So I've recently turned movie critic and as exciting as it sounds, it's beginning to become my albatross.
You see, I'm no cinephile. I'm not familiar with all of Woody Allen's filmography and only recently when a friend was discussing Kubrick, I went 'Stanley, who?' I keep very quiet at movie screenings, where critics around me yap about this director's cinematic skills and the prowess of an actor who I'd have never noticed onscreen if I hadn't eavesdropped on their conversation. I listen to them discuss what their Oscar favourites are, why they think that these films will win, why they loathe the Academy's choices, and why Meryl Streep should just be given a Lifetime Achievement award already.
It's not like I don't have an opinion. I enjoy movies just as much as any of these people here. I also observe proper cinema etiquette, like not loudly discussing how sleepy your taxi driver was on your way to the screening while the movie's playing. But these people intimidate me. I wonder how they'd react if I told them that Elle Woods was one of my favourite characters from cinematic history. I imagine about ten raised eyebrows, muffled laughter and very likely, a sneer. Or four.
I'd like to curl my lip back at them, and just get on with my job, but they worry me. Is this what will happen to me, once I watch more movies with only the intention of critiquing them? As time goes by, will contempt for what's popular set in? Will I feel the need to drop names of award winning European directors during polite conversation with other critics over samosas and wafers during intermission?
Ack.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
The Bachchan baby & the rocky moral high ground
So the Bachchan baby finally arrived this morning, and as expected news channels are staying studiously away, following a 10-point set of guidelines by the Broadcast Editors Association that doesn't allow them any more coverage than a 90-second package and a flash headline, among other things.
However I've been wondering how exactly this ban benefits anyone. My mum, grandmum and the neighbour's help all want to know about the Bachchan baby and not because they are carnivoristic voyeurs, but because the Bachchans are public figures of consequence and this is hardly bad news about them.
The moral high ground, I'm told, has been taken because of Justice Katju's remarks and the fact that Amitabh Bachchan himself loses no opportunity to lash out at eager mediapeople every time they line up outside his bungalow or broadcast a story about him. I'm sorry Mr Bachchan, but I would imagine that some kind of media glare would come with being a Bollywood actor, so I'm often wondering what all the fuss is about. However, in taking this decision to punish pretension from Bollywood's first family, aren't the broadcast media being pretentious themselves? It almost seems like a game of one-upmanship about who can seem righteous enough - the Bachchans, who despite being actors who bask in attention, plead that the media leave them alone, and the broadcast media, who despite being in the business of delivering news of public interest, have decided to impose restrictions because it was one snarky comment too much to take, and also this would be 'the right thing to do'.
It would hold some value if this were the rule set for all celebrity babies born from henceforth. But I hardly think it's going to happen when Lara gives birth or when maybe, Imran and Avantika or Aamir and Kiran have a baby. If it is, well then perhaps we are finally moving towards some sort of responsibility, that I don't particularly understand but still will shrug off. If it isn't, these guidelines have just served as one big ego massage to broadcast editors.
FYI, online media have no restrictions. So here's an alphabet book for Baby Bachchan and a guess at what celebrities will gift Baby Bachchan. Enjoy!
However I've been wondering how exactly this ban benefits anyone. My mum, grandmum and the neighbour's help all want to know about the Bachchan baby and not because they are carnivoristic voyeurs, but because the Bachchans are public figures of consequence and this is hardly bad news about them.
The moral high ground, I'm told, has been taken because of Justice Katju's remarks and the fact that Amitabh Bachchan himself loses no opportunity to lash out at eager mediapeople every time they line up outside his bungalow or broadcast a story about him. I'm sorry Mr Bachchan, but I would imagine that some kind of media glare would come with being a Bollywood actor, so I'm often wondering what all the fuss is about. However, in taking this decision to punish pretension from Bollywood's first family, aren't the broadcast media being pretentious themselves? It almost seems like a game of one-upmanship about who can seem righteous enough - the Bachchans, who despite being actors who bask in attention, plead that the media leave them alone, and the broadcast media, who despite being in the business of delivering news of public interest, have decided to impose restrictions because it was one snarky comment too much to take, and also this would be 'the right thing to do'.
It would hold some value if this were the rule set for all celebrity babies born from henceforth. But I hardly think it's going to happen when Lara gives birth or when maybe, Imran and Avantika or Aamir and Kiran have a baby. If it is, well then perhaps we are finally moving towards some sort of responsibility, that I don't particularly understand but still will shrug off. If it isn't, these guidelines have just served as one big ego massage to broadcast editors.
FYI, online media have no restrictions. So here's an alphabet book for Baby Bachchan and a guess at what celebrities will gift Baby Bachchan. Enjoy!
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Crying for a crowd
So as twisted as it sounds, do you ever wish your pain ever had an audience?
Like when you cry, for instance. Do you find solace in the fact that people are watching you suffer? And if the pain is caused by a person, do you secretly hope that they will somehow chance upon you weeping your eyes out or call at that moment to hear you sob on the phone?
I'll confess to all of the above, only I'm at a loss to understand what it says about me.
Like when you cry, for instance. Do you find solace in the fact that people are watching you suffer? And if the pain is caused by a person, do you secretly hope that they will somehow chance upon you weeping your eyes out or call at that moment to hear you sob on the phone?
I'll confess to all of the above, only I'm at a loss to understand what it says about me.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Why we must be thankful to Modi
So Narendra Modi, for the 'secular Indian', is a bad man. Even Gulshan Grover wouldn't have a thing on him.
But we have much to much to thank Modi for in the last three days when he embarked on a 'historic' fast to absolve his image as a Muslim-hating, genocide-approving dictator. No, really. If anything, Modi's stage show of an apology has blown the puritanical cover of what has been my chief bugbear for the last month - the hunger fast.
Last month, another Modi fan and current messiah to the masses, Anna Hazare sat on a dharna that moved millions to protest and rage against the government. Both Modi's and Hazare's fasts were clarion calls of the gastronomic sorts for change. Modi wanted you to change your ghastly opinions of him. Hazare wanted your help for a change in how we held our public servants accountable.
As the dust settles from all the furore both fasts kicked up, I am happy to report that little has changed. Opinions on my Twitter timeline and from water cooler chat that revolved around the sadbhavana (now that all the sales at the stores have ended) seemed as polar as ever. Modi-praisers continue to praise, Modi-haters continue to hate. And Anna Hazare? He sinks deeper into the recesses of my morning papers, only raising a whimper when it's a particularly slow news day.
And the hunger fast? That's been the real casualty of this last month. No progress, or army, can march on an empty stomach. If Napoleon was alive, he'd have gone 'I told you so'.
But we have much to much to thank Modi for in the last three days when he embarked on a 'historic' fast to absolve his image as a Muslim-hating, genocide-approving dictator. No, really. If anything, Modi's stage show of an apology has blown the puritanical cover of what has been my chief bugbear for the last month - the hunger fast.
Last month, another Modi fan and current messiah to the masses, Anna Hazare sat on a dharna that moved millions to protest and rage against the government. Both Modi's and Hazare's fasts were clarion calls of the gastronomic sorts for change. Modi wanted you to change your ghastly opinions of him. Hazare wanted your help for a change in how we held our public servants accountable.
As the dust settles from all the furore both fasts kicked up, I am happy to report that little has changed. Opinions on my Twitter timeline and from water cooler chat that revolved around the sadbhavana (now that all the sales at the stores have ended) seemed as polar as ever. Modi-praisers continue to praise, Modi-haters continue to hate. And Anna Hazare? He sinks deeper into the recesses of my morning papers, only raising a whimper when it's a particularly slow news day.
And the hunger fast? That's been the real casualty of this last month. No progress, or army, can march on an empty stomach. If Napoleon was alive, he'd have gone 'I told you so'.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Everyone cares, Bambi
So I've facing a bit of a dilemma. And I've only got myself to blame.
You see over the past weeks, I've been holding back. Holding back from saying what I want to on Facebook, on Twitter, on GTalk statuses. I find that the more I put up bits of me on exhibition for the world to see on the internet, the more I want to withdraw into a shell.
They say the internet's one of the places you can best be yourself but it isn't like that anymore. Your spelling mistakes are picked on, you end up being trolled if you have an opinion against public sentiment and online communities are frat houses where a select few makes the rules of social engagement and look with disdain at others who can't bear to toe the line.
And then there's the 'what will they think' bit? I'm constantly worrying about how my parents, relatives, boss, colleagues, friends and random strangers will react to gibberish I put up on Faceboook or Twitter. I find myself typing out entire tweets on my phone before hitting backspace or exiting Opera. There are times that I really want to say 'fuck' because it's the expletive that best suits what I'm feeling at that moment, and yet I'm wondering about who's going to read it and what they're going to think of me later.
Oh, you say you don't care? Everyone cares, Bambi.
Take Facebook. Once upon a time, it was almost mandatory to change my status daily and sometimes, even more than once in a day. However this August, I've had all of seven status changes, and hardly feel the need to update it anytime soon. It's stranger that I'm slowly beginning to lose appetite for 'likes' and 'RTs', when at one time I'd log on several times within an hour of putting stuff out to see whether someone had given my random musings their stamp of approval.
I need a break. I'm taking a break.
You see over the past weeks, I've been holding back. Holding back from saying what I want to on Facebook, on Twitter, on GTalk statuses. I find that the more I put up bits of me on exhibition for the world to see on the internet, the more I want to withdraw into a shell.
They say the internet's one of the places you can best be yourself but it isn't like that anymore. Your spelling mistakes are picked on, you end up being trolled if you have an opinion against public sentiment and online communities are frat houses where a select few makes the rules of social engagement and look with disdain at others who can't bear to toe the line.
And then there's the 'what will they think' bit? I'm constantly worrying about how my parents, relatives, boss, colleagues, friends and random strangers will react to gibberish I put up on Faceboook or Twitter. I find myself typing out entire tweets on my phone before hitting backspace or exiting Opera. There are times that I really want to say 'fuck' because it's the expletive that best suits what I'm feeling at that moment, and yet I'm wondering about who's going to read it and what they're going to think of me later.
Oh, you say you don't care? Everyone cares, Bambi.
Take Facebook. Once upon a time, it was almost mandatory to change my status daily and sometimes, even more than once in a day. However this August, I've had all of seven status changes, and hardly feel the need to update it anytime soon. It's stranger that I'm slowly beginning to lose appetite for 'likes' and 'RTs', when at one time I'd log on several times within an hour of putting stuff out to see whether someone had given my random musings their stamp of approval.
I need a break. I'm taking a break.
Monday, August 22, 2011
My Culinary Bucket List
So here's the list of stuff I'd like to eat before I die or am in a hospital being fed by a pipe. It's not terribly ambitious, but it's the stuff I often have wet dreams about, especially during lunchtime at my office canteen. Don't judge me. You don't know what they serve at work yet.
1. A bacon explosion
2. Fondue at a cafe in Zurich
3. A lamb shawarma in Iran (sans french fries, sans chicken!)
4. The Reuben sandwich at Katz's
5. Baklava in Istanbul
6. A croque monsieur in Paris (where I also hope to meet a handsome French man who's learnt to say it, not spray it)
7. The pork pickle I saw on an episode of 'Highway on My Plate'
8. Maple syrup flavoured bacon, apparently available everywhere in Vancouver
9. Bacon wrapped scallops, like the kinds William White feeds Elizabeth Wakefield before he decides to kill her (What? They sounded delicious)
10. A Kobe steak in Japan
1. A bacon explosion
2. Fondue at a cafe in Zurich
3. A lamb shawarma in Iran (sans french fries, sans chicken!)
4. The Reuben sandwich at Katz's
5. Baklava in Istanbul
6. A croque monsieur in Paris (where I also hope to meet a handsome French man who's learnt to say it, not spray it)
7. The pork pickle I saw on an episode of 'Highway on My Plate'
8. Maple syrup flavoured bacon, apparently available everywhere in Vancouver
9. Bacon wrapped scallops, like the kinds William White feeds Elizabeth Wakefield before he decides to kill her (What? They sounded delicious)
10. A Kobe steak in Japan
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Not you. Me.
I'm not a snob.
I just don't have any reason to talk to you.
How can you be a friendly, arms-open-wide person at every waking moment? You've got to have times when you don't care to make small talk? Don't bother about the niceties? And especially with people who fill the large gray space between acquaintances and complete strangers?
Well, I'm like that 90 per cent of the time. So you see, it's not about you. It's me.
Really.
I just don't have any reason to talk to you.
How can you be a friendly, arms-open-wide person at every waking moment? You've got to have times when you don't care to make small talk? Don't bother about the niceties? And especially with people who fill the large gray space between acquaintances and complete strangers?
Well, I'm like that 90 per cent of the time. So you see, it's not about you. It's me.
Really.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Some good ol' bookstore magic
So despite the wonderful efforts of India’s Amazon.com (their words, not mine), Flipkart, I do not look forward to the day when I will finally have to fish out my debit card to buy a book online.
I know my days are numbered. Three years ago, my old copy of Natalie Babbitt’s Tuck Everlasting had mysteriously vanished and having finally given up on trying to find it in my now-upturned bedroom, I decided to hit the stores to buy it again.
It was an exercise in patience and restraint. Patience, because none of the bookstores seemed to have it. Restraint, because I was almost this close to pulling my hair out every time a store employee tried to coax me into buying the Alexis Bledel movie instead. I love Rory, I do. But the Disney movie was too cheesy-town for even a die-hard Swiftie like me. I finally found the book at Landmark in Phoenix during opening week, and nearly kissed the well-informed manager’s hand in the children’s section. However curiosity got the better of me, and when I reached home, I looked up the book on Flipkart and there it was. With the promise that it would be delivered to my doorstep within three working days. Sigh.
Do I regret my obstinacy now? Maybe a little, though not entirely, because I still feel the magic of browsing around a bookstore is still a lot more alluring that pottering about online. If it weren’t for several aimless visits to bookstores in town, I might have never discovered Henry Paget Flashman (on discount at the Bandra Linking road Crossword store). Or Jay Rayner’s The Man Who Ate The World, that was sandwiched between Tarla Dalal and Sanjeev Kapoor at Oxford. Buying online may be the wisest recourse for a woman on a mission (Locate Terry Pratchett Discworld novels, should you choose to accept it), but there are no moments of discovery. No pleasant surprises. I read half of Sunetra Choudhury’s Braking News, before I decided to put it back on the shelf because while it began nicely, it sagged in the middle. Online bookstores are wonderfully convenient, but you’d have to know what you wanted to read first and I’ve only made up my mind hours into the bookstore and five minutes before I head to the cash counter.
The romanticism can't last, something that Borders learned the hard way. Here's hoping it's a while before they sound the death knell for stores in India.
I know my days are numbered. Three years ago, my old copy of Natalie Babbitt’s Tuck Everlasting had mysteriously vanished and having finally given up on trying to find it in my now-upturned bedroom, I decided to hit the stores to buy it again.
It was an exercise in patience and restraint. Patience, because none of the bookstores seemed to have it. Restraint, because I was almost this close to pulling my hair out every time a store employee tried to coax me into buying the Alexis Bledel movie instead. I love Rory, I do. But the Disney movie was too cheesy-town for even a die-hard Swiftie like me. I finally found the book at Landmark in Phoenix during opening week, and nearly kissed the well-informed manager’s hand in the children’s section. However curiosity got the better of me, and when I reached home, I looked up the book on Flipkart and there it was. With the promise that it would be delivered to my doorstep within three working days. Sigh.
Do I regret my obstinacy now? Maybe a little, though not entirely, because I still feel the magic of browsing around a bookstore is still a lot more alluring that pottering about online. If it weren’t for several aimless visits to bookstores in town, I might have never discovered Henry Paget Flashman (on discount at the Bandra Linking road Crossword store). Or Jay Rayner’s The Man Who Ate The World, that was sandwiched between Tarla Dalal and Sanjeev Kapoor at Oxford. Buying online may be the wisest recourse for a woman on a mission (Locate Terry Pratchett Discworld novels, should you choose to accept it), but there are no moments of discovery. No pleasant surprises. I read half of Sunetra Choudhury’s Braking News, before I decided to put it back on the shelf because while it began nicely, it sagged in the middle. Online bookstores are wonderfully convenient, but you’d have to know what you wanted to read first and I’ve only made up my mind hours into the bookstore and five minutes before I head to the cash counter.
The romanticism can't last, something that Borders learned the hard way. Here's hoping it's a while before they sound the death knell for stores in India.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
The curious case of the restaurant chair
So yesterday evening, I went to Two One Two Bar & Grill at Worli and I was confronted yet again by an old bugbear - the restaurant chair.
I feel I must start by offering disclaimers about Two One Two, before I begin this rant. The food was lovely (special mention for the chocolate fondant and the roasted chicken salad with rocket), and the waiters were extremely helpful.
But the chair, that darn chair. It was so heavy that I could barely pull myself in and when I finally managed to drag a few inches, it knocked against the table and wouldn't budge further. I spent all evening perched on the end of my seat, hoping that after a second apple martini, I wouldn't slide off while discussing how wonderful a holiday destination Sri Lanka is (yes, we're still talking about that).
The supremely uncomfortable restaurant chair is now a given at most fine dining establishments across the city. I see where the owners are coming from. Vanilla seating must be a no-no, with edgy furnishing styles and theme interiors that ape international trends to make a patron feel that the meal and the feel would be no different if he was sitting down to dinner in Mumbai or in Manhattan. For example, take Wink at the Taj Vivanta with its dark wood furnishings and dim lights, where it is impossible to eat a meal at the tables without a considerable amount of discomfort. Or Vie at Juhu, that has a similar sofa seating arrangement, and where the only way I'd really have enjoyed that meal, is if I were holding my plate in my lap. The owners may argue that patrons visit these places to have a drink rather than have a three course meal, but then why not just offer high-end bar eats and do away with mains? What about the diner, yes the man or woman who came there to eat(!), and not get shitfaced on daiquiris? He's likely to ring up a bill as much as the PYTs at the bar but by forcing him to squirm in his seat all night, he's probably going to notice everything wrong with the meal a whole lot more than he would if he could actually lean back in between bites, and not be swallowed whole by the sofa while doing so.
Give me a boring chair over a couch anyday. Surely, you'd spend less on laundering the upholstery too.
I feel I must start by offering disclaimers about Two One Two, before I begin this rant. The food was lovely (special mention for the chocolate fondant and the roasted chicken salad with rocket), and the waiters were extremely helpful.
But the chair, that darn chair. It was so heavy that I could barely pull myself in and when I finally managed to drag a few inches, it knocked against the table and wouldn't budge further. I spent all evening perched on the end of my seat, hoping that after a second apple martini, I wouldn't slide off while discussing how wonderful a holiday destination Sri Lanka is (yes, we're still talking about that).
The supremely uncomfortable restaurant chair is now a given at most fine dining establishments across the city. I see where the owners are coming from. Vanilla seating must be a no-no, with edgy furnishing styles and theme interiors that ape international trends to make a patron feel that the meal and the feel would be no different if he was sitting down to dinner in Mumbai or in Manhattan. For example, take Wink at the Taj Vivanta with its dark wood furnishings and dim lights, where it is impossible to eat a meal at the tables without a considerable amount of discomfort. Or Vie at Juhu, that has a similar sofa seating arrangement, and where the only way I'd really have enjoyed that meal, is if I were holding my plate in my lap. The owners may argue that patrons visit these places to have a drink rather than have a three course meal, but then why not just offer high-end bar eats and do away with mains? What about the diner, yes the man or woman who came there to eat(!), and not get shitfaced on daiquiris? He's likely to ring up a bill as much as the PYTs at the bar but by forcing him to squirm in his seat all night, he's probably going to notice everything wrong with the meal a whole lot more than he would if he could actually lean back in between bites, and not be swallowed whole by the sofa while doing so.
Give me a boring chair over a couch anyday. Surely, you'd spend less on laundering the upholstery too.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Wake up Toto
So the question about the use of gory photos raises its ugly head again as ethic-wielding, armchair experts again shower brimstone and fire on the 'irresponsible media' (if only I had a rupee for every time I heard that) for subjecting readers to the bloody truth that was the evening of July 13.
Do we really have to see those photos, raged a bunch of folks. Don't like it, do you? Not the kind of start you wanted on Thursday? Deepak Lokhande of DNA sensibily replied in a great editorial piece, "Was it a good morning of yours that we spoilt?" It certainly wasn't one for us.
The Home Minister would like us to know that it's been a whopping 31 months since the city's last terror attack. Once in three years is apparently a pretty good record. Is it therefore for this government, that the media must mask terror, put a sensitive picture out so as to not affect or enrage the masses? The PTI photographer who took this bloody picture of bodies piled up in a truck didn't go looking for it. It was there for everyone to see. He was doing his job, as were all the other photographers, cameramen and journalists who were witness to blood and guts at the site of the blasts. I'm unsure of what all these folks yelling ethics expected the journalists to do. Put away their pens and cameras until the clean-up was finished? Not visit hospitals where doctors were slogging away to stich up gaping wounds or extract shrapnel from festering cuts?
And then there's the question of children. Oh yes, the kids. The ones whose parents are lapping up Dexter, Bones, Castle or other shows that deal with homicide during family TV time. The ones who probably play games like Grand Theft Auto and Diablo that aren't exactly about rainbows and unicorns, FYI. Children are more exposed to gore and violence today that their parents ever were, so the standards that applied to you aren't relevant any more. If your kid's 12 or 13, they've already watched a plane crash into a tower and a terrorist run around shooting people in a train station. Maybe the real person who has to grow up is you.
Your children will grow up to witness more terror, maybe again in this city and across the world. The innocent will continue to be victims of planned attacks. And the media will or rather should, continue to hold up a mirror to these events when they happen to let the world know that their governments have failed, that terror is alive and that so much more still remains to be done to arrest the problem.
Wake up Toto, we're not in Eden anymore.
Do we really have to see those photos, raged a bunch of folks. Don't like it, do you? Not the kind of start you wanted on Thursday? Deepak Lokhande of DNA sensibily replied in a great editorial piece, "Was it a good morning of yours that we spoilt?" It certainly wasn't one for us.
The Home Minister would like us to know that it's been a whopping 31 months since the city's last terror attack. Once in three years is apparently a pretty good record. Is it therefore for this government, that the media must mask terror, put a sensitive picture out so as to not affect or enrage the masses? The PTI photographer who took this bloody picture of bodies piled up in a truck didn't go looking for it. It was there for everyone to see. He was doing his job, as were all the other photographers, cameramen and journalists who were witness to blood and guts at the site of the blasts. I'm unsure of what all these folks yelling ethics expected the journalists to do. Put away their pens and cameras until the clean-up was finished? Not visit hospitals where doctors were slogging away to stich up gaping wounds or extract shrapnel from festering cuts?
And then there's the question of children. Oh yes, the kids. The ones whose parents are lapping up Dexter, Bones, Castle or other shows that deal with homicide during family TV time. The ones who probably play games like Grand Theft Auto and Diablo that aren't exactly about rainbows and unicorns, FYI. Children are more exposed to gore and violence today that their parents ever were, so the standards that applied to you aren't relevant any more. If your kid's 12 or 13, they've already watched a plane crash into a tower and a terrorist run around shooting people in a train station. Maybe the real person who has to grow up is you.
Your children will grow up to witness more terror, maybe again in this city and across the world. The innocent will continue to be victims of planned attacks. And the media will or rather should, continue to hold up a mirror to these events when they happen to let the world know that their governments have failed, that terror is alive and that so much more still remains to be done to arrest the problem.
Wake up Toto, we're not in Eden anymore.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)