Ma, revisited.

For me, as someone who grew up in the 90s, Raveena Tandon’s wet pelvic thrusts to the beats of tip tip barse paani in that dingy cave was perhaps the first taste of sensuality. Not sexuality mind you, for that can come in a very well written raunchy porno where the story and the build up make the ultimate act sexier than it is; but this is deeper than that. It is sexuality with a certain restrain that makes you fall in love. You don’t need to know the story, and you really don’t care about what she plans to do. You see her move, and you just know, that this woman, has the power to dig trenches inside your brain and live there through a hundred Holocausts. I for one, was and am in love with Raveena Tandon in that yellow sari for those few minutes watching her seduce her man; completely ignorant of the fact that she would become some sort of a motif when it comes to sensuous rain dances in Hindi cinema.

So it was a bit sad when I watched Bhuddha Hoga Tera Baap and found out that she has made her big ass come back as a bimbo who is smitten by Amitabh Bachchan who really doesn’t give a rat’s ass about her. But she doesn’t care, she goes on playing the middle aged slut with a pretty neat body and tries to seduce him like those women who become irritating, nagging and incorrigible, not knowing what the man wants. I am sorry, but she is way better than that. If her role had a significant part to play in the storyline I would have understood, but then, I am probably being juvenile and mixing my personal feelings.

But this isn’t about that, it’s not even about an actor like Makrand Deshpande in a role that could have very easily been played by rejected Bhojpuri actors turned to unemployed mimics in the streets of Bhopal. It’s about something else. It’s about something that I have experienced before, but not in this way. It’s about watching my mom, along with a few more unknown middle aged women in the theatre, watching the big screen with stars in their eyes.

I knew that this film was a tribute to Amitabh Bachchan and his pulp cinema of 70s and 80s. I also knew that whatever he did, he was a rage amongst the Indian youth. And though I have mocked and ridiculed his histrionics in those completely brainless films, never for one moment did I not have fun watching them. Of course, now we enjoy them as films that aren’t supposed to be taken seriously, as India’s lovable kitsch films, as sources of popular culture reference for anthropologists trying to decode the pre liberalized India. But in those times, he meant much more to the Indian youth than what film stars of today mean to us. He gave them that perfect gateaway which wasn’t really too much away from reality. He was the rebel that every unemployed man wanted to become if reality had a sense of humour and allowed them to do so. He was more than a movie star, (and oh yes he was such a movie star!), he was a source of catharsis for middle and lower class India, that gave them the strength to face the reality once out of the cinema hall. There was less romance I thought, but more rage. There was less sex I thought, but more idol worship. Everything Amitabh Bachchan said or did in those films was larger than life, and it was the perfect way to instill some imagination in the dreamless eyes of people; imagination, which was not unabashed, but somehow grounded to reality.

And so as a tribute to him and his movies, watching BHTB would be like revisiting his mannerisms and confidence, which he showered on the less than ordinary and almost nondescript adversaries with a mix of wit. I knew Bachchan had a very strong female fan base, and my mom is definitely one of them. But what I didn’t know was that, he had the power to make them teenagers again. I wondered what women like my mom would be like when Bachchan used to kick those goons with his long legs so many years back. They must be fresh out of college then, getting stolen away by young men in bell button jeans and thick side locks. There would be Kishore Kumar, R.D. Burman and Bob Dylan, there would be educated naxalite movements and political emergencies, with a smattering of Eastwood and Redford westerns. And there would be Bachchan, rude, yet subtle, angry yet witty, condescending yet with a tone of modesty, a sort of rawness that has kept some space for hidden polish, standing in all his 6 feet 2 (or something like that) avatar, making the women go weak in their knees. Today, when he reminded the audience how the queue starts from where he stands, he probably wanted to collectively take all these women for a ride in the time machine. I know my mom took that ride with a delicious smile in her face.

“It’s him who is singing isn’t he,” she asked almost not wanting to hear any other answer but a yes.

“Yes, but the rap portion was by Abhishek Bachchan.”

“Which was that? The English portion? Where he keeps saying Go Meera Go?”

“Yes, there was a bit more but yes.”

“That was hardly anything. But mostly it was him right?”

At that very same moment, I thought about a few other women I know of, and I wondered how they would have reacted. I wouldn’t really bet against them reacting in any other way. But looking at my mother’s star struck and completely infatuated face, I sat back sipping my coke with a smile in mine. I realized, that beyond the expected mediocrity and a series of clichés, beyond the offensive casting of the heroine of my dreams and beyond the over the top bullshit inspired from playing-to-the-gallery genre of cinema, this film still manages to somehow rise above the average. No, not in the “so what it’s still a hit” kind of a way, but in a proper way, as a good film must be. For it would not only make the guys at the stalls throw coins at the single screen theatres, but it would also make a lot of women like my mom, become silently gushing teenagers. And for those who completely dislike these pretentious tributes to below average movies, they might just take a pinch of salt as they enter the theatre. It’s a perfect mothers’ day gift if there was one.

I for one am mighty happy. For I finally saw my star struck mom romance for two continuous hours. It was dreamy, fierce and short lived, like love stories should always be.

Feminaticism

I don’t generally adhere to criticizing someone else's thoughts when they diligently decide to articulate them in print. Some of them inspire, while most somehow manage to be labeled as analyzing and perceptive individuals who have made it a point to carry the gauntlet of western intelligentsia. And though most of their articles, I admit, grab my attention till the first or sometimes the second paragraph before I quietly move on to the sections that comment on the garb on Paris Hilton, it’s the dream of every writer to be a part of that elitist community.

But sometimes, even a mundane mind can’t help but resort to hollow shouts against certain so called commentators of popular culture. What’s more, they show their vanity by stressing on their over-the-top belief system and try to incorporate that system on every wordy essay they decide to ejaculate in the process of their intellectual masturbation. Like for instance, I happened to come across this particular article. And needless to say, the wonderful woman considers herself, and am sure quite proudly, as a feminist. And true to her clan, she also proves to the world, how anal and uptight the community can be.

I don’t know, whether it’s their inherent insecurity or their everlasting desire to connect everything with one single thought process, but when I read something like this in one of the most prestigious publications of the world, I can’t help but snort.

  “The director Christopher Nolan features heroes grieving their wives' tragic demise in a good number of his films: Memento, The Prestige and Inception. But he's not alone: Hollywood films contain more dead wives than Bluebeard's basement."

I am sure Ms. Gregory had a nice day before writing this. Walking down the wet stony London lanes lazily avoiding a drive to feel the wind slap her face. And then quietly typing the words on her laptop with a smirk on her face thinking that she has successfully done what feminists of the 21st century have been mentally conditioned to do --- Find out any single pin hole of an opportunity where the subject in question, even remotely signifies objectification of the female species.

Imagine a man writes a story about dreams and the prospect of stealing them, of manipulating them, of being a slave to them and trying to create a time line between the complex structures of dream and reality. Where buildings and townships go upside down, where mirrors face each other in an attempt to visually represent the concept of infinity, and then imagine a woman or a man (lest I objectify) sitting through all this, and thinking “why did he make the wife die and show the man growing emotionally”. It takes talent, to reach such levels of myopia.

The problem is, when these people watch anything that gives them the right to analyse or judge, they can’t decide which role they should take. For if they watch a film from the point of a normal viewer, they would start feeling a little run-of-the-mill I guess. “It’s a fantastic film. And so says everybody. But what about feminism?” And it gets ridiculous at such humongous levels that the ridicule ceases to invite a chuckle anymore. For am sure they would watch Kill Bill, which is perhaps the exact opposite situation where a woman is shown struggling through her emotions after the loss (in a way) of her husband, and come up with something like “Oh, Tarentino is trying to use his films to show women as a part of violent fantasia.” And perhaps some of them, who haven’t yet reached the levels of bullshit as the others, would probably ask their children to not watch it because of the violence and gore, while they scratch their heads to find an “insult to feminism” angle to it.

And it’s not like they don’t know what they are doing.

    “I don't want to sound like I'm down on any film or filmmaker in particular, just this godawful trope. Inception is an intelligent, thoughtful film that self-reflexively challenges ideas about narrative. But sometimes it seems like enjoying popular culture and being a feminist seem mutually exclusive. I don't want to have to turn my feminism off in the theatre just so I'm not niggled by the fact that….”

So it is a switch right? And every time she sits down to watch a movie with her preconceived notion worn loosely on her sleeve, rest assured it’s “turned on.” And then of course she shows off her ability to see both sides and talks of the mutual exclusivity. Well, if it is, then I don’t know what the point of the article is in the first place. And if it is as she says “sometimes” then those “sometimes” come a little too often for comfort.

If anyone thinks that finding such convoluted points in a movie that took ten years of imagination, and hard work that these pseudo idealistic uptight pieces of pop culture analysts can not even dream about, is intelligent writing, then I am happy being a daft prick. For they will sit and read  Lord of The Rings or watch Jerry McGuire, and just before they are going to gasp in wonder, they would stop and start objectifying anything and everything because they are that damn passionate about thrusting their so called thought process, just to show the world that they are different.

But then, how would one truly expect them to appreciate something like Inception. After all, it’s about dreams.

Of women wrapped in measuring tapes

Some things in life exist to play a certain specific role that you just can’t avoid. They will be there. You shrug your shoulders, jerk your head, jump up and down on your new mattress when your mother is not looking, avoid, run away; they will continue to breathe your air. Take Indian television for example. It’s an accepted fact that most of us can’t really avoid watching it. Whether we demean it in front of a group of friends thereby proving our intellectual fervor for things and showing our frustration about the mediocrity that so conspicuously surrounds us, or casually make an eye gesture stating that we are not from this world, and wherever we are from, we can’t relate to this bullshit, most of us come back and watch at least a part of it. Whether it’s spy cams or glycerin, film trailers or live lottery shows, on-air weddings or shocking revelations of girls and boys put in an apparently far away island, television today exposes our penchant for all that is immoral and grey so shamelessly that one has to take a moment and bow in agreement. Who knew articulate feature writers in lifestyle newspapers would analyse, if not justify voyeurism and make people nod in appraisal in moving buses and trains. Who knew that Facebook  status messages would talk about plastic wedding shows in the pretext of mocking at them. Yes we might mock, but we do watch. And after we watch, who the hell cares what we do with them, mock or revere.

But it’s not really our fault. We watch whatever we are given. We watch whatever is deemed cool at that point of time. We watch, whatever we do not get to watch but always thought in out stolen lonely moments with a smirk on the corner of our lips that it would have been nice to watch. So we see a girl watching her boyfriend touching another girl on the roof of the same building she is sitting in, and we see her cry or get angry or feel the pain. And then we see her being asked whether she wants to go up and talk to him right now, and if she says no, we see her being given a justification for why exactly she should do that. And some of us get disgusted, while some others, suspicious. Some of us get scared, while some others, just have fun. And by the end of it all, we say hello to the new age of television.

From Nukkad and Chunauti to Emotional Atyachaar, television has come a long way in this country. I remember watching a delightful film by Tapan Sinha called Golpo Holeo Shotti, it was probably a film made in the 60’s or 70’s, am not sure, and there was this art guy in an advertising firm, sketched a woman who was wrapped only by a thin swirling measuring tape. When the orthodox middle aged protagonist expressed his reservations about such an “inane” display, the artist nonchalantly stated that it’s not supposed to pass through a moral judgment, it is supposed to sell. And then he used a term called “shockumentary”- the new age documentary that will only grow in its stature. And now, it’s all about that. Being a prude was never cool.  But so wasn’t being shamelessly mediocre. But now, as far as television is concerned, mediocrity works, and hence, it is probably the coolest thing to happen in the visual art form on the small screen. From News channels to reality shows, it’s shockumentary all the way. And we love it.

But then, why would one televisionise films? Why would one try and cash in the content that is being successful on the small screen and try and make the versions in cinema? Probably because of the same reason. But then, something tells me not to appreciate it. I don’t know. Call me a hypocrite. May be because of the hugeness of the screen, may be its all a compact storyline that actually gives a conclusion to the story, or may be, at a very personal level, cinema still has managed to earn a certain sort of respect that television has lost long ago. But suddenly, I become very uncool and touchy and aware when it comes to cinema. So when I watch a couple in love being murdered and cut into pieces on camera, I don’t call it cinema. I call it sadistic orgasm. I call it pornography. I also call it very smart business because when we read all those stories on newspapers, we keep visulaising them and wonder how they would be like, and this is the answer to those questions. I call it demented display of blood and gore in the name of art.


I love the way Scorsese shows violence as a cause of someone’s loss, or a result of circumstances. I can appreciate Tarentino’s (however controversial they may be) bordering abnormal ideas and portraying them on the big screen with mind bogglingly beautiful music. I remember a lot of arguments surfaced after the release of Inglorious Basterds. And while some could not see the point of such ruthless cathartic display, I loved the film. Because somehow, I could see a story written with a lot of care to put it on the screen. Somehow I could see a man sniffing his wife’s handkerchief once before he went on to try and save a group of jews from a vicious Nazi officer. Somehow, I could feel the pain in the rhythm of the music in the midst of the blood bath.  I could see art, in some form, and I appreciate it. But I do not understand something like Love, Sex or Dhoka. It might be grammatically perfect, but I do not see art in it. But then, who am I to judge. As Sinha said, it’s shockumentary. And so might be others, but what scares me is, it’s JUST that. Nothing else. It was made in order to shock people. I can see Mr. Banerjee going up to his producer and saying, “this time let’s make something that would just shock people, shock them so much that they might not want to watch it again… but then who the hell cares… they will remember the film as something else”. So what is next? May be the last phone conversation before a plane crashes, or may be a realistic short film on the tandoor case. And while I can accept it on television, may be I am too rigid to accept this in cinema. For you see, I actually love the latter.

I don't know what ensues in the name of visual media. But I think it’s time I learnt to appreciate instantaneous shock therapy.

But then again, I went and watched Alice in Wonderland. And it wasn’t a smirk at the corner of my lips that followed, it was a smile that stretched the lips till it pained.

And thank god for such a smile.

Lovely. Nonetheless.

A close-up shot of a Colt revolver points towards the camera. And before the lid of your eye reaches the midway before batting, a subdued shot gets out of the metal leaving the steams of the fired bullet floating haphazardly like mist.

Camera moves real fast. Almost as if it’s competing with the wind that plays such an important part in the entire story. Yes it does. As it makes the overcoat on a chilly dusk flutter, or the hair of a protagonist flow, or in an absolutely Archemedian moment of cinematic effect, a stout screw quietly roll off a cupboard and drop inconspicuously on a kerosene filled tin. Does enough to make a few drops of oil fall on the floor, so that when a cigarette butt is thrown with stylish carelessness, the entire area blows up. And the back draft of that fire, also, is given life and character, by the same wind. Yes, wind, plays such an important part.

No scene is allowed to linger. Succinct. Sharp. Snip, snip, snip. Sudden change in the pace of narration (much like this paragraph). Make the dialogues incomplete, let the audience understand the rest of it. Actually no. Don’t. DON’T let the audience linger on the last scene even a second more than the scene gets over, throw in the next scene, next foul-mouthed-British-slang-showering rusty yet street smart witty man who is really pissed off with the moral system of this cruel cruel society comes in. And oh, the Brits make ‘motherfucker’ sound so deliciously delectably pretty. The Americans can never do that. A few powerful, manipulative and confident women later, build up a story line that should have something to do with heist. Why heist? Because it’s sexy. It’s immoral, yet, not harmful. It gives a scope to be smart, and of course, it gives a scope for a chase sequence.

Rock. Underground. Blues. Throw in a little bit of pop and package it in a way so you are making fun of it. And oh, when there is an explosion, massive bloodshed, hero (if there is/are any, because everything in life is grey and all that) is getting his ass badly kicked (and no, women don’t get raped, it’s too gory and vicious for Anglican packaged noir), then use music that would represent a mood which is exactly the opposite. So Symphonies, and some heartbreakingly romantic opera, and how the contrast works! Beautiful music, that rings in the ears long after the film ceases to. Showing the power of music in visual media. And in oh-so-British way.

Who said Brits are uptight? That they can stop a war in the middle because it’s their tea time and wear suits to dinner table? Welcome to the world of Guy Ritchie, a world that very few people will dislike. And I am no exception. So Robert Downey Jr. (may everything that has the power to bless, bless him and more) plays the king of deductive logic in surrealistic Victorian England. With perhaps, an attempt to shock audience by giving them a Sherlock Holmes that makes a mockery of the subtlety of Doyle. So he shows off his abs, oops, abdomen, and cracks outrageous jokes. No he isn’t tall. And yes, he has no qualms about making out with darn it, snogging, Irene Adler. And there he is, naked and gagged, with a pillow put on a strategic position, nonchalantly asking the house maid to help him out.

So it was the perfect Downey Jr.-meets-Ritchie-to-make-a-movie-adaptation of a dark detective classic that we have grown up reading and loving and has always reminded us of an overcast London with horse carriages and dimly lit lanterns which failed to brighten up the streets. So all those who went to the theatre thinking it would have the same mood as the book, or even the past films or play adaptations, obviously, don’t know much about Guy Ritchie, or for that matter, Robert Downey Jr.

Yet, the core characteristics of Holmes remain the same. Love for chemistry, violin (though comically shown to make fun), obnoxious nature, compulsive loner and stylishly eccentric. They were all there. But in three to four doses more than the original character perhaps. And I loved it. For me, it was such a refreshing way of seeing the world of Baker Street. And other than that crow as a symbol of murder, there was nothing really dumb or obvious in its obviousness. If Ritchie had a world of his own, then Arthur Conan Doyle would have written Sherlock Holmes just like this.

But for some inexplicable reason, I have forgotten most of the film, the minute I came out of a particularly crowded Sterling theatre. But then I realized, that’s exactly what Ritchie movies are like. Forgettable pieces of fun and gore, with razor sharp editing and a storyline that’s written to support the movements of camera. And I say to myself, that thank god it was a different story. Or imagine watching The Hound of Baskervilles, without soul.

And oh, this remains incomplete without a mention of Jude Law. The man gives a heart to even a Ritchie film.

Well, almost.

It suffices

I don’t believe in reviews. I think they are the worded weapons of insularity. I don’t get why a person who claims that he would understand the quality of cinema better than the general public and expect everyone to take his or her analysis of how good or bad a story is, should be taken so seriously. It deducts the thought process of a person completely ignorant of a certain film into should he watch it, or should he not. I think that is unfair on the viewer and the film in itself. I really don’t think there is any universal good or bad in works of art, it all depends on people and their tastes and preferences, which in turn depends on their socio-cultural background. So when I write about films, I am writing about my views, because I have this rigid mindset that stands up with a cane and thrashes my backside red before deafening me with a strident sermon saying: FILMS SHOULD BE WRITTEN ABOUT.

Really. We should all write on films. Not lecturing the so called viewers whether or not they should go check the films, but to see, how a story ranging from two to three hours strikes some chords in you. And trust me it does. Even the worst film that you thought was ever made, has in someway struck some chords in you. And I think unless you spare some thoughts about it, you would probably never know how. And then there are certain films that don’t make you work hard for it.

3 Idiots for me, is one such.

The idea of knowledge in today’s Indian society, has probably become more warped than open relationships and literate politicians. And let me not get into why and how it has become so. Instead, let’s look at a pair of eyes, hardly batting, and almost star struck in the middle of an otherwise gloomy classroom. Eyes that swallow rather than see, and perhaps the contents of whatever they swallow, are so delightful, that the smile just refuses to go from the face. Like a child who has just been asked to become the taster of an experimental candy factory. Asked about the reason of such an almost bordering foolish but in a strange way calmly sated smile, the humble reply says, “I am just happy to be here and learn what I love.” If a nation can have students who go through that exact experience even once a year, I think it gets reason enough to celebrate education, and the system through which it is promoted.

Aamir Khan has a thing with portraying education as it should be. He really does. He did it as a teacher in Taare Zameen Par, and now as a student in 3 Idiots. But let’s not talk about him here. A lisping Principal as the viciously strict academician might have reminded a lot of people about a lot of teachers who kept them awake in the silent nights of December; a geeky go-by-the-books fiercely competitive but lacking imagination pain-in-the-butt being mocked at might make a few call some of their friends up and tease them about how they used to be or how they still are; or even the choice that one takes between passion and pain, that would awake a few bitter feelings that some thought they had finally put to sleep. Whatever it was, 3 Idiots, has hardly missed out on any emotion that we might not be able to relate to as an Indian student.

And Mr. Hirani has done all this making sure that we have that smile in our faces, similar to Rancho, throughout the length of the movie. It was almost like a fierce resolution. That the audience should smile. Through sorrow, through pain, loss or happiness. Audience. Watching his film. Has to smile. And what else could I have asked for. Going through failure, and standing by friends, learning with honesty and drinking till the wee hours of night, urinating in revenge, and getting electric shocks in the process, proposing while drunk, and kidnapping the bride to take her to her lover, getting paralysed, and getting out of it, living, loving, hating and well, conceiving, with a smile in our faces. What else, could I have asked for?

The calmness of a student who has faced death and come back. The excitement of another who has suddenly discovered wings that have given him the courage to face people who have forever scared him, perhaps more because of his own presumptions, rather than the kind of people they actually were, and the devastation that leaves its remnants on the face of a man who finally faces the reality of which he had played an ignorant but vicious part. Mr. Hirani has able to make a film that tells you stories that could disturb you in more ways than one. Yet, he has managed to make you smile at the end of it. What else, could I have asked for?

Institutionalisation of anything, is in a way limiting its possibilities from being taken to the stretches that could  changed the world. But just like most things that govern us in our civilized society, it is also a necessary evil. But institutionalizing education, is perhaps defying the cause of education itself, irrespective of the necessity of its evil. And therefore someone in a black sherwani with a pretentious rose sticking out of his breast pocket would give an articulate solution in perfect English on TED, saying: “We should change the system, within the system.” And changing the system within the system does not depend on rule books, it requires human beings. And therefore, that teacher who makes his students believe that everything is possible in this mad manic world becomes so valuable a person in today’s society. For when that teacher sees a student consistently fail while answering the questions set by someone who is more or less invisible, he understands that the student probably, was never meant to take that examination.

3 Idiots hardly had such a teacher. Yet, it somehow managed to create the presence of an invisible being, who in our subconscious minds was telling us what exactly was the right thing to do. It took us to a life where we used to wish for such a teacher so desperately every time we failed in a subject that we never got and were made to believe that we were weak. A life where a two digit number on a dreaded mark sheet, became the ultimate weapon, and excuse for intimidation. Where someone took a permanent marker, and drew a line dividing what was correct and what wasn’t, without letting us spare a thought about what was correct, and what wasn’t. For sparing a thought, unfortunately came in the wrong side of that same division.

Bollywod is perhaps going through its rebellious teenage time of its life. Thinking, rule breaking, albeit with slight fear, little amateur, little stupid even, but with lots and lots of promise, of a really shimmering future.

And what else could I have asked for?

Prodigal returns

Right from the time when Hollywood decided to make the celluloid version of the flabbergasting Broadway jewel The Phantom of the Opera, through the delightful musicals like Singing in the Rain and Westside Story to Clint Eastwood’s lightening quick and trigger happy westerns, some of the biggest films that have come out of Los Angeles have been interwoven by a single factor. Apologies for the shamelessly long first sentence, but I thought the first post of a hopefully silent blog, should reflect the sprit that would drive it, that of pointlessness and listless abstraction. But I digress. Coming back, Hollywood has always shimmered under the idea of sense, stories and their portrayal, that are so much larger than life. But as it is with everything, things change, style changes. And gradually, so has Hollywood.

Good cinema today might just be a little different, even as the concept of quietness slowly creeps in the intelligently crafted and topical cinema of Hollywood; drama and action have taken a whole new meaning. I remember watching films like Judgment Day and Con Air, mindless explosions and humour in the face of almost certain death. I couldn’t get over Nicholas Cage and John Travolta in Face-Off, as they played each other with such tremendous viciousness and compassion at the same time. And in the midst of all that, there were raw unfiltered action sequences. Stunt men, motorbikes, speedboats, bungee jumping and changing magazines in one hand before reloading another within a split second. It was raw action, sweat, toil, blood that somehow did enough to make the man look hurt yet good enough for him to just make it. Heroes used to die hard and villains, well, had a ball. And that became the style, and panache. And if you ask me, I would tell you that Arnold Schwarzenegger in those glares and that mo-bike in Terminator, or a bare feet Bruce Willis in that glass ridden hall of a five star hotel in Die Hard, is what Hollywood action is all about. Now, however, things have changed a bit. We have trained and realistic sequences, almost choreographed, backed by some international diplomatic secret or a political cause. We have stories that would support action and not the other way round. And it only shows evolution of Hollywood towards maturity. But I will clench my butt, and bite my parched lower lip, and guiltily admit, that they don’t make action like they used to anymore. And that’s why, a few old time directors from late 80’s and early 90’s who still bother to take up the microphone to call the shots, however crass their style is, have become so important to me.

James Cameron is one of them.

The best thing about Cameron is that he makes impossible stuff look believable. When Schwarzenegger single handedly brings down a fighter jet in the heart of a sky scrapper infested city, he made it look believable. He scared the shit out us when he made a robot from the future that could regain its shape. He has the power to make someone like Schwarzenegger from being invincible (which is easy) to being absolutely vulnerable and weak (which is sexy). He makes films where the flaws just scream out, but we choose to turn deaf ears. So that’s why when certain so called intellectual farts came up to me and said Titanic is bullshit, its just another Hindi film with a lot of money and special effects, I very unintelligently asked them to fuck the hell off. First, there is nothing wrong in being like Hindi films, but that’s a different story, and second, Titanic, again, with all its corny crap, summarizes what cinema is all about. Because when that ship drowned, a bit of me drowned with it. I have had women, who have never watched English films in their lives, come up to me and tell me how sorry she felt for Jack and Rose. And I have had people who actually thought that that their story was in fact a true one. That’s what people like Cameron can do. They weave fairytales in the midst of reality, and make them almost believable.

And Avatar did not disappoint.

“I love these films purely because someone has the imagination to make something like this,” a friend of mine said at the end of the movie. And I think that suffices. A planet with humanoid aliens who are blue and almost 15 feet tall and inherently interconnected with nature. His idea was so mesmerizing, that he made us realize, the true meaning of the word alien. For alien isn’t really a being from another plant. An alien, is a person with whom we cannot relate to. Who does things that are irrational and something that we are not ready to accept or like. The moment we agree with something, or somebody, he or she, or well, it, ceases to become an alien. Cameron, made human beings look alien to us, and the Na’vis, our own. For when those huge very much identifiable flying objects flew slowly to destroy the Hometree, they looked like a lot of things, but humans. The concept of human beings being more advanced and the ones that attack planets, against aliens who use bows and arrows and animals for their defence and livelihood, tells us who are the humans here, and who aren’t. He has shown us that we are drawn to feelings, and not species. He has given us the reverse of Independence Day, and human beings, never looked so alien before.

And my point is, he has made it beautiful with so many shamelessly screaming flaws that adorn the entire film to make it look pretty. True, it has some of the corniest and most predictable dialogues to make fun of, and so we did. But didn’t we have fun doing that! True that the attitude of the villain and the hero were so stereotypical that we knew exactly how each was going to turn out to be by the end of the film. But did we care about that? For Avatar is a film that has taken me back to the early 90’s Hollywood. While I made fun of dialogues like “I see you”; in around exactly five minutes time, I was left speechless by an edge of the seat chase sequence between two majestic flying beings that we have never seen before. Survival of the fittest, was never so beautifully portrayed and Cameron did it the old fashioned way. There were old school Will Smith in movies like Bad Boys dialogues like “come to papa” and “hell no!” that was more like the director playing to the gallery, and there was the everlasting falling in love-misunderstand-and then making up again formula that we all know, and are apparently bored of, but don’t mind watching quietly and smile. Cameron is like Subhash Ghai or Manmohan Desai of Bollywood, only difference is, unlike Ghai, he doesn’t try and become pretentious and make films that unsuccessfully try and emulate the latest trend. Cameron sticks to what he knows best, and what he knows best is delightfully flawed, and unabashedly entertaining.

Avatar retains the spirit of Judgment Day and Titanic, and I love it. From creating fantasy in the midst of real world, Cameron has created fantasy in fantasy. And made it look like a real world. I think that’s enough to put a smile on my face after leaving the theatre. And Cameron has always managed to do that. It’s not something I will remember forever, but I shall definitely want more of it to come. For I live for people who make imperfect look what imperfect really is- wonderful.