Jhumroo: Review

Joining a mini-cottage industry that’s responsible for dozens of compilation albums, countless bad remixes and a reality show called K for Kishore is Jhumroo, Kingdom of Dreams’ new musical. Not only does it feature 19 of Kishore Kumar’s most overplayed hits, The Great Brown Yodel himself figures in the play. Jhumroo has been in the works a while, presumably so that the makers could get it just right. Unfortunately, it’s turned out just wrong.

Right from the opening scene, which launches us without preamble into a dance sequence set to “Om Shanti Om”, Jhumroo seems to be working on the assumption that the songs will do the play’s work for it. The plot – that flimsy device linking the musical numbers – concerns young Bholenath and his all-consuming passion for Kishore Kumar. His singing voice, though, is an unmusical bray. This changes when the spirit of Kishoreda, a singing aid from beyond the grave, enters him. Ignoring the fact that he’s coasting on borrowed glory (rather like Jhumroo itself), Bhole enters “India Super Singer” with a mind to woo his co-worker Meena (it’s her favourite TV show). That’s about it for storyline, though we’re subjected to running gags involving a South Indian boss out of central casting, a suspicious prima donna of a judge, and Thakur and Gabbar Singh from Sholay on a suspended tricycle.

Jhumroo will run alongside Zangoora, Kingdom of Dreams’ first musical, and audiences will most likely end up comparing the two. If this happens, it’ll be to Jhumroo’s disadvantage. Zangoora, though formulaic, worked because its leads were genuinely charismatic. Jhumroo’s stars try hard, but fall short. Gaurav Gera is pleasant as Bhole, but he doesn’t command the stage the way Hussain Kuwajerwala did. Shweta Gulati as Meena fares even worse; her character only exists as a reaction to whatever Bhole’s doing. Jhumroo’s choreography is the most inventive part of the show, but the sheer volume of musical numbers – each done with typical Kingdom of Dreams bombast – is exhausting. We love Kishore Kumar, but two and a half hours of songs we’ve heard all our life is too much of a good thing.

Of course, Zangoora didn’t seem like it had it in it to do 640 shows (and counting), so director Vikranth Pawar and his team could well be expecting another hit. However, unless divine intervention works on more than Bhole’s vocal chords, this is unlikely to happen. What’s sad is how one of Hindi cinema’s funniest, most irrepressible figures has become the subject of a play that lacks wit, verve and self-confidence (to the extent that it uses canned applause). “They’re stretching everything. I liked Zangoora better,” one of two kids sitting behind us during the interval said. The other agreed, adding, “I like their shoes.” We couldn’t agree more, though we’d also like to suggest that these particular shoes might have proved a bit too big to fill.

This review was published in Time Out Delhi.

Why I didn’t like Hugo (much)

It’s interesting how this year’s Oscar frontrunners were a Paris-set film made by an American, and a Hollywood-set film made by a Frenchman. Michel Hazanavicius’ The Artist eventually won the Academy Award, as well as another, less-publicised battle over Martin Scorsese’s Hugo. The Artist is an affectionate, plausible recreation of silent-era Hollywood. Hugo, on the other hand, is set in a city that would be unidentifiable as Paris were it not for a couple of stray baguettes and the Eiffel Tower outside the window. You could argue that authenticity has no place in a fairy tale, but the three-dimensional Hugo is twice removed from reality. 3D visuals make even the familiar look fantastical; here, they replace the organic richness of Dante Ferretti’s production design with something that’s spectacular but devoid of weight.

I believe that critics, guilty of ignoring many fine Scorsese films over the years, are now queuing up to pronounce everything he does a masterpiece. Hugo is a well-made film, one that pushes 3D to be better than it has in the past. I won’t deny that some of the set pieces are brilliantly fluid (though I hate it when the 3D camera ploughs through solid objects – there ought to be a law). There’s nothing wrong with Ben Kingsley’s or Michael Stuhlbarg’s or Helen McCrory’s performances, and nothing to recommend in the others. Some of the writing is inexplicably bad (“It’s Neverland and Oz and Treasure Island all wrapped into one,” says Chloe Moretz’s over-eager Isabelle); it’s been a while since a Scorsese film had a truly great script.

Those who accused Spielberg’s War Horse of having stock characters (they weren’t wrong) should have applied the same yardstick to Hugo. You have the wide-eyed youngster, the Shirley Temple friend, the drunk uncle, the moustachioed villain, the crusty old toy-maker who happens to be a film pioneer (maybe that last one is okay). In the beginning, it seems a very strange choice of material for Scorsese. However, as the film progresses, it becomes clear why the director was attracted to Brian Selnick's source novel. In The Invention of Hugo Cabret, the titular character “discovers” a washed-up Georges Méliès running a shop in a train station. Méliès was a film icon on the level of Lumiere and Griffith. Yet, when he gave up directing, many of his films were destroyed and he was forgotten by the public. Scorsese uses Hugo to champion, via the romantic figure of Méliès, who really was re-discovered in 1929, a key cause of his – film preservation. Hugo becomes a cautionary tale about forgetting one’s heritage, a cinephile’s Pocohontas.

My problem isn’t just with the film itself, but also the technology it so wholeheartedly embraces. For something that adds an extra dimension to the viewing experience, 3D is nevertheless incapable of (or under-ultilised in) producing the depth-of-field effect that enables you to take the whole scene in in one go. Actors tend to tower over you in 3D close-ups, and the background becomes an irrelevant blur for those few seconds. If it isn’t used carefully, 3D could be the death of the democratic image, the legacy of filmmakers like Jean Renoir and Orson Welles. Cinema has always stood for two things – a spectacle, and a mirror held unto our lives. 3D is well-suited to the former, but the latter still eludes it.

Cobain/Tagore

(“Come as you are...”)

By Rabindranath Tagore

Come as you are, tarry not over your toilet.

If your braiding has come loose, if the parting of your hair be not straight, if the ribbons of your bodice be not fastened, do not mind.

Come as you are, tarry not over your toilet.

Come with quick steps over the grass.

If your feet are pale with the dew, if your anklets slacken, if pearls drop out of your chain, do not mind.

Come with quick steps over the grass.

Do you see the clouds wrapping the sky?

Flocks of cranes fly up from the further riverbank and fitful gusts of wind rush over the heath.

The anxious cattle run to their stalls in the village.

Do you see the clouds wrapping the sky?

In vain you light your toilet lamp; it flickers and goes out in the wind.

Surely, who would know that with lamp-black your eyelids are not touched? For your eyes are darker than rain clouds.

In vain you light your toilet lamp; it goes out.

Come as you are, tarry not over your toilet.

If the wreath is not woven, who cares? If the wrist-chain has not been tied, leave it by.

The sky is overcast with clouds; it is late.

Come as you are, tarry not over your toilet.

78 years later...

No word yet on whether Kurt Cobain was a closet Rabindrasangeet listener. He would have killed that "In vain you light your toilet lamp" line, though.

Levon



 “Levon slowly dies”, ended Elton John’s 1971 part-tribute to The Band’s drummer. Death did come slowly to Levon Helm. A few months prior to his demise, it’d been revealed that he was in the final stages of his battle with cancer. He passed away in his sleep, surrounded by his family and friends, on April 19, 2012 at 1.30pm. It was the first death of a Band member that didn’t have the specter of addiction hanging over it. Richard Manuel drank and drank and hung himself one day. Rick Danko died of a drug-induced heart attack.

That Levon died naturally isn’t surprising, for everything the man did was natural. There was no undue effort in his drumming; it was, like so many things the Band did, just right. His singing, too, seemed to be rooted in the Arkansas soil he rose from (he was the only non-Canadian in the group). To hear Helm sing “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down” is to understand why Manuel or Danko, astonishing vocalists both, could not have brought the same weight to bear on this most Southern of American rock songs. Or you could listen to “The Weight” – borne by all three vocalists – and marvel at the carnal joy in his vocalising of “Well Luke my friend/ what about young Anna Lee?”

Helm could be playful (“Rag Mama Rag”), sly (“Yazoo Street Scandal”), humorous (“Up On Cripple Creek”). He sang almost exclusively in the lower register, and lent to everything a rare combination of knowingness and feeling. In a age of drum solos, his playing was spare, unadorned (and influential – just listen to his flat beat in “The Weight”, and then to The Kinks’ “Strangers”). Like all his bandmates except Robbie Robertson, Helm’s solo career never really took off. His legend, though, remained untarnished; at his Midnight Rambles, everyone from Elvis Costello to Allen Toussaint, Hubert Sumlin, Kris Kristofferson and Rickie Lee Jones would turn up to play for free. One hopes his long, bitter feud with Robertson ended with the latter’s hospital visit a few days before his death. An inscription on the tomb of Virgil, the Greek poet, reads “I sang of pastures, countrysides, leaders” – an uncannily good description of the man whose most recognisable song begins with the words “Virgil Caine is my name…”

One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest: DVD Review

It’s been 36 years, but One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest is still, to quote of its own lines, absolutely dangerous. Miloš Forman’s film was based on the seminal 1962 novel about one Randle McMurphy, a free-spirited jailbird who’s sent to a mental institution. There, he rebels against the iron rule of the loathsome Nurse Ratched, who preys on her patients’ infirmities, ostensibly to maintain order. The film marked the coming together of several distinct rebel movements: the ’60s counterculture that Ken Kesey, the book’s author, embodied; the rule-breaking ethos of ’70s New Hollywood; and Forman’s own experiences with censorship in Communist Czechoslovakia.

This Ultimate Collector’s Edition comes in the kind of pack that usually changes hands on Diwali. Inside, there’s a booklet, a few postcards and two DVDs, the first of which is the film. The second disc contains outtakes, a look at the current mental healthcare scenario in the US, and a feature-length documentary called Completely Cuckoo. A mix of interviews, archival footage and reminisces – including those of Kesey’s, who disliked the film – Completely Cuckoo is a refreshingly candid making-of feature, enlivened by frequent takeoffs on Forman’s thick Central European accent by cast and crew.   

The film’s journey began when Kirk Douglas, fresh from having played McMurphy on Broadway, met Forman in Prague. Impressed with the young Czech filmmaker, Douglas told him to expect the book in the mail and write back if he was interested. The package never arrived, and Forman assumed the star had forgotten about it (it had actually been confiscated by the customs officials). Back home, Kesey disassociated himself from the project, complaining that while he wanted to make The Cabinet of Doctor Calgari, the producers wanted to make Hogan’s Heroes. Douglas passed the producer’s hat to his son Michael (this was before his acting career took off), who along with co-producer Saul Zaentz brought Forman back into the picture. The trio made one key decision early – they would shoot in a real-life mental hospital.

 In her Oscar acceptance speech for her role as Nurse Ratched, Louise Fletcher thanked Jack Nicholson and the cast for making “being in a mental institution like being in a mental institution”. It was no idle praise. In the documentary, Milos Forman mentions how his aim was to cast faces one wouldn’t forget in a hurry. As it happens, the entire movie is played out in these faces, be it the bug-eyed suspicion of Christopher Lloyd, the animal fear of Brad Dourif, or Danny DeVito’s shy, unnerving smile. And, of course, there’s Nicholson as McMurphy, grinning like the one truly crazy person there, and Fletcher as Nurse Ratched, her reasonable voice at odds with her cold, hard eyes set in a mask of a face. Underscoring everything is the eccentric score by Jack Nitzsche, who, after years of being Phil Spector’s right-hand man, was used to working with the mentally unstable.

A version of this review appeared in Time Out Delhi.

That sinking feeling

A piece I did for Time Out on the re-release of Titanic in 3D.

Anyone with basic knowledge of the movie business knows there’s really only one cardinal rule: never bet against James Cameron’s latest venture. It’s fully possible that the theatrical rerun of Titanic in 3D will turn out to be as phenomenally popular and lucrative as the original. But what the hell, here's five reasons why it may not.

1. Let’s be honest. Titanic was an embarrassment. The shift from modern-day deep-sea exploration to period melodrama remains one of the great cinematic lurches of all time. The script of the 1997 movie was filled with zingers like “I figure life’s a gift and I don't intend on wasting it.” The direction was impersonal, as if James Cameron had too much on his mind to pay attention to things like nuance and decent characterisation. Instead, as he did with Avatar 12 years later, the director bet everything on visual effects and a sappy love story. It paid off spectacularly, becoming the highest grossing film till date and winning 11 Oscars. We’re all to blame for that, but 15 years have passed and hopefully everybody is wiser now.

2. Releasing Titanic 3D now is like selling semi-old wine in a spanking new bottle. It hasn’t been allowed to age enough; most of the movie-going public between 25 and 45 has already seen it, many of them on the big screen. Apart from the creaky storytelling or clunky dialogue, we only have the dubious pleasure of seeing the ship fall apart in 3D.

3. Cameron has picked the wrong film from his back catalogue to release in 3D. The obvious choice is Terminator 2: Judgment Day, the still-impressive 1991 film that turned Arnold Schwarzenegger’s expressionless killer from the first Terminator movie into an expressionless guardian angel. The prospect of that film with an extra dimension added is mouth-watering: just imagine Robert Patrick shifting shape in three dimensions, or T-1000’s Harley bouncing towards you after making that incredible jump off the ledge. Even the tagline suggests itself: “I’ll be back…in 3D”.

4. Most of Titanic’s repeat viewers, the ones who helped it become the first movie to gross over a billion dollars, were teenage girls worshipping at the temple of Leonardo DiCaprio. For months after its release, it was impossible to separate the film from the hysteria surrounding its young star. But in the decade and a half that’s passed since, DiCaprio has repeatedly subverted his boyish appeal by going over to the dark side as far as his roles are concerned. Team LDC has most likely switched allegiances to Team Clooney or Team Gosling by now.

5. Some of us still haven’t forgiven James Cameron his celebratory woo-hoos at the Oscars in 1998. Who ends his Oscar acceptance speech by quoting his own film’s line (“I’m the king of the world”)?

Anatomy of a Scene: Metropolitan

By the time it dawns upon Tom that he's in love with Audrey, we're in the last ten minutes of Metropolitan. What's worse, she isn't around. She's left with a friend for the villainous Von Sloneker's beach house, and Tom and Charlie are going crazy at the thought of what might be going on in that den of vice. And sure enough, when they reach there, the friend and Von S are in a state of undress. Audrey, though, is reading a book and looking bored. Tom announces his intentions: he's here to collect Audrey. A scuffle breaks out and Tom pulls a gun; in keeping with the innate civility of the movie, no blood is shed, and the matter is settled in seconds.

We join Audrey and Tom talking on the beach. She is clearly happy that he came all the way to perform a rather unnecessary rescue, but she's committed herself earlier in the movie, and it didn't go well, so it'll be up to Tom this time. They're getting closer - there's a touch of the hair here, a hint of a future meeting there. Audrey decides to take a chance and clear up something important. Van Sloneker had said in parting, "Get outta here and take this flat-chested, goody-goody, pain in the neck", to which Tom had replied, "She's not a goody-goody". That's all very well, but Audrey now wants to know, "Do you really think I'm really flat-chested?" Tom starts by saying he hadn't thought about it, then retracts the statement, finally stating , "You look really great, and that's what's important". As Audrey smiles shyly, Charlie, who's been walking towards them from a distance, comes into focus, and stands over the couple like a priest at the altar. He's been a rival for Audrey's affections, but has grown closer to Tom since, and more importantly, he realises Audrey's just got the reassurance she was looking for. He takes a breath and relaxes his shoulders; if you look carefully, you'll see the ghost of a hope leave him. With a sublimely inscrutable look on his face, he smiles, and the camera cuts away to the otherwise deserted beach. The last scene sees the three of them walking down the road, trying to hitch a ride home.