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Rakhi Sawant for Prime Minister

Although the time on her clock reads well into the 16th minute, Rakhi Sawant is still going places – like the unfamiliar pages of Filmfare. The interview, a rare one from a magazine devoted to its upscale Not-Your-Mummyji‘s-Gossip-Rag brand, starts off with Rakhi flipping out at the sight of the Louis Vuitton outfit and Ferragamo shoes the team has arranged for her photoshoot.

Not in the way they were expecting though:

“Which godown have you picked up these chindis (rags) from? There is no red, green, blue, purple, no glitter. My fans will think I’ve become a bhikhari (beggar) if I were to wear such clothes.”

I think I’m supposed to laugh at her, but honestly, I’m laughing at the magazine because they just got served. Whatever her faults, Rakhi clearly isn’t a brand-fucker. Eventually they seem to have got her into an oversized Diesel tee, and a Just Cavalli top paired with shorts from Mango. Couldn’t make her let go of her pancake though. One look and I already know this is going to be the best interview Filmfare has landed in ages.

Sure enough, she talks a little about hosting her version of Judge Judy, which seems to be more Jerry Springer going by the promos, and then launches into talk of how she’s let Jesus take the wheel:

Being an item girl doesn’t mean I dance around all the time clad in a ghagra-choli. I am a good human being, a God-fearing girl. Before taking up any work, I take permission from Jesus. If it requires me to expose, I refuse it. Like I refused “Meethi Chhoori” and Ram Gopal Varma’s “Phoonk 2″ because I didn’t want to expose or be part of a horror film.

God hates slags! Just in case you didn’t know. Various other meditations follow: she’s come to realize she’s a heavenly alien “here on a transit visa” after she read the Bible. Other things the Bible taught her -

  • don’t be a bitch
  • pay taxes to God (10% flat rate)
  • it’s better to be God’s kid than a star kid. Who’re all miserable failures anyway (especially that loser Hrithik Roshan who needs his daddy to make him movies)
  • be nice to your mom and she will ask for less money
  • don’t have “dirty sex” with drugs and booze when all you need is Viagra – “alcohol is Satan’s mouthwash”
  • the Devil is behind all the hate that comes her way
  • she’s now a national icon on the level of Amitabh Bachchan
  • Shahrukh Khan’s decidedly un-Christian antics at awards shows is proof that the world is biased towards educated elites.

Well, really. Who could argue with any of that? My head throbs just thinking of it.

Q. What about your love life now?
A. I am madly in love. I am married. Jesus is my husband.

Just call her Fraulein Maria. Jesus is her Captain but if some nice, clean-living teetotaler with perhaps no money but definitely much piety were to cross her path, she’d marry him. Not that she really needs him because, let’s face it, Jesus is a tough act to follow.

In fact, she’s writing a show about the life of Jesus Christ – she’s got about 50 episodes written already – but not a single channel will put it on because they’re all temples of sin, devoted to carnality and destined for Hell. And furthermore, if Ekta Kapoor wants the honor of working with her on this project, which might save souls unlike her usual sinful stuff, she can just approach Rakhi herself!

After all, is God visiting Ekta in her dreams to advice her about the sins of plastic surgery? Nope! That would be Rakhi Sawant, thank you very much. Who is now much more famous than this Mallika Sherawat person (lurking sadly in the pages of this very issue, saying outdated things like: “Obama is a stud!” Yawn.) who is only known for taking her clothes off.

Q. Where do you see yourself after five years?
A. I see myself in Lok Sabha as a clean politician. Without wearing khadi, I’m doing a lot of social work. But you also need power to make a difference. However, everyone wants me nanga (nude) on screen. But I won’t wear a bikini or short dresses. I’m not dying to do films, I’m doing reality shows.

Well, of course! Why didn’t any of us see this coming? Get ready for Prime Minister Rakhi Sawant in 2020. She’ll be the one in a spaghetti strap handloom saree at the United Nations General Assembly, mediating a Middle East intervention where the Israelis and the Palestinians get to bitchslap their differences out on live camera. Eventually, she’ll step in and make peace based on the hard-won experiences of her tragic life, after which they will all dance together to the tune of a Bollywood item number.

Oh, you scoff now but you’ll remember this post one day.

In other news, if you hear blood has started pouring out of the eyes of a Virgin Mary near you, please don’t be alarmed. Just hand her a hanky. It’s not every day a woman gets Rakhi Sawant for a daughter-in-law.

 
16 Comments

Posted by on November 2, 2010 in Celebrity, Entertainment, Newsmakers, Video

 

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Rakht Charitra: Suckered Again

<i>Rakht Charitra</i>: Suckered Again

Here’s a sentence I type less and less often as the years go by: I was truly excited to watch Ram Gopal Varma’s new movie. A fictional account of the blood-soaked real life of Andhra Pradesh politician Paritala Ravi, Rakht Charitra sounded interesting and right up RGV’s alley. Gore, politics, revenge, it had to be a knock out of the RGV park.

Well, I don’t know which angel RGV decided to piss off by taking a dump in its bed, but Rakht Charitra is terrible. Not in a lights come on and you look over at your date and immediately apologize for picking this movie of all the tens available kind of way, but in a shoulders slumped in defeat as you slowly huddle into your miserable seat and sadly shake your head way.

Rakht Charitra is an orgy of all the hacky bits of filmmaking that have become the RGV hallmark of late, from mysterious/dizzying camera angles to boomingly obvious background scores to attention-destroying close ups of every other actor’s nostrils… now with the added benefit of the worst narrator ever employed by a movie. Bar none. His one direction seems to have been: “Pretend every word you speak is a breech baby to which you’re giving birth.”

And what words they are! After introducing us to the town of Anandpur, the kind of skeevy, dusty, violence-strewn place that we’ve now come to expect of our rural interiors at the cinema, our narrator helpfully informs us in his over-enunciated, weirdly accented manner that blood is the accepted way to settle things here – especially when it’s a matter of ego, women or privilege. And therefore, he continues, the history of Anandpur is a history of blood. A rakht charitra in fact! So clever.

Apparently RGV only expected idiots to come watch his movie (and yes, I feel like one now, thanks for asking!) because this distressing pattern doesn’t end after the introduction. Instead, the narrator regularly puts in an appearance to thunderously explain a scene, after which you see the scene take place.

  • “The snake is coming out of his lair!” – the villain is about to leave his house.
  • “She didn’t know this then but he had set out on a long journey.” – and our hero hops on a scooter and rushes off to his faraway, troubled homeland.
  • “His ego was hurt by X event so he asked his assistant who was behind this deed.” – three guesses what happens next.

The sad part about all of this, the reason I’m so viciously disappointed, is because there’s actually a good movie hidden somewhere in the middle of this mess, performed by actors who’re pretty good at their jobs.

I feel especially bad for Vivek Oberoi, a man on the Ben Affleck road to redemption, who turns in a what I suspect was a fine performance if only I could penetrate that cacophony of tricks RGV unloads on top of it. There was his (unintentionally) hilarious entry scene, for instance, wherein he exudes menace, riding a Bajaj scooter and opening the unoffending gate of a suburban house in a nice neighborhood so he can ask for his girlfriend’s hand in marriage. The one standout scene, before it succumbed to the everpresent trowel-full of obvious ham, comes late into the film when he stands before the pawn he’s just utilized to his best advantage, standing bathed in the golden glow of the sun, a well-barbered young man in shining white, all the better to appeal to public opinion.

I try really hard to go with the movie presented in front of me, rather than the movie I think ought to exist in its place, but every so often I come across one that is the equivalent of an old friend who greets me by slapping a dead fish in my face. It gets rather difficult to look past the fish to the friend standing beyond. I honestly feel RGV is a man with a lot of interesting, creative ideas who, in the wise words of Tim Gunn, doesn’t know how to edit. So he just sticks everything in there.

Anysmellydeadfish, the movie begins with an easily manipulated politician called Narasimha Reddy whose righteous friendship with his lower caste protege Veer Bhadra lasts all of two watered-down Scotches after it is given the evil eye by a painfully obvious manipulator called Nagamani Reddy (Kota Srinivasa Rao). The fallout results in a simmering caste war that promises to play out at the local elections, threatening to unseat the Reddys from their power base. Nagamani, with Narasimha’s blessing, then takes his grudge just that teensy envelope-pushing bit too far and assassinates Veer Bhadra.

His mantle of idealism thus falls on elder son Shankar (Sushant Singh), who carries it with grief, pride and a healthy dose of guerrilla warfare. This obviously gets him murdered in short order as well, leaving just Pratap (Vivek Oberoi) to carry out the family mission: kill all those who wronged their family and, time and energy permitting, society as a whole.

Unfortunately, once Narasimha and Nagamani have been despatched, with a modicum of elan I might add, Pratap finds his troubles aren’t over. Now Pratap is a wanted terrorist and Nagamani has left behind his infamous son Bukka (Abhimanyu Singh), who “changed the definition of vile” the ever-knowledgeable narrator informs us over a montage of said Bukka being suitably changing the definition of vile. Sigh.

Happily for Pratap, Bukka is an equal opportunity son-of-a-bitch and has succeeded in pissing off Shivaji Rao (Shatrughan Sinha), a carpet-bagging movie star turned politician, whom he hilariously scares away from Anandpur with a few well placed bombs. Outraged that he, the man who regularly beat up entire armies single-handedly on the big screen, was forced to turn tail and run offscreen, Shivaji wants to know: “How can a demon like Bukka exist in a democracy?”

“What do you mean how?” asks his befuddled assistant. “He exists therefore he is.”

I chuckled far more heartily than this little sally deserved but at a certain point, you take your joy where you can get it.

Thus, Shivaji and Pratap join forces – Pratap’s no dummy after all, and he’s powerfully attracted to Shivaji, the most Machiavellian figure he’s ever met, and his amazing ideas like keeping Pratap out of jail by turning him into a politician so he can murder all he wants while staying above the law. Oh, Nagamani, if only you and your pitiful tumblers of Scotch were alive to watch and learn, abashed, the art of skillful manipulation from a man who prefers to stroke the heads of gold tigers than rapey sons.

As the problem of Bukka is solved, with more helpful exposition from the narrator, Pratap sets about his business, cleaning town and taking names. In between all this is an honest cop (Ashwini Kalsekar) who shows up to remind you that honesty never pays, especially in an RGV movie; and various wives, widows, sisters, hookers, pillion-riders, billboard models and girlfriends, all of them sad, desperate and sinned against, except for Nandini (Radhika Apte). Pratap’s college sweetheart turned wife, she is the sort of fool who calmly listens to her beloved telling her he’s indeed a much-discussed murderer who plans to murder again and decides that’s just what she’s looking for in the father of her children. Off she goes to walk silently by his side in the forest and give meaningful looks in the background. She’ll get hers, I guess.

In the sequel! Wherein Pratap will be presented with his butcher’s bill. But apart from the little “scenes from our next movie” they tacked on to the end of this one, I have no idea what that will look like because here’s a sentence I will never use again: I am truly excited to watch Ram Gopal Varma’s new movie.

 
17 Comments

Posted by on October 25, 2010 in Entertainment, Movies, Review, Video

 

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Earworm Friday

All hail the Mighty Earworm! A little sumpin’-sumpin’ to remember me by this lonely weekend. I hope you don’t have anything romantic planned because nothing ruins the mood faster than a partner who walks around muttering “gutur gutur”. Enjoy!


(now with subtitles for double the horror!)

I have no earthly clue how this toxic spillage of a movie became a hit but it takes Shahrukh Khan, Madhuri Dixit, Salman Khan and even a love-addled Aishwarya Rai and gives you turdblossoms like the one above. After this movie was released, Mads got married and moved far, far away and Ash and SRK both dumped Salman who is equally mad at them. I’m not saying that all resulted from this movie, but if the pieces of nuclear devastation fit…


(I want to forget this but I can’t! SOB!)

The most hilarious thing about this song is something I didn’t even know until I fell down my Mahesh Babu wormhole: look at this. Heh heh heh. I could be the only one who notices a certain resemblance but I find it very fitting. This song is so terrible, dancing to it made Hrithik’s body fall apart. Yes, I choose to blame all his physical ailments on this one.


(starts at the 6.00 mark)

You could probably do an entire list of questionable songs from David Dhawan movies – although, why would you? You’re not an insane masochist like myself – but he really outdid himself with this little ditty from one of his rare non-Govinda movie, back in the days when Akshay Kumar was box office poison.


(aka the reason I’m anti-cell phones)

How? How could this list be complete without at least one Govinda song? Especially this Govinda song? I’ve heard it everywhere – the streets of Delhi, the hallways of American dorms, the subways of New York, the airport of Paris – and I’m sure I would have heard it more often if my brain hadn’t taken proactive steps to ensure my sanity and blocked it out on multiple occasions.


(old is gold)

Here is the man who taught Govinda all he knows: the one and only Jeetendra singing the immortal “Ui Amma” with that brave soldier of the nation, Jaya Prada whose saree mysteriously crumples up and flies away with the wind. Only in the 80s, folks!


(before you pour bleach into your eyes and ears, I should warn you that it’s no use)

Why is Amrita showing me soft porn, you wonder. She isn’t; it’s Mithun Chakraborty’s second coming. Ahem. It’s one of those all time “classics” that nobody can ever forget or unhear once it’s entered their orbit. Even if you only glimpsed out the corner of your eye as it played on mute, you’d hear it in the recesses of your soul for ever and a day.


(Muahahahaha!)

Warning: You will never get this song out of your head. You’ll still go ahead and click because you’ll refuse to believe anything could be that addictive… and now for the rest of your life people will give you puzzled looks as you go about your business singing, “I am a Disco Dancer!” under your breath.

(For Pitu and Chintan)

 
21 Comments

Posted by on September 24, 2010 in Celebrity, Entertainment, Music, Video

 

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The English Patience

Hello. I love British shows.
Thank you. You’ve got good taste.

Currently I’m watching ——-. I’m on episode 4 already. I can’t wait for next week!
Sorry but you will have to.

What do you mean?
Well, this season is over.

Oh, I didn’t know that. Well, then I’ll just catch up with the rest of the episodes on the net or buy the DVDs or something.
That’s just it. There are no more episodes.

You mean the entire season comprises of 4 episodes?
Yes.

Huh. Well, when does the next season start?
Three years from now. Maybe.

What?
I said: The next season will air three years from now. Maybe.

Are you serious?
Of course. Why would I joke about a thing like that? But the good news is that it might stretch to six episodes if the cast and the producers can reach an agreement.

Oh, that is good news! And why wouldn’t the cast agree to a couple of extra episodes? Look at them! They seem to be having such fun.
Ah. Well, that’s not the cast that will appear in the next season.

The one three years from now? Maybe?
Yes. It will star a completely new cast.

But it’s the same show?
Duh. Obviously it’s the same show. Same concept, same location, same production. Just another cast.

I dunno. This all sounds confusing to me. I guess I’m going to wait until it all comes out on DVD and then catch it all together.
You’ll be waiting a while, won’t you?

What do you mean?
The DVDs don’t come out for another 20 years.

Shut up.
‘Struth!

But I just got the DVDs for this other British show I like.
When was it made?

Um, let me see… about 20 years – Oh.
Toldja.

But it’s the super nice anniversary edition. Four in a box.
Not bad for one season.

Ha ha. Don’t be silly. It’s four DVDs for four seasons.
Check it.

*runs to check*

Crap. It’s one episode per DVD! And there’s no commentary or making of or anything. Wait, there’s a two-minute interview in each!
Oooh, you got the fancy version! Must have been expensive.

No – yes – well…
How much did you pay for it?

It retails for 100 pounds but it was on sale so I got it for 80.
Nice.

About this British show I love…
Yes?

I think I’ll wait for the watered down American version.
Smart choice.

 
9 Comments

Posted by on September 10, 2010 in Entertainment, Television, Video

 

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Peeping Through My Fingers at Peepli Live

Peeping Through My Fingers at <i>Peepli Live</i>

Written and directed by Anusha Rizvi, Aamir Khan Productions’ Peepli Live is about as funny as a heart attack.

Farmer Natha (Omkar Das) is the very picture of the word gormless. He’s bullied by his elder brother, the marginally more cunning Budhia (Raghubir Yadav) before whom he regresses into a state of infantile uncertainty; pegged as a twerp by his mother (Farrukh Jaffar) whose selfish refusal to die when she gets sick in her old age leads the brothers deeper into poverty and debt; and harassed by his wife Dhaniya (Shalini Vatsa) whose native shrewishness is only exacerbated by a pretty good recognition of her husband’s lackluster character.

It is easy to laugh at Natha’s stoic bovinity as he shuffles along behind his brother, trying to make sense of his life. If his hapless form makes an easy target for his wife’s taunts, his mother’s deprecations and his brother’s manipulation, it is no less convenient a target for the blows of the pissed-off local politician’s goons, a young reporter’s ambitions or our own derision. But it’s not quite so funny when you realize that those dazed eyes that peer out underneath that tangle of dirty hair and facial scruff no longer dream of anything but escape.

One particular day, when death is all anybody can talk about, a few careless words from an uncaring overlord, an equally carefully engineered conversation with his brother and a momentary impulse to do something, sets him on the path to what could be the ultimate escape: death.

A chance meeting with Rakesh (Nowaz), a young man who also wishes to do something – and suddenly Natha is an unlikely national headline in an election year. Everybody wants to know if he’s going to kill himself for the compensation money or not; if yes, then when; if not, then how come. Even as his unhappy family is imprisoned in their home, the area around his miserable hut turns into a fairground as the media, politicians and the locals turn his possible suicide into a thriving mini-economy where everything but reality has value.

Like any other movie, Peepli Live works best when it forgets that it has Important Things to say and show. The climax in particular with the big boom that kills real journalism was unworthy of a movie that gave us an exquisite scene in which the Agriculture Secretary daintily drinks the finest Darjeeling tea while passing the buck on poor farmers killing themselves on his watch or the hilarious scene in which Natha receives a “Lal Bahadur” and is sternly informed that he can no longer kill himself because the long dead Prime Minister has come to his rescue… even if his largesse has absolutely no bearing on Natha’s problems.

The news bits are particularly plastic. Cable news in India is so incredibly fevered, trivial, kiss ass, shrill and just terrible overall that a partially deaf blind man could see it – as the actors self-consciously attempt to parody something that is already a parody of real news, the cardboard scene collapses flat on its face. And rightly so.

The one standout of the whole news section is the vainglorious Deepak, star reporter for a Hindi channel and an unparalleled master of bull (and other species’) shit, played by Vishal Sharma with an earnest egotism that is instantly memorable. The political bits, meanwhile, are mostly ho-hum even if Naseeruddin Shah periodically makes an appearance to spray silky venom and a bureaucrat takes you on a brief yet entertaining tour of red tape in our republic.

In stark contrast are the scenes of the village. Perhaps somebody who has actually lived in a rural area might have a different opinion, but to this city brat Peepli Live came alive in the dying fields of Peepli.

“What is the answer to farmers committing suicide?” asks the shiny reporter.
“Industrialization!” replies the Agricultural Minister.

Peepli Live is funny but I’ll laugh the day I can eat a steel curry with iron rice.

 
3 Comments

Posted by on August 24, 2010 in Entertainment, Movies, Review, Video

 

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Bittersweet

Some places are gone forever.

The best part about moving on is that which is yet to come – the busy-ness of it, the sense of purpose, the future that awaits, the anticipation builds. You see a door and you don’t know what lies behind it. A whole another world to explore. A new house with new neighbors and new idiosyncrasies to learn; a new room with new shadows that wait to make friends with your old dreams and forgotten nightmares; new sounds that announce themselves in drips and creaks. A new life with new possibilities.

The worst part about moving on is that which is past – the sadness of it, the sense of loss, the memories that fade into a sepia tint despite promises of forever. You look over your shoulder and you see all that you’re leaving behind. You grieve because you know you’ve said goodbye even though you pretend it’s au revoir. The old house with its worn knowledge, its mysteries exposed; the shadows you know by name; the sounds you’ve investigated a million times; the walls pitted with your deeds. It is home.

Sometimes a song, the music of horns, snatches of conversation, the sound of someone’s laughter, wind rustling through leaves along an endless line of defiant trees, the smell of tobacco warming the morning air, squirrels at play, the squeaky tones of an adventurous toddler’s sneakers, mustachioed men at gates, the milky warm smell of a happy puppy, aged stone warmed by sunlight, the smooth grain of polished wood, bright red blood welling from a cut – and there you are again. In that place with no address; that space you carry within you. Fold by fold it opens to envelope you, until you stand there, just as it used to be.

Nothing has changed. But you don’t live there anymore. Nothing has changed, but these streets don’t look the way they used to. The trees have been cut down. The flowers aren’t the ones you love. It was the people who made it real but where have they gone? Nothing has changed except you.

The monster ate them. The bulldozer got them. The man bought them. They lost the directions. It’s a bittersweet realization, but some places are gone forever.

 
9 Comments

Posted by on August 20, 2010 in Personal

 

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Lost MacLean: Golden Rendezvous

Golden Rendezvous was the first Alistair MacLean novel I actually wanted to read. I’d spent a year flipping idly through the pages of The Guns of Navarone on the recommendation of a friend and had never been able to really get into it with all the other stuff lying around my room waiting to be read. But one rainy day during the summer vacation when I couldn’t think of a single other thing to do, I noticed a copy of this book lying around my grandma’s house and picked it up.

I loved it. It’s not the best of MacLean’s novels, but it’s crisp and stacked full of his trademark touches: ironic wit, manly heroes carrying the weight of the world on their broad shoulders, beautiful blondes with rich daddies and an attitude problem, villainously villainful villains who need to be taught a lesson, and lots of action. As an introduction to his work, it has a little bit of everything that MacLean has to offer and you honestly couldn’t do better.

For years, I’d heard that there was a movie version of Golden Rendezvous and I wanted to watch it. I’d seen the famous three: Where Eagles Dare, Guns of Navarone, and Ice Station Zebra, and I wanted to see all the other versions too. I should have realized that the reason those three are so famous is because they’re the only good ones.

Oh well. It’s not like I’m getting particular in my old age. So this week is all about The Lost MacLeans. Little known movies based on the novels of Alistair MacLean. Perhaps you all wished to know what I thought of Khatta Meetha (it’s crap and shame on you for even asking!), Salt (very fun – kick some more ass, girl!), or Inception (instant obsession), but this is what I’ve got instead.

***

1977’s Golden Rendezvous promises “The action of The Guns of Navarone. The suspense of Ice Station Zebra. The drama of Where Eagles Dare.”

In that spirit, we start at the cruise ship where all the action takes place: an odd-looking man with long, 70s-style, thinning blond hair is directing sailors and being busy. I’m immediately confused because in the book, these are the actions of Johnny, our hero – a solid block of handsome manliness who I’m pretty sure had all his hair.

Suddenly, a taxi comes flying across the docks and screeches to a halt so a pretty, 70s-style, young woman built like a gazelle (that is to say, kind of elongated everywhere – there is a disconcerting shot of her in profile later on, where her neck looks disturbingly like that of a turkey’s except she doesn’t have flaps of skin hanging off it) can leap out.

Johnny Unlikely (Richard Harris) calls her Mrs. Beresford (Ann Turkel). In the book, she’s most definitely a Miss and traveling with her sweetheart, millionaire parents.

I decide to stop using the book as a reference point.

So… a bunch of things happen: An old man is gambling on board the ship and winning heavily by using some complicated system he’s invented that is apparently foolproof and legal. A crew members shows up late for duty. Mrs. Beresford is very cozy with some guy called Conway whom she “loves very much” but also spends her evenings flirting with some Latin type called Tony while Conway drinks in his cabin. A cancer patient and some coffins are transferred on board right before the ship leaves. A waiter delivers meals. A woman with big peroxided hair evidently doesn’t want to be on the ship but is there anyway while her husband is kidnapped from some top-secret facility by men with accents. A terrible waiter steals a drink and goes outside to sneak a cigarette, and is promptly paid for his sins by getting his head bashed in. Johnny Unlikely sees his body getting dumped and is only saved from the same fate thanks to his colleagues.

If you’ve never read the book, then I have no idea what you will make of it all except Very Bad Things take place and Johnny fakes a leg injury after the ship is hijacked so he can wander around in the rain inflicting, we later find out, absolutely no damage whatsoever other than killing the Big Meanie’s son in a severely anti-climactic fight as well as a couple of other random baddies in assorted skirmishes. In fact, his greatest battle takes place with Mother Nature as he struggles against rain and sea to snoop on people and look thoughtful.

Somewhere along the way Harris pulls out his inner magic (jokes!) and manages to convince you he’s Johnny rather than Johnny Unlikely. And he mainly does it by randomly planting a big wet one on the attractive Mrs. Harris Beresford – although even that bit of charm doesn’t get her to give up her unnecessarily secret subplot.

Directed by Ashley Lazarus, who appears to be someone with a knack for assembling a talented cast so he can direct them into oblivion, Golden Rendezvous chooses to zig where the novel zagged and falls right into the ravine of mistakes in the middle.

The novel wasn’t merely about “Nuclear Terror”, the title chosen for Rendezvous‘s TV debut. In fact, it was about a lot of things but nuclear terror was absolutely not it. Golden Rendezvous was a fantastic conjob as well as an action-packed thriller in which superman John Carter doesn’t merely get bloody revenge for the shipmates the crooks killed, he outsmarts them out of their money and then blows them up to kingdom come – coz if that’s the way they wanted to play it, he was more than game.

The movie John Carter smashes through a few things to a potentially great Jeff Wayne soundtrack that was apparently just slapped on, bumbles the one big switcheroo and stumbles upon the way out by pure luck. Phooey.

The best part of the movie was undoubtedly the luckless Preston (Keith Baxter) whose is introduced – in one of the three scenes he is allowed to speak – by the back of his head. I forgot to mention the camera work on this movie is insane and not in a good way. Things don’t get much better for the poor fellow.

He gets shot in the stomach, is medicated with a glass of brandy, then is knocked out and locked up in isolation at the infirmary because Johnny is suspicious of him, and subsequently spends the rest of the movie saving Johnny’s and everyone else’s ass without so much as a word – all liberally interspersed with scenes in which he is randomly tossing and turning in bed or crawling about the deck on his wounded tummy. It’s like something out of Monty Python.

Too bad the rest of the movie doesn’t match up.

 
5 Comments

Posted by on July 26, 2010 in Entertainment, Movies, Review, Video

 

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