokha —teeno mil jaye to log ussey jaadu samajhte hain. [When sleight, contrivance and deception converge, people think it’s magic.]” During the dialogue, he scratches his face with the gun with an old-fashioned panache. Whether it’s a nod to the old-school acting or personal mannerism, it goes well with the rhetoric. This is the closest he can come to self-reference.

Confused Connoisseurs of Cinema

Double standards of brainwashed connoisseurs. National sense of inferiority in cinema.

Snobbery, impressionability and intolerance — when they converge, people mistake it for connoisseurship, but in reality you get the gist of Indian audience. Plagiarism subsists in Indian cinema (not just Hindi cinema), but these days any similarity with a foreign film is pronounced plagiarism by lifestyle gurus. And there are gross inconsistencies in the accusations. Take for instance, Dhoom 3 is called a copy of The Prestige just because both movies feature a similar magic trick. (Rabid critics whine that both films dealt with revenge too; hence, it’s a copy. In The Prestige, a magician held a fellow magician responsible for his wife’s death and became his enemy as a result. It wasn’t a classical revenge tale. It dealt more with obsession, rivalry and magic. On the other hand, in Dhoom 3 a son seeks revenge of his father’s death from a bank owner. That way the revenge theme in Dhoom 3 is similar to that of yesteryear Hindi films like Trishul or Akayla. But revenge is one of the most commonly used themes in Indian cinema.) The core similarity between Dhoom 3 and The Prestige is the magic trick involving twins. I doubt if most of the accusers have even seen The Prestige. If that similarity makes it a copy, then the French film Irreversible should also be called a copy of Memento. Like Memento, the narrative is in reverse chronology. In both films, the protagonist is in pursuit of his spouse’s killer or rapist. But of course Irreversible, being a foreign brand, is venerated by the weak-kneed moral gurus of India. Barfi is practically a collection of copied scenes from a few foreign films and Charlie Chaplin’s gags, yet everything is brushed under the carpet because it is supposedly intellectual cinema. Even the recently released Imtiaz Ali’s Highway’s plot bears resemblances with The Chase (a 1994 Hollywood film): a rich girl is kidnapped by man from ghettos; after initial antipathy, she develops a strong bond with him. I do not mean that Highway is plagiarised work (it’s more of an inspiration), yet the same stratum of lifestyle connoisseurs, who get in a moral outrage over minor similarities, have stayed quiet this time — simply because Highway is a highbrow film. Aamir Khan’s own Ghajini had striking similarities with Memento, yet not many people made a fuss out of it — because it came in as a remake baggage from the highly feted south Indian cinema. Salman Khan’s Jai Ho’s premise is lifted from Hollywood’s Pay It Forward, but it has barely attracted any notoriety from lifestyle gurus and connoisseurs. The 2007 blockbuster Jab We Met was quite comparable to My Sassy Girl, yet Indian audience dote on it without any fuss. The yuppie breed’s front runner Hum Tum had many similarities with When Harry Met Sally, but the lifestyle gurus stayed quiet. Dhoom 3 is also called a copy of Now You See Me. There are certain similarities, but Now You See Me came only four months before it — a long time after Dhoom 3’s shooting had finished. It’s downright absurd to proclaim that they modified the script, re-shot the film, did all the complex post-production work (visual effects, editing etc.) just after seeing Now You See Me’s trailer and got everything ready for Christmas.

©Yashraj Films

In Dhoom 3, people found the motorbike’s transformation into a Jet Ski ridiculous. If a Hollywood film had done that, the same crowd would have gaped in awe. When James Bond’s car turned into a submarine, it was greeted with whistles and cheers from connoisseurs. Many Hollywood films have implausible action scenes: in Goldeneye (1995), James Bond jumped off a cliff on a motorbike and entered an imminently crashing aeroplane. It was a conspicuously impossible stunt, notwithstanding in contravention of the laws of physics. Nevertheless, it met with negligible disapproval. Had it been executed in a Hindi film, even with the same finesse, it would have led to bigoted moanings from the national bellyachers. Tom Cruise wore sticky gloves to climb vertical surfaces in Mission Impossible 4 and the propaganda connoisseurs applauded with deference; yet a similar gadget in Hindi film would be received with rabid disapproval. In Quentin Tarantino’s Kill Bill, Uma Thurman killed hundreds of assassins with a sword in one scene. In another scene, a girl decapitates a man, pumping a fountain of blood at a high pressure for a few seconds. But none of the weak-kneed connisseurs winced. The comic book themed Sin City (one of my favourites) was full of implausible fight scenes, but the spineless Indian audience didn’t complain. They would never extend the same level of tolerance for an enterprising Hindi film like that. If a film like Sin City were to be helmed in Hindi cinema, it would become an object of national scorn for its “unrealistic” fights and “stupid” comic-motion scenes. This is one of the reasons why Indian writers dread trying anything out of the box. Anurag Kashyap endeavoured Franz Kafka and Federico Fellini-style surrealist world in No Smoking. It was received with hateful hysteria from film cults. Since then, he has limited himself to easy-to-comprehend austere cinema, though he hasn’t pandered to the lusts of lowest common denominations. Imagine if Virender Sehwag had only played T20 cricket. He would still be a great cricketer but it would be such a waste of his enormous talent. People received intellectual orgasms with Gravity after it had received global acclaim. If made in India, the same film would get sardonic responses like “there is no story”, “it is like a documentary”, “it is too slow” and so forth. This is the reason why nobody would even dare to envisage a concept like this.

Lifestyle gurus, whose bellies start aching over long Hindi films, have no qualms about the lengths of long Hollywood films, namely, Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit, Titanic etc. Even the second-grade Hollywood movies like Fast Five, Fast & Furious 6, G.I. Joe Cobra, Cave are treated as cinematic deities by the class-conscious connoisseurs of India who even deride movies like 3 Idiots. How can it not be anything more than mental slavery? Choice seems to be either manufactured by peer pressure or it just does not exist. 

The level of ignorance, impressionability and intolerance spewed by snobs is metaphorical of mob violence. If in the past, Indian audience were afraid to express their opinions, now they are afraid to form an opinion; as it shows, media and lifestyle gurus do all the thinking for them. Mob mentality is considered a virtue in Indian society. Lifestyle gurus exploit this sentiment to manipulate mental slaves. Snobbery and impressionability always go hand in hand; add ignorance it, and it becomes a fatal combination.

‘Desh Drohi’ — Caterwaulings of a Rickety Eyesore

Sometime in 2008, a fatuous film Desh Drohi released with equally goofy eyesore at the helm, the self-proclaimed billionaire, KRK. Although it still remains his only film to date, it did enough to catapult him to the echelons of high connoisseurship. The most curious thing about it is the attention showered by Indian media upon him, the self-proclaimed billionaire, KRK. They disperse petals on the floor he walks, they cosy up to him during long walks, they hark his everyday tidings and tantrums — he gets attention like a newly-wed bride. Despite the passing of all the years, he continues to be media’s babe. It is tempting to write a review.

To quote Albert Einstein: “The difference between stupidity and genius is that the genius has its limits.” The greatest of films can be graded using a uniform abstraction, but there is no limit to the lecheries of lowest common denominations. This wish-wash even makes the popularly known worst films — Clerk, Plan Nine From Outer Space, Jaani Dushman: Ek Anokhi Kahani — look decent in comparison.

It’s hard to understand all the attention given to this rickety eyesore: film snobs hail him as a chic socialite, box-office mystic, prophetic film critic and prolific Tweeter with a huge following. It is contended, with rabid justifications, that, since he doesn’t have nepotic association in the film industry, his work ought to be appreciated. Does that mean Aamir Khan and Hritihik Roshan are inferior actors just because they come from families of film-makers? Nepotism is more prevalent in Indian politics. Then, as per that logic, he should be made the prime minister of India.

At best there are unintentionally hilarious moments throughout this abject pseudo-intellect, though too vapid like the rickety eyesore at the helm. The uncouth prude is so unlikeable, so despicable that his unintentional humour turns into a travesty too loathsome. He is like those grossly ineffectual singers who turn up at auditions of reality shows for self-abasing publicity, being fully aware of their extreme ineptitude.

In terms of technique, it is an absolute botchery. A local cable TV crew of reluctant videographers would do a better job at shooting a film than the director, who is, surprisingly, not short of experience.

A wise man once said that snobbery can sell anything in this country. The box-office plaudits and the hyped television premier in prime-time slot reaffirm the adage that snobbery sells quicker than hot cakes. In Hindu mythology, it is prophesied that in Kalyug (the current era, translated as ‘the age of downfall’), swan will pick a grain and crow will eat a pearl. In other words, brilliance will be lampooned and idiocy will rule the roost.

Shallow Linguistics

One can thank heavens when the man of the masses, Noam Chomsky, refuses to be swayed by the Twitter snobbery. The usual Chomskyan fans would have expected a roar of approval with fervent locutions from the intellectual honcho, but he is neither impressionable nor snobbish to surrender himself to such pseudo-intellect. Lifestyle gurus are pimping touting Twitter as a linguistic breakthrough. According to their pompous theories, Twitter induces creativity by forcing people to write within 140 characters; apparently, it will also render literature obsolete. As usual, lifestyle gurus are using chicanery to influence masses.

On Twitter, a person asked Madhu Trehan on her experience as a journalist during the emergency in the nineteen-seventies. She replied that it was not possible to describe that in 140 characters, and advised him to read books thereof. That sums it: everything doesn’t either “suck” or “rock”; there are layers of details, far from the reach of stunted messages.

Make no mistake, this isn’t criticism of the social networking website. Twitter serves as a good platform for sharing headlines and staying in accord with current events, but it only works at a superficial level. It’s like a trailer, not a feature film. It’s not a linguistic phenomenon. Life is far more complex to be diminished to the fleeting limits of Twitter. Imagine Noam Chomsky’s disquisitions being condensed to mere tweets. How would a superficial-level tweet entail the niceties, the intricacies, the celebrated Chomskyan reasoning and corroboration of facts in just 140 characters?