An evening at the movies

A big goofy grin. That's what you have on your face when you walk out of Slumdog Millionaire. Brilliant all the way to the last frame.

Danny Boyle's latest film featuring debutant Dev Patel is so good! There's just no other way to put it. When a friend mentioned a while ago that I should watch it, I didn't think much of it. How could a movie with a title like that be? Sounded too morbid. I was so wrong.

Based on the book Q&A by Vikas Swarup, Slumdog Millionaire is the story of call center tea boy who lands himself a place on the primetime Indian Television Show, Kaun Banega Crorepati, based on Who wants to be a Millionaire?

How can an ordinary chaiwala from a mobile phone company call center in Mumbai know anything about the world, least of all enough to win hom 20 million Indian rupees? The kind of money that his lot will never see in a lifetime, putting him in the same category as more than 80 percent of the working Indian population.

Slumdog Millionaire is true to all that it shows of India. My only criticism may be that nothing of "other" India had been shown. The "modern," "advanced," "new face," of India. It may have helped in showing to the world that India is more than chawls and outdoor bathrooms. But if the movie is showing at sold out shows across the city and country despite a limited release, a sixth sense says that they probably know about that part anyway.

It's a different experience watching an independent Indian movie with an American audience. Unlike Indian movies starring six-figure super stars, this one had faces no one had seen before but grew to like quite quickly. And the audience was almost all-American. In fact, I may have been the only exception.

The movie also refreshes reasons why you love India, as ironic as it may seem in context of the material. How do expanses of poverty, helplessness and sheer filth remind you of loyalty? Because it makes you reliaze you love India, warts and all. With its traffic jams. With its dysfunctional system of power. With its volatile tempers and unpredicatble days. We love India. For it's fun-factor. For it's strength. For it's spirit. We love you India.

A.R. Rahman's soundtrack is brilliant. The kind that sends a tingle down your spine, similar to the feelings of patriotism that his rendition of Vande Mataram invokes. The camerwork is flawless - fast paced and well edited, throwing you right in the middle of the action. Danny Boyle has made a meticulous movie that surpasses expectation. Two thumbs up to Dev Patel.

Go watch Slumdog Millionaire for its enthralling story. Go watch Slumdog Millionaire to support independent cinema. Go watch Slumdog Millionaire to join in the celebration called India. Or just go watch it for the sheer love of movie watching. It's worth more than the price of the ticket and the popcorn.

Jai Hind!

A Flashback before Moving Forward

This is the 100th post. I thought it needed to be dedicated to something special. Thinking back, I realized that there is one event that needs mention but hasn't featured on the space because this blog was not created when it happened. The details may be a little hazy but here's the essence of it.

One of the highlights of my undergrad student life was the film workshop that we had with Pradeep Sebastian. It was five days, beginning Wednesday and running all through the weekend, of pure concentrated movie-watching pleasure. Tucked away in the new AV (audio visual) room on campus, with an airconditioner that chose to overwork more often than not, turning the space into an artificial arctic zone, thirty movie-hungry girls devoured every last scene. I could have sworn there were a couple of drool puddles.

It was intended to be a "film appreciation" course, to make us more cultured women and all those shenanigans. Perhaps that's what its long-term effects were. In the moment, the popcorn was the only accessory missing (only because John sir would have thrown us all out if we had eaten the AV room).

The first movie we watched was a Cannes Film Festival winner, The Son's Room. It was the first Italian movie I watched and loved the way the words of the language flowed so effortlessly. It felt oddly satisfying to hear a tongue I didn't understand. The movie was wonderful, setting a serene mood in soft colours and voices. During the five days that we spent in front of the large screen display, we were transported to the eerie tale of Mia Farrow in Rosemary's Baby by Roman Polanski and got a taste of the film wizard's magic in his explosive movie that explores incest like never before in Chinatown with Jack Nicholson and Faye Dunaway.

We watched "Open Water" where a yuppie American couple's tropical holiday turns into a mid-sea tragedy. Powerful cinema on a shoestring production budget that raked in huge collections at the box office. Independent cinema will always remain fascinating. The list grew longer with Mulholland Drive (which had the most bizarre female nudity scene. I guess you never know what to expect from director, David Lynch).

Then came the two Oriental movies of the lineup. When the first one was screened (The House of Flying Daggers), I had to excuse myself to escort my younger sibling to the social do of that generation. I had to be the lame older sibling who sat around obscurely and ate paneer tikka. Little did I know that the North Indian fare was stale. So when the second movie (whose name evades me) was screened, I had to excuse myself again to nurse a troubled stomach caused by the stale snack I had the previous day.

But I was back in time for Falling in Love with Meryl Streep and Robert DeNiro. You can't quite figure out whether it's the couple's onscreen chemistry that is genuine or the fact that both are such good actors that they could have you believe they made hot, passionate love to a tree last night. This was the film that I thought Karan Johar's, Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna was based on. My loyalties remain divided between a magical hollywood performance and a true Dharma Productions creation that appeals to my Indian sensibilities.

The grand finale was worth the wait with another Italian movie. Cinema Paradiso stole all our eighteen-year-old hearts, who cooed with the young Italian boy and the relationship he has with films and the man who plays movies at his town cinema. No movie that I've watched till date has taken its place and I'm confident no other film will. It will remain special for how "human" it was and how it succeeded in allowing us to believe we were eight-years old again.

At the end of five days, the lights came back on. The last CD was put away in its case. The floor was still remarkably free of popcorn and crumbs. John sir was happy. But the drool puddles remained. Of course the workshop was useful and there was a greater chance that we would now be able to hold a semblance of an intelligent conversation about film noveau and voyeurism. But that would be for much later.

At the time, the immediate accomplishments were that our eyes had dried from watching so many movies continously and we wore dazed grins of contenment. This week could not have gone any better.

To 100 more posts and more!