sometimes someone gets it all right, says all the right things:
"Why I hate Zach Braff." A perfectly accurate and beautifully articulated assessment of that paragon of twenty-something lameness. by Josh Levin.
Read it.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Monday, September 25, 2006
Bollywood is Beautiful
The other night my sis and I watched a Bollywood film that I had randomly selected from Blockbuster's shelves: Pyaar Diwana Hota Hai (I loved the Blockbuster computer's efforts to pronounce this when it called to remind me of its overdue status). Well, we sort of watched it. We fast-forwarded through most of the dialogue and primarily focused our attention on the song and dance numbers (the movie was 2 1/2 hours long and we just couldn't bear it).
The movie pleased us in all the ways Bollywood should: ridiculous dialogue, spontaneous musical numbers with multiple scene and costume changes. The movie also had some seriously bad fashion. But what I really loved about this movie was its unapologetic mixing of genres. It began as a comedy, with the hero trying to catch a train. While the scenery around him remained static, his movements were sped up, frantic. In the love numbers, the hero and herione danced around in snow. So, we have the requisite water scene, but rendered more playfully in snow rather than the oh-so-erotic water of oceans, fountains, or rain. The characters were absurd, the premise was absurd (the charming couple meet with the pretense that both are mute).
But then, the tone shifted dramatically (more so perhaps because we fast-forwarded). By the end of the film, it was a grand tragedy. The movie ended in the moonlight, by the Taj Mahal. We learn that Sundar, our hero, in a fit of guilt over lying to his love about being mute (he perpetuated the myth because he felt that if Payal knew the truth she would no longer love him) has cut off his tongue. So now, even though Payal has declared her love despite the betrayal, will never hear the words she so longs to hear: "Tell me you love me Sundar. Say it: 'Payal, I love you.'" The movie ends with Payal sobbing against Sundar's chest.
Oh it was fantastic. I was laughing for ages. There should be more movies like this, that begin so wholly in one genre and flip unapologetically to another.
The movie pleased us in all the ways Bollywood should: ridiculous dialogue, spontaneous musical numbers with multiple scene and costume changes. The movie also had some seriously bad fashion. But what I really loved about this movie was its unapologetic mixing of genres. It began as a comedy, with the hero trying to catch a train. While the scenery around him remained static, his movements were sped up, frantic. In the love numbers, the hero and herione danced around in snow. So, we have the requisite water scene, but rendered more playfully in snow rather than the oh-so-erotic water of oceans, fountains, or rain. The characters were absurd, the premise was absurd (the charming couple meet with the pretense that both are mute).
But then, the tone shifted dramatically (more so perhaps because we fast-forwarded). By the end of the film, it was a grand tragedy. The movie ended in the moonlight, by the Taj Mahal. We learn that Sundar, our hero, in a fit of guilt over lying to his love about being mute (he perpetuated the myth because he felt that if Payal knew the truth she would no longer love him) has cut off his tongue. So now, even though Payal has declared her love despite the betrayal, will never hear the words she so longs to hear: "Tell me you love me Sundar. Say it: 'Payal, I love you.'" The movie ends with Payal sobbing against Sundar's chest.
Oh it was fantastic. I was laughing for ages. There should be more movies like this, that begin so wholly in one genre and flip unapologetically to another.
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