Overripe emotions? Over-the-top action sequences? An assault on the tear ducts? Indian movies are quite an experience.
For as long as I can remember, Indian movies have been a fixture in my life.
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| Sivaji, starring Rajinikanth as The Boss, broke box-office records everywhere it showed. |
Overripe emotions? Over-the-top action sequences? An assault on the tear ducts? Indian movies are quite an experience.
When I was a wee lass, my mother and I would plant ourselves in front of the idiot box every Saturday afternoon, armed with a box of Kleenex, preparing for the sob-fest that would inevitably ensue, while Dad rolled his eyes in undisguised amusement.
So when Dad remarked one day: "Have you heard about the latest Indian movie?", I wasn't too surprised.
But his next words made me sit up.
"Sivaji has just broken all the box-office records. The news was splashed all over the Chinese papers."
From the fanfare and hoopla surrounding Sivaji, I had a feeling that it was more than just a movie – it sounded like history in the making.
"Shall we watch it for my birthday then?" I suggested.
My folks thought it was a grand, if somewhat unconventional, idea.
Then again, we are not your typical Chinese family, as Mum is fond of
pointing out. That very afternoon, the entire Wong family of three
trooped into the local TGV. At the doorway, the ticket collector
regarded me with a strange expression.
"Miss, are you sure you are at the right cinema?" he asked after a
pause.
I nodded absently, impatient to enter the hall. Somebody had told me
that watching an Indian movie at the cinema was a total experience –
apparently, the moviegoers would really get into the spirit of
things.
Young men would jump up and dance, and the audience would
collectively whoop during climactic scenes. While I could reel off an
entire list of Indian movie stars, I had never gone to the cinema to
watch an Indian movie before, so I had no idea whether he was pulling
my leg.
"Uh, this is an Indian movie," the lad at the door persisted,
emphasising the word Indian.
"Yes, yes, this is Sivaji The Boss, yes?" I repeated and sailed past
him, leading mum and dad into the cinema.
As I gingerly made my way down the aisle, I did a quick scan. As far
as my eyes could make out in the dim hall, we were the only Chinese
in the entire theatre, I realised with a start.
"You watching Tamil movie, ah?" the lady next to me asked. Even in
the dark, I could see her eyes were as big as saucers.
"You understand Tamil, ah?" my neighbour went on, wonderment in her
voice.
I looked at her, mouth twitching. I couldn't remember another time
when the audience was so . . . hospitable. Antonio was right – it WAS
turning out to be one unusual experience.
"No, but there are subtitles right?" I said hopefully.
She nodded vigorously.
"Yes, I think so. I hope you enjoy the movie. I heard it is very
good! I brought my whole family here," she said, pointing to the row
of progressively lower heads beside her.
The audience demographic had an extraordinarily high proportion of
families. Kids. Mums. Fathers. Teenage boys. Generations. In front of
my mother, I could identify a lady in a saree with salt-and-pepper
hair in a tight coil and quirky round spectacles.
A grandma, I thought with amazement. How many of my peers would even
think of bringing their parents to the movies, let alone their
grandma?
"When was the last time you and Dad watched a movie?" I whispered to
mum.
She wrinkled her nose. "Long time ago. We had gone to the one in
Parkson, but never been here before (Kinta City)."
I kept quiet, shamefaced. That was over a decade ago. We could all
learn a thing or two about spending quality time from these Indian
moviegoers, I thought, and made a mental to-do-note.
The movie kicked off promisingly with a rip-roaring tribute to The
Boss. It was clear from the outset, the lines were blurred between
the real boss and the celluloid boss. Both were adulated and treated
with the same reverence as a demi-god. Well, you certainly can't
accuse the Indians of not respecting their elders.
To my dismay, 15 minutes into the movie, and the subtitles abruptly
disappeared, as if the translator gave up halfway and thought, "Bah!
No other races are going to watch this anyway."
But if I had thought that the little linguistic hiccup would diminish
our enjoyment of the movie, I was mistaken.
In the grand tradition of all Indian melodramas, a blitzkrieg of eye
and ear candy flooded our senses. Sultry heroines sashayed and
shimmied with a sinuous grace that made Shakira look clumsy by
comparison. Whimsical phantasmagorical sets that seemed to have been
drawn from every colour in the palette had our eyes popping out and
mouths watering.
It was pure magic – an uncluttered storyline, unabashedly steeped in
family values, cast in a sweeping, exquisite landscape. It almost
dared you, with a wink and a saucy wiggle, to resist its infectious
joyfulness and big, big heart.
And as the audience booed and cried and laughed on cue, we the Wongs
went along merrily, never mind if we couldn't understand a word of
the rapidfire Tamil that passed through the characters' lips.
Post-Sivaji, I conducted a status check and asked My Boss outside the
theatre: "So Dad, nice or not the movie?"
"Ok-lah," he grunted. "Over the top but can-lah."
Dad is not a verbose man, so this was a resounding endorsement.
A "can-lah" in his dictionary probably meant "fabulous!" in somebody
else's.
Ah, so he thought it was a humdinger of a movie too. I needn't have
worried.
I hear Madhuri Dixit positively sparkles in the current epic doing
the cinema rounds, Aaja Nache. Anybody game for a song-and-dance?
Looking for last minute shopping deals? Find them fast with Yahoo! Search.
When I was a wee lass, my mother and I would plant ourselves in front of the idiot box every Saturday afternoon, armed with a box of Kleenex, preparing for the sob-fest that would inevitably ensue, while Dad rolled his eyes in undisguised amusement.
So when Dad remarked one day: "Have you heard about the latest Indian movie?", I wasn't too surprised.
But his next words made me sit up.
"Sivaji has just broken all the box-office records. The news was splashed all over the Chinese papers."
From the fanfare and hoopla surrounding Sivaji, I had a feeling that it was more than just a movie – it sounded like history in the making.
"Shall we watch it for my birthday then?" I suggested.
My folks thought it was a grand, if somewhat unconventional, idea.
Then again, we are not your typical Chinese family, as Mum is fond of
pointing out. That very afternoon, the entire Wong family of three
trooped into the local TGV. At the doorway, the ticket collector
regarded me with a strange expression.
"Miss, are you sure you are at the right cinema?" he asked after a
pause.
I nodded absently, impatient to enter the hall. Somebody had told me
that watching an Indian movie at the cinema was a total experience –
apparently, the moviegoers would really get into the spirit of
things.
Young men would jump up and dance, and the audience would
collectively whoop during climactic scenes. While I could reel off an
entire list of Indian movie stars, I had never gone to the cinema to
watch an Indian movie before, so I had no idea whether he was pulling
my leg.
"Uh, this is an Indian movie," the lad at the door persisted,
emphasising the word Indian.
"Yes, yes, this is Sivaji The Boss, yes?" I repeated and sailed past
him, leading mum and dad into the cinema.
As I gingerly made my way down the aisle, I did a quick scan. As far
as my eyes could make out in the dim hall, we were the only Chinese
in the entire theatre, I realised with a start.
"You watching Tamil movie, ah?" the lady next to me asked. Even in
the dark, I could see her eyes were as big as saucers.
"You understand Tamil, ah?" my neighbour went on, wonderment in her
voice.
I looked at her, mouth twitching. I couldn't remember another time
when the audience was so . . . hospitable. Antonio was right – it WAS
turning out to be one unusual experience.
"No, but there are subtitles right?" I said hopefully.
She nodded vigorously.
"Yes, I think so. I hope you enjoy the movie. I heard it is very
good! I brought my whole family here," she said, pointing to the row
of progressively lower heads beside her.
The audience demographic had an extraordinarily high proportion of
families. Kids. Mums. Fathers. Teenage boys. Generations. In front of
my mother, I could identify a lady in a saree with salt-and-pepper
hair in a tight coil and quirky round spectacles.
A grandma, I thought with amazement. How many of my peers would even
think of bringing their parents to the movies, let alone their
grandma?
"When was the last time you and Dad watched a movie?" I whispered to
mum.
She wrinkled her nose. "Long time ago. We had gone to the one in
Parkson, but never been here before (Kinta City)."
I kept quiet, shamefaced. That was over a decade ago. We could all
learn a thing or two about spending quality time from these Indian
moviegoers, I thought, and made a mental to-do-note.
The movie kicked off promisingly with a rip-roaring tribute to The
Boss. It was clear from the outset, the lines were blurred between
the real boss and the celluloid boss. Both were adulated and treated
with the same reverence as a demi-god. Well, you certainly can't
accuse the Indians of not respecting their elders.
To my dismay, 15 minutes into the movie, and the subtitles abruptly
disappeared, as if the translator gave up halfway and thought, "Bah!
No other races are going to watch this anyway."
But if I had thought that the little linguistic hiccup would diminish
our enjoyment of the movie, I was mistaken.
In the grand tradition of all Indian melodramas, a blitzkrieg of eye
and ear candy flooded our senses. Sultry heroines sashayed and
shimmied with a sinuous grace that made Shakira look clumsy by
comparison. Whimsical phantasmagorical sets that seemed to have been
drawn from every colour in the palette had our eyes popping out and
mouths watering.
It was pure magic – an uncluttered storyline, unabashedly steeped in
family values, cast in a sweeping, exquisite landscape. It almost
dared you, with a wink and a saucy wiggle, to resist its infectious
joyfulness and big, big heart.
And as the audience booed and cried and laughed on cue, we the Wongs
went along merrily, never mind if we couldn't understand a word of
the rapidfire Tamil that passed through the characters' lips.
Post-Sivaji, I conducted a status check and asked My Boss outside the
theatre: "So Dad, nice or not the movie?"
"Ok-lah," he grunted. "Over the top but can-lah."
Dad is not a verbose man, so this was a resounding endorsement.
A "can-lah" in his dictionary probably meant "fabulous!" in somebody
else's.
Ah, so he thought it was a humdinger of a movie too. I needn't have
worried.
I hear Madhuri Dixit positively sparkles in the current epic doing
the cinema rounds, Aaja Nache. Anybody game for a song-and-dance?
Looking for last minute shopping deals? Find them fast with Yahoo! Search.