Thursday, November 18, 2004
PORTENTOUS !!
Have got all kinds of “good management” practices ensconced into my daily routine—Time Planners, Cross working models, aide de memoirs and a host of other paraphernalia that will abet and assist my hitherto unrequited attempts at being the Captain of My Ship & the Master of My Soul. All these have been rendered necessary by the simple expediency of leaving office by a respectable hour, and someday, someday, I will actually see the sun set over the boulevard in Mumbai.
Music is in place and that can be only at the expense of reading—reduced to a few motley newspapers and rags like Tehelka which have breezed in uninvited.
Saw a film on the telly yesterday for which the director should have been booked on criminal charges. The signs were in attendance that it would be a Himalayan blunder watching a sophomoric spiel , yet found the will power to sit through the poorly written, shoddily shot and appallingly conceived effort.
The story begins with a vacuous clip of the sun shining cheerily on a courtyard and beyond. In itself innocuous enough, except that the same has been done to death by Coppola to Tak. Designed to evoke inadequacy, probe for emptiness, and all that drivel.
A religious bloke turned heathen played by a confused and rather stretched Mel G , whose wife was trapped between trucks, which must surely rank as one of the most banal flashbacks I have ever seen. Somehow that incident is meant to make gullible viewers believe his reticence, vacillating between emotion and convoluted bouts of silence. Again, somehow meant to convey a ponderousness that I simply did not feel.
A demented/crazed brother played by a puerile Joaquin Phoenix, whose ailment somehow the director fails to mention .adds to the eerie ambience of the family as they are hemmed in by aliens.
Two of the most soppy characterizations for children I’ve seen on screen –an angelic daughter with a sense of foreboding, and a precociously uncanny son, whose dialogue delivery is supposed to heighten the illusion that he is some sort of science whiz.
Into this mélange one adds tacky-looking spacesters and the result is something quite cataclysmic. I have only my stupidity to blame for willingly enduring this blob of excrescence.
Off to Madras—will return to office only on the 30th now—Delhi looms next week too. Aching for some good winter weather—am used to the biting chill now. Alas, Bombay blazes !!
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Have got all kinds of “good management” practices ensconced into my daily routine—Time Planners, Cross working models, aide de memoirs and a host of other paraphernalia that will abet and assist my hitherto unrequited attempts at being the Captain of My Ship & the Master of My Soul. All these have been rendered necessary by the simple expediency of leaving office by a respectable hour, and someday, someday, I will actually see the sun set over the boulevard in Mumbai.
Music is in place and that can be only at the expense of reading—reduced to a few motley newspapers and rags like Tehelka which have breezed in uninvited.
Saw a film on the telly yesterday for which the director should have been booked on criminal charges. The signs were in attendance that it would be a Himalayan blunder watching a sophomoric spiel , yet found the will power to sit through the poorly written, shoddily shot and appallingly conceived effort.
The story begins with a vacuous clip of the sun shining cheerily on a courtyard and beyond. In itself innocuous enough, except that the same has been done to death by Coppola to Tak. Designed to evoke inadequacy, probe for emptiness, and all that drivel.
A religious bloke turned heathen played by a confused and rather stretched Mel G , whose wife was trapped between trucks, which must surely rank as one of the most banal flashbacks I have ever seen. Somehow that incident is meant to make gullible viewers believe his reticence, vacillating between emotion and convoluted bouts of silence. Again, somehow meant to convey a ponderousness that I simply did not feel.
A demented/crazed brother played by a puerile Joaquin Phoenix, whose ailment somehow the director fails to mention .adds to the eerie ambience of the family as they are hemmed in by aliens.
Two of the most soppy characterizations for children I’ve seen on screen –an angelic daughter with a sense of foreboding, and a precociously uncanny son, whose dialogue delivery is supposed to heighten the illusion that he is some sort of science whiz.
Into this mélange one adds tacky-looking spacesters and the result is something quite cataclysmic. I have only my stupidity to blame for willingly enduring this blob of excrescence.
Off to Madras—will return to office only on the 30th now—Delhi looms next week too. Aching for some good winter weather—am used to the biting chill now. Alas, Bombay blazes !!
