Yesterday, I just really needed a day minus computers.

Didn’t quite get that, because I rushed to a cybercafe – because the Press Information Bureau’s Media Centre promptly (and prematurely) closed down its net connection as soon as the closing ceremony ended – and sent off the IFFI awards story by noon.

But then I wanted to explore Goa. You’ll get a better idea of my pain when you hear that I might have spent over ten days in the idyllic land of fun and fenny, but never saw the beach by daytime. I never went to an insane party, and wasn’t able to check out even one of Goa’s burgeoning, heavily-recommended clubs and discs.

However, my flight was scheduled for five, and that left me with exactly two hours to hit the ATM, pay my hotel bills, head back to the Media Centre to have coffee with some colleagues, and then head to the airport. When do I have time to do anything?

On the drive to the airport, however, my Goa cabbie (a terrific chap named Sajit) suggested a diversion to Bogmaloo beach. While skeptical, I agreed, and we took a couple of major inroads to hit a place apparently just ten minutes from the airport.

This turned out to be a superb plan. Bogmaloo is a nice, smallish beach, spattered with a few tourists but definitely no crowds. I pottered around, Jim Morrison playing in my ears, and found an awesome hamlet, an abandoned thatched roof, the remnants of a shack.

Only three sticks (out of four, presumably) remained, and this hobbled bit of shade covered a tiny stool and a sand-submerged table. I finally got alone-time in Goa, alone-time at a beach, and realised that I need to work towards a life wherein beaches are a regular feature.

And then a young guy who ran a clothes stall twenty feet away ran up to me and thrust a notepad and blue sketchpen in my face, with an excited ’please!’ After a couple of seconds, I realised he wanted my autograph. But I’m nobody, I protested, smiling. The feller was adamant that he’s seen me in films with Sanjay Dutt (who in the world did he think I was?) and that he wanted me to sign. I sat him down and explained that I’m not a movie star, tempting as the thought to sign may have been, and spent a while wondering why he thought I was.

Then, walking back along the shops on the way to the car, I caught my reflection in the window, and gasped at how touristy I looked: iPod in ear, black jeans on a blasted beach, hair all over the place, and a massive pair of shades (that I bought for a hundred bucks an hour ago) to seal the deal.

So, that’s all it takes, I thought. Big shades. Seems easy enough.

Ten minutes after hitting Bombay airport, I realised I’d lost the darned glares. Such shortlived stardom.

The weekend has seen me getting under movie directors’ skins.

Saturday saw the premiere of (the awful) Dubai Return, an Aditya Bhattacharya film starring Irrfan and Razak Khan. The cast walked in late, and the audience wouldn’t have any of it. They booed as the ’stars’ entered 20-25 minutes late, and this angered the director.

Singling out a member of the crowd, the bald director actually asked the delegate to “Go Home!” The booing didn’t stop, and the lacklustre film led to half the theatre emptying mid-movie.

At the subsequent press conference, I piped up and asked the man what he thought gave him the right to ask a delegate to leave a film festival. Bhattacharya scowled and passed on the question, but was forced to take it again after noone else had anything to ask.

His rebuttal included references to his directorial lineage (he’s the son of Basu Bhattacharya and grandson of Bimal Roy), and a tired metaphor about the theatre being like a temple. But wasn’t this defiled when he walked in late? Was he justifying coming in late? His ‘answer’ was one only by name, and, for the very first time, yours truly was applauded after a press conference.

Was quite a kick.

Today, Sanjay Gupta released the music of his film, Zinda, hijacking the IFFI closing ceremony completely, assaulting it with songs and copied scenes.

At that press conference a few minutes ago, I asked him about his upcoming film’s resemblance to Oldboy. Even a cursory look at the promos showed iconic frames and shots replicated, and an eerily ripped-off background score. So, I asked him, was this film a remake of the Chan-Woon Park great?

The director hemmed and hawed and said, with great (sic) magnanimity that “I acknowledge Korean cinema.”

I asked whether the film is a rip-off, and to what extent, and Gupta claims that there is just one great scene from Oldboy in Zinda, and the rest of the film is entirely different.

So now you know that when the utterly unoriginal film hits theatres (bets, anyone? *wink*), we can hold Gupta to his word.

Ah, so things finally end.

And I find myself in the unenviable position of sitting through the IFFI awards ceremony and not having watched any of the three winning films. Sigh. The choices we make based on awful synopses.

Despite much hype for Olga (the journos were almost unanimous in betting that the Brazilian film will win, and my unfailing wager-luck has wangled me at least three dinners), the Golden Peacock went to the Iranian film,Iron Island, directed by Mohammad Rasoulof.

The film has a very neat premise: what would a modern day Noah’s Ark be like? Answer: a floating Dharavi. The film details the life of a commune inhabiting an abandoned oil tanker. This universe within a universe is disrupted when the ship is sold, and relocation enters the picture.

The Silver Peacock, for the most promising director, went to Very Fogwill and Martin Desalvo for their Argentinian film, Kept & Dreamless.

A Special Jury award was given to South African film Red Dust, directed by first-time filmmaker Tom Hooper. The award, for the most promising director, was given to the film because of the way Hooper handled the pressing issue of human rights.

The IFFI 2005 jury comprised: Miguel Littin, Chilean director (Chairman); Alain Corneau, French director; Saeed Akhtar Mirza, Indian director; Faramarz Gharibian, Iranian actor; and (Ms) Sabine Derflinger, Austrian director.

Oz desi, a good friend to this blog, pointed out quite correctly that while I raved about this Malayalam film a couple of posts ago, I didn’t even give a brief synopsis. My bad, sir, here you go:

Kamal’s Perumazhakkalam, translated roughly, means While It Rained Hard. The famed Kerala rains are an integral part of the film, in both its visual aesthetic and its dramatic progression. Stunning.

The film is about two women, Raziya (played by National Award-favourite Meera Jasmine) and Ganga (Kavya Madhavan). They live in separate villages, and both their husbands are working in the Gulf. Suddenly there is news of an accident, and slowly each family is alerted to the devastating fact that Raziya’s husband Akber has murdered Ganga’s husband Raghu. The event being in Saudi Arabia, the Shariath Court has sentenced Akber to death by beheading.

Based on a newspaper article, the film explores the loss and pain experienced by these disparate women of different religions, and the actresses are simply amazing. The families are plunged into mourning, when Raziya learns that there is still a glimmer of hope: If Ganga drops the charges, the Shariath may reduce Akber’s sentence to a few years in prison.

Now, director Kamal explores conflicting human relations. The film evokes empathy for each character, and we relate to their great anguish. Raghu’s brother is understandably baying for the blood of his brother’s murderer, while Raziya’s family does not know if it should still hope.

The film is about compassion and sympathy, about the transience of life, and about the strength of the Indian woman.

I urge you to watch it.

… and he isn’t even here yet.

Don’t get me wrong, I like the lanky stubbled one quite a bit, and enjoy his screen-presence, but today’s the last day of IFFI, and he’s irritatingly everywhere.

The omnipresent posters of the latest Sanjay Gupta film, Zinda(a remake of the superb Korean flick, Oldboy! — will this director ever stop slaughtering cult classics??) are plastered all around the film festival, simply because Sanju and John Abraham are dropping by for the music release of the film.

The fact that it is an International Film Festival, with a splendid closing film (L’Enfant, which won the Golden Palm at Cannes a few months ago) does not seem to matter. The fact that there is only one Hindi film in competition (Iqbal) and it’s invisible in terms of posters, and that India is about far more than the Bombay film industry does not seem to matter.

Bollywood doesn’t care about IFFI. The biggest stars haven’t attended the festival, and most premieres have been of relatively low-budget films, classifiable as ‘big indie’ flicks.

Occasionally, they are throwing Goa a bone, and every time a flight comes in from Mumbai airport, the Festival rushes to its service.

Disgraceful.

Yesterday saw the much-delayed (the film was made in 2002!) premiere of the French film, Asterix & Obelix: Mission Cleopatra.

After the first Asterix film, I was expecting nothing from this new adaptation, and sat in the theatre feeling shortchanged that the sublime Monica Bellucci (Cleopatra) hadn’t flown down.

Seeing her in the flesh would make up for any film. [Which brings me to mention just how many unwatchable films (Matrix:Reloaded, The Passion Of The Christ) she has made me endure.

However, directed by Alain Chabat (who also plays Caesar), the new(er) film is rather fun. For non-Asterix devotees (read: philistines), the story revolves around Cleopatra’s wager with Caesar that she can build him a grand palace in 3 months. The architect, Edifis, panics, and calls 3 familiar Gauls to the scene for help. Alea Jacta Est.

The production values are suitably lavish, there are some scenes (especially one in the darkness of a pyramid) that recieve an inspired visual treatment, and Hollywood is spoofed on every corner. With references to everything from Pulp Fiction to Star Wars, the film features a really clever bunch of names, ending in -ix (for the Gauls), -us (for the Romans) and -is (for the Egyptians; an elevator is named by a man named Otis).

There’s a lot to be chuckled at between the lines, and the film is quite well-cast. The humour isn’t akin to the subtle sarcasm of the comics, but more of a Shrek 2 pastiche of well-meaning (and easy to get) references. And if that wasn’t enough, the traditional boar-filled repast is accompanied by Snoop Dogg(matix, shall we say?) on the soundtrack!

I enjoyed watching it in French, with subtitles, and have my reservations about how good the English dub will be. The film is also slated to hit theatres in Hindi, Tamil and Telugu.

But, By Belenos, these Gauls are crazy! The film was followed by the French Ambassador’s dinner at the Taj, and the whole decor of the place was themed Egyptian! I know things were done in keeping with the film, but having bellydancers gyrating to Habibie, Roman Centurions standing guard over the buffet table, and Sivamani slapping skins on stage, there was hardly anything to remind you that it was an evening in celebration of French Cinema.

As I walked in, the waiters alerted me that the tables were all reserved for guests, making me wonder exactly what my role at this shindig was. So where was I to sit? “Well, sir, you could just occupy one of our cabanas…” And so, the evening saw me sprawled in a cushy corner, amid soft bolsters and good wine, my feet stretched out as friends and colleagues kept walking up to me and remarking how demonstratively I was living up to my first name.

All this while dancing girls jiggled around thirty feet away. No, I wasn’t complaining.

I agree that I might be missing a lot of good cinema because of running around helter-skelter, but today I managed to catch Kamal’s Perumazhakkalam.

The film is brilliant, and while a lot of us might be partial to entries from countries like Iran, I urge you to phone in your local DVD store, and catch this Malayalam gem.

A deeply tragic tale, the film nevertheless conveys the beauty of rain-drenched Kerala. Tremendous performances, especially from Meera Jasmine.

I’m blown away, totally.

Magnificent.

A friend was reading the interview I did with Bips, for Apaharan.

(at http://specials.rediff.com/movies/2005/nov/30sld1.htm, by the way)

She asks, “How long did you spend with Bipasha for the interview?”

Me: About 50-odd minutes, on the record.

She says, “So, you spend almost an hour talking to her about a movie where she has a nine-minute role?”

(Pause)

Umm.. Er… Um… She’s pretty?

At the Chief Minister’s party at the Taj Village, Fort Aguada last night, I ran into director Pankaj Parashar.

The director of films like Jalwa (which cast Naseer brilliantly against type) and the unbelievably trippy Peechha Karo, not to mention unforgettable TV series Karamchand, spoke to me about his upcoming film, Ek Dhun Benares Kee, starring Urmila Matondkar and Ashmit Patel. He claims the film is a very deep and interesting metaphysical one, but my question was a lot more pointed:

Me: Can Ashmit act?

Pankaj: Arre bhai, main hoon na!


Love that spirit!

Because he’s the one filmmaker the Europeans have gobbled up for a long while now.

Bollywood has it’s own set of cliches, and while they’re a standard-issue lot, shuttling between melodrama and melancholy, they’re very personal to Hindi cinema. Still, we’ve kinda tired of their predictable shackles, and Desinema Nouveau is trying to be different. We’re tired of formula.

To the West, however, our Formula films are still charming. I bet a theatre in Norway could sell-out a Mard screening, regardless of the season.

This evening I watched Florian Gallenberger’s Shadows Of Time, and it was an interesting experience indeed to see an Oscar-winning German director making a Bengali film.

The film, about star-crossed lovers, followed every Bollywood cliche it could find, and ended up a rather half-hearted effort. Disappointing, considering the fact that it opened with terrific dramatic tension, and the young lead urchin reminded you of City Of God. (Honestly, I kid you not.)

But as the characters grew, the story too grew unwieldy. Cardboard characters don’t work, no matter how nice the frames. The film is very well lit, and certain shots are very cool.

Credits, predictably, went up to festival applause. But very truthfully, it’s quite a yawn, no matter how ‘hot’ my colleagues found leading man Prashant Narayanan.