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Fearing bloodshed, the makers of Daddy wasted no time getting to the money shot. Exultant fans even threw play currency to commemorate the occasion. The badass bike, the terminator glasses, the fingerless gloves, the ready-for-action leather cell phone case with belt clip--yes, it's the Megastar himself, Chiranjeevi, en route to the first of several highly dangerous accident scenes clogged with useless bystanders. Priya, who needs a replacement hunk for her motorcycle ad, is one of these. When this mysterious stranger plunges into the twisted wreckage, she announces, in English, "This is the man I want." After some ado she lands Chiranjeevi to replace the bodybuilder, but the contrast is glaring--let's face it, he doesn't exactly cut a Megastar figure. So why do women find him so attractive? By implication, a man who is both a "Dancemaster" (this is the character's official title) and a fireproof daredevil will have all the moves. If you follow me. Chiranjeevi's choreography didn't disappoint, proving every bit as flashy as reputed. Even so, don't some of these steps seem a little too swishy for an action hero? Hate to tell you, Telangana, but these moves are pure Fosse. What was risqué 20 years ago on Broadway is what packs 'em in today at RTC 'X' Roads. Would Indian audiences go for Cabaret or Star 80? I'm talking to you, Sangeet. The first forty minutes are a romp, turning convention on its head. Musical numbers (some of them) plant themselves firmly on location and in costume while dialogues make mincemeat of time and space. The climax of the film, as far as I was concerned, was the leading pair's three-minute courtship consummated with a "many years later…" caption. But then certain quotas have to be met: betrayals by business partners, tense waits in hospitals, at least one emotionally charged allow-me-to-touch-your-feet-Ji-no-really-you-oughtn't moment. Usually writers wait until the last hour to subject us to a cascade of ridiculous plot twists. Here they front-loaded it all, leaving us in genuine suspense during the interval about what the hero would do next. (Not much.) And, will they get to Switzerland? (How about New Zealand? With funky hairdos.) Just to prove they're paying attention, the filmmakers open with a photo shoot and set the first dance number in, well, a dance school. Mirrors in a sari shop produce a dazzling split-screen effect. Looks good so far. Yet any attention to the shooting dissolves during the interval, replaced by moody lighting and slo-mo. "Sentimental" is the complaint you'll hear most often about the concluding hour, but what Indian film isn't? Show me one and I'll go out and say a prayer for its producers. Most Hollywood family flicks unfold in a sterilized suburbia and disguise their shooting locations lest they draw attention and pollute the austerity of the directorial vision. This picture rejoices in all the famous landmarks of Hyderabad: Ameerpet Chandana Bros., the Khan Lateef Khan Estate, Andhra Bank. Its characters inhabit the same world as the rest of us. (Or at least those of us who shop at Life Style.) But what really distances this film from Hollywood fare: free ad placements! Wipro, Ferrari, Citi-Net (where I browse), Scoops and Amul and Kwality and Jersey ice cream, even a "Vote Congress" graffito… they couldn't all be paid for. Brand logos in India are like street noise, both unavoidable and, ultimately, characteristic. On one set, a cross between the Begumpet flyover and Marble Arch, they threw in extra hoardings for good measure. Not everybody makes out, though. Adding insult to injury-or piracy on top of infringement-the Madonna track backing one dance routine skipped. Just like my mp3. The question I got constantly while scouting for black tickets (which, at Rs300, still cost less than at home) was, "How will you understand?" As though these films demand subtle interpretation. More like: how will I hear? If this audience came to listen to dialogue, they missed half of it while they were whistling. But I've gotten used to screenings that sound more like melas-or melées. Far worse was the scene outside, uglier than most of the riots I've attended. But ugliest of all were the samosas at intermission.
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About
the author: Matt Daniels, 23, holds an A.B. in Philosophy
from Harvard University. His long-awaited return to Hyderabad
was sponsored by Let's Go Publications, whose India 2002 guide
hits shelves everywhere this Diwali. You can email him at 