The Appetite Killer

Many a scene before the intermission, my petulant stomach was already grousing. Not wanting it to make a scene, I tried to dupe it into think it really was full by gulping water. No dice. It seems like my stomach is one smart cookie – or it is smarter than my brain at least – and couldn’t be deceived.

Then I tried ignoring it by concentrating on Basanti's rapid-fire chatter - and that girl can really talk (if I were Dhanno, I'd be making plans to run away); my stomach threatened to retaliate by announcing to everybody in the AV-suite my maltreatment of it with one loud and prolonged growl.

Just then, I noticed an AV-suite neighbor, whose telly screen was perfectly in my line of vision, was watching Koroshiya 1 (Ichi The Killer). The opening titles were attractive and promising, and my eyes started straying.

I'd vaguely known about Ichi when I was reading up on Tadanobu Asano, and, maybe, I'd even thought about watching it, but it was one of those things you store at the back of your mind and later lose. All I can say is, if I'd watched it when it first came out, I'd have the figure of an anorexic eleven year-old today - and I'd be staunchly vegan.

Gabbar Singh (Amjad Khan with a pierced ear and pot belly) might have heralded a new era of super-villians, but next to Kakihara (Tadanobu bleached blond, and scarred and pierced), his torture techniques appeared lacking - lacking in sophistication, finesse, and - most noticeably - creativity. If Gabbar Singh had been replaced by Kokihara, Ramgarh would have needed more than the prowess of Jai and Veeru (and the Thakur's stupendous leaps). Needless to say, Ichi easily managed to subvert the efforts of Steven Shainberg in promoting a healthy view of S&M with Secretary.

Still, however gruesome, at least Ichi stopped my stomach grumbling (queasiness notwithstanding), and it was actually quite fascinating and compelling - in the same morbid way fatal car crashes are to the crowd the always gathers around the aftermath. So I'd 'watched' Ichi while tuning into the dialogues of Sholay.

Now, Sholay is a fun movie, but 204 minutes is stretching my ability to concentrate and sit still a little. True, Lagaan outlasts Sholay by a full 20 minutes, but I'd watched it at my leisure over three days (a video-disc a day). In the course of Sholay's duration, I'd spent quite some time marveling at how Arbaaz Sohail Khan resembles Dharmendra, and wondering whether Sunny or Bobby resembles their father more (my money's on Sunny, although there was one shot of Dharmendra that had me thinking for a moment I was seeing Bobby).

If there were one scene I wish were longer, it would have to be Helen's dancing - Goddess bless Helen! - to 'Mehbooba Mehbooba'. That is one hypnotic song, 'Mehbooba Mehbooba' - and it's been on repeat on my mp3 player for a couple of days now.

I've tried, really I've tried, but I just can't cotton to Jaya Bhaduri. I keep thinking she has a crying sort of face - what I'd call a ku3 ming4 lian3 in Mandarin ("bitter-life face", literally) - which does nothing to endear her or her character to me. However, her character Radha - ironically but later shown to be aptly named - makes up for Basanti's chattiness (tonga-waali who can talk the ears off a stone sculpture) by being the silent, stoically suffering Sati Savitri, showing that, if for nothing else, she's good for alliteration at least.

Sholay's ending was anti-climatic. Gabbar Singh sure dies easy. I think what I thought most about it was, it sure makes Qurbani seem positively homo-erotic, especially Vinod Khanna's death scene. Anyway, at least I can now strike Sholay off my list of must-watch Bollywood oldies. Now, if only the school library stocks Guru Dutt's films ...

I didn't get to 'watch' the end of Ichi because the guy who was watching it ran out of time. Even though it was showing on a telly screen at least ten feet away, and I'd 'watched' it soundless and nearly always without subtitles, it'd really disturbed me. Leaving the AV-suite, I was paranoid and terrified for my life. Home seemed like an ocean away, and it was getting too dark too quickly. As I hurried home, I'd promised myself that I'd never, ever visit Japan (or Shinjuku at least) again, cross the Yakuza, look cross-eyed at anybody who even remotely resembles Kakihara, eat innards, peep at any neighboring telly screens again, or go to the AV-suite with a full stomach.

Also, I'd promised myself I'd watch Ichi later this week.

Go figure.