The Empress's New Clothes

If no one else dares to say it, I will - Angelina Jolie can't act. She is a one-role wonder who won an Oscar for playing herself and nothing underscores this better than Lara Croft, The (godhelpus) Changeling and now The Tourist.
Why was Tourist even made? What was the story it had to tell that we have not been told a dozen times already? We knew from the opening scene who Johnny Depp was and we understand why Captain Sparrow could not turn the role down – who can refuse this woman whose fame is bigger than she is? Of course take Mr Pitt out of the picture and it would be halved but that's neither here nor there. The only thing The Tourist did was pay homage to Ms Jolie's admittedly mesmerising beauty. Her face is unsurpassable and her fashion exquisite. From the fur and gold accessories to the cinched-waist ensembles topped with the abundant hair extensions, we could have asked for nothing more – visually. But as when she moaned 'I want my son, I want my son' until we cringed with embarrassment in our seats during The Changeling, watch her move down Europe's hallowed streets as though a mannequin had come to life and you will simply shake your head in wonder. What was the director thinking? No spy would actually hip-sway down public roads with her nose in the air. And when she enters a ball, the world stops and stares as though Liz Taylor, Charlize Theron and Doutzen Kroes never existed.
But there is another reason to watch Tourist and that's Depp's continuing comic genius. Buongiorno, says the Italian receptionist and the foreign languages-impaired American says, Yes, yes, Bonjovi and hurriedly tries to say that men with 'pistoleros' were coming to get him, to which the receptionist replies, Sir, your Spanish is excellent. The Yankee doesn't know the difference, of course. The joke carries on when he tells an Italian cop, Gracias instead of Grazie and the cop says De Nada. I laughed till the tears rolled down my cheeks but alas, some were tears of pain that there are no men of courage out there who will simply say No to Ms Jolie's further skewering of the public sensibility through her so-called acting skills.
I'm sure she knows the truth, too, since she has now taken to directing.

Dear H, a love letter

In the secret life I live, by which I don't mean I indulge in S&M, unless that stands for Smarties and Mars bars, I fall in love every so often. An enduring relationship has been with Horatio Caine of CSI Miami, because the world I've created, in the hushed interiors of my room, revolves around television, and books.
I was into H from the first; that sideways stance, the low voice, that baby face with the old eyes, the dark suit and the necessity of addressing everyone as Mr and Ma'am and Son. Well, others have gravitated to the same alluring forces that gather in H because the show has surpassed the original CSI, even though they have given H the worst one-liners ever to leave a beloved character's lips. Despite that, he has become the man all eyes turn to, a hero of heroes, so full of virtue that a man will commit a crime in the city H lives in because he knows Lt Caine will uncover the truth in what he has done, and justice will be served.
In the end, that is the reason for CSI Miami's ridiculous popularity. At a time when media personalities have revealed the venality of their famous personas in the most embarrassing revelations, I turn to Horatio to stand as a beacon for what is right. Lose that sense and you lose it all. You can be an editor in India today because you know the right people, or you can be a politician because you paid the right people, or you can run a business because you destroyed the right people (by which I mean all the wrong people, of course), but erase your soul and you erase the only thing you can take with you.
So when I'm promised a Horatious November on Fox Crime all I can say is here, Jim Morrison, are the feasts we were promised.

The pity of it all

In Hitch-22, which I just finished reading, Christopher Hitchens uses the title here to refer to the German-Jewish relationship. To me, considering his physical suffering at the moment, it refers to a personal journey no one should have to undertake. I can't really think of philosophy and existentialism and geo-politics when every page of this memoir is tainted with the author's mortality in such an ironic way, a way he no doubt appreciates better than his reader: Memoir as swan song. Nobody wants one so near the other.
I can't watch CH's interview with Anderson Cooper (who has had his own share of tragedy yet manages to enquire about CH's health in an awful monotone) because it is not pity I am moved to, it is rage. And I want to know why CH hasn't shaved his head, and looks instead as though he has seen death approaching and it has a capital D unlike the god in his indictment on religion. god is Not Great is more readable, by the way, than this almost dried-out dissertation on a life well-lived; it reads like a political treatise rather than a riveting understanding of a man widely reviled and admired; what an opportunity squandered when it is after all in his own words.
But of course, it reads. You get a first-hand understanding of Salman Rushdie, Martin Amis and Edward Said among others, (but the tone is awed, much like Oprah who remains star-struck even though she is a star herself), and you do get a fairly accurate, If Sahara-like, insight into the mind of their mutual, sorry, common friend, but it is laced with the pauses that hint of moist if not downright juicy bits being in the stuff left out. It is not the houses we wanted to know about, Hitch, it is "the spaces between the houses".
But still, nothing CH writes is without merit so it will be part of my library. If there only had been a god, I could have kept space for more of his work.

A singular genius

Tom Ford used to be a cautionary tale. The genius behind Gucci, he made the brand name so glamourous that to be clothed in his designs was to have a Monroe moment. (Talk about cautionary tales.) Anyway, after he was fired, he spoke in interviews about his interest in film. No one scoffed – outright. He went on to stay iconic, working with Estee Lauder to bring out Amber Dew, and a make-up palette that was clean, definitive and supremely sexy, like his womenswear. He then designed glasses that became like the Hermes Birkin, instantly recognisable and universally coveted. Then, he made A Single Man.
I remember seeing a movie, the name of which I've forgotten, where a young boy falls in love with a man and it was the first time I realised that homosexuality, unlike what society tries to din into our dim skulls, is neither unnatural nor wrong. It showed love, real love, between two people, and it was moving and sweet. With this movie, Ford does the same thing. Colin Firth, of course, was lucky enough to have found Ford because this is what he will be remembered for.
What a sad song for romance, though, and life. What stays in your mind for days is the deep connection between the lead couple, and the searing frames. Ford changes the colours from slightly grey to warm red to show emotion, or a spilled pot of black ink which travels to a man's mouth as though his life's blood, too, has turned. This kind of creativity in film-making has been noted for its invisibility until Ford came along.
There are two moments that are ineradicable as far as I'm concerned. One is when Jon Kortajarena appears on screen, all 6ft 2in of James Dean couture with the same kind of heart-stopping beauty. The other is when Colin approaches a sleeping Nicholas Hoult and does not enter the 'elderly gay man corrupting a young boy' scenario which is as much a cliche as a falsehood, and the kind of thing mediocre directors would have immediately latched on to as a, well, as a cautionay tale.
Ford was so smart not to go there. In fact, I think Ford is a genius, and Gucci should be thanked for firing him over artistic control (that's the thanks he got for taking a bankrupt company to the $10 billion mark!). Frida Giannini is great, no doubt, but she is not a genius. Ford got the opportunity to show us he is just that in more arenas than one.
PS. Another thing of beauty which I thank all the Gods for is Matthew Goode. Kortajarena is the sort of man you would enjoy watching in a love scene; with Goode, you want to be in the scene.

Gordon Ramsey couldn't escape this...

Gordon's great escape to India on Travel & Living is unexpected, as was to be expected, but he can be cringe-making even there. While I enjoyed seeing him attempt to run with the bulls, south India style, he lost marks in the next round. He committed the cardinal sin of chefs who sample cuisine they don't like - he spit out toddy in Kerala.
Now Malayalees are not unfamiliar with their egos, and the faces of the men who were a.serving and b. introducing said toddy were frozen, as was mine. Honestly, for a man whose life is food, a little discretion should be de rigueur. The last time my face froze was when Bobby Chin spat out durian in Malaysia if I recall correctly. Good manners can never be over-emphasised.

The day I met the Earl of Essex

It was one of those days when you woke up, turned your head to the open window and saw nothing but blue skies, heard only birdsong and thought to yourself, ‘Why bother’ before turning on your side and going back to sleep. Can there be anything more depressing than the elements caroling the wonder of the world when you’re beating yourself up wondering why you have such a dead-end job and what’s the matter with you and maybe your Dad was right when he said you would come to a bad end?
But you hauled yourself out of bed because you had an Interview. You know what that means, right? Speaking to someone who tells you everything their PR person crafted out for them after you’ve spent hours drafting clever questions that will tell the reader what a witty, learned individual you are….oh, and of course, reveal something about the person you are interviewing.
So you dressed in jeans and a striped business shirt but added a red leather belt to show that you weren’t to be taken completely for granted. You arrived on time and waited for 45 minutes for He Who Must Not Be Named to do the same. He was a writer who had just launched a mega-boring book but it was your job to pretend it was marginally interesting enough for some column inches. He came finally, sat down without looking at you and asked the waiter of the five-star hotel coffee shop to bring him an espresso – without looking at him either. Then he sighed and asked you to go ahead, as though you were the executioner and he was the Earl of Essex.
You began as you meant to go on, softly, feeling like you were bearding a lion in its den. Dared you ask what his “inspiration” was? No, so you asked the next best thing.
“How did you manage to flesh out the character so well?”
The thaw set in immediately as He began to tell you how he had used an infamous jailbird as yes, inspiration, since the man had taken one look at him and decided he had at long last met someone who understood the nature of the crime committed blahdeeblah.
Is He for real? you thought. The jailbird saw a meal ticket and an opportunity to extend his already saturated 15 minutes of fame, is what he saw.
“And I told him that even though he had committed heinous crimes, he had paid for them with all those years behind bars. Now was the time to tell his story with no holds barred.”
The story had been told until you felt your insides churn at the mere mention of the jailbird’s name, but no matter.
So tell me, He asked, after 30 minutes of plugging, “How long have you been a journalist?” Translation: “I bloody well hope they sent a senior moron to interview me.”
“Over 10 years,” you murmured. Translation: “More years than you’ve spent learning the alphabet so that you can bore readers to tears, boyo.”
“It’s been a pleasure,” he said, before getting up. Translation: “Thank God that’s over. Now for my spa treatment.
“Absolutely,” you said. Translation: “Thank God that’s over. Now for my real interview with Katrina Kaif.”

Go Away, Mr Gibson

It’s not enough to have made Lethal Weapon and Braveheart or to have stopped us in our tracks with Mad Max in the beginning. No, In The Beginning it seems Mel Gibson said Let There be Light in the darkness cast by Jews and N**gers (apparently people still use words like this which I can't even write). The rumour mill has it that poor dear Mel has a drinking problem but the time has come and gone when we could blame all our ills on booze, drugs or our parents. There is only one verdict to be passed on the Mels of this word: Go Away.
And uh, no, we won’t be watching any of your movies either. One does, however, have a fleeting thought for Mr Gibson’s 9-month-old daughter, the 8th child in his Roman Catholic worldview. Imagine her legacy when she grows up.

Robin Longtooth more like

Russell Crowe and Ridley Scott have played together in the sand too long; it’s time they found new muses. At one point in Robin Hood, I was wondering whether I was watching Gladiator, with RC exhorting his men to fight. Point Number 2: If this is the story before the legend, why is Robin 300 years old? All a bit much. And I’m sure Russell being the control freak he is would have had final say in his female co-star but great actress or not, Cate Blanchett has no chemistry with any of her leading men, and here it really showed. There was no point, either, for RC to get his famous temper displayed when someone interviewing him on the BBC said his accent sounded Irish. Actually, it sounded Irish and Scottish and Welsh. So there.

Paradise Found

Delhi is one of the prettiest places in the country. There's the joke where they say the only problem here is one too many north Indians but one look at those wide, tree-lined streets where you look left and suddenly see a brick-red monument hundreds of years old peering back at you makes you proud, for a change. I love the sound of Hindi and the authentic food. But the moment I decided to move if ever I got the chance was when I found Yacult in the supermarket. I threw in the towel when I saw Debenhams (Debenhams!) at the Ambi Mall in Gurgaon. Not to mention Aldo, Nine West, Chicago Pizza and Häagen-Dazs. Paradise Found.

Thanks for putting out the trash...

I feel as proud of Sandra Bullock as I would my own flesh and blood who put garbage where it belonged - out in the yard to be picked up the next morning. Can there, meanwhile, be anything more stupid than randy older men who think that sleeping with anything that moves somehow proves they still have it? There's no doubt they do - still have the rotting moral core they were born with, o yeah.

Best Stateside purchase I ever made

The Boudoir

Strange days, and then Vogue....

These have been strange days. I barely peek out of the bed covers, I read too much (yes, there is such a thing), I eat at odd hours, I worry. So when I came across the following in Vogue India, March, I could have wept, but I laughed instead. It was either that or, as my friend Anu and I keep a strict watch on, Go Postal.
Vogue contends that the look designers are going for this season embrace the 'sheer lightness of mood in Alexandre Cabanel's (work)....reflective of this season's neo-romantic trend.' Nothing wrong with that, you say? Perhaps, except that the 'lightness of mood' referred to here is Cabanel's painting of........Ophelia.
Is there a watery equivalent to spinning in the grave? Coz that's what O is doing as we speak. Is this better or worse than confusing Alexa Chung with Vanessa Traina a few pages on? I agree, much worse.


Goodbye, Mr James
Sandra, Sandra, Sandra. I could have told you nothing but humiliation awaits anyone who speaks about undying love for a partner in Hollywood. But I feel for you. I liked Jesse. He has a way of speaking slowly and saying the funniest things, he is also, as you pointed out, hot. But he is on his third marriage, honeychile; it's like having children, one is acceptable, two questionable, three is just two too many. But the real horror is feeling like a blinkered idiot after telling the planet that only this man showed you what it was like to have someone really care for you, who made you feel You were worthwhile, whom you loved trulymadlydeeply. It's one thing telling your best friend all this over cocktails, quite another telling the world media. If there was such a thing as justice, JJ would be egged and paraded down the main street of every country that reported Sandra's words. It's the least we can do.

Avatar, Blah-vatar

Possibly the biggest disappointment of the year. Apart from the special effects which were astounding, what does James Cameron mean by spewing out such an awful cliché of a movie? We’ve met the storyline as early as Pocahontas, did we have to get a rerun for the zillionth time? There was a couple sitting next to me in the theatre who walked out after 15 minutes. That’s all it takes to know you’ve been suckered.
The only thing I admired was the way women were on absolutely equal terms as the men on this mythical planet; now that is something that hasn’t been done before. But by the time Sam Worthington was transmuted into his avatar (oh, puh-leeze), it was all I could do to keep my breakfast down.
James, honey, you need to get back underwater… or get the water out of your ears.

Why parents should be banned

I have the most horrific neighbours. A couple of weirdo housewives who spend three parts of the day yelling at their kids. And what are they yelling about? “Eat fast!” “Swallow!” “Shut your mouth!” Slap, slap. To the listener, it’s appalling and evokes absolute rage for the absolutely helpless.
What parents don’t seem to get is that they have such complete control over their offspring that it can make them psychos. And it does. Children have no rights, as we all know. We tell them what to eat, (and when to swallow, apparently), when to sleep, how to study, who they can have as friends, what their career choices should be….a neverending spiral. But with great power comes great responsibility, etc. Children are people, too. And to crush their spirit is as evil an act as murder. Oh, not that I have been untouchable myself, but to be self-aware is the first step to not crushing a young child’s heart with a couple of slaps because she’s not eating her food fast enough to suit you.
No matter how hard you try, you can’t bring up a child faultlessly, sometimes even well. Is the universe trying to tell us something?