Monday, December 30, 2019

My favourite movies from 2010 to 2019

It's been an incredibly exciting decade for Bollywood where the entire concepts around scripts, characters, budgets & stars have got redefined. So choosing my top 12 favourite movies was tough as I thought about movies that broke existing trends or established new ones, redefining the template & raising the bar. But even that wasn't enough. I finally applied the criteria of the heart; i.e. movies which affect me deeply and I would like to revisit again & again. 


  • Tumbadd - this is how horror & fantasy got a deeply Indian twist. What stands out for me the most is the brilliant production design & cinematography, done with such limited budgets, 
  • Bareilly ki Barfi - this will forever be my bar on the format of "character-driven-small-town-stories". Entertaining yet sensible, with so much humour. 
  • Kapoor & Sons - one of the few family dramas of our generations, this went far beyond the usual tropes with endearing performances and good music. Also brought the "gay" conversation into mainstream. 
  • NH10 - at par with any international movie, this is an underrated thriller with a social conscience. 
  • Highway - the new Bollywood's take on the coming-of-age stories, this one takes you on an emotional rollercoaster.
  • Queen - nearly flawless, this is a worthy successor to the titular roles that superstar actresses have played through the years. 
  • Lootera - deeply flawed, yet incredibly impactful love story, with a brilliant soundtrack
  • English Vinglish - Sridevi redefined the rules yet again with a genre-bending story; delightful and incredibly well made 
  • Death in the Gunj - it was like reading a Jane Austen novel with dark tones. 
  • Ek Main Aur Ek Tu - the rom com for the new generation. Unusual script, new narrative styles and cool music. 
  • Band Baaja Baraat - celebratory and reflective in equal measure, it has many firsts to its credit
  • Ugly - more than all the other celebrated Anurag Kashyap movies, I found this to be the most claustrophobic, dark and strong. 
  • Laila Majnu - underrated gem of a movie seeped in beauty - its setting, its performances, its music. 



The not-so-detached observations on Bollywood of the past decade


The not-so-detached observations on Bollywood of the past decade 



As I give in to the trend and make my own list of “Favourite movies of the decade”, I am struck by how strikingly different, unusual and diverse this list is compared to previous years. And I remember how excited I have been this last few years with my own bar constantly getting redefined.

While “Bollywood” has kept evolving, or at least changing, every few years, the last decade truly disrupted the scene. And the key drivers of the disruption are the same as the rest of the world – One, Technology and the ease of making & distributing content; Two, changing generations, who are a lot more globally connected.

Clearly what comes out as the strongest trend is the supremacy of content. Never before in the history of Hindi films, have scripts and screenplays played such an important role and redefined the tastes of an entire generation. In fact, some of the results are movies similar in tone and themes to the “arty” European movies everyone loves to appreciate. Not so much with the Indian art movie wave of the 80s as that was driven more by social & political “causes” and didn’t have as much sophistication for lack of budgets.

This in turn has led to two more changes – an alternative breed of “star actors” have emerged, who are talented, take risks and have sufficient presence to anchor movies, but not necessarily of the big budget variety. They may not excite the devotion and hysteria of the “superstars” but demand a more loyal and committed fan following. This in turn has changed the economics of film making. It is no longer required to “spend money to make money”. Thanks to both loyal multiplex audiences and the OTT platforms, it is now acceptable to make medium budget films that make money. This reduced risk has in turn spurred more people to experiment, keeping this virtuous cycle going.

The second big change is the multiplicity of formats – from 3-hour movies with the conventional bells & whistles, to more intimate stories without songs to star-led web series to short films – an Indian viewer now watches and engages with all of them, being able to choose and switch at a whim. Which in turns means that marketing & advertising is more important than ever before, else you get a chance of being lost with the clutter. The wide range of formats has also generated a wide range of viewers, many mutually exclusive from each other. No longer can a Bollywood movie addict be slotted conveniently into someone who enjoys fantasy stuff with songs & dances. You could be a lover of dark content or frothy rom-coms, or family dramas and still find enough to feed on. Which of courses means the divide amongst viewers is now similar to the polarized political views – sometimes within the same families!

The diversity is not just in the formats but the stories themselves. Never before has the idea of India been so effectively conveyed – or rather, the ideas of India. Except for the outlandish escapist fare, most movies now are fairly steeped in authenticity, whether it be the ultra hip urban mileu or the small towns in transition; the poverty or the wealth. Research, which shows up particularly in dialogues and costumes, is now genuinely important.

But…like all change and disruption, not everything is hunky dory. For me personally, there are two things that bother me the most about the past decade.

I genuinely loved the large scale Bollywood blockbusters – the ones with larger than life characters, an engaging storyline, dollops of all emotions, and memorable songs and dances. Those are nearly extinct. The last ones I remember are Om Shanti Om and Lagaan, though I guess SLB is still trying to keep this genre alive. During the decade this space has been taken over by sheer crap which falls neatly in 2 categories – the “action” types (Dabangg & co.) or the “comedy” types (Housefull & co.). The reason for this is the sharp segmentation in viewership – no longer does a movie need to cater to both “classes and masses” (as Bollywood loved to say) and so a lot of the big budget movie producers & actors can heave a sigh of relief, keep scripts on one side, ignore political correctness and just make, as mentioned earlier, crap with a capital C.

This in turn has led to the second big change that I don’t like – as a result of the decimation of superstardom, the ones who have suffered the most are female actors. Because the traditional mantle of wholesome Bollywood entertainers has been replaced by machismo crap, the only “superstars” today are male – Salman & co. With the exception of Deepika, no other female actor comes close to being able to headline a movie that makes money, and so by implication getting paid anywhere close to her male co-stars. While the last decade saw some powerful performances and movies being helmed by female actors (including Sridevi who once again redefined the rules with EV), the star power of supremely talented actors like Vidya, Kangana & Alia is still fairly limited. And no one seems to have the courage or inclination to truly break out. This is the biggest contradiction - as the role of women continues to enlarge in the rest of the world, Bollywood has followed a reverse trend. All you need to do is compare the top actresses and their roles from the 50s/60s to the 80s/90s to now. Or for that matter, the content on OTT platforms vs the theatres.

It will be interesting to see the direction that Bollywood takes over the next few years. Some trends that I am keen on observing more carefully – what will Ranveer & Ranbir do with their stardom and how will Vicky Kausal & Ayushmann evolve their range? How many more will jump to the web series bandwagon and when will “made for Netflix” movies start becoming the norm? Will big budget producers like Dharma & YRF rediscover the magic of comprehensive blockbusters or are they now extinct? Will women continue to take more charge in behind-the-camera departments? And will that lead to some rebalancing in the gender equation?

No one can predict trends. But one can shape them. Look to the past and you will see actors, directors & producers who did that. Let’s learn from them.



Sunday, December 29, 2019

A rant on movies in 2019

Is it just me or did 2019 suddenly see a slide in levels of quality in Bollywood? Or maybe I am just becoming even more fussy about what I go to see in the theatre, especially considering the range and depth available on Netflix/Prime? Probably boith.
My two biggest issues with the current state of Hindi cinema are that (a) the era of well made, engaging blockbusters (in the vein of Om Shanti Om or Mr. India) has been replaced by the Dabangg/Housefull variety (b) in complete contradiction to the world around us, the calibre of female roles & actresses themselves is steadily declining.
In 2019, the only movies I have really liked are Gully Boy and Article 15. Most of the others I didn't even watch. 

Favourite movies of 2012 & 2013 (delayed post)

My movie watching was in full swing during this period, when the transition that Bollywood was going through was now fully visible and translating to newer narratives and performance styles. 


2013
1.       Lootera
2.       Chennai Express
3.       The Lunchbox
4.       Shuddh Desi Romance
5.       Kai Po Che
6.       Yeh Jawaani Hai Deewani
7.       Bombay Talkies
8.       Madras Cafe

Notable miss: Shahid, Bhaag Milkha Bhaag

2012

1.      English Vinglish
2.      Barfi
3.      Ek Main Aur Ek Tu
4.      Kahaani
5.      Vicky Donor
6.      Talaash
7.      Shanghai
8.     Aiyaa

Notable misses – Gangs of Wasseypur, Paan Sing Tomar 😊

Wednesday, December 25, 2019

Favorite Hindi movies of 2018 (delayed post)

Yes, content continued to be queen in Bollywood in 2018 but it was the diversity in that content which struck me... there's now literally something for every taste, a true sign of maturity. Unfortunately I missed quite a few movies so this list was much easier to compile than the preceding years!
1. Andhadhun
2. Tumbadd
3. Stree
4. Raazi
5. Pari
6. Manmarziyan
7. October
8. Padmaavat
9. Dhadak
Missed - Zero, Simmba, Badhaai Ho, Manto, Milk, Sanju, Hichki

Wednesday, January 17, 2018

Love is all we have

"The world is a beautiful and terrible place. Deeds of horror are committed every minute and in the end those we love die. If the screams of all earth's living creatures were one scream of pain, surely it would shake the stars. But we have love. It may seem a fragile defence against the horrors of the world but we must hold fast and believe in it, for it is all we have" - P.D. James

Thursday, January 04, 2018

Fav Hindi movies of 2017

In what was largely a "Blah!" year for Hindi movies, I still found it difficult to narrow down my favourites to a shortlist of 11...I guess that's the silver lining.


  1. Bareilly ki Barfi
  2. Jagga Jasoos
  3. Qarib Qarib Single
  4. Mom
  5. Hindi Medium
  6. Meri Pyari Bindu
  7. Trapped
  8. Newton
  9. Tumhari Sulu
  10. Rangoon
  11. Lipstick under my Burkha

Fav Hindi movies of 2015

It was another great year for the movies. And more than ever, the sheer range of scripts, characters and narratives is what characterized 2015 for me. As well as the continuing bankruptcy of imagination & thought in the so-called “blockbuster” category. Unfortunately, I missed several good movies this year and that’s a neat flow into my 2016 resolutions! But from what I watched, here are my Bollywood favorites -

1. NH10
2. Piku
3. Dum Laga Ke Haisha
4. Tanu Weds Manu Returns
5. Dil Dhadakne Do
6. Tamasha
7. Masaan
8. Badlapur
9. Bajirao Mastani
10. Byomkesh Bakshi
11. Margarita with a Straw

Missed! – Angry Indian Goddesses, Qissa, Main aur Charles, Court, Titli, Bombay Velvet, Talvar

What do you guys think?

Fav Hindi movies of 2016

My favourite Hindi movies of 2016 -

1. Kapoor & Sons
2. Dangal
3. Aligarh
4. Udta Punjab
5. Raman Raghav 2.0
6. Pink
7. Budhia Singh
8. Airlift
9. Ae Dil Hai Mushkil
10. Fan
11. Neerja

Missed....Nil Battey Sannata, Dhanak, Parched...
Missed intentionally - Sultan

Saturday, May 09, 2015

In restless dreams I walked alone...


In restless dreams I walk alone. Eyes bleary and red, short of breath for reasons that have no medical reasoning, a mind that refuses to settle on one point, a heart that flutters but for the wrong reasons, both my night and day are a stream of wakefulness and restlessness.

Is this as banal as a mid life crisis? Romanticized by me into something bigger and deeper? As I sometimes sit opposite 25-year olds, I often wonder whether, on the pretext of changing my mindset, am I struggling to regain something I feel I have lost or losing or may lose? When I look into the face of a 35 year old, do I feel that I am looking into a mirror, where lost hopes and accepted realities and cautious confidence coalesces into the weight that deadens the eyes and slows the heartbeat? Or is even the thought of that feeling so horrifying that I , true to my habits, grab it and lock it away before it has even had a chance to take a deep breath and express itself?

Or is this just change? As I transition from what realists would call from “one phase to life” to another, am I bound to feel the effects of those deeper, tectonic shifts that seem be to move the plates underground and cause tremors on the weaker surface? Long silences with old friends and skirmishes with new; a lack of projection of confidence for newer, bigger opportunities; a frantic and unyielding search of what is easily recognizable as online rubbish; an inability to stay disciplined to the cause of fitness; the absence of any artistic expression; the conscious shying away from areas that I know I want to develop; flashes of memory of beautiful times in the past…are they signs of something bigger and deeper that is happening or about to happen? If yes, what may that be? What am I being prepared for?

For all is not lost. This is not a life of daily gloom and shadows that stalk me.  Validation of competence at work. A beautiful night that provides more energy than it takes. The sudden appearance of an old friend precisely at the time when I need him the most. A hug from a much-loved child. An unexpected compliment. These are signs too. Again, I know not of what. Is Someone up there looking after me? Or is my sub-conscious processing both the tectonic shifts and balancing it with positive signals? Or am, as I keep reiterating, just a plain ol’ survivor, determinedly fighting that light within the grey, existential dilemmas and deeper realities be damned?

I don’t know. And I think my mind and heart is finally tired of taking that “I don’t know” and shoving it aside for the common pleasantries of daily life. So I keep walking. Restless. Unsure. Confident. Hopeful. Bored. Nostalgic. Irritated. Restless. Searching for the sound of silence.

Monday, January 26, 2015

Vignettes from Rishikesh


The sugar sinks to the bottom of the glass of mint tea looking like white dust in a sky of green, eerily reflecting the color of the water a hundred feet below me. It’s a peaceful green somehow, not a weedy shade that one would expect from rivers in India, nor the pulsating green of the tormented seas. This is a green at peace with itself, serene in its own position as a symbol of what is possibly the most feted celebrity in this country, the river that gives its name to countless persons and establishments across the world, the river that provides livelihood to millions of people who serve the needs, and desires, of people like me.

That is a term that is hard to apply here though. “People like me” could mean just about anything and nothing. This café for example, like many others, is like a brochure that paints a desperate picture of multi-culturalism, with a menu that echoes its customers. A pair of young and astonishingly pretty German boys is smoking, tucking into a hearty breakfast, exchanging occasional laconic sentences that are the result of years of familiarity. A group of Americans on another table converse excitedly about their footwear, therapies for a bad back, the symbolism of the color red and their love for omelettes. A Korean girl sitting alone at a table tries to figure out how much to pay for the bill, her embarrassed smile responding to the patient one of the waiter’s.

I can also hear the sounds of another group of people from the lane right below me. Large families trooping in from towns all around, seeking salvation or at least a glimpse of it in the temples and banks of the holy city, even as the foreigners take the path of yoga and weed. Everyone loves capturing the moments though. Even here, the old and the new collide and then co-exist. A random selection of pictures of Rishikesh will reveal many selfies with those familiar pouts, even as there are an equal number of the traditional poses of children with scowls and women with suspiciously narrowed eyes standing against objects which could be considered of interest, e.g. a bridge or a famous temple.

Looking into this melee of diverse humanity, one could fashion oneself as an “observer” or “interpreter” or “narrator”, or any other interesting word that found on the blurbs of brightly colored book covers. Until one steps right into it.

**********************************************************************

A foot pokes into my back and then withdraws. A few seconds later, there it is again. I shift a few inches to the front. Then a flick from a cloth on my head. A poke from a foot again. I give up trying to concentrate on the bhajans and finally look up. A large purple flower printed on a synthetic yellow fabric pulsates in front of my eyes. Before I could congratulate myself of having got into a psychedelic trance without the ingestion of any substances, I realize that what I am seeing is a corner of a salwar kameez that belongs to a woman who is dancing. Now dancing is a rather vulgar term for someone who’s clearly under the spell of the evocative bhajans, being belted out at full volume by young priests (who interestingly look as well groomed as salesmen in an upmarket mall, but that’s another story). Then I realize there are actually two of them, pleasant looking, “healthy”, middle-class, middle-aged ladies dressed identically in brightly patterned salwar-kameezes, under a dark colored cardigan and a red shawl. The same shawl that flicked me, and I was happy to note, others.

I try hard to not keep looking; after all, religious fervor is a private and individual expression. But something about the dance makes look back again, some memory trying to surface into my consciousness through the sensory overload. I get it. Their moves are strikingly similar to those of the thousands (okay, hundreds) of women I have seen dancing to brass bands in wedding baraats. Come to think of it, it’s not just the moves. Here too, they seem to be enjoying themselves without a care in the world, even as they keep an eye who’s watching. Sure enough, a moment later, I hear the familiar strain of “aap bhi aao”, uttered to a young European girl whose eyes and mouth had been wide open for a few minutes now. Now the eyes gleam, the mouth snaps shut, and she jumps into cleared area (yes, we have all moved back a few feet) with all the determination (and grace) of a newly converted zumba dancer. The click of the smartphone cameras now takes on a new high, competing with the beats of the tabla and strain of the harmonium, and do I detect a hint of peevishness of the faces of the singing priests as the video camera moves from them to the whirling dervishes (sorry, ladies)? Never mind, I am sure it will generate more footfalls the next day for the “maha-arti”, absolutely the event of the day.

A few minutes later, the arti is completed. The yellow fire of the lamps burns brightly against the ochre of the sky and Ganga seems to approve. As I walk away from the brightly lit ghat where the arti was held into the darkness of the streets behind, the noise, the activity, the crowd, the smells just melt away. All that remains is the chanting in my ears, “gurudev bolo…” and it seems to calm and warm me on this winter night. I smile at the fast receding memory of the dancing ladies and walk on.

***************************************************************

Jagged rocks hang above me and if I were more imaginative, or this were night instead of day, I could attribute a more menacing air to them. But right now they are just pitiful, rocks ravaged by landslides, a rude reminder of how commerce has made this terrain so vulnerable that sights like this are as common as stray dogs feasting on piles of rubbish, children peeing on the sides of the road or SUVs filled with tourists causing traffic jams.

The urban chaos recedes into comparative silence as one keeps walking into the hills above the city. The concrete jungle of small hotels, guest houses, dharamshalas and “cafes” gives way to the boundary walls of more comfortable resorts where smartly dressed men and women go about their business of pampering travelers that seek salvation through comfort. Packs of younger boys and girls, many as part of corporate outings, drive by in vehicles imprinted with the names of the multitude of adventure companies that run their business in their area, promising a few hours of adrenalin pumping that could be perceived as exciting or terrifying (more the latter if I read the faces of the group correctly).

One keeps walking, the road on one side and the river on another. And suddenly I am at a corner where I can see the spread of the river across miles. The water glides majestically below me, resplendent in green, fresh from the exertions of rushing down the mountains, now seeming to pause and take a deep breath before it plunges into a landscape that’s weighed with expectation. As if to complete the picture, the rain stops suddenly and a rainbow appears, creating a perfect arch between two hills, a smile that speaks of wisdom far beyond the comprehension of the teeming masses below.

The smile disappears, and clouds gather again. The light falls steadily, and the chill in the wind is now driving people off the streets. I resolutely stand my ground on the hanging bridge, the Laxman Jhula, ignorant of the stiffness in my legs or the whistling in my ears. The river is now not just gliding, but tumbling in haste over hidden rocks. The moon makes a wistful appearance and casts a pale silvery glow on water that’s now as magically turbulent as it was serene a few hours ago. The temples bells ring out, possibly for the last time that day, seeking to drown out the strident murmurs of the remaining crowds, the screeching of the monkeys, the rattling of the vehicles in the distance, the insistent chatter of the inner voice. Only the sounds of the temple bells and the roar of the river remain, a divine reminder of our own insignificance, causing spirits to soar and sink at the same time.

There’s someone else walking by now. A sadhu. Brown eyes look kindly at me, under a head that’s piled with braids a stylist would approve of. In perfectly unaccented English, he asks me if I would like the best marijuana in the world. I smile and shake my head, thanking him for the offer. He smiles back, but his eyes don’t, as they search for someone, or something else. And I walk away too, searching for something, or someone else.