Movie Review: The Amazing Spider-Man 2

I am not really a fan of superhero franchises (especially reboots) so I went to watch the "The Amazing Spider-Man 2" with few expectations. Turns out the film's not so bad. Yes, you have Spider-Man; the girl Spidey loves; and three villains. So what's new, apart from better visual effects.

Andrew Garfield as Spider-Man is a lot more likeable, charming and funnier than Tobey Maguire ever was in Sam Raimi's "Spider-Man" trilogy. Garfield's Spidey-suit fits like a glove and his New York twang complements the webbed superhero's new-found sense of humour.

Enter Electro, a nerd-turned-villain-whom-you-feel-sorry-for, and all Spider-Man has to say about his new high-voltage adversary is “Yo, Sparkles.” The two square off -- at Times Square -- for what is possibly the best action sequence in the movie.

Not to forget Emma Stone (my favourite young Hollywood actress) as Gwen Stacy. When not flashing her million-dollar smile, Spidey’s spirited girlfriend is almost the brains of the operation. Well, almost. Must admit Garfield and Stone have some good chemistry going.

There is a surfeit of bad guys -- Dane DeHaan as Harry Osborn (although a gaggle of teenage girls next to me were of the opinion that James Franco was “definitely” more drool-worthy in the role); Oscar-winner Jamie Foxx as Electro; and Paul Giamatti in a blink-and-you-miss-him bit as a Russian henchman/Rhino avatar.

There were some unintended laughs as well. In a crucial bit towards the end, when Gwen is falling from a clock tower and Spidey is trying his best to rescue his lady love, a child’s voice piped up in the darkened cinema hall -- “Papa, woh mar gayi?” (Dad, did she die?) -- Applause and laughter rang out, not quite the effect director Marc Webb intended for the scene.

All in all, a good effort. "The Amazing Spider-Man 2" may not be that amazing, but then there’s nothing like popcorn, cola and a good yarn to beat the heat in New Delhi. I go with 3 out of 5 stars for this webbed sequel.

For Delhi, it's just not cricket | Guest post by Jo Winterbottom

It's a beautiful sunny morning – crisp and just chilly enough for me to need a sweatshirt over my cotton jumper. I'm ready early, about 6.30 a.m., because I don't want to keep my driver waiting. He's taking me to watch his church team play cricket at India Gate and I can't wait.

[Photo by David Castor via Wikimedia Commons]

Anthony and I have been to IPL matches together and regularly discuss India's – and England's – performance on the world stage. But I've never watched his team play – and this is my last chance before I leave India for good and a new job in the United States.

I've packed my towel and a cushion so that I'll be comfortable sitting on the ground and I have a book with me too, just in case I don't have the stamina for three hours of play. Anthony arrives dressed in tracksuit and trainers instead of the smart jeans and crisp shirt he usually wears when he's working and we set off in my car for India Gate, where they plan to play.

India Gate is a huge green area in the centre of New Delhi, the site of the memorial to India’s unknown soldier. At its centre is the monument, a massive sandstone arch designed by the British architect Edwin Lutyens and a legacy of empire that has been, like so many other colonial hangovers, absorbed into modern India’s culture. Around this arch fan out wedges of green grass and trees which eventually are bounded by a four-lane roadway that is the hub – and sometimes the congested heart – of political and business life in Delhi. It reminds me of London’s Hyde Park, which plays host to cricket and football matches, live music concerts and Speakers’ Corner, where anyone can stand on a soap box and address the public.

At this hour, at India Gate, there are only a few people around, joggers, someone doing push-ups, and a few groups of men limbering up for games of cricket. Our team gravitates towards a stretch of bare ground that we’ll use as the wicket, near a couple of shady trees where rucksacks are dropped. A couple of the men are wearing white cricket trousers but for the most part, they are in tracksuits and trainers or jeans and t-shirts. Our stumps are in a variety of sizes and our ancient bat is bent at the end. For these are not wealthy Indians out for a day’s relaxation. These are Delhi’s workers – drivers, office assistants, even some night-shift workers who have come here straight after their shifts.

It’s a special day in another way, too, as Anthony has a brand new bat, a birthday gift from his wife, Georgina, and his children. Mark, his eldest son, is here to play with the team and has the makings of a very talented fast bowler and a handy batsman too. The bat is still in its plastic wrapping as Anthony and a couple of team members use it for practice swings.

By now, the sun is just starting to dry out the dew on the grass. The teams are standing around, sizing up the opposition and talking tactics. There’s lots of laughter too, as these men all know each other from the church. Several come up to me and introduce themselves, shaking hands and thanking me for letting Anthony come on previous Saturdays to play in the team. I laugh with them and say it’s my pleasure, surprised that they would expect a boss to dictate hours without thought for the employee’s commitments.

With the opening banter and team hugs over, we are all anxious to get started. Some of these guys have jobs that start in a couple of hours so they will have to bat early. Anthony wins the toss for his team and decides to bat. He’s opening batsman and will be using his new bat. As he’s limbering up at the crease, the siren sounds. Wah-wah-wah-wah. We see a white police jeep trundling over the dewy grass towards us. The loudspeaker is saying something in Hindi, too complicated for my very basic understanding, but even I can get the drift. Everyone is still as they listen to the message. Stop playing.

The jeep pulls to a halt a couple of yards from us and we walk over to find out what they want. The two policemen in the jeep are speaking in rapid Hindi and Anthony is listening, his face telling me the news I don’t want to hear. I catch a couple of words, some in Hindi and some in English. Not a playground. Closed. And then they leave, their jeep slashing bright green tracks in the dewy grass, to deliver the same damp message to another group of would-be players nearby.

India Gate used to be open to the public every day, attracting crowds of Indians, many of them without access to any other large open spaces. Here they would go boating, walking, romancing and of course play cricket, the national obsession. But around December 2012, the area was closed off. In early March, we saw people walking the paths of India Gate again and the ice-cream sellers and balloon vendors coming back. The previous weekend, Anthony’s teams had played a match unhindered.

New Delhi police said that was a mistake.

"It's not permitted, it is not a cricket ground," Deputy Commissioner of Police in New Delhi S.B.S. Tyagi told me by telephone. "Three years ago, maybe, but things have changed. We don’t allow any function, no gathering for political purposes," he added.

It's not just cricket that makes it different from Hyde Park.

(Write to Jo at jowinter60@gmail.com)

Manu Joseph's "The Illicit Happiness of Other People"

I'd heard so much about Manu Joseph's comic prowess that the unexpectedly dark "The Illicit Happiness of Other People" (2012) came as a surprise.

No, I haven't read his debut novel yet but his second work of fiction is best described as a philosophical potboiler.

Why does 17-year-old Unni, the charismatic son of a UNI journalist in Chennai, jump to his death?

It's a riddle his alcoholic father would have to solve by questioning Unni's classmates, a nun who has taken a vow of silence, and a corpse among others. Add to the mix a woman who talks to walls and a young boy who knows what Pele's real name is.

Manu Joseph uses his characters well to present a pacy whodunit -- or rather, whydunit -- that is worth your time.

Should have read this ages ago

Finished reading a book I should have devoured several months ago. In "India Unbound", Gurcharan Das traces the impact of economic policies on the country's growth since independence.

Das argues that Jawaharlal Nehru's adoption of the "mixed economy" model crippled India and in many ways Indira Gandhi made it worse. Das says that Narasimha Rao (and not then finance minister Manmohan Singh) deserves credit for his handling of the reform process of 1991, a year he says is a milestone in India's history.

First published in 2000, the book may seem out-dated but is interesting nevertheless in an election year with Narendra Modi of the BJP poised to become India’s next prime minister. Das is a good storyteller and his pro-capitalism stance is an alternate reading of India’s history that runs contrary to the ideals of the Congress party, which has held the reins of power for much of India’s independence.

Where the writer's sympathies lie today is no secret. In a blog post dated April 6, 2014, Das writes:

"There is a clear risk in voting for Modi - he is polarizing, sectarian and authoritarian. There is a greater risk, however, in not voting for him … There will always be a trade-off in values at the ballot box and those who place secularism above demographic dividend are wrong and elitist."

Of tiger-less Sariska, butt vibrations and Neha's husband

A weekend trip to Sariska and Bhangarh near Alwar, Rajasthan didn't really go as planned. The Sariska Tiger Camp was comfortable but I couldn't sleep at night, thanks to a diligent colleague who shook me awake whenever I started snoring.

We didn't realize until it was too late that a T-shirt wasn't appropriate attire for a 7 a.m. safari, nearly freezing to death as our open Gypsy vroomed along jungle paths. We didn't spot any tigers and I really doubt if they exist (despite what our guide said about sightings being luck-by-chance).

Our visit to Bhangarh was ditched when we realized it would imperil our chances of catching the return train. The inflated costs of taxiing down to India's most haunted fort didn't help either. Instead, we headed to Kesroli fort, a 14th-century regal retreat now part of Neemrana heritage hotels. We lazed by the hilltop swimming pool, staring at its solitary occupant -- a paunchy man whom we knew only as Neha's husband (well, he kept calling out to his wife to bring him something).

It was just too hot and after an indulgent lunch, we set off for Alwar's city mall, singularly the most boring place I've ever set foot in. It didn't even have a coffee shop, much to the disappointment of two American tourists we bumped into. We parked ourselves and our bags outside a 7D theatre which promised viewers "butt vibration" and "mouse in legs" among other delightful effects.

On the train ride back to Delhi, the sudden onslaught of a bloated stomach made matters worse and I counted down the minutes till I reached home and crashed out in my bed.

And yet, don't be surprised if I said I enjoyed it all. Thanks to Sankalp Phartiyal and Ankush Arora, who are the best travelling companions one could ask for. Can't wait till our next weekend getaway.

(Some photos have been Instagrammed. I've clicked all photos unless I'm in the frame in which case the photographer was either Ankush Arora or Sankalp Phartiyal)

The Martian who loved my brother's SUV

October 6, 2023

It’s official. My brother hates me. He doesn’t let me touch his Tata Safari Storme ‘Explorer’. That’s bad -- especially since it’s an SUV launched in 2013 back on planet Earth. But he’s crazy about it; he even brought it to Mars with him when we moved to the red planet.

He caresses his ride with loving fingers each day, smoothing out each hint of a scratch till the vehicle looks brand-new, not something that navigates the rugged terrain of Mars every day.

Which is why I decided to “borrow” the Explorer. It’s the only way I get to ride this beauty since my brother owns the only one on Mars. He’s the most powerful human here -- the president of our Earthling colony.


I stole away at midnight, silently reversing the Explorer from the garage and making use of the on-screen reverse parking assist to avoid hitting the Martian rocks that jutted out into our driveway.


The Mars colony guards didn’t look too suspicious as I drove past; they were used to residents making short trips outside the perimeter. As the head of the Earth’s exploration team here on Mars, I have often driven my official Curiosity 6 rover on trips - but riding the ‘Explorer’ on Mars was a whole new experience.


Within minutes, I’d vroomed past the last human outpost on Mount Sharp, where the study of fossils buried in sediment had proved beyond doubt that life existed on the planet. We’ve even had sightings of the green human-like Martian beings, but have never been able to view them from close range. The only other alien creatures we found here in the last decade were the margolians, centipede-like bluish creatures that flourished even amid the dry Martian rocks.


As for plant life, we Earthlings steered clear of the Red Witches, metre-high carnivorous red plants that blended with the planet’s surface and preyed on unsuspecting margolians -- and the occasional human who wasn’t watching his step.


Here I was, excitedly handling my brother’s Explorer as its 2.2-litre VariCOR turbocharged engine purred along. Despite the colonists’ best efforts over the past decade, there were very few motorable roadways on Mars. Which meant that the Explorer had to traverse several miles of inhospitable terrain, despite its efficient navigation device, just to get to the edge of the Valles Marineris, the canyon system that marked the frontier -- the furthest we humans had ever travelled on Mars.


After an hour’s further off-roading on rocks and gravel, I was ready for a break. Parking on the edge of the canyon, I uncovered the roof-mounted canopy for my impromptu picnic. I unhooked my food rations from the cargo basket at the rear, flicked away a stray margolian crawling along the SUV’s decal, and settled into my easychair after switching on the 2-DIN TouchScreen Infotainment System.

This was life! Going where no human had gone before, listening to Justin Bieber and Miley Cyrus duets, munching raspberry chocolate bars and enjoying the view of the canyon floor -- where a river is said to have flowed millions of years ago.

I was nearly drifting off to sleep when I spotted it. A green Martian was coming towards me. My hand moved towards my right-hand pocket, just to make sure my stun gun and tasers were armed and ready. But the Martian ignored me and made a beeline for the ‘Explorer’. He crouched in front of the car, stroking the front nudge guard and gazing at the chrome garnish on the projector headlamps.


“Like it?” I asked the Martian, unsure of its response or whether it understood me. It turned its head towards me and seemed to smile, flicking its pointy ears and gesturing with its three-fingered right hand. The alien seemed friendly and I took my hand out of my pocket.


“Want to sit inside?” I asked, gesturing towards it and pointing to the Explorer. The Martian rolled its big white eyes and its narrow green face creased into a huge grin.

I opened the passenger-side door, but it had already made a move for the steering wheel. “Wait a minute! Do you have an inter-planetary licence?” I asked the Martian but it wasn’t even listening, rapt in admiration as it settled into the leather seat and eyed the controls.


It took the Martian just a minute or two of demonstration to figure out how to drive the Explorer. And it whooped in delight as the SUV sprung to life and glided over the rocks and pebbles. Good, so the Martian loved the experience. Just the bait I needed to get him to base camp.


I plotted a course for home on the navigation device and the Explorer made its way towards the colony. The Martian didn’t notice; it was busy enjoying the ride. Within an hour, I had eased the Explorer back into the garage. But the lights were on and I saw my brother standing near the door.

“How dare you touch my SUV?” he yelled.
“I got a Martian for you,” I replied.
“I don’t care,” he screamed.

But of course, he did care. It took a few minutes and five guards to pry the Explorer-addicted alien away from the controls. As he ordered the Martian taken to the lab, he turned to me and said: “If you touch my Explorer again, I’ll throw you into the canyon myself.”

(This fictional post was written for the Tata Safari Storme "I am Explorer!" contest on Indiblogger)

Movie Review: Shuddh Desi Romance - never before has an Indian rom-com snubbed marriage so effectively

There is nothing shuddh (pure) or desi (Indian) about the romance in Shuddh Desi Romance so don’t go expecting a stereotypical Bollywood ending where the hero and heroine are united in matrimony. Anything but.

In the years to come, this unconventional Yash Raj Films movie will be remembered as the first Bollywood film to promote cohabitation (live-in relationships). Yes, there have been films such as Salaam Namaste and I, Me aur Main that featured cohabiting couples but never before has an Indian rom-com snubbed marriage so effectively.

Shuddh Desi Romance would have you believe that marriage is now a far less attractive prospect than it once was for many young couples. You may even feel sorry for wedding caterer and decorator (Rishi Kapoor) whose main business worry in the film is that traditional marriage may be heading towards extinction.

To be honest, any film which brought together director Maneesh Sharma (Band Baaja Baaraat) and screenwriter Jaideep Sahni (Chak De! India) couldn’t really have been formulaic. In an interview to Reuters, Sahni said his films are about real people. His characters certainly do not shy away from using the toilet. Indeed, much of the film revolves around the bathroom break -- even the intermission gets renamed.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Shuddh Desi Romance is the story of Raghuram, Gayatri and Tara and their intersecting lives in the historical city of Jaipur. Raghuram or Raghu (as he prefers to be addressed) is a tourist guide, part-time salesman and professional wedding guest. Just before his own nuptials, Raghu meets Gayatri, who is also in the wedding guest business and is being paid to pose as his sister. Soon, our hero thinks he’s in love with the lively instructor at an English-language school and forgets all about Tara, the woman he was originally supposed to marry.

Doesn't seem much of a storyline to sustain audience interest for two hours. But it surprisingly does. What eventually works for Shuddh Desi Romance is its dialogue. Screenwriter Sahni is at his witty best, effortlessly moulding situations and making his characters mouth unexpected lines. Jaipur city is a character in itself and lends an aura of authenticity to a well-shot film, one that depicts modernity trumping tradition in an India that is still largely conservative.

Sushant Singh Rajput puts in an impressive performance as the bumbling and indecisive lover, at a loss for words whenever confronted by Gayatri or Tara. Parineeti Chopra shines as the mature Gayatri who’s had her heart broken before. Newcomer Vani Kapoor plays the third corner in this love triangle, and does so confidently.

There aren't too many songs (to the film’s credit) but Gulabi is easily the best track. What lets the film down is a slackening of pace in the second half, a flaw Sharma’s Band Baaja Baaraat didn’t suffer from. But Shuddh Desi Romance is a film you should watch even if you disagree with its premise. It's a progressive film that might just work if enough youngsters make it to the cinemas.

The tree of books

Close your eyes and let your thoughts take you away from the city where you live. Your destination is a nondescript village deep in the Indian hinterland. You find yourself gliding through the air and looking down at an enormous tree. An unusual one. Instead of seeds, this tree sprouts books. Thousands of them. Thin and thick and big and small. The book covers - red and blue and green and more - glint in the morning sun.

You marvel at the beauty of this remarkable tree, encased in books of every hue. And yet, there is a faint smell of rot in the air. The books are ripe and ready for release, but have nowhere to go. You'd been so dazzled by their lustre that now you notice, for the first time, the quagmire that surrounds the tree. Barren and marshy land with no signs of human life.

And then, at the periphery of your vision, you spot movement. You take a closer look. It's a boy. And next to him, a girl. And then another child. And many more children standing at the edge of the bog. Looking longingly at the books in the distance but unable to approach the tree. They stare unabashed. Helpless and sad.

A woman approaches. She stops at the edge of the marsh. But unlike the children, she sees you floating near the tree of books.

"Will you help us?" she says.
You look at the woman and then at the children, who haven’t noticed you yet.
"How can I help?"
"The children in the village need the books but can’t reach them."
"This must be a dream. I’m floating in the air."
"That may be so, but you are from the city and can help."
"But how?"
"Help spread the treasure of knowledge."
"Huh!"
"Blow on your thumbs and then blow on the books."

I do as I’m told, unsure of what would happen next. Nothing happened at first. And then, the sound of rustling filled the air. The book closest to me broke free of its moorings and floated away. I gaped at the little red book, with a skittish lamb on its cover. Then I blew some more. More books escaped. And like newly freed seeds, they swirled and fluttered in the air like confetti at a wedding.

I watched as the first few books glided across the bog. The children were radiant as they leaped in the air to pluck the seeds of the tree of knowledge. The woman turned to me and mouthed a thank you. As I turned to leave, she spoke again.

"Spread the word! Our children need many books."

This post was inspired by Rohini Nilekani's talk at TED - click here for YouTube link. As founder chairperson of not-for-profit publisher Pratham Books, Nilekani hopes to give each of India’s 300 million children a good book to curl up with. In her 15-minute speech, she compared India to the United Kingdom, where each child has access to an average of six books. Statistics suggest that in India, one book would be shared among 20 children. The problem is getting good yet cheap books and making them available to children in the poorer pockets of India. Nilekani shared her experience and some incredible achievements. But her ultimate goal of a book in every child's hand is still a challenge. I hope this post will inspire some readers to be a part of the solution.

(Franklin Templeton Investments partnered the TEDxGateway Mumbai in December 2012)