This dry spell at the multiplexes is obviously proving to be a drag. Not on me personally but on their bottom-lines. So they’re trying out innovative strategies to fill up the halls. Like the screening of the Iron Maiden Rockumentary.
The PVR guys decided to kick start the event with a premiere-like launch. Since one of my best friends is a playback singer, she got passes. She knows I like heavy metal and asked me if I’d like to go along.
“PVR?” I said. “Parel? It’s an awfully long way to drive.”
“Yes,” she began apologetically, “but we can call a PHD (for those of you who don’t know, P.H.D. stands for party hard drivers).”
“I said it’s far. I didn’t say it’s an interstate drive.”
“But…”
“It’s settled. I’ll drive,” I said.
The event was scheduled to begin at 9 with the screening beginning at 9.30. But knowing the film industry, we made an appearance only at 9.45. By then the hall was full of a motley group of people. Some were genuine fans. It’s easy to spot them. I man the long, pony-tailed tresses and the Iron maiden T shirts are kinda hard to miss. And the artwork of the Iron Maiden stuff is memorable.
But then there were some clean cut looking kids who looked like the hardest rock they’d heard was Bryan Adams. I wondered what they were doing there. And then I spotted the open bar.
I rounded angrily on my friend. “You didn’t tell there was booze!”
She was clearly taken back. “I said it was a premiere-like thing. Why do you think I suggested a PHD?” she said, happily reaching for a Martini. Grrr!
Anyway, with booze out of the question, I wandered around in search of some holy smoke (you know what I mean). That, too, is dangerous but hopefully the effects would have worn off by the time the film ended. And even they didn’t, the cops can’t spot it. Not the Bombay cops anyway.
But, of all the places, this place turned out to not have a designated smoking area. I was hoping to spot some dedicated head-bangers rolling ’em and smoking ’em. Sadly, I could see the head-bangers looking as out of sorts as I was feeling. This whole no smoking in public places thing is turning out to be a big drag too.
With no booze and no smoke, the wait seemed interminable.
However, it wasn’t too bad once the movie began. As images of Bombay flashed across the screen (the local trains, the elephant, all mandatory shots while filming India were there) I wondered why I hadn’t gone for the concert. And then I remembered why. Not only didn’t I get free passes, I’m far too old to queue up for three hours just three hours and just to get in. Not to mention, subject myself to the invasive frisking. That was before I saw what happens in Columbia. Now that’s invasive.
The movie was good, although the pace did drag in a few places, especially some repetitive shots like the loading and unloading of equipment, the flight attendant’s safety instruction drill and Bruce Dickinson in the cockpit. The music was good but I suspect it was dubbed over. No way can a concert sound so even. All in all, a worthwhile watch for die-hard Maiden-heads.
When tall, suave, handsome Kaustav Kapoor walks into her office, ditzy private investigator Kasthuri (aka Katie) Kumar has anything but detection on her mind. He is, after all, a scion of Bollywood’s first family—perhaps he has a role for her? Perhaps she will, at last, get to sashay down the red carpet in a designer gown, with flash bulbs following her every move?
But Kapoor’s intentions are much more prosaic: he wishes Katie to trace the heroine of his new blockbuster (and, if Katie’s read the glossies correctly, his life) who is mysteriously AWOL. Despite her misgivings, Katie finds herself unable to refuse the task entrusted to her, and thereon follows a bewildering hunt for the film star across a trail of corpses.
And if that isn’t excitement enough, she has to contend with the maddening and mysterious, but, oh-so-hot, Tejas Deshpande.
The first in a brand new detective series.
IN BOOKSTORES NOW.
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