Movie Review: Godzilla (2014)

Are you planning to watch "Godzilla" this weekend?

Don't.

For a giant reptile used to crunching his way through skyscrapers, Godzilla gets precious little screen time in this 2014 reboot of the film franchise. And he's fat -- looking more like a grumpy teddy bear who's had one too many McDonald's happy meals.

Instead, all the action is hogged by a pair of mutant creatures with inbuilt GPS capabilities who pick San Francisco as their dream destination to mate and make a million monster babies.

To thwart their parental urges, British director Gareth Edwards relies on a young soldier (Aaron Taylor-Johnson), his nuclear scientist dad (Bryan Cranston), several heroic Americans, one Japanese scientist and hordes of dispensable humans - the ones who usually meet a bloody end in disaster movies.

There are some good destruction sequences in CGI (including one on the Golden Gate bridge), but those are few and far between in a movie that plods through the first 90 minutes, focusing on revealing how all those decades-old nuclear tests were cover-ups for attempts to kill the creatures.

Boring, boring, boring. The slow build-up makes the 1998 Hollywood version of "Godzilla" seem like an Oscar winner. And that’s high praise. Give me an overdose of burning buildings, close shaves, death-defying stunts, apocalyptic thrills, monster mayhem. Why else would I watch "Godzilla"?

Director Edwards said he tried to recapture the style of film classics such as "Jaws," "Alien" and "King Kong."

"All that spectacle and amazing imagery is kind of pointless if you're not invested in caring about the characters that are affected by it," he told Reuters in an interview.

The problem is there are too many good actors in the film but they don't do anything. I never really cared about what happened to their characters. "Godzilla" has its moments but he should have stomped around a bit more.

Two out of five stars for this monster disappointment.

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)