Nearly 16 years ago Rajkumar Santoshi put his best foot forward with a comedy starring Aamir Khan, Salman Khan, Paresh Rawal and Shakti Kapoor. While even Raveena Tandon, Karisma Kapoor and Viju Khote come to mind with the mention of Andaz Apna Apna, Rajkumar Santoshi doesn't necessarily induce a sense of hope. A shame, considering he probably gave us some of our best laughs. Since then though, he has stumbled through creative disasters, the names of which are better off left unattended to at this point.
With the suggestion that he may be able to recreate the magic once again with a fresh take on an old story sends most of us staggering into theaters this weekend.
And here we are. 2 and a half hours later. One word. Jaded.
Santoshi's latest, Ajab Prem Ki Ghazab Kahani, for starters, does little for the laughs. Once that's out of the way, we dawdle into finding reasons for actually taking the time for this one. Ranbir Kapoor is undoubtedly the industry's biggest hope and he falls flat on his face this time around. He's come out being both quite dumb and often, over the top. He has his moments, but he doesn't have the timing.
With the exception of Zakir Hussain as Sajid Don, a Crimemaster Gogo spin-off, Katrina Kaif, with due respect, is shockingly the most likeable aspect of this film. The one thing she certainly does get right is her timing and she does keep you amused for much of her scenes. Santoshi has an odd liking for shooting his song sequences very artistically, relatively speaking. They have a serious disconnect with the rest of the movie but his DOP does everything to show off a lovely Ms. Kaif. A small consolation for the randy viewer.
Barring the one riot in a soap factory or some such (Long story.), the movie allows a few strained giggles and a whole lot of shuffling in the seat. Cliche protagonists and the presence of a smattering of side actors and corresponding characters and the Ooty/Goa locales takes us back to a bad place in the early 90s.
There really is no story. Once the interval gives you temporal respite, you realise the writers felt like Steve McQueen's Capt. Hilts.
"Hold on to yourself, Bartlett. You're twenty feet short."
And a whole freaken movie, by the looks of it.
Special Mention: Upen Patel. We wonder, whenever we are both bored and our pressed to reluctantly consider one such as Upen, what's that language he mutters as buff crashes heavily against an overdose of steroids.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Sway. Stop. Stop. No, really. Stop.
Last night, Dubai saw the end of its largest music festival, with 70+ bands from across the table, in terms of music and geography.
Dubai SoundCity, if you know the city, makes for a terribly misleading title. I am certain many considered parading the nether regions of the country searching for an abandoned construction site west of an abandoned construction site. That said, the culture nomads and beer-chugging entourage find themselves back in the popular bars and lounges across the city for a promising international indie line-up including the likes of The Doves, Nitin Sawhney, Super Furry Animals, Post War Years and Human League. Old-timer British pop seemed like the calling and since a series of unfortunate events had me elsewhere when The Doves and Nitin Sawhney performed, I chose to skip the rest of the shenanigan.
The last night, though, at Dubai Festival City, I had the fortune of playing another gig with the increasingly intriguing Gayathri Krishnan and the supremely talented Aaron Kim on cello. More on that in a bit.
By default I managed to catch a few artists, some more artistic than others.
First off, Parisian dance/pop/rock (this slightly enigmatic description finds itself on their MySpace page) duo, Slutterhouse donned the unsettling floating stage for an extended show. Polite applause ensued. And then, I sense it was a tad less polite and more, suggestive, most certainly expecting to mark the end of a song, and hopefully the gig. I trust Slutterhouse and their Russell Brand-esque frontman were better suited to a smaller stage facing dark shadows and brighter lights.
The night's find had to be, perhaps, Canada's finest singer-songwriter since the lovely Leslie Feist, Dan Mangan ably accompanied by his trusty guitar and quick wit had the laid back setting to his liking, I suspect. I listen to his older album, Postcards and Daydreaming, as I type this post. While he often stands close to wearing into predictability, he does undoubtedly have strong penmanship. He immediately reminds a listener of Glen Hansard or Damien Rice on their stock tracks. His rendition of Tina's Glorious Comeback from his newest album was quite simply, super. He's got the number on his acoustic guitar. It didn't seem obvious at first but his music leans toward the likes of Joshua Radin. End of the day, he is another indie folk artist, with good writing, acoustic guitar, and guttural voice, and may just wane away unnoticed. Shame.
(Note: Not What You Think It Is on the aforementioned album. Worth a listen. Smooth trumpet accompaniment.)
We got on stage post a shake of the hand and slap on the back for Mr. Mangan. We float on a dinghy toward the spectacle that is the floating stage. More in terms of "Why? Oh, Why?"
So, we are on stage, my first show with a slightly moody electric guitar and the most amateurish patches on a Digitech pedal. I try. 45 minutes, one rough bout of waves that sent our frontwoman into a tizzy and the nagging hum of a poor guitar pickup, and we were back on blessed land.
Feet on harder surface, a tight grip on sentiment.
Four weeks, four major shows, TV and festival included, and Gayathri and The Immigrants (I make this bit up...but it's catchy eh? No?), had made the mark they most certainly didn't foresee. My weak link of a guitar sense was hidden in plain sight by the supreme cellist, Aaron Kim. If time and place are on his side, look out for him. Herbie Hancock, we hear, might just nod his agreement. If not, Howard Shore. As for Gayathri, they isn't much else stopping her anymore. There's talent and there's talent. And there's her. Reminds us amateurs of our place. We'd never ever mind it coming from someone as beautiful as her.
Caught a glimpse of Saudi-based hiphop act, Qusai and the Jeddah Legend. Didn't see enough to reiterate but there was a sense they were more professional than they'd give up. Very good sound.
The night ended with a few Stellas down the hatch at the Belgian Beer Cafe. Excellent place. Drop in when you get the chance.
Over and out.
Dubai SoundCity, if you know the city, makes for a terribly misleading title. I am certain many considered parading the nether regions of the country searching for an abandoned construction site west of an abandoned construction site. That said, the culture nomads and beer-chugging entourage find themselves back in the popular bars and lounges across the city for a promising international indie line-up including the likes of The Doves, Nitin Sawhney, Super Furry Animals, Post War Years and Human League. Old-timer British pop seemed like the calling and since a series of unfortunate events had me elsewhere when The Doves and Nitin Sawhney performed, I chose to skip the rest of the shenanigan.
The last night, though, at Dubai Festival City, I had the fortune of playing another gig with the increasingly intriguing Gayathri Krishnan and the supremely talented Aaron Kim on cello. More on that in a bit.
By default I managed to catch a few artists, some more artistic than others.
First off, Parisian dance/pop/rock (this slightly enigmatic description finds itself on their MySpace page) duo, Slutterhouse donned the unsettling floating stage for an extended show. Polite applause ensued. And then, I sense it was a tad less polite and more, suggestive, most certainly expecting to mark the end of a song, and hopefully the gig. I trust Slutterhouse and their Russell Brand-esque frontman were better suited to a smaller stage facing dark shadows and brighter lights.
The night's find had to be, perhaps, Canada's finest singer-songwriter since the lovely Leslie Feist, Dan Mangan ably accompanied by his trusty guitar and quick wit had the laid back setting to his liking, I suspect. I listen to his older album, Postcards and Daydreaming, as I type this post. While he often stands close to wearing into predictability, he does undoubtedly have strong penmanship. He immediately reminds a listener of Glen Hansard or Damien Rice on their stock tracks. His rendition of Tina's Glorious Comeback from his newest album was quite simply, super. He's got the number on his acoustic guitar. It didn't seem obvious at first but his music leans toward the likes of Joshua Radin. End of the day, he is another indie folk artist, with good writing, acoustic guitar, and guttural voice, and may just wane away unnoticed. Shame.
(Note: Not What You Think It Is on the aforementioned album. Worth a listen. Smooth trumpet accompaniment.)
We got on stage post a shake of the hand and slap on the back for Mr. Mangan. We float on a dinghy toward the spectacle that is the floating stage. More in terms of "Why? Oh, Why?"
So, we are on stage, my first show with a slightly moody electric guitar and the most amateurish patches on a Digitech pedal. I try. 45 minutes, one rough bout of waves that sent our frontwoman into a tizzy and the nagging hum of a poor guitar pickup, and we were back on blessed land.
Feet on harder surface, a tight grip on sentiment.
Four weeks, four major shows, TV and festival included, and Gayathri and The Immigrants (I make this bit up...but it's catchy eh? No?), had made the mark they most certainly didn't foresee. My weak link of a guitar sense was hidden in plain sight by the supreme cellist, Aaron Kim. If time and place are on his side, look out for him. Herbie Hancock, we hear, might just nod his agreement. If not, Howard Shore. As for Gayathri, they isn't much else stopping her anymore. There's talent and there's talent. And there's her. Reminds us amateurs of our place. We'd never ever mind it coming from someone as beautiful as her.
Caught a glimpse of Saudi-based hiphop act, Qusai and the Jeddah Legend. Didn't see enough to reiterate but there was a sense they were more professional than they'd give up. Very good sound.
The night ended with a few Stellas down the hatch at the Belgian Beer Cafe. Excellent place. Drop in when you get the chance.
Over and out.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Standy...15!
Television. Live.
I didn't think I would ever do that. Live on TV. Playing guitar. It was an adventure. Being a part of something you don't entirely understand (it was shot in Arabic, no we weren't dubbed), is slightly surreal. Almost metaphorical.
I'm becoming less and less impressed by that term.
Talisker. Spice.
Vodka is a choice. Except the potentially damaging Romanov. That's a mistake.
Vonamor? F*ck you Shilpa!
But I've been more recently introduced to the single malt experience. I think you need to earn your stripes here. It's quite worth the trouble. Makes you seem a whole lot classier. Even if you sip in boxers.
Travolta. Old.
The escapades of Johnny Dancing Shoes have been well received since 1975. Even when it involved tolerating an insufferable hairdo. The man's got the look. Well, he did have the look until he decided to hijack a train by scaring the motorman with his wrinkles. The movie is a Sunday afternoon jingbang. Watch it, don't, I don't think anyone cares lesser. Least of all Botox Inc.
We still love you, sir. We do.
I didn't think I would ever do that. Live on TV. Playing guitar. It was an adventure. Being a part of something you don't entirely understand (it was shot in Arabic, no we weren't dubbed), is slightly surreal. Almost metaphorical.
I'm becoming less and less impressed by that term.
Talisker. Spice.
Vodka is a choice. Except the potentially damaging Romanov. That's a mistake.
Vonamor? F*ck you Shilpa!
But I've been more recently introduced to the single malt experience. I think you need to earn your stripes here. It's quite worth the trouble. Makes you seem a whole lot classier. Even if you sip in boxers.
Travolta. Old.
The escapades of Johnny Dancing Shoes have been well received since 1975. Even when it involved tolerating an insufferable hairdo. The man's got the look. Well, he did have the look until he decided to hijack a train by scaring the motorman with his wrinkles. The movie is a Sunday afternoon jingbang. Watch it, don't, I don't think anyone cares lesser. Least of all Botox Inc.
We still love you, sir. We do.
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