From the brilliant Blog of Hank Moody...

People seem to be getting dumber and dumber. I mean we have all this amazing technology and yet computers have turned into basically four figure wank machines. The Internet was supposed to set us free, democratize us, but all it’s really given us is Howard Dean’s aborted candidacy and 24-hour a day access to kiddie porn, you know. And people don’t write anymore, they blog; instead of talking, they text; no punctuation, no grammar. LOL this and LMFAO that. You know it just seems to me that it’s just a bunch of stupid people psuedo-communicating with a bunch of other stupid people in a proto-language that resembles more what cavemen used to speak than the king’s English.

Demonic Funnies

It wold not be an exaggeration to say that I have seen every English B Horror Movie Ever made. I have only the Ramsay's Veerana to blame for my childhood initiation. I love horror movies. I love movies with blood and gore. I love creepy faces, possessed souls, satanic rituals, ghost ships, haunted houses and demonic dolls. You get it - I LOVE horror movies. So naturally, I pre-booked my 1920 tickets and sauntered into the movie theater, stealing a smirk from my poor goosebumps. They had no idea, what was in store.

Being a film-student and an avid cinephile I can tell, more or less if a film is working for me with the opening shot. And I can almost always predict a successful screenplay 7 and a half minutes into the film. Recently, I only went wrong with Jaane Tu... that didn't appeal to me at all in the beginning. So the lights dimmed and a horse carriage trotted across a British looking road (perfectly colour corrected) and the dull autumm leaves whoosed against the camera. When ambient horror works, it is almost always, obvious from the first frame - so far, so spooked.

As the film progressed, I cringed at the awful disbelief of suspension it asked for. I know its a supernatural soiree but even Satan himself cannot pull of Yorkshire as Palanpur. After the film, it was painfully obvious that the "period" was gimmicky and would have avoided insulting an intelligent audienece if they had stuck to facts. It could have been contemporary, and the castle could still have been in Yorkshire keeping the back story the same. Rebirth can always occur thousands of years later and spirits don't have an expiry date. Also, to each their own, but serious-minded Sunday preaching (Raj Zutshi) mixed in with the occult, is just not my cup of witch's brew. Sure, Father knows best; the Church knows best, and never mind all those lurid stories about child-molesting doctors (Vallabh Vyas) but sorry Vikram, the power of Christ didn't compel me on this one.

But despite the loopholes and obviously inserted songs, 1920 did appeal to me on a certain spook level. It avoided the gratuitous gore and the shocks that provide the backbone of most horror films abroad and seemed more interested in the spiritual questions at hand. Unlike Ram Gopal Varma, this one did not crank up the decibels in the name of lame scares. The atmosphere worked wonders, the subtle ambience sucked me in and the long still shots re-iterated the fact that Vikram Bhatt knows his stuff.

The style of the film is intentionally oppressive. A very limited color palette is used with colors keyed to themes. Greenish hues are used in scenes of confinement, red for danger. The convinently cliched blue is avoided. Background sound in very low registers contributes to the viewers' unease as does a score that has little or no melody. A scratched record scene (while remniscent of 8mm) works really well. The visual movement relies heavily on handheld camera and other flexible camera effects. There seem to be many echoes of THE EXORCIST, though it is hard to imagine a film about exorcism that does not echo that film.

But surprise, surprise - what I enjoyed the most in the film, was the Demonic Humour. Yup! While some horror films are unintentionally funny, this one turned it around and mocked the protagonost. The humour was creepy, witty, sexy and highly entertaining. It was matched with a visual treat combning great camera angles, super-clean, well-done special effects and a superb performance by debutante Adah Sharma with her seizures, demonic visions, speaking in different voices and personalities and crooked sense of glee as a posessed soul. I canot remember a recent horror movie where I enjoyed a cynical laughter this much. The 'test test test test' and 'Tick Tock' were brilliant srokes of terror.

I only wish, the spirit was introduced as a Mad Hatter, instead of a dull, limping, lifeless figure. It would have been spinechillingly funny (in a good way) to see a character like 'The Joker' die and return with his twisted sense of humor intact.

Come on Mr. Bhatt, take your chances - do away with the unnecessary rounding up of characters, excrutiating long back-stories and distributor enforced songs. Give us a slick, twisted horror movie, screw resoulution and give us a tingler that challenges our imagination. I know you can do it - Am rooting (or Bhooting) for you and I'm counting down...

Tick Tock Tick Tock!!!

The Big Picture

I never in my wildest dreams thought I'd be working with a TV production house known for its melodrama, bullet zooms and swish-pans - elements, I absolutely detest. Call it bad karma, or just a quirk of fate but here I am, questioning my decision to abandon an NBC internship a few years ago.

I remember telling my friend Eric in a windy by-lane in Brooklyn that I never imagined that guerrilla film-making would send such a thrill down my spine. I was young and stupid. We were shooting a short, with two women acting as lookouts in case the cops caught us. We zipped through a lane, the biting winds and sea-gusts lashing our insides while we shot using a steadi-cam. Not just because it was cool but because, that's the only option to use, when you know that you might have to break into a run. I don't know what makes me more unhappy today - not writing content that flows from my heart or the fact that everyone in American television seems to doing exactly that.

Today all I have is hope - that my film career may take off (which thankfully it is slowly but steadily) and eventually make me a power-to-be. Then, I shall unleash the creative muscle. I will, go Guerrilla. I will make gut-wrenching twisted films and seek vengeance on my oppressed TV working years.

I will prevail.

Don't!

How often has one heard that word? But here's a thought - if one were to rephrase the question, How often has one heard that word, in India? Bring out the roller coaster for the statistics to ride on now. I am aware that what I'm stating is blatantly obvious; its just that it hasn't bothered me so much until now and suddenly, censorship is sawing the crap out of me.

Let's begin with my first love, (Sorry Shim) Movies. Unfortunately for me, I've acclimatized a section of my brain to get its gore fix. I lean towards the dark side in Cinema and like a friend describes - my keywords aka criteria for 'Good Cinema' must comprise of the words, Disturbing, Nudity, Disturbing Nudity, Brutal Non-Stop Violence and Gratuitous Gore. Yeah, not your ideal date movie.

Now the fun part of the entire endeavor is that R rated films rarely release in India. It's bad enough that a bunch of morons are levying cuts galore (in the nation that prides itself upon free speech), the film is re-rated in India. WTF! I mean 3 post menopausal women and 4 pervy sadists play moral police to chors like me and say 'Don't, Don't Don't.' I can still hear their saidtic laughter as they jerk off to the uncensored footage.

But thats not all. The 'adults' want to play Invasion of the Body Snatchers with us and will follow us right into our homes and our heads. DVD's are re-re-censored on Indian soil, so that our rich, cultural heritage of adultery, child marriage, sati and dowry aren't tarnished. After all, its the nations dignity at stake. And yes, an A certificate means no nudity and no violence. Just obviously bad cuts that jerk the video as it skips frames. After all, the connoisseurs of good cinema have enhanced a story-tellers vision. Who needs the chainsaw in 'The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.' Front pagers in India like roasting their wives in tandoors. Americans - they have no imagination.

And in a rejoinder to the first love theory, lets scoot over to my other love and my passionate proclamations of love. Oh Wait!

This is a nation where decisions are made in advance by those in the know. The weak are oppressed with the wow of money and power. An authoritarian state, us, Nah! We are a peace-loving democracy. So what if we enjoy a little cultural S&M for kinks. We learn Community Living to love (and rape in some editions I probably missed) thy neighbour. In school, we actually attend Moral Science classes that preach and poach simplistic values of good vs. evil. Balderdash! I distinctly remember asking on one occasion, what I thought was a relevant question, about the existence of God. I was caned.

...Didn't moved mountains for my faith, I must admit.

But I shall have my revenge towards those that stand in my way. I will not hesitate to stab the enemy in the back. I will ensure the shrapnel dangles from his eyelids. I will prevail. I question, I ask and am not afraid to go into battle. After all, building bombs and exhuming hatred against all things unjust (and white) is ensconced onto my Islamic DNA. Isn't it? Don't u dare say don't.

Don't!

"I Quote. I Ramble..."

You don't understand! I could have had class. I could have been a contender but that would require courage. I could've been somebody, instead of being a troubled man who questions himself everyday. That is who I am. I've got a feeling I'm not in my delusional la-la-land anymore. So, here's looking at me, kids. Fasten your seatbelts. It's going to be a bumpy night in the freak show that is my life.

What we have here is failure to communicate. Now that we see these signs, perhaps help is at hand and we can sit back and enjoy the smell of a defrosted napalm in the post apocalyptic morning. I'm definitely not going to say, Made it, Ma! Top of the world! Hah! They call me Mister Witty - and I'm as mad as hell, ain't going to take this anymore! I can't handle the truth. I want to be alone. After all, tomorrow is another day. Mom always said life was like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're gonna get. A boy's best friend is truly, his mother. And life is a banquet, its just that most poor suckers are starving to death!

La-dee-da, la-dee-da.

Page 3

Okay, let me start by apologizing to all the people I force to read my random ramblings. I realize that I have put the ‘pro’ in procrastinate and haven’t really gotten on to updating the blog I so dedicatedly penned to begin with. Sorry! I’m lazy. I know that I need to find a way to destroy the dawdling demon that lies within. Okay, now on to more serious issues. I just walked in from an awards function and its after party. I enjoyed myself thoroughly – guilty pleasure, perhaps. I mean I’m not one to go absolutely goo-goo-ga-ga over stars (SRK excluded) and their soppy shenanigans and even more sloppy speeches – since I already have my acceptance speech, a classy one at that, down pat. I just had fun criticizing the overly dressed up tartlets and continued giggling like a schoolgirl at the effeminate alpha males. Yes, I see the irony too. Now you’ll have to excuse me while I take a minute to trounce my classist moment.

Done!

Anyway, while all of the above doesn’t make sense and since Red Bull clearly cannot get me high I want to pen down a few thoughts in all my commonsensical consciousness. Exclusive clothes, air-kisses, Evian, polite conversation, bitchy-bytes, designer shoes, fancy cars, 5 Star Venues, imported caviar, expensive wine and artificial hair-shine is the stuff that my custom made career will become heir to. I’ve always wondered if I could master the art of fake conversation and compliment my worst enemy. I’m no Derek Zoolander but I do occasionally seek worldly advice from a puddle in a pothole. I don’t know my Hussain from horse-shit but I know that the going rate is a million bucks. Don’t judge me – we all know how it works.

Now here’s the scary part. As I gradually climb the social ladder and go from the SMS invite to a handcrafted courier, I’ve begun to become conscious of the arch lights that reflect from the flippantly larger-than-life Prada handbags and I, in point of fact, fit right in. I must say that I enjoy the concept of power-lunches and high-tea. I don’t mind paying the extra ten grand for a label that reeks of a fashion know-it-all. I take pleasure in holding my wine glass just right even as I enjoy name-dropping and reveling in the luxury of fake scandal. They say that talk is cheap but my mouths full of imported Sushi.

…I absolutely hate it.