Swingham

Saw Singham finally in a multiplex jam packed with 9 people a few nights back. This is not a subtle movie. This is a movie that mauls the silver screen and leaps out at you. Right from the first 2 seconds where the titles literally propel themselves towards unsuspecting viewers with a roar. Now, how do you introduce a testosterone pumped, roaring hero who will swing his fists at everything that moves. With a song of course. And please don’t wonder why his dance steps primarily include invisible ass-groping in a 360 degree radius. That’s lion-pawing, silly. Watch National Geographic.

Then the story takes over. Actually quite a few of them take over. The story of the overly emotional policeman who blows his brains out because the evil shmeevil villain plants circumstantial evidence in his van, that the entire planet believes, without question. Or an investigation, come to think of it. Then, the story of the young starlet who visits her uncle in Singham’s village and falls in love with him after he beats up a couple of guys who wanted to borrow her dupatta. That hairy, chunky lad will never cross dress again thanks to Singham. Then there’s the story of young starlet’s father whose petname was Genitalboy. No, wait that was his real name. Then there’s the story of the large gelatinous boy-man who turns into a pre-recorded telephone message. Seriously. And the story that connects all these stories to make the movie palatable sense. No, not really. Just jerking your chain on that one.

It was about then that I realized the subliminal messaging that was being cleverly deployed by the Singham anthem song with ‘Singham’ popping every half second. So I started keeping count. Those clever, clever chaps. I had heard 112 Singhams already. Then the evil shmeevil villain meets Singham who thoroughly humiliates him and for no apparent reason, the villagers destroy Evil Shmeevil’s retinue of 9 really ugly looking and mismatched 4X4s. Dejected, Evil Shmeevil walks off with battered cars following him and weeps angrily while sitting on a milestone. It was then that I began to suspect his emotional stability.

Singham chant count: 314

Time for a song. Singham and his hotty visit a lovely montage of rejected props. As the hotty flawlessly stumbles through the lyrics, Singham multi tasks by singing an absolutely different song. So there is zero lip sync in certain parts though Singham glosses things over by flexing and grinning. Not particularly in that order. Then bam! Singham gets tricked by the corrupt system into reporting to Evil Shmeevil in a Goa police station. The dastardly villain storms into the police station and gloats while launching into a cathartic speech and baffling tears. Tears? Yup. Evil Shmeevil angrily gesticulated and wept while threatening Singham. Even Singham looked a little confused.

Mercifully, intermission.

Singham Chant Count: 1899

The rest was a revelation of drama, great acting and a refreshing twisted end. In the theater adjoining ours at the Multiplex. Singham, however, continued swinging his banyan tree arms onto people while leap frogging over them, bashing cars, slapping cows and impaling hapless villains on 3-day old mcdonalds french fries. That’s because Singham was angry. Outraged. Ferocious. Dangerous. Perfect time for another song. This time the lip sync was perfect. Except I couldn’t help notice that the pretty damsel’s voice, which during the movie is quite shrill, now sounded as low as Usha Uthup. While Singham sang his heart out with bared crooked teeth and Christina Aguilera’s voice. They say time heals and I am sure I will forget that song. But not what followed next.

Singham Chant Count: 21,564

Showdown time. Singham had had it. Evil Shmeevil was even more powerful since he had won local elections to become a politician and was downright messing with Singhybaby and his loved ones. So Singham decides to do the unthinkable. Gatecrash a party. Not just any party. A policemen’s ball where nobody seemed to be having one ironically. Singham leaps into the party and tries to unite them against Evil Shmeevil. He turns to each policemen (there were 4 in the party and 1 woman) and calls them each by name. Another Singham feat considering he’s never met them. Then before they could respond he stomps off saying ‘fine! I’ll do it myself!’. If he’d only have waited a bit, he’d have discovered they were all with him and would have saved the army policemen a bundle in petrol bills as they chased him halfway across town to a beach to tell him just that.

Singham Chant Count: 1,23,998

Final scene. Evil Shmeevil is sleeping and his favourite flunky cop wakes him up. Evil Shmeevil gets up and doesn’t for a second question why his flunky cop is at his beside after he spent half an hour locking his house that night. Rather he follows him straight into a trap. Which is 20 sniggering cops lounged in his living room and raiding his fridge. They say the game’s up. Evil Shmeevil, laughs, protests, threatens and quickly cries. The cops go “Awwww!”. Evil Shmeevil escapes. Only to be caught 10 seconds later and have his brains frapped by the cops. Quirky message there about how the cops cover up everything like an encounter killing and all but nobody’s paying attention to that. Singham has won. Singham has kicked butt. Singham smells a sequel. And God bless them, I can’t wait.

Singham Chant Count: 1,23,999

Mocha Mojo’d

Restaurant review? Hell, I’ve got to be the wrongest guy. Short of cold idlis, flat beer and no meat on the menu, I’d give any establishment my well manicured thumbs up. But this place I went to early this week is well worth a fine slew of praise. It’s called Mocha Mojo. It was always where it was as Mocha but now with a generous dash of 70s art, colour and telephone handled doors, it’s stepped out onto the sunny Bandra street in a brand new psychedelic suit. 

First impression – “Who smoked what?” . Crazy lip shaped sofas that would make Mick Jagger’s mandibles look petite. Telephone handles on doors so you never miss a call while walking in. The menu is wild. Wild! It’s got records on it. No, not Olympics (sigh, you people). I mean those old vinyl records. Seriously. Ok see it for yourself. And it’s designed really well along with an outstanding introduction to the establishment. OUTSTANDING. I really believe the whole menu deserves some award. And you know what? I’m going to start it off by giving it an award. Yes! Right now! ….

(Dim the lights. Drum roll. Hush the crowds. And you back there stop digging your nose.)

“Mocha Mojo menu….come forth….I award you for superlative menu design and OUTSTANDING writing…THE GOLDEN MUNCHY!”

Super. Nothing makes a Sunday morning better than awarding the deserving. Bravo Mocha Mojo Menu! The food in it also deserves a mention. This being a restaurant and all. NICE STUFF. That’s right, the 2 words every restauranteur has been dying to hear. But seriously it was really yum. There’s this whole new health angle to Mocha now. There’s a momentary pause on the previously explicit decadence and an almost reverential submission to the cleansing flavours of Mother Nature.

Wow. That was fabulous 🙂

For more fabulousness just check out this place. It’s where the Bandra Mocha used to be. Can’t miss it. I think it’s still got valet. I think I even saw one with an afro.

That Love Thing

How crazy are we all about love? It’s like we’re this gigantic country overwhelmed by one singular emotion. Say the word and we go jelly-kneed  and launch into full throated song. I was just thinking can we actually count the number of love songs that this country has belted out in the past 50 years of Indian cinema? Say more than 10,000? Easy. And most of them depict loopy heroes or super shattered ones leaning on hillocks of alcohol or heroines who can spin like a top on their toes without relinquishing the contents of their semi-digested breakfast.

But that’s what we like to see when it comes to ‘love’ in India cinema. Pain, trauma, sacrifice, unreasonable parents, rebellious offspring, unwarranted overreactions, superhuman leaps and inexplicable strength in hand-to-hand combat. All this because a guy fancies a girl. Powerful stuff, this love.

And one can’t help but notice this boxful of love is gift-wrapped in a strawberry cellophane of coyness. You can love but don’t kiss. Just hug. Tightly if you must. Eyes shut in rapture. And dance, dance, dance anywhere you please. What else are trees for? Oh, don’t you worry! You will not dance alone. As per the rules of the Indian Love and Spontaneous Reciprocity Board it is your civil right to receive a minimum of 10 to a maximum of 74 well-trained dancers springing out to accompany you with matching dance moves. Not to mention the invisible orchestra which will be commissioned to you simultaneously. 

Love. You’ve got to love it.

Delhi 6 on 100

It’s over and I don’t really know what it was all about. That’s just about what hit me at the end of a 70 bucks stall viewing of Delhi 6. There’s abhishek bachhan who’s got a ri-hi-diculous accent and this newly found parkor skill to boot (no pun intended but hey it was cool how that just fllllowed out!). Then there’s sonam kapoor who danced on rooftops really well and did not sport a mustache like her father. Can’t help it. Everytime I think of Sonam kapoor I think of Anil kapoor. Everytime I think of him i think of his mustache. Ergo, everytime i think of sonam kapoor i think she has a mustache. But she doesn’t really. It’s just…complicated.

The movie was a genius thing if you want to fill up the first 1.5 hours with absolutely diddly squat and the next  1.5 hours with holy-jehova-what-stuff-did-the-scriptwriter-smoke? The songs were incredible. Incredible. Did i say incredible? Prasoon Joshi is baap. My baap! I adopt him as my father. That’s it. I have made my decision. And A.R. is my mummsy . They may not like it at first but over time they will accept it. And give me pocket money. Lots of it.