Friday, November 20, 2009
Cast: Saif Ali Khan, Kareena Kapoor, Vivek Oberoi, Om Puri
Director: Rensil D’Silva
Runtime: 180 min.
Verdict: Trash. Absolute wannabe trash. Hateful despicable trash. This film is overflowing with a sense of inferiority complex, and a pretentious political-intellectual stance.
Genre: Drama, Thriller, Romance
Mr. Johar, I think, isn’t too happy with his existence. Nor is, I suppose, the filmmaker. These men wish they were in some other world, or in some other country. These people wish they were different people with different issues than us. That is why, I believe, they make film that deals with Iraq and Afghanistan. “Deals” is a wrong word. These folks rather display their supposed intellect and political know-how. You see, reading NYTimes, and Washington Post, and watching BBC, and having an opinion on US and Iraq, and Israel and Palestine is very much the in-thing. You see, everyone of us mediocre Indian citizens has an opinion on the Naxalites or blasts or all that related mediocrity, and when one of us makes Aamir, it is hardly pressing. Not them, for they are beyond and above us, dealing only in the real matters. The global stuff. I can imagine these people over coffee tables, in their precious accents, trying to impress the hell out of each other with their just-read excerpts from the morning online edition of NYTimes. Sorry again, not “just-read” but “just-grazed”. Stereotypes have truth to them, you see. After all, these folks hardly have an individual opinion apart from the borrowed one. They are just trying to be global intellects. You know, liberals. And you know, I hate that. I really do. It sometimes wants me to do bad things. Real bad things. Terrible things.
But, never mind. Kurbaan is a terribly made movie. It is boring. Doesn’t take you ten minutes to figure out you are in one long uncomfortable journey. The opening scene does the trick, and presents you the choice of walking away or staying. The interaction is artificial. And ridiculous. The cheerful romantic tone is jarring, especially after a Se7en-inspired grim credits sequence. You see, there are smart ways of being a wannabe, where you don’t betray yourself through your ridiculous formal choices. Mr. D’Silva doesn’t know any of them. He instead chooses to ask the female character call the male character a swine. A swine? Really? Haven’t heard one of those in a while. Not since young college girls in stupid 90’s romantic actions obligatorily referenced our young dude. Of course they were wannabe times too. But those were stereotypical college girls, with big sunglasses, and you understood. The female in question here is a professor of literature. Still, you choose to stay, for you represent the stupid mediocrity and you are hopelessly hopeful. Twenty minutes of such absolute nonsense fly by, where the lead pair sings a song, and have obligatory erotic scenes (which qualify neither under erotic nor scenes). I have found more spontaneity and more warmth in little porn clips on the internet. They fly to New York, and grace us with obligatory New York festivities. You know how people in New York spend their vacations? By walking on Zebra crossings with ultra-wide smiles. I tried it a few times here, but couldn’t feel a thing. People must be different out there. You see, they paint their faces and make Statues of Liberties out of themselves and dance around on the streets. Life in New York must be fun. That is why our lead pair buys a house in an Indian neighborhood. You are hoping the film might metamorphose into something ridiculously sinister. There is a real terrible movie playing in your head. The trouble is, it is way more fun than what is on screen.
You stay behind nevertheless. God is disappointed. I mean, the writing is on the wall. You haven’t felt a thing yet. Even Mr. Khan’s man-boobs underwhelm you. His over make-up and overdone hairstyle annoy you. You see, three other Khans have already graced us with theirs. You are hoping against hope, that the movie, in a fit of wannabe-ism, shrugs away everything and displays Ms. Kapoor in all her glory. Doesn’t happen my friend. Anyways, with all the talk of size-zero and stuff, it might be a case of shutting your mouth and let people wonder than to open it and dispel all their doubts. Ms. Kapoor just turns her back on us. And still you choose to stay. You know the movie is trying to cash-in on the actors’ personal lives, and marketing them, like one of those Airtel advertisements. And you let yourself get caught in that. How dumb are you? How desperate could you be? Get a room and watch porn man.
The next warning comes. In the form of Ms. Kiron Kher, as some Afghanistani woman. You should hear her accent. Neither Mr. Danny Denzongappa (Khuda Gawah) nor Mr. Rajesh Khanna (don’t remember the film) hammed up the khabiz-ka-baccha accent this bad. Useful advice: you see Ms. Kher in a film, you run. You don’t ask, you just run. Run like the wind blows. She is easily the worst thing to happen to Indian cinema, sorry world cinema in more than a decade.
Still you choose to stay. You deserve it, you dumb schmuck (put on your rhyming cap).
There is rhetorical liberal politics too. Afghanistan is getting screwed. Iraq is getting screwed. Innocent civilians are being killed. You know, all that stuff. You get that here. Actors actually speak it out. That brings your attention to the writing. You wonder about the script. There is a car-action scene where a supporting actor behaves really weird. I mean, even for a dumb retard, he is weird. The cops stop a car carrying our terrorists, and this dumb schmuck (keep the cap on, I feel real angry man), for no particular reason, starts boiling with rage. You wonder what the script must have read like. What was the filmmaker trying to write? Let me imagine. For that let me name the schmuck “X” because I don’t really remember anybody’s name in here. And in case if I wasn’t clear, it is a film, if you should choose to see, you should forget in haste. Otherwise you might be motivated to join Tyler Durden’s outfit.
EXT. CAR CHECKPOINT (2100)
SUV stopped at checkpoint. Cops check the SUV. They check behind.
X is raging in anger. Y says –
Calm down man. What’s the problem? Stay cool.
X is boiling.
The cops ask them to step out.
X is evaporating.
Funny scene, don’t you think? Nah, in there it was inexplicable. But still you stay. Mr. Oberoi enters the frame, and you still stay. The writing is so bad you are sure it wasn’t even written. The performances are awful. Mr. Khan is trying his level best to rein in that brilliant nonchalance of Ek Hasina Thi, but the film is forcing him to act in that binary mode Mr. Bobby Deol does so well. The motivations are non-existent. A reporter wants to take revenge over the loss of his girlfriend, and so decides to blow up the terrorist outfit on his own without informing the FBI, and joins them, and then uncovers the plan, and then informs the FBI, and I had no idea where it was all going. To the bottom of the garbage I suppose, where worms would eat the script and you wish you never ever bought the ticket and wasted your night. Life seems to go in reverse. You think about what could have been. This is such a film. I think you should run. I did. Run away.
Posted by Satish Naidu at 12:58 PM