kumarvarun1989

If you had to recreate an ancient civilisation, what would you do? If you are Ashutosh Gowariker, and have had lots of experience in excavating the past (Lagaan, Jodhaa Akbar), you would scale it up. Instead of a few hundred years, you would go back a couple of thousands, ditching the merely old for the seriously antique.

Mohenjo Daro, set in Mohenjo-daro of the Indus Valley civilisation, is bigger but certainly not better than these two Gowariker's earlier outings. The sepia tone of the earth and the dwellings is balanced by an array of costumery: everyone looks like they have been handed out unstructured earth-toned garments, which follow the latest fashion du jour. And lest you thought they were not accessorised to the hilt in 2016 BC, perish it: the villainous chief wears a headgear of horns (the happily hamming Kabir Bedi, who carries it off with a raffish air) to an alarmingly tall crown of what looks like feathers, coins and shells sported by the leading lady (the debutant Pooja Hegde, who looks much better without, and may fare better in her next).In between is leading man Hrithik Roshan as poor indigo farmer Sarman, a resident of village Samri of the Sindh province, who has set his heart on going to neighbouring big town Mohenjo-daro. That is where, he is convinced, lie his fate and fortune, and an animal with one horn.Right from the build-up, featuring what is meant to be a thrilling boat ride and a fight with a fake-looking crocodile, all the better to show off Hrithik's rippling chest and ripping valour, Mohenjo Daro is a plod, and a heavily borrowed one to boot: the entry into a forbidden town (which strongly reminds us of Baahubali), the romance with a pretty stranger, the rivalry with a muscle-bound fellow, the unravelling of dark secrets, the saving of a town from a beastly ruler—we've seen so many versions of it before.It beats me how so much time and effort can be spent on creating something meant to be jaw-dropping, but which leaves you sighing at the sheer waste of it all. Just when you think the plot is shifting just a fraction, out pops yet another item number, complete with whirling dervishes (remember Jodhaa Akbar?) and belly dancers: how can you have a Hrithik film without getting him on the floor, even if it is daubed in mud?In Lagaan, there were the evil Brits who wanted more tax from the poor 'gaon-waalon'. In Mohenjo Daro too, along comes the demand for more 'kar-vasooli'. Gowariker also filches from the many Hollywood epics which dump their heroes into an arena and have them fight for their lives: Hrithik faces off with two iron-chested cannibals (Bedi terms them, helpfully, 'narbhakshi') who grunt and growl.

And just in case we were missing something, Sarman does a Noah, launches a massive rescue op, and saves scores of humans and animals, to swelling background music. By then, we're so exhausted that we let the waters of Sindhu Ma float over us, and wait for things to get over.

All those associated with the making of 'Pink', please take a deep bow : finally, a powerful, brave Hindi mainstream film which focuses on real young women who live real lives and deal with thorny day-to-day issues, which young women the world over will identify and relate with.

I know where the young leads in 'Pink' are coming from. And I know too many women who have been in their place, or missed being there by a scary, scarring whisker.Bottomline, when a girl says no, she means no.It means go away, don't bother me. It can also be a prelude to stronger language if the aggressor in question refuses to back off. The young woman can wear short skirts or jeans or Tees. She can be present at rock concerts. She can laugh and reach out to a young man in a friendly fashion. She can have a drink or two in his company. She can even be, shudder, sexually experienced.

Hearing the phrase 'are you a virgin' in a Bollywood film in a meaningful, non-smirky manner? Fantastic. Underlining a woman's freedom to own her sexuality? Priceless.When she says no, it means only one thing. No grabbing. No forcing. Take that groping hand and mouth away. She isn't easy. She isn't a person of loose morals. She is not, never, ever, asking for it.

That it has taken Bollywood so long to make a movie which says it so clearly, without beating about the bush, without prevaricating or using obfuscatory language, tells us a great deal about the country we live in, and the social mores that its women have had to live by, buried under crippling patriarchy and misogyny and a sense of mistaken shame—if you are pawed or worse, you must have done something to provoke your molester. So cross your hands across your chest, put your head down, and keep shut.The three female protagonists of 'Pink' are your regular young women. Minal (Taapsee Pannu) is an events manager, whose work can extend into the late hours. Falak (Kirti Kulhari) works in a corporate set-up where image is all. Andrea (Tariang) is from the 'North-East' (Meghalaya, she says, but clearly no one is interested in the specifics : girls from the 'North East' are fair game, even if they are covered from top to toe). The girls share a flat in a 'posh' South Delhi locality, and we meet them first when they are heading back in a cab in the early hours of the morning, disturbed about something that has just happened.

As the plot (oh joy, a plot, verily), terse and on-point, unravels, we get to know that the trio was in the company of three young men, after a rock concert in Surajkund in Haryana. Things take an ugly turn after the dinner that follows. The women have to make a run for it, and one of the young men ends up needing stitches in a deep bloody gash above his eye.

It doesn't a genius to discover that the political might backing the injured Rajveer (Angad Bedi) and his friends, Dumpy (Raashul Tandon), Vishwa (Tushar Pandey) and another fellow (Vijay Varma) who wasn't there but is happy to engineer and participate in the humiliation of the women, will try and turn the tables: instead of being the victims, they will be painted as the aggressors. How do you silence a courageous young woman who has the temerity to ask questions? You label her cheap, slut, whore: the film mutes the word 'rxxx', but you can see it emblazoned on the face of the guy who says it out loud and the girls who have to hear it. You can see it in the body language of the female cop (Shankar, just so) who helps nail the wrong person for the crime.Pink reminded me of Jodi Foster's The Accused in which her character is gang-raped in a bar: because she wears a short skirt, and has been drinking, she is made out to be a woman on the make. Something similar happens here, but it is all three women who have to bear the brunt of the rage that such male entitlement comes with: 'aisi ladkiyon ke saath toh aisa hi hota hai'.

I am waiting for the return of the actor who, back in his day, used to routinely blow my socks off in a way no one has even come close to, in all these years.Meanwhile, Pink, perhaps called thus because the colour is girly,subverts it and turns it on its head. In its best bits, the film blazes, its call-to-arms radiating outwards and forcing us to acknowledge uncomfortable truths. It has something to say, and says it with courage and conviction. Gather everyone and go; and while you are at it, spread the word.

A Jatt superhero who bumbles and fumbles? Who behaves like a little boy around his formidable 'bebe', and is all shy and tongue-tied around a hot babe? Who has, haha, a fear of heights? Sounds like a barrel of fun, no? The first half of A Flying Jatt is not afraid to be silly and is very enjoyable. Tiger Shroff plays a martial arts teacher in a school where he strives lamely to catch his students' eye, as well as a pretty colleague whom we know is interested in the environment because she clutches a couple of books on the subject to her bosom. No one ever goes to class: it is that kind of film.The pollution, we soon learn, is Enemy No One, riding on the back of the greedy capitalist Malhotra (Kay Kay Menon, camping it up madly) and the evil monster-dipped-into-the-vat-of-chemicals Raka (Nathan Jones, boasting an old-fashioned Bollywood name for a modern-day 'gora' villain). When the Flying Jatt's mum sends him off with the classic 'jaa, duniya ko bacha', we laugh out loud. Because, you know, that's what superheroes do: once they are in costume-and-cape and armed with their super-powers, we know all will be well.

Tiger Shroff is a thing of beauty when he flexes his splendid, impossibly toned muscles. He dances like a dream. And because he is still a work-in-progress actor to whom fumbling and bumbling and being awkward comes naturally, he is a good fit for his character, even if it's cobbled together from familiar caped crusaders: bits of Superman and Spiderman and our own home-grown Krrish.He gets able support from Singh as the proud Sikhni with superpowers of her own: no baddie ever invented can be a match for Bollywood moms. And from Gaurav Pandey as his brother-cum-best-pal. Fernandez has to jump up and down and squeal girlishly, when she is not dancing alongside the Jatt, or not being taken on an aerial survey, all of which she delivers on.The second half goes south. The film starts getting preachy and heavy. A bad guy who fattens on garbage and waste is a great stroke, but to keep belabouring the point is pointless. Except for a couple of effective scenes, the enormous Jones is a bore. And without the funny bits which kept the pre-interval parts afloat, the faults start glaring. The song-and-dances, bunged in just to show off Tiger's limber moves, are a drag: Bollywood superheroes can save the world only after the 'naach-gaana' is over.Our Jatt Singh-Is-King-of-Kings superhero needs nothing but his 'kada': kryptonite is so last century. Nice touch. But he also needs a plot to help him fly all the way.This could have been such a rollicking film, especially for kids —it had all the ingredients, and an engaging start, fronted by a hero who is light on his feet. Too bad it ends up being a promo for Swachch Bharat.