Guess what was reportedly the first buy at the business centre of the Mumbai Film Festival (which is known as MAMI but is actually the MFF)? Lars von Trier’s Antichrist. Meanwhile, on IMDb, Antichrist’s popularity fell by 71%. Sharmila Tagore, who heads up the Indian Censor Board, must feel like she’s just eaten crow. Just months ago, she had said that she didn’t think Indian audiences were mature enough for Antichrist. Recently, she reiterated that there was no way in hell (I paraphrase) that she would let Antichrist have a commercial release. Enlighten Film Society buying the home video rights isn’t a commercial release but hey, the point is that an Indian company decided that there was money to be made with distributing this film. It isn’t entirely surprising. Everyone knows that 99% of the people at film festivals watch foreign films for their uncut sex scenes. But from the sound of things, Antichrist isn’t quite what you turn to when you can’t access Savita Bhabhi. On the other hand, there was uproar and minor violence across Maharashtra because actors in Wake Up Sid said “Bombay” instead of “Mumbai”. So von Trier’s twisted brand of attention-seeking chauvinism that brands the woman as Antichrist and prescribes as a cure some slicing in the nether regions (with a rusty razor) is ok. Colloquialisms, however, are not allowed. Who needs The Onion when you have true facts like this floating around?
When The X-Files started airing on tv, I remember a grand aunt of mine told us very solemnly that watching paranormal activity on television attracts ghosts, ghouls and other supernatural creatures. Since you like watching this stuff on tv, they figure that you want them in your home too. Having spotted a suitable habitat through a family’s taste in tv programmes, they would slither their way in through the smallest crack and the thick glass of the tv screen was no protection against them (I was having good fun imagining ghosts careening towards the screen and going splat like paintball bullets). Fear and horror were an insidious thing, she said.
Not that I’m telling you to stop watching The Twilight Zone and instead start sinking into Gossip Girl, but my batty grand aunt may have been on to something. Because the way Antichrist snuck its tentacles into my world right after its screenings at MFF/ MAMI is just plain weird. Antichrist radiates sex, violence and weirdness. When you survive watching it, you carry a little bit of its discomfort and eeriness with you. Only one person from work had seen it and that was obviously not me, given the fact that merely reading the reviews had made curl into a foetal position and rock myself to sleep. My colleague was considerate towards our delicate, innocent minds and refrained from detailed descriptions. But despite this, within hours of the screening, I noticed that things were a bit alarming at work. The same thing happened with the only other person I know who saw the film and so I offer examples from conversations with these two separate arena.
An innocuous question about a random vegetable ended up as a prolonged exploration of how the Sindhi delicacy sai bhaji “looks like shit. Like that runny stuff when you’ve got a really bad case of loosies, you know the kind that makes you puke and crap constantly.” I’m not going to go on (because I’m the sophisticated sort) but they did. For what seemed like hours. A corny joke about geometry and Halloween (pumpkin pi/e) resulted in a gruesome description of how to slaughter, sorry, carve a pumpkin. And the tour de force: an extended conversation about unicorns, which included the following statements/ comments/ observations:
“A fondle of unicorns? That’s just way too horny.”
“It’s like there should have been unicorns in Monsoon Wedding.”
“I never thought of unicorns as fondlers or fondlees, frankly.” “What despite that horn?”
“There’s a single horn, there’s a mane. Use your imaginations.” “Don’t forget the virgins that people believed could lure the unicorns while you’re using your imagination.”
“There’s a lot of mounting by virgins in the unicorn world.”
“But the horn’s pointy!”
“Did you just turn the unicorn into a sex toy?” “No, no! Look, Wikipedia says that they’re symbols of virility and the horn is obviously phallic. That’s not a toy.”
“You’re ruining My Little Pony for me!”
“The unicorn was actually a rhinoceros.” “It’s still a horn and it’s definitely not prettier for the virgins.”
For the rest of the day, decency was bludgeoned in every conversation, much like Willem Defoe’s genitals are in Antichrist, and I’m blaming Lars von Trier for this. Obviously. I’m happy to report that the effects last about as long as a hangover. Hallelujah.
Bitch and Whine by Rodney White
I couldn’t think of a better image to illustrate this post in which I will inform all ye gentle readers that in a couple of days, my book will be in bookstores near you, provided you live in India. But you will not know that you should look for it because, unlike most books, this one will not have a launch party. Consequently, there will be no e-invites sent to friends and strange journalists, asking them to come over and drink cheap wine while listening to a poncy person read an extract from said book. The good part about this is that I don’t have to get out and pretend to be sociable. The bad part is that now I’m going to have to take friends (whom I could have fed free and cheap wine) out for a drink. The worst part is that everyone asks me, “So when is the launch?” To which I reply that there is no launch and they proceed to give me a confused smile that I imagine people proffer those who tried to qualify for the Special Olympics but failed. Some cluck sympathetically. A few friends are a little more blunt: “Dude, how bad is your book that your publisher can’t throw a single party for you? I mean, that Keep off The Grass guy got a launch party.” Or my other favourite, “What the f*&% is the point of you writing a book if there isn’t a big-ass opening that I can go to as the author’s friend?”
Frankly, I’m not sure. No one writes a book because they want a launch party (I hope) but suddenly, I feel jipped and in some weird way, that party has become indicator of how good a writer I am. It suddenly feels like I’m 25 again, with every aunty in the planet asking my mother if she’s found a “nice boy” for me. Just as there were no nice boys, there is no launch party. But the expectation is intense. Everyone reacts sharply, as though the whole point of writing and publishing a book is having it launched rather than having it read. I had no idea one catered event could mean so much but it apparently does and there are times when the fact that I don’t get one gets to me. Occasionally, I want to holler at my publisher, “I am worth a crate of cheap wine, dammit!” But I’m not and, considering all the people who have been considered worth it by their publishers, that’s pretty sad. The only thing more pathetic would be to follow an acquaintance’s suggestion and throw my own launch party and I’ll admit it, I did actually think about it. (No, I’m not going to do it; aside from being lame and expensive, it’s way too much work.)
So this is my launch, complete with the cheap whine. You now officially know that the book, like the truth in The X-Files, is out there. You are, naturally, stunned by my brilliance, eloquence and general awesomeness so you will rush to a bookstore near you and ask, nay demand, that my book be handed over to you right now. If you live outside India, you will either book yourself a holiday to India or you will go to my publisher’s website. In a matter of a few months, I’ll become rich and famous because the millions of you who clicked on my launch will have bought my book. Publishers with fantastic offers will bang at my door as will postmen bearing my fat royalty cheques. Malcolm Gladwell will pull at his hair and bemoan the fact that he hadn’t thought of DIY book launch on a random anonymous blog. Nassim Nicholas Taleb will cite this little post as a Black Swan Event that makes the others look grey. Generally, life will have altered forever, and all because I launched my book. Cheers!
Two reasons to love the New Yorker this week:
1. Anthony Lane’s review of Antichrist.
For every promise of affection, there is a snap of wrath, and the woman who declares, “I love you, darling,” is the same person who, not long after, fetches a drill to bore a hole in her beloved’s leg, plus a pair of scissors for herself. If you have eyes, prepare to shut them now. A word to the squeamish: there is no shame in leaving as the tools—and I use the word advisedly—come out. … Dafoe is game but wearily baffled, as if he were only just realizing what he signed up for, and how it adds to his list of screen punishments: first he had hot wax dripped onto his sternum by Madonna, in “Body of Evidence,” then he suffered the intense humiliation of being beaten up by Tobey Maguire, in “Spider-Man,” and now he has a log being used as a battering ram on his private parts. Even Madonna would have frowned at that.
Those who are sick of Freud will be happy to know that as of Antichrist’s release, there is no such thing as penis envy. Miraculously, Antichrist is going to be showing in certain Mumbai theatres during the coming film festival. I’m going to take Mr. Lane’s advice and head for the exit as soon as “the tools come out”.
2. The Cartoon Lounge’s attempt at trendspotting.
When the preferred brand name in Internet video communication, Skype, found out that a large percentage of the world’s population was lactose intolerant, they were outraged, and quickly introduced legislation in California that made it a hate crime to think negative thoughts about dairy products. Their next move is rumored to be Skype Milk. It makes a lot of sense, because calcium will give you good posture, and you need good posture so that you won’t slump off the screen right in the middle of a video conference. But there’s more—did you know that, in addition to having a unique fingerprint, every individual also has a unique milk moustache? It’s your automatic password.
It’s worth pointing out that in the real, non-fiction world, PETA has discovered that cows can suffer from humiliation if people laugh at them. The bovine reaction to cows being revered by manic Hindu fundamentalists is not known.
HR and the love interest (with whom he doesn't sing "Mehbooba")
I think I just saw the greatest moviee ever made. No, that is not a typo. Aap Kaa Surroor – The Moviee The Real Luv Story has given me joy, rekindled my faith in Bollywood and reminded me that while spelling is sacred, it’s a distant second to fun. Plus, it’s got me out of my funk and blogging again. Hallelujah! And for this epiphany I must thank Gabriele Ammerman.
Aap kaa Suroor had a 28-day shooting schedule in Germany. Bollywood descended upon Deutscheland and hired an entire German crew of assistant directors and technicians. Ammerman hung around this bunch, following them around the country. The result is The Making of Aap kaa Surroor, a hilarious little documentary that is a must-watch whether or not you love Himesh.
Assistant director Michael Braun saw the script for the first time on the night before the first day of shooting. It was also the last time. Much like Freddie Mercury, director Prashant Chadha wanted to break free (Himesh’s role model for the concert scenes, however, was Robbie Williams, whose concert dvds were played on set for edification and inspiration). Chadha chose Germany because the he wanted “visuals that were fresh” for this story that is apparently very similar to Himesh’s real life; but for the bits that involve dead journalists, Mallika Sherawat as a Coyote-Ugly-esque lawyer and a chase through a German town complete with turtling cars and a crack team in a Hummer. Over the course of the shoot, the Germans went from being confused by the “improvisations” to being aghast and finally being overwhelmed by feelings of awe. Three Minis were harmed in the making of this movie. The German crew couldn’t believe 6 men could cheerfully lug a Jimmy Jib all across a city and work 12-hour days. It didn’t make sense that a director would ask for an entire cathedral (in Cologne) to be rented and then, on the day before shooting, say that the enormous stained glass windows let in too much light so they need to be boarded up. What kind of production rents an entire airport for a 30-second sequence and then holds up shooting because there’s one less BMW in a convoy (which will be seen for less than a second)? By the way, there’s one less car because it’s the director who got the number wrong when talking to BMW. One of the Germans had to remind herself that it wasn’t a music video she was shooting but a movie; quickly she realised that treating the movie like a series of music videos was much better for her own sanity.
With an expression of appalled despair, Braun said he had to forget everything he had learned were basics and immutable. “We forgot continuity, we forgot all the rules that you are taught never to break in film school.” Instead Braun stood on a platform in a cathedral in Cologne and waved his arms manically in order to get a crowd of 350 extras to cheer. But for his efforts he was given chai. ”I’ve never been on a set where there is a guy with a little cup of tea at your elbow all the time,” said Braun. “He’s always there, until you take it or say no about ten times.” Except no one said no. They were shooting in early winter. No sane person who has spent ten minutes arranging slushy snow over bare branches says no to the little bespectacled brown chai-wallah who wears monkey cap and Arctic gear.
Mallika Sherawat (right) plays a lawyer in the film.
Ammerman’s documentary is a gem, and one that will make you want to see Aap kaa Surroor. In fast forward, it’s not a bad movie and Himesh might be among the few Bollywood stars willing to poke fun at himself (there are jokes about Himesh’s nasal voice and his cap). Plus, this is the most cosmopolitan movie ever. It operates in a world where Indian “rock star” HR has sell-out concerts in a Germany where all the white people have Australian accents. Not that you’re watching what’s happening on screen. If Ammerman’s documentary is your starting point, then you’re actually looking for all the things off-screen giggles that the Germans smothered, which is a good thing because I’m still entirely clueless about what happened at the end. It seemed like Himesh got his lady love but then inexplicably, the film finished with him singing “Mehbooba” with a shimmying Mallika Sherawat. Just to confuse things further, the credits have a animated video running alongside in which cartoon Himesh falls in love with cartoon Mallika at first sight. I suppose the trick is to not impose logic upon Aap kaa Surroor. As Braun said, “If you learn to adjust, you are free of all the rules.” Aum.
Born in 756 CE, Abu Nuwas was known as “Master of Curls” and revered as one of the greatest Arabic and Persian poets of his time.
Abu Nuwas
A Boy Is Worth More Than a Girl
For young boys, the girls I’ve left behind
And for old wine set clear water out of mind.
Far from the straight road, I took without conceit
The winding way of sin, because this horse
Has cut the reins without remorse,
And carried away the bridle and the bit.
Here I am, fallen for a faun,
A dandy who butchers Arabic.
His forehead, brilliant like a full moon,
Chases away the black night’s gloom.
He cares not for shirts of cotton
Nor for the Bedouin’s hair coat.
He sports a short tunic over his slender thighs
But his shirt is long of sleeve.
His feet are well-shod, and under his coat
You can glimpse rich brocade.
He takes off on campaign and rides to attack
Casting arrows and javelins;
He hides the ardor of war, and his
Attitude under fire is magnanimous.
Comparing a young boy to a young girl, I am ignorant.
And yet, how can you mix up some bitch
Who goes in monthly heat
And drops a litter once a year
With him I see on the fly.
How I wish he would come
Return my greeting.
I reveal to him all my thoughts
Without fear of the imam, or of the muezzin.
I was in my teens. He was in his thirties. I reached his shoulder. We shook hands when we met and, after our last meeting, he kissed my hand. He’s the only man who swung me around a tree, a la Tarzan, and I was more than happy to be his Jane because it’s not every day that a little Indian girl gets to clutch on to Patrick Swayze (may he rest in peace). Yes, ladies and gents, I have danced with the Dirty Dancer himself. When I read about his passing the other day, I realised just how insidious the impact of bad movie-making is. In my head there rolled a soft-focus flashback of me and Patrick Swayze whizzing around a fake tree in the middle of a film set. Add some falsetto singing and it could be a moment from “Pocahontas”. This is particularly ironic because I honestly didn’t find him particularly lustworthy when I met him. I’d been expecting Johnny Castle and instead there stood before me a man who was blonde, strangely square and much shorter than I’d expected. It was entirely disappointing even though Patrick Swayze was very sweet. After all, he did voluntarily take a hefty teenager in his arms and heave her around tree (and only because I’d mentioned how much I envied Tarzan being able to swing from tree to tree). He remains to this day the most buff man I’ve clutched and I do remember being a little unnerved by how bumpy his muscular body felt. It was a bit like being clasped to a road paved by giant cobblestones. That was the moment I decided that never again do I want to meet anyone I have a crush on: I imagine them much better than God or genetics could.
First there was the Indian writer in English, and it was good. Then came the Pakistani writer in English, and some say it was better. Now it is Bangladesh’s turn. Of course, if Shazia Omar’s depiction of Bangladeshi youth is anywhere near authentic then it’s going to be tough for them to string a sentence together through that haze of smack, yabba and other vein-snapping drugs. Her novel “Like a Diamond in the Sky” is a little gem that blindingly sparkly in parts and cloudy in others. When she hurtles through the electric rush of a high and the painful crackle of withdrawal, the novel is intense enough to make you hold your breath as you race through the words that make up her sentences. It isn’t an easy read because of what she’s describing and also because she smoothly inserts Bangla slang into her storytelling like an expert dealer who slips that little packet into his client’s palm with sure-fingered subtlety. There’s no glossary to decode meanings, not that you really need it. The meaning of turquing or khor or dosto isn’t too hard to figure out but you piece the meanings together as you read and they linger in your memory. Turquing, for example, is one word that has been haunting me. I’m left remembering all the friends whom I’ve witnessed trying to survive those moments when their bodies bite into themselves because they need another hit so damn badly.
It’s when Omar gives in to the temptation to become the bard of Bangladesh that her novel becomes slack. There are sections of “Like a Diamond in the Sky” when the omniscient narrator decides to pontificate upon the state of the nation and Omar tries to weave this into the storytelling but it’s an awkward fit. This need to insert a social commentary so that a novel isn’t only the story of a set of characters but also the nation in a nutshell is a cross that South Asian authors eagerly take upon their shoulders only to crumple under its weight. Almost every postcolonial South Asian author wants to write something that is relevant, insightful and somehow holds up a mirror to the society they see around them. For some reason, it isn’t enough to tell a story and build characters. Jhumpa Lahiri’s works have to be a chorus for the middle class non-resident Indian in America. Amitav Ghosh’s novel has to be steeped in accurate history that shows India in detail-heavy authenticity. Not that any of this is a bad thing but I really wish sometimes that our writers would just have fun with their writing and tell us a story. And not in the silly way that pulp authors like Chetan Bhagat do. The problem is we don’t value fun enough to realise that quality entertainment is as hard to craft as philosophical truths.
Narayan Gangopadhyay's Teni-da
There’s a whole bunch of guys in Bengali literature, like Sukumar Ray, Sharadindu Bandopadhyay, Narayan Gangopadhyay and Premendra Mitra, who wrote stories that were officially kiddie literature but they’re wonderful, silly stuff that’s a blast to read no matter how old you are. Translated, they turn vaguely clunky and stodgy because the language, its phonetics and the colloquialisms are integral to the story telling. There hasn’t been anyone among the South Asian writers in English who writes stories like these rather average Bong writers. Light, clever, often hilarious and constantly entertaining, those old Bengali stories are a joy to read decades later even though the city and its people have changed dramatically since the ’40s and ’50s when Ray and gang were writing. Like most Bengali kids today, Omar’s Bangladeshi boys and girls don’t know these stories. Their realities follow the notes and melodies of Bob Dylan and Tom Petty songs. The khors of Omar’s world are beautifully-crafted creatures and their agonies are piercing. But after finishing “Like a Diamond in the Sky” (slightly blah and predictable ending, by the way), it was time for me to get my fix. So out came Teni-da and Ghana-da, who are addicted to their tea and cigarettes and too busy being silly to make any searingly insightful points about contemporary Bengali society. Bless.
My grandmother used to say, “If you laugh at other people’s faults, they become yours” and she was right. A friend of mine made fun of people who had more than one phone. It didn’t make any sense, he said, and went on to postulate that if you were one of those people who had a different phone in each pocket then you were either a dodgy real estate broker or one of those guys who smuggles things to and from Dubai. Today, he has four phones (“One’s official; one’s personal; one’s more public, for the press, you know; and this one’s for international calls — sh*t! I’ve turned into a pimp!”). I, of course, repeated my grandmother’s saying to him with the calm of the Buddha. Now it looks like it’s my turn and let’s just say that I’m relating more to Hecate than the long-eared god.
How much fun I made of people who had multiple Twitters and blogs. “I need to have separate blogs/ Twitter accounts,” they said. I guffawed. No one needed this stuff. If you’ve got enough time on your hands to manage more than one blog/ Twitter, then you clearly need to get out more. And you’re self-indulgent and suffer from verbal diarrhoea. Insert snicker here.
So. This is the point where I eat my snicker, and there are no chocolates or peanuts in sight. Right now, if I had a blog where I wasn’t Anon, I could go nuts with cringe-worthy posts that crowed about a book I’ve written. Because this whole business of being anonymous goes for a bit of a toss if I’m going to show you the cover of said book. I thought long and hard about this. A few friends suggested that I throw caution to the winds and forget about being Anon because at the end of the day, I’d regret not having given the book as much publicity as possible if it didn’t do well. Another pointed out that there were a few people who had guessed this blog was mine just by reading a few posts so what the hell? But here’s the thing, and this might be a sign of deep-seated psychosis: I like being Anon. I like being unidentifiable. This isn’t because I wouldn’t say in public the things I write here. I would and I do. But I still like the idea of being able to watch people without them knowing I’m watching them. Maybe this is what happens when you watch “Shahenshah” too many times as a kid.
Anyway, the point is I’ve decided I’m not going to write about my book here on Going Anon and On. But if all goes well, you will hear about it anyway. Hopefully my book will land up on reviewers’ laps and they will find it good/bad enough to write about. That way, the ever-supportive Manish, who very sweetly sent me an email with “How the hell do I promo your book?” in the subject line, won’t have to rack his brains about how to talk about the book without outing me because either he or Jabberwock will end up reading it without having to exert themselves much. Plus, when said reviewers proceed to savage my poor book, this little spot in the World Wide Web will be one place where me and my dignity can take refuge by being as snarky as ever. Meanwhile, I’m going to try and resist opening up a new non-anonymous blog.
How to Traumatise a Young Girl, or Why it isn’t safe to let Patriarchy into Kerala
Photo nicked from The Lost Girls (lostgirlsworld.blogspot.com)
Young NS was in her teens and had come to her “native place” in Kerala for a family wedding. There were aunts, smelling of fresh flowers, and rooms smelling of coconut oil. Everything began rather soberly but dignity and restraint went gently down the backwaters once the bottles of rum was unscrewed. Within a couple of hours, there was a reverend singing Shammi Kapoor songs on the piano while his brother berated him for not playing Malayalam numbers. A short distance away, there was a loud and furious debate about the future of the Communist Party and how it was no longer a party for the proletariat. It was during this wedding that NS realised that the old wives’ tale that claimed that the more a Mallu man respects you, the more he raises his mundu was actually the old wives’ experience. All them white wraparound skirts with golden zari borders were perfectly decent to begin with but before you knew you it, the wearer lifted the hem, turned the mundu around and curly leg hair was being revealed. The first lift bared till the knee; next stop mid-thigh and the final destination turned the mundu into hot pants that would make Katy Perry blush.
As is inevitable in such occasions, at one point NS found herself cornered with one jovial uncle who decided it was his avuncular duty to make his niece more familiar with language, culture and tradition. His zari-bordered mundu flapped lazily against his upper thigh. “Kutty, you know why they call them family jewels?” NS was too busy hunting for an escape to reply but Uncle told her anyway. “It’s because (and here he points at his hemline) there’s a gold lining.”
THIS POST WILL CONTAIN SPOILERS ABOUT VISHAL BHARADWAJ’S FILM “KAMINEY“. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.
Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for Mr. Vishal Bharadwaj. Not just because he’s taken a story as pulpy as a ten-day-old banana and turned it into a pacy, gritty film. And not because he’s drawn out of Shahid Kapur and Priyanka Chopra strong, realistic performances (when Chopra clutches the police officer’s leg and grovels piteously, she really is grovelling; it’s not the photogenic stunt of most weeping Bollywood heroines). There’s a lot that’s good fun in “Kaminey”. It’s very well-paced and equally well-told. Bharadwaj weaves his way between humour and terror like an adolescent biker cutting through traffic. His dialogues are superb as is his use of music, as usual. Mumbai looks oily, greasy, grimy and Bharadwaj’s cinematographer makes great use of a blue-tinted palette that makes everything just a bit sharper and bleaker. The cast is stellar, particularly the supporting cast. The cold-eyed Angolans, the smiling Tashi, the shiny Bhope, every character is neatly-etched and the actors do a fantastic job with their roles. But for me, “Kaminey” is a landmark because in it Vishal Bharadwaj has given us, without any shoo-sha and with lots of subtlety, our first gay love story.
“Kaminey” is technically the story of two identical twins, Guddu and Charlie (both played by Shahid Kapur). Guddu stammers and follows the straight and narrow. Charlie works for a bunch of Bengali gangsters and has a lisp that has him pronouncing all s’s as f’s. Net result, when I was coming out of the film yesterday, I was surrounded by girls gushing, “Shahid is so effing fexy!” or “Omigod, he’f fo awefum.” The stutterer’s crown remains with Shah Rukh K-k-k-khan in “Darr” because sweet as Guddu is, “Kaminey” is not his movie even though he gets the girl and plants on her the first solidly realistic kiss I’ve seen in Bollywood. Despite the flying bullets, the grimy chawls, the sweating cops and the fantastic universe of criminals, “Kaminey” is actually the love story of Charlie and Mikhail (played superbly by Chandan Roy Sanyal).
Mikhail and Charlie chat after a quick roll on the carpet
I’m amazed that only one person out of all the early birds picked up the gay vibe in the relationship between Charlie and Mikhail. Perhaps it’s because neither Mikhail nor Charlie had any limp wrists or rainbow-coloured accessories. But theirs is the classic romantic setup. Mikhail is the youngest of three brothers who destroy the stereotype of the Bengali bhadralok by being disgustingly energetic and storming into the last scene like Rambo. Charlie works for them and shares a special kinship with Mikhail. Of course, right on top Vishal Bharadwaj’s script has Charlie refer to Mikhail as a brother however I can’t remember the last time I saw brothers sing duets and dance in the rain, clutching to each other and leaning close to look deep into the other’s eyes. The chemistry between Mikhail and Charlie could put Nargis and Raj Kapoor to shame. It crackles and makes your breath catch as they claw at each other, particularly in the scene where Charlie tells Mikhail about his stash of cocaine. They lunge at each other, using violence almost as though it’s some kind of foreplay followed by — you guessed it— some rolling around on the floor. To celebrate, they go dancing and it’s impossible to not think of all the girl-boy dance scenes that Bollywood has had in clubs while watching Mikhail and Charlie shake a leg to the pounding beat of “Dhan te Nan”. They literally chase each other (once on foot and once with Mikhail in a snazzy red sports car when Charlie and he race each other in the rain. The scene would leave Freud shivering with a billion interpretations) and end up in each other’s arms. By the end of the movie, it’s difficult to say whether Charlie does what he does for his brother or to avenge Mikhail’s murder. Especially since the only time we see Charlie break down is when Mikhail is killed and ultimately, he keeps Mikhail alive forever by calling his business venture “Mikhail & Co.” Charlie even steals a diamond for him. If that isn’t true cinematic love, I don’t know what is.
