Movie Review: Ghajini

Everytime a Bollywood director attempts to remake a Hollywood Blockbuster, I think they fail to realize how important it is to try and create a legible variant which can still be appreciated. Even Uncle Marty has been inspired by movies from the East and delivered a classic like 'The Departed'.

Alas! A.R. Murugadoss didn't make an effort in spite of having a character actor like Aamir at the helm. Don't get me wrong, Aamir is an amazing actor-director-producer and in my opinion a gem in Bollywood, but what was he thinking when he read the script? Memento had a profound plot related in the most intriguing reverse chronological weave that engages the viewer and challenges one to piece the story together. Even before Batman Begins and the Dark Knight, I had invested stock in Christopher Nolan. Of course, even if Murugadoss chose not to use this method, I feel that a good script could have made this film a good attempt. And some parts in plot do keep you on the edge of your seat. Unfortunately, a clear-soup thin overall plot, awful background score a la Rahman (quite unheard of, right?) and unnecessary use of songs in the story telling make this film feel silly and incomplete. The only song that appears in place is 'Kaise mujhe tum mil gayi' picturized on Aamir befitting the transitional stages of the plot. Whoever did the wardrobes for Aamir needs to get their fashion sense right. Business attire is not about rolling a half sleeve shirt while sporting a vest!

Aamir is intense, scary and downright menacing. I commend him on all those four hour, sixteen egg-whites-a-day, two-and-half-million rupees muscle milk powered workouts. He is the sole survivor in this celluloid carnage. Asin is naturally cute, but does push the barriers of mandatory-cuteness while looking astounding in some scenes. Jia Khan is as useful as grenade in a bowl of oatmeal. Thanks, Foghorn Leghorn. This girl needs to feed on a few Mickie Dees before prepping up for another peel-my-eyelids performance. The soundtrack is brilliant, every song is catchy and hummable. But the background score is a mix of mortifying scowls and belligerent electronica that only interfere with the nonexistent storyline penned by a four year old on a sugar high. I wont go into the details of the plot, I dont intend to be the spoiler wax bearer. If you ask me, wait for the DVD even if you decide to see it.

Familiar bitching continues! Ave Maria!

Well, well if it isn't our friendly neighborhood sociopath... After claiming to sincerely and earnestly continue the keyboard clack resonance for a while, my mind's proverbial nut sack went on an unplanned hiatus. For reasons better kept as secrets locked in the deepest receptacle of my left ventricle, the inner author squatted, placed a wet towel on his head and fondled his favorite rubber ducky leaving a sign in it's wake that read 'Everything must go..'

Work consumed me like the Nyquil addict who collects those transparent little caps with countless amber vials piled and rolling within their filth in the mirage beyond. I had not put a finger to a keycap in a lustful yet cerebral sort of a way in months! Was I dying? Or was it the disapperance of the one dollar menu at the local McDonalds that had left an ominous vapor trail resembling a Pinata that had crossed the proverbial border without ample paperwork?

The mind wanders in the strangest of places. An hour long talk with a friend just a few minutes ago had me drawing similarities seen in childrens books written by Stephen King's intern. The meaty part of a conversation with Achin always constitutes him decoding a birth mark on my forehead that translates to 'thou shall pick on thy mate, so help me god!' So here we were talking about this and that while he kept on driving me to accept how dull my life is without the cankle of a feminine influence playing the love interest.

To whit I could only derive one conclusion. To me Achin resembles a tubby six year old on a warm Christmas evening wearing a flannel shirt, burgundy suspenders, olive green shorts and a matching bow tie. His neatly parted hair ruffles to one side, as he pants away trying to gather his breath from the run he made across the living room to get to the kitchen. His eyes gleam in the crackle of the fireplace as the embers light up his transfixed gaze set upon a bright white cookie jar sitting on the topmost shelf of the cabinet. The jar is shaped like a smiling, tubby jack rabbit with it's hands clasped around it's belly sporting a red sash barely able to hold the rolls of pudge that accentuate the charming yet subtle personality of this bunny. As the seconds tick and tock from the grandfather clock across the cabinet, the bunny's big black cartooned eyes roll from side to side as if mocking the boy to dare and lay his hand into the jar and reach for a cookie... And by Joe how can he resist!?!

Picture Source: Gallowaytwo's Flickr Photostream