Posts Tagged ‘papa bear’

RescueDawnWerner Herzog’s Rescue Dawn: I cannot stress how comforting it is to watch a feature film knowing that the director is a dehumanized sonofabitch. Based on Werner Herzog’s 1997 documentary Little Dieter Needs to Fly, Rescue Dawn lacks most of what keeps me away from films about American-sponsored wars. Socialist humour, feverish patriotism and Tom Hanks. Christian Bale is strangely convincing as Dieter Dengler, a US navy pilot who survives a torturous prison camp in the jungles of Laos. More importantly…Dieter Dengler, the fiercely inspired kid who dreamt about flying the day Allied Forces aircrafts dropped bombs on his hometown.

Steve Zahn is a remarkably weird choice for playing Dieter’s buddy -in-peril – Duane. Zahn’s spaced-out stares interspersed with bursts of Herzogian dialogues (“A man tries to kill you and you want his job”) bring the sort of existential wit that has been absent in war-inspired films since Peter Sellers demanded that there was to be no fighting in the War Room. To complete the circle of weirdness, Toby Huss is in there too. You know, the fellow who impersonated a blue whale to pitch perfection in Down Periscope.

I’d love to wax lyrical about the stunning cinematography and whatnot, but I don’t think it warrants too much insight. Herzog and his crew do what they do best. As for the story itself, well, real life does lend itself to melodrama…so don’t expect too much in terms of originality. Actually you know what, I think I am just a little grumpy that I didn’t like this film as much as I did Francis Ford Coppola’s Apocalypse Now. The Godfather over the Father of German New Wave movement? No fucking way.

Wright-StevenThe Appointments of Dennis Jennings: This one’s a short film. Written by the little known but consistently awesome Steven Wright, The Appointments of Dennis Jennings runs for a little over 30 minutes. Of course, it’s about one Mr Dennis Jennings played by Wright himself. We are led to believe that Jennings is a bitter man with a bitter life. He seems to go through life hand-in-hand with lady mundane and all her ridiculously overrated children. His girlfriend’s pretty boring too. With such an unbearable aura weighing down on him, Jennings visits a psychiatrist (a hilarious character essay by Rowan Atkinson). From then on, secrets are spilled, dirty clothes washed in muddy waters and so on and forth. Wikipedia tells me that it won an Academy award in 1989 for Best Short Film. I’d like to tell you that watching this will result in cackling. Warn the neighbours.

bunnyThe Bunny: New York director Chris Wedge is the brain behind Ice Age, one of the less annoying Hollywood animated films. That was 2002 and since then I guess he has been busy milking dead horses. Of course, years before he went prehistoric on us, he won an Academy Award for the animated short Bunny. And wellllll, I really liked this one. It’s cute, but not in a Hello Kitty way. It’s got that whimsically disturbed sort of calmness to it. Whimsically disturbed what? I think I have crossed an echelon of bullshit that few dare trespass. I officially outrank stupid-looking guys with slanty French caps and cheap cigarettes. But still, a really, really nice short film that tugs at your heartstrings in a Radiohead cover song sort of way. Watch the entire short film here.

Chuck-Norris-Con-AirCon Air: See, Papa Bear thinks that Con Air is a stupendously funny spoof film. I think it is a spectacularly awful action film. Every month, at least once, one tries to convince the other. Last week, Papa Bear restated his case. Just to close the chapter on my not-so-legendary tryst with Con Air, I watched it yesterday and I still think it has some of the worst one-liners fucking ever (“Put the bunny back in the box”, “Yeah, it fell outta the sky. I don’t think he’s an astronaut.”). In fact the dialogues are so goddam awful that I suspect that they inspired South Park’s Lice Capades.

But I guess Con Air has a few redeeming qualities. John Malkovich’s villainy. Steve Buscemi. An eight-year-old girl makes Nicholas Cage cry. The American legal system makes the eight-year-old girl cry. Everything makes Monica Potter cry. And as always, Danny Trejo is the MAN for his commitment to all things gnarly. Everything else about Con Air sucks. Especially the bickering between Colm Meaney and John Cusak. I’m sure battle-raps between the Queen Mother and Nelson Mandela’s left nut would have been more confrontational.

I’ll meet you near the middle ground, Mr Bear…replace Nicholas Cage with Chuck Norris and the bunny with a pair of nunchucks and I’ll admit that this is one hell of a comedy.

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I don’t watch Indian Premier League because its sycophantic glamour. It can be very off-putting for me. Also, it bothers me that this version of cricket triggers some sort of inconclusive chemical imbalance in people, which leads them into believing that they have understood the game enough to have an expert opinion on it.

“Hayden shouldn’t have played it on the front foot” … “I would have included two more spinners” …”Pepsi has a zanier taste than Coca Cola…”

Riiight. Watching fours hours of capsulated cricket, three hours of random camera zoom-ins of interracial women and two hours of Arun Lal desperately trying to channel his sporting acumen in vain. Great. Go ahead, quit your job and join the panel of experts at IPL. All you need is a penchant for buggery of the English language and the uncanny knack of getting facts wrong at least 60% of the time.

Of course, many just watch the game and enjoy the fuck out of it. Despite what the Rolling Stones might have had you believing, some people actually do always get what they want. And to be perfectly honest, the IPL does cater to those who were never really into the game but always wanted to know what the fuss was all about. I hear that people who suffer from lifelong acute Attention Deficit Disorder get a really good kick out of it, as well.

That’s alright, I guess. I mean, if the PGA had taken my suggestion and hid landmines in random spots on the course, hell, I’d be watching golf right now. Imagine if the boring-ass Snooker Champion league made it mandatory for the players to dress in trench coats and carry bamboo shoots with tiny rodents inside of them. They could crawl through to the other end, jump on the pool table and guide those little bio-bombs into those pockets…of DOOM! Oh yes…POCKETS OF DOOM with MIDGET TIGER SHARKS swimming in there! Hmm you get the picture. Traditions customized to induce mass clamouring. Perfectly understandable.


In fact, my Zen-like level tolerance with the Twenty-20 shenanigans has led me to read a bit about this year’s IPL competition. The only thing worth mentioning are the swanky nicknames that the Fake IPL Blogger (source…Papa fuckin’ Bear) has come up with for an annoying runt of a fast bowler (Sreesanth) and a prissy actor (Shah Rukh Khan) who makes his livelihood by selling sub-par consumer products on TV, crying like Meryl Streep post-menopause during climax sequences and dancing like a monkey on crack at random weddings.


I know…I know…it’s only a matter of time before the Fake IPL Blogger becomes a marketing gimmick but what the hell, at least for now, this kid’s angst is a source of amusement. Also, I find it hilarious that some moron from Bollywood is lashing out against this renegade blogger in the name of cricketing ethics.

I’m sorry…what?

Did Ike call Tina Turner a sexist for not falling down fast enough when he slapped the shit out of her?

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I once tried channeling the disdain I have nurtured for every source that celebrated the grandeur of the Oscar Awards. I ended up with a severed fingernail and a bad taste in my mouth. Papa Bear tried it once too. But then he flew into a rage, smashed his neighbour’s light bulbs and killed several moths.

Knowing that it is futile to hate something for which we don’t even have an ounce of respect is not going to help. Even if it does, we don’t need therapy. Mostly because frustration is fun. And fun always leads to funnies.

So in the spirit of fun, funnies and our general disdain against golden statuettes, we give to you…



Yeah, that’s right. The friggin Bhaskar Awards.

At random intervals, Papa Bear and I would be spoofing films, actors and actresses who have won the Oscar Award over the years. And not just the ones we hate. We plan to spoof what we love too.

Visit the Bear’s lair for more details sometime next week.

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polarbears1I’m all up for fighting against Ram Sena, Shiv Sena, Keith Sena, John Cena and everyone else responsible for making Indian society a more retarded place than it already is. Like I have said many times, the entire lot should be fed SARS-infected dog shit three times a day. But since our legal system is not mature enough to facilitate forceful consumption of diseased feces, the next best thing would have been to align our anger, frustration and insolence together and send a message that truly speaks against the callousness of civil governance and the terrifying consequences of giving political weightage to caste-inspired groupism.

So, the young minds online decide to come together and use every ounce of creative and intellectual acumen they can collective muster up to send pink underwear to Sena offices in India. While it ranks a notch above the insanely futile candlelight vigils that we are notorious for, it doesn’t change the fact that this is by far the dumbest call to action since some moron told John McCain, “Sarah Palin is your ticket to the Whitehouse”. So once again, youngsters manage to unite together (mostly online since Sena-ites can’t throw heavy objects at them through Facebook) as one voice and make absolute idiots of themselves.

Even more pathetic is that fact that most of the women campaigning for this nonsense are middle/upper-middle class and within the 20-35 age group. Pretty much the same as those victimized (and I agree, they were) in Mangalore. I guess people give a shit only if tragedies showcase possibilties of them facing one too. Too bad not many nuns have an account on Facebook; perhaps at least they could have campaigned against Kandhamal incident (apparently no one with an existing account cared enough) .

While I sort of have a soft corner for these kids looking to fight for their rights as individuals…No, wait. I don’t have a soft corner for them. I loathe them for not realizing the frivolity of their actions and more so because once this so-called pro-culture movement is dead and gone, they would probably completely give up on questioning civil slanders ever again and resort to excuses such as “Oh well, at least we tried, but this world, I tell you…THIS WORLD”.

No, you didn’t try. You sent pink underwear to other people. That’s not trying; that’s just constructing a mirage of pretending to try so that you can high-five your office colleague / roommate and stifle a tear or two about how much it hurts to know that Indians are victimized by pseudo-religious anger and politicized corruption – two threads on which our great country has been doing a fucking headstand for the past century, balancing seven hundred tones of hatred and self-pity on each one of it’s pinky toes.

The largest carnivore in Karnataka told me this morning that over 5,000 pink chaddis have been collected so far and then grievously muttered something about how “guns don’t kill yuppies, papa bear kills yuppies”. Hmmm…5,000 votes in favour of an independent political party during the elections would have been nice too, don’t you think? Or how about 5,000 written letters to various media organizations in and outside of India to let them know that referring to certain people as ‘slumdogs’ in India would only falsely indicate a drastic upward surge in their social hierarchies?

An assault against India’s evolving culture and the safety of it’s women demands more than petty mindgames and designer panties. If you think otherwise, throw your goddam pink shoelaces at those guys who raped that nun in Orissa. Bring a feather-duster as backup too.

That will teach them a lesson.


Thought of the day (from papabears.wordpress.com)

“It’s a prettier sight watching middle-aged women flinging their undies at Kenny Rogers than this”

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sinucidere_1211138471Papa Bear lives here

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9780786267538I am an arrogant person. Most people who know me really well would testify to that. Maybe it’s my presumption that I am more perceptive than almost everyone else or perhaps it has something to do with how monstrous my ego can be. Whatever it is, it seriously inhibits me from appreciating new forms of art that my fellow brethren (and soul sistas!) have discovered before I did.

But I’m thinking that it’s not entirely my fault; especially with respect to movies. I have been exposed to a plethora of horrid films over the years that came with very high recommendations from friends. Citizen Kane, Unforgiven, Cold Creek Manor, The Air I Breathe, As Good As It Gets, and pretty much any film by Akira Kurosawa – each of them came with a recommendation tag but ended up being thoroughly disappointing. Jerry comes with some decent recommendations every now and then, as the ninja from Darjeeling once did. But it was never enough to become a habit.

During my yearlong stint in one of those online marketing firms in Bangalore, I met Vivek Pinto – a mild-mannered Manglorean, quiz master, blogger, film enthusiast and probably the most versatile writer I have worked with. During the first few weeks, I gave him a really difficult time with my alarming lack of understanding of the industry and terms such as “data warehousing” and “enterprise application management.” Like the workhorse that he is, Pinto even picked away at my brain until I stopped being stubborn about getting Jack Kerouac to sell Wipro’s IT solutions and started using words like “best-in-breed”, “cost-effectiveness” and whatnot. Soon enough, we recognized each other’s undeniable qualities as film geeks, which eventually led to the very first time I had a thorough discussion about David Cronenberg without the other person looking quizzically at me in utter dread.

For the next 11 months, from Monday to Friday, we talked about films. Our favourite thread of discussion often centered on Werner Herzog, Roger Ebert and American Indie culture. The geekdom further gained credibility with the inclusion of D – Bangalore’s version of The Talented Mr Ripley – in our morning discussions.

7184pngSo a month ago, Pinto calls me frantically in one of his “dude, you have to watch this or you will suffer a terrible death that even Beelzebub wouldn’t wish upon his enemies” tones. He told in length about this television drama series called Dexter. Based on Jeff Lindsay’s Darkly Dreaming Dexter, the series chronicled the life and times of Dexter Morgan, a blood splatter analyst working for the Miami Police Department. But what he really does is track down serial killers and wreak bloody havoc on them. Despite it’s outwardly quasi-Seventies film noir vibe, Pinto assured me that it was anything but that.

I think I’ll take a rain check on elaborating further on Dexter since Pinto’s alter ego – Papa Bear – would do a better job at that. In fact, he already has. Read his review here. He was also nice enough to send me copies of Season 1 and 2 and after seeing the debut episode, well, I can safely say that I am thoroughly intrigued. It seems to have everything that made Six Feet Under fantastic…melancholy, claustrophobia, great music and actors who know when they have to take themselves seriously.

To paraphrase Ebert…Thumbs way, way up.

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