August Rush is Hogwash

The tagline calls it 'An incredible journey at the speed of light', as the PR girl dishes out production stills and feel-good vibes to all unsuspecting who file through the preview theatre door. What follows over the next two hours is possibly the most eye-popping daft, saccharine-soaked, half-baked dribble ever seen on the silver screen.

August Rush, launching in theatres near you on St Valentine's Day (in probably a desperate last-ditch salvaging effort by the guys over in Marketing), comes with fairly decent credentials on paper. Starring Jonathan Rhys Meyers (Bend It Like Beckham, Matchpoint, and Mandrake in the upcoming 2008 Chuck Russell spectacular) and Keri Russell, the film leaves no cliché unturned.

The story: Young orphan boy is a musical prodigy, roaming New York streets, hoping to find parents. Intercut to flashback (a super helpfully says – Eleven Years Ago) when an Irish band fronted by Rhys Meyers is up on stage playing a gig with a guest cellist (Lyla Novacek, played by Keri Russell).

Later in the evening, the two meet and exchange some inane philosophical talk that culminates in sex. Cut to her impervious father, and next thing we know, the two are separated, and what's more, she has given birth to a love child without really knowing she has.

More banality etc carries them through the next 10 years of their lives, while the kid (played by Freddie Highmore) struggles through life on the streets. Until he finds a rag-tag Robin Williams, who works a network of street kids. It is under Williams that August discovers his immeasurable gift for music, and the next thing you know, he is a scholar at the prestigious Julliard School of music.

What's more, he composes his own masterpiece overnight, and is the top-billed artist at the Concert At The Park, the annual Central Park summer special! As expected, his mom is the guest cellist, and dad, disillusioned with selling real estate out in the west coast, also saunters back in town, catches a billboard, and shows up at the Park. The rest? Well, never mind.

The predictable story, the ineffectual performances, and the sheer inexperience in direction could all have been tolerated if the central premise of the film, the music, was on the level. Unfortunately, on this note too, we are treated to excruciating insipidia. The '90s boy-band style oeuvre is dull and totally out of time, and as for the boy-genius' stuff, all we get to hear is some beginner's acoustic guitar riffs.

Interestingly, the Academy seemingly did not think so. The song Raise it Up has been nominated as an entry in the Best Achievement in Music Written for Motion Pictures, Original Song category. In any case, you have been warned.

Verdict: Avoid, unless you have nothing else to do on Valentine's Day!

VH! Jazz Masters Series

Earl Klugh & Bob James at the NCPA


It wasn’t much I was expecting as I arrived at the NCPA on Saturday evening. The Tata Theatre was looking resplendent with quiet dignity, as the sea waves came thrashing into its face at one end of Marine Drive in Mumbai. Certainly, the setting for one of the more exotic concert venues in this part of the world. However, a concert by the so-called pioneers of ‘smooth jazz’ was not sounding exactly awe-inspiring to your humble reviewer. The latest edition of the VH1 Jazz Masters series featured a concert by Earl Klugh and Bob James, with unknown element Patti Austin, backed by musicians from the Thelonious Monk Institute. The same series had brought such luminaries as Herbie Hancock and Wayne Shorter before, and is usually on the ball, so it is with mixed anticipation that I entered the plush interiors of what was arguably the city’s finest concert hall.

We started late. Not that many seemed to mind, as alcohol was flowing freely courtesy the sponsors, who encouraged you to enjoy responsibly. Finally, the band came in, and got straight into a promising sounding piece fronted on saxophone by Bobby Watson. Watson was trained formally at the University of Miami along with fellow students Pat Metheny (also from the Kansas City area), Jaco Pastorius and Bruce Hornsby. Watson claimed fame as member of The Jazz Messengers, and was a sought after sessions man who has played with Max Roach, Branford Marsalis, and fellow Messenger Wynton Marsalis.

Watson was a revelation. Throaty, grand old Jazzman, Watson also took up the self-confessed role of MC for the evening. After an introduction of the Thelonious Monk Institute, and interesting things they were doing there to propagate Jazz across America and the world (you can find out more about their programs at the TMI website at www.jazzinamerica.org), the James/Klugh duo came in with much fanfare and flourish. However, the grande entry was rendered rather dull by what followed, a weak rendition of Marcus Miller’s Mabuto. Patti Austin, the unknown factor in this edition of VH1 Jazz Masters, came in for the next track, and started with a lukewarm version of the standard Baby come to me. She also congratulated the audience on their grasp over the nuances of the English language, which the Bombay crowd treated with loud guffaws. She followed this up with a nice Gershwin double, where she segues between Love Walks In to Love is sweeping the country for one of the highlights of the evening.

Bob James took centre stage next, performing a track called Angela, which incidentally is also the theme from the popular TV show Taxi. The band was tepid, with the rhythm section playing clean lines, achieving an overall uncluttered sound, which was clinical, but boring. One had to struggle not to nod off in some of the passages, as not much seemed to be happening musically. Earl Klugh added some funk into the fray with his first set closer, a track called Dr. Lakumba. Incorporatin Latin elements, this track somewhat upped the ante, as we went into recess.

The second set definitely picked up where we had left off. The sinewy Limoncillo was another high point of the evening, fronted by Watson and backed by the TMI group. Klugh played some more of his smooth melody hits such as Carrie followed by Heart’s Train while Patti Austin came into her own on Round Midnight, delivering a powerful, cheeky version of the Thelonious Monk composition. In fact, even James was upbeat with the band breaking into a scatty version of Westchester Lake, which James described, perhaps aptly, as their ‘Bollywood’ number.

The Mumbai crowd seemed to lap it all up with great gusto, although I suppose many among them were braced already for what someone yelled across the aisle moments before the gig began to another- a little light music.

On that count, the evening kept its promise. As I filed out of the theatre amidst the usual South Bombay club set that usually frequent these do’s, I wondered how so many seemingly well-informed people could applaud middle-of-the-road ‘muzak’ so vociferously. It amused me to remember that jazz was a sanctuary of elitist taste, and large swathes of so-called jazz-lovers basically were not really there for the music. It was a social function, a club evening out, where one met old buddies, yelled a few yeah’s and wow’s, and pretend to be interested.

Here’s hoping that the next few installments of the VH1 Jazz Masters series are geared more towards the artistes and performers that are breaking new ground in an American institution called Jazz.

Terminal Part Deux

The Far Eastern Chapter

It’s been slightly over 28 hours now that I’ve been stranded at the Suvarnabhumi International Airport, Bangkok. I sit here, marooned, guzzling yet another Singha beer out of sheer boredom, as my advertising campaign (the reason I’m here in the first place) gets shot in downtown Bangkok.

Over the last four hours, I have not budged from the famous @ Airport Bar & Bistro. My Pad Thai (overpriced, like an airport café typically is), has just arrived at the table, and I’ve got guava bits still clinging underneath my teeth, as I contemplate whether to go for yet another Singha beer, or its counterpart, Chang this time around. In Thailand, it seems the Singha/Chang relationship has taken on the Cola War manufacturing machinery pretty much head-on.

Pad Thai over, I suppose I should start at the very beginning as to what made a Gunga Din of me. I remember being particularly excited as we disembarked TG318 yesterday and scrambled to be the first guys on the ‘visa on arrival’ queue. It seemed laggards had to wait a whole 45 minutes for this process to come through. Somehow, this had seemed a tad inconvenient at that point of time. So forms filled and passports in position, we waited for the Thai authorities to wake up to the morning rush (for at 4.45 am, we were most definitely the first lot to show up), and breeze us through immigration.

‘The Setup’

As the scruffy-looking lady finally arrived at the counter, and looked up, I confidently handed her the neatly stacked pile of forms, tickets, and passport I had assembled to facilitate a hasty clearance. Everything seemed de rigueur and mundane procedure. She was leafing through the individual pages of my passport, glancing slantily up at me. I’d been there before, I was thinking. Hurry up!

The scruffy lady kept leafing through my pages, till she finally settled on the cover, and in particular, the top right-hand portion of it, and began to shake her head vigorously. Perplexed, I waited. Finally, she lifted the thing up, and displayed to me (us) the cause for her consternation. There appeared to be a miniscule hole punched at the top right corner of my passport. Now, I had noticed this earlier, but did not assume it meant much, considering that as recently as two months ago, I had flown abroad with the very same passport.. I had even called up my travel agent and chided him for mistakenly punching a hole on my passport, which he had vehemently denied, and assured me repeatedly that it was no cause for concern. Apparently not. I was informed shortly that any disfiguration on a passport rendered it cancelled, and there was no way I was to be granted an entry visa into Thailand, and that I may as well pack off.

A security personnel belonging to the Thai Immigration Police chaperoned us (my hapless colleague was still around, although his visa had been granted already, thank god) to the Thai Air back office situated in an obscure part of the gargantuan airport that I’ve come to know well since. There, I was duly booked on the next Bombay-bound flight, scheduled to take off at 7:40 pm that evening, sollee danku vellymuch.

‘Empire Strikes Back’

But all hope was not lost. The motherland hosted an embassy in the land of Siam, and it is to them that we now turned. My colleague wished me luck, and finally set off for the hotel, so I was truly on my own now. Sitting in the back office on a slinky sofa that had been almost torn to shreds (by other unfortunates perched for long hours, days even, no doubt), I drafted a passionate letter to the First Secretary, informing him of my plight. With great difficulty (the Thai know exactly 3 words in the English language), I managed to fax across my pledge to the Indian Embassy.

Still longer hours of waiting+reading+walking around aimlessly later, I was told that the Embassy had decided to help me, and have drafted a letter that I need to take to the Thai Immigration authorities that may (or may not) help me. Oh, sweet mercy! I was elated, even when the Thai Airways official asked for a whopping 2000 Baht (almost 2600 INR) just to send a courier boy to bring this letter back from the Indian embassy. It seemed there was, finally, a ray of hope.

Reenergized, I finally awoke to the shopping paradise that is the B’kok Int’l, and began aggressively to feed in the deluge of goods and services the western world had to offer. Memorizing sticker prices of duty-free liquor may not be anybody’s idea of fun, but it’s better than a slinky sofa in a grim government back office. In a fit of elation that I’m only hours away from being sorted out, I even gave in to the promised luxury of a Thai foot massage (300 Bahts, 30 mins). Mostly, I was killing time.

After walking the length and breadth of a 3 storied duty-free shopping zone that’s easily a couple of miles long, I finally found my slinky sofa again, severely dismayed that 4 hours had passed by since the courier boy had left the premises, yet still not returned. Another hour and a half later (by now it was 6 pm), he finally returned with the magic letter. I was contemplating that Nehruvian philosophy had its pluses after all as we marched into Immigration HQ (level zero, off gate 13, to add to my superstitious woes).

‘The (Anti) Climax’

A tall, very thin officer was sitting at a computer terminal. I waited a full 15 minutes before he looked up. Squeamishly, I handed him the documents + letter, and was asked to sit down, which I did. Almost disbelievingly, I watched him go through the letter, the passport, the letter again, and so forth, for at least 20 minutes. He then returned to his computer, and spent another 20 minutes doing something that had nothing to do with my case I am guessing, for I could not know better going by the light of the computer screen that reflected on his narrow-rimmed glasses. Finally, he got up, and took the papers to his colleague seated on the adjacent desk. Now the other guy started to go though the documents. At this point, I stopped looking, and decided to concentrate on happy thoughts instead.

Another half hour or so later, the man finally appeared in the room, looked up to me for the very first time, and said just one word.

Ok.

It was over, I was thinking. I am saved. The two officials seemed to assemble a lot of paperwork which included photocopies of my passport (by now I was even allowing myself a smile, of sheer relief no doubt), and began to staple these together.

5 more minutes, I was thinking. 10, max. And then it happened. His facial expression suddenly changed, as he kept staring at the top right corner (again) of the letter the Embassy had sent. Finally, he began to shake his head, and it started to dawn on me that he was not about to stamp clear my passport anymore. Finally, he handed me the letter, and then I realized what had happened. The date read 13.01.2005. That’d be exactly a year ago, for we were nowadays in the Roman Calendar Year 2006. In typical fashion, the Babus had fopped it. And I was to bear the brunt of it.

As panic set in, my first thought was to request the guys to overlook it, but the giant ISO 9002 board hanging like a talisman outside the office made me realize instinctively it won’t work. So I fell back on the other ready tactic every subcontinental is armed with almost genetically. I feigned extreme anguish, nervous breakdown, downright bad luck, even tears welled up to my cheeks. Sympathetic glances were about all I managed. I was well and truly done.

‘The Death’

Back at the Thai office, I was informed that it was too late to catch the Bombay return flight that evening, so I’d have to spend the night at the airport. Duly, I was chaperoned to the 3rd floor, and to my amazement, found myself in a plush ensuite hotel room. The illusion was pretty good, but if you pulled the drapes, you could see long queues of potential visa applicants queued up along dozens of counters 2 levels below. I shut the drapes, and turned on the telly.

I hadn’t called home yet, as earlier I had hoped to do so after having gotten sorted out. So now I had to break the news to my wife, and boss. Painful as it was, I had to reassure all that I was okay, and hopefully will be sorted out first thing in the morning. As luck would have it, the next day was a Saturday, and the Indian Embassy was closed for the weekend. In my heart of hearts, I knew my likely outcome seemed to be aboard the Bombay flight next evening, although I could not bring myself to share this information with neither wife nor boss.

So here I was, trying to organize a smoking room (they had given me a non-smoking one), when I met Al. Al (short for Alla Raka, I later learnt), was a TV baron from Florida, who had somehow managed to lose his passport (or it somehow got nicked, he was convinced it was the Greek woman who sat next to him on the long flight from Kennedy). Being a TV baron, Al knew everyone (including Rupert Murdoch, and yes, Martin Sorell too) who were all extremely concerned for him, going by the frequency of calls he was receiving on his WAP-enabled thingamajig.

We hit it off right away (as if we had a choice), and decided to make the most of it. So we went downstairs to the @ Airport Bar & Restaurant, and took up a table for supper. Al had the curious habit of completely losing his cool every once in a while, and then being profusely sorry for it the next minute. For example, he would recount the story of how the Greek lady was coming on to him through the flight, and bang the table really loud, muttering curses to go with it. Next moment, he was the very picture of benevolence, asking my forgiveness for the vulgar display of temper, and that of patrons in nearby tables who were also now clued into the antics of the man. Since I had nothing to lose, and a whole night, a whole morning, and an entire afternoon to kill, I somehow got back to good spirits. We drank till quite late into the evening, till there came a point when Al\s temper tantrums begun to turn violent. I excused myself then, fearing further damage to my already dismal situation.

Exhausted, I returned to my room, and watching the dribble of mindless mushy Thai commercials on the telly, I called it a night. Tomorrow, as somebody said, would be another day.

‘New Morning’

I decided to sleep late, and not bother. My colleague called in early, and informed me that the Embassy had decided to rectify their mistake, and send across a fresh letter with the correct date imprinted on it. By now, I was really past care. I hmm-hmmed through his reassurances, and went back to sleep. Finally, I showed up at the back office. By now, I had a bevy of friends and well-wishers there, and was welcomed to my slinky sofa once more. The letter was on its way, I was told (4 hours, I quickly calculated), and I settled into my novel.

Thankfully, it was indeed, a new morning. The spell had passed. The morning courier returned at just under 2 hours, and armed with a letter that had the date right, I marched once again into the netherworld of Thai Immigration HQ. It was déjà vu, so I was careful not to look at the officials, and concentrated on my novel instead. A good 45 minutes later (I managed to look up at about the same time as the official did this time around), I was ushered into the ‘Visa on Arrival’ queue, where I found the place invaded by a sea of loud Italians who had evidently just landed a while ago. The Immigration official asked me how much I would pay him if he worked out a hasty 10 minute release for me, as opposed to the gruelling 45 minutes I\d otherwise have to wait.

For the first time in days, I had reason to smile.

In fine Compagnie

An insider’s look at the making of a heritage hotel


February 4, 1673 is an important date in the history of Pondicherry. On that day, the French arrived, and went on to rule Pondicherry for the most part till 1954.

When Dimitri Klein arrived in Pondicherry from Paris five years ago, it was love at first sight. Having freshly sold a very sucessful advertising agency in Paris that he created from scratch to the Omnicom Group, Dimitri was looking for a new challenge. Enter Dilip Kapur, leather baron, and owner of Hidesign. Together, they concluded that Pondicherry deserved a hotel befitting its unique heritage.

After scouting for the perfect location, the partners settled on the 18th century villa of the 'Maire' (Mayor) of Pondicherry. Located in the heart of the old White French quarter at 5, Rue De La Caserne, the villa was in a state of advanced dilapidation, and would require full scale restoration. Undaunted by the challenge, Dimitri roped in architect Eric Locicero, who taught at Le Villette (School of Architecture), Paris. Eric sent across a talented young architect named Niels Schoenfelder who was training with Eric, to spearhead the project.

In the meantime, the original bungalow of Governor Dupleix collapsed completely. The duo managed to save about 44 columns and 7 ceiling panels of exquisite Franco-Indian carved woodwork from the demolished house of Dupleix. A team of 25 carpenters were put together to work on the restoration. Restoring each of these panels entailed almost 300 hours of work. In some cases, parts were missing. Two dedicated restoration carpenters worked dedicatedly to finish and age such missing parts.

Niels wanted to refinish the walls with the original 'Chettinad Egg Plaster', a mixture of egg white, powdered sea shells and yoghurt. Dimitri discovered that it was almost a lost art. He connected with Visalakshi Ramaswamy in the town of Chettinad. Together, they facilitated a workshop for the dying art of Chettinad egg plaster in Kanadukathan, Chettinad. Masons from all across India participated. The Master craftsman, 90 years of age, came down to Pondicherry for one month to lay the egg plaster foundation. Each of the rooms painstakingly incorporated the Chettinad egg plaster, keeping the walls cool, and also retaining an almost marble-like sheen to walls.

Each of the rooms have been designed with meticulous detail, and subtle sensitivity by Niels Schoenfelder. The level of detailing is astonishing, as is the ingenuity of material usage. The woodwork is teak only, polished specially with linseed oil to replicate a period setting. The toilets, again ingeniously designed, use glass mosaic tiling and red oxide flooring. Interestingly, each room is designed differently, almost thematically, and draws from a range of period colonial styles. Much of the furniture has been created using period designs, and aged. Particularly noteworthy are the embroidery designs provided by Vastra Kala, Chennai-based heritage furnishings outfit. After 4 years of restoration work, Le Dupleix opened in late July 2004.

All rooms are equipped with contemporary features such as air conditioning, internet connectivity, bathtub, minibar, tea/coffee maker and so on. Each room also has a snug family room with a television. One can keep the veranda doors open throughout the day and experience great scenic beauty. If you fancy a nice evening al fresco, climbing the planked staircase with its tiny waterfalls will bring you to the sit out. The lobby features a fantastic fountain sculpture by Francois Weil, sculptor-in-residence at AIR (artists in residence), Pondicherry.

Eventually, you are likely to step down to the Governor's Lounge, the gourmet restaurant at the garden serving a host of Continental, French & Indian specialties. The cuisine, like everything else about Le Dupleix, lives up to its reputation. The restaurant sports a bar alongside, which serves international wine and a wide array of cocktails. And if you’re the coffee-drinking sort, choose from a range of award winning coffees carefully selected from plantations in the Nilgiris.

Classic French design, genuine hospitality, distinctive music and splendid food with the seashore just a few minutes away, Le Dupleix is a remarkable achievement, a chic designer hotel with the charisma of a forgotten era.

Historical Caption (Set in inset box, preferably with a picture of Dupleix as supplied)

Joseph François Dupleix (1697–1763), came to India in 1721 as an officer of the French East India Company. In 1731 he was appointed governor of Chandannagar, where he made a considerable fortune, and in 1742 he became governor of Pondichéry. On the 17th of April 1741, he married Jeanne Albert, widow of Jacques Vincent, ex-adviser to the Superior Council of the Compagnie des Inde, the French East India company.

Born of a French father and an Indo-Portuguese mother, Madame Dupleix was of Hindu faith. Nicknamed “la Begum,” she played an important role in Pondicherry’s history, heavily influencing her husband’s political decisions. Born in Pondicherry, she spoke several languages (including Tamil) fluently, and is often described by historians as a strong- headed woman. She mothered eleven children, and, with her custom-made silks and “Indiennes,” introduced a new fashion at the court of the governor.

When the War of the Austrian Succession brought the French and British East India companies into conflict, Dupleix supervised the capture of Madras (1746) and successfully defended Pondichéry. In Europe, Louis XV signed the Aix-La-Chapelle treaty, which returned a number of territories (including Madras) to their former colonizers. But in Pondicherry, Dupleix kept up the conquests, gaining more and more territory for the French. Dupleix then formed a vast project for establishing French supremacy in India. Intervening in native politics, intrigues, and warfare, he controlled the Carnatic and nearly the entire Deccan by 1751. Soon, however, the British began to regain ground under the leadership of Robert Clive, and the French government, anxious to avoid war and uninformed of Dupleix's grandiose schemes, recalled the governor in 1754. With Dupleix, the last hope of a French empire in India vanished. He ended his days in poverty and neglect.

An According to Hoyle Miracle

The facts behind Pulp Fiction


Oh. My. God!

One way to describe the 154 minute adrenaline rush that came packaged, warts and all, as Quentin Tarantino’s second offering to cinematic audiences across the world.

Another way to describe it would be to call it the sum total of 50 years of American pop culture carefully, carelessly tossed together into a smoldering cauldron that sizzles long after the last of the fire that fuelled it has died down.

And yet another way to describe it would be to call it a tribute to the pulp tradition, those trashy fast-paced, lurid magazines with thrilling cover art that dominated 20’s and 30’s America, long before television and manufactured bestsellers relegated them to the dusty back-shelves of literary misadventure.

Whichever way you look at it, Pulp Fiction is a landmark piece of work. With its motley bunch of memorable, real characters and visceral dialogue interplay, it revived the pulp tradition for a whole new Generation X, bored with dumbed down big budget Hollywood spectacles, and thirsty for fresh approaches to cinema.


Cut to… The Chase

May, 1993. A young Quentin Tarantino is hanging out with writing bud Roger Avary in downtown Amsterdam. The two had met as Video Store clerks in Manhattan Beach, California, and had become friends who often collaborated on stories. As things panned out, Quentin went on to become the most famous writer/director of his generation, while Avary spent the tail end of the decade doing script rewrites and polishes.

It was at the Betty Boop Coffee bar in the Centrum district of Amsterdam, where much of Pulp was allegedly written. In Holland, the coffee bars doubled up as hash bars where soft drugs such as cannabis and hashish were sold over the counter. Quentin stayed for several months, and left the video rental store Cult Video with an unpaid bill of about $150. And with a trashy script that will become the yardstick for a generation of film-goers and filmmakers to match up against.


Trash (as in, The Plot)

Pulp Fiction uses a non-linear narrative to cover the exploits of 3 central characters whose lives collide in badass downtown Los Angeles. Vincent Vega (John Travolta), longtime hitman in LA gang lord Marsellus Wallace’s crew has freshly returned from a 3 year stint in Amsterdam, and now teamed up with Jules Winfield (Samuel L. Jackson). Butch Coolige (Bruce Willis), aging middleweight boxer, is looking to have one last haul before he can cop out to somewhere like the Samoan Islands with his delicate French sweetheart Fabienne. And the duo of Pumpkin/ Honey Bunny (Tim Roth/ Amanda Plummer), small-time robbers of back-of-beyond liquor stores, are now looking to graduate to the big time, and how. They’re about to rob a restaurant.

To narrate the story to the uninitiated would be an exercise in futility. What’s more interesting are the nuggets that catapult a brilliantly conceived script to the status of a cult classic. What is it about the Misirlou dance sequence at the JackRabbit’s Swing Contest that came to dominate the celluloid screen of the nineties? What is is about foot massages that can spark an engrossing intellectual debate between two gangsters on their way to a cleanup job? And if the boss’ wife OD’s on grade heroin by mistakenly snorting it up thinking it’s cocaine, is it really true that piercing her breastplate with a shot of pure adrenaline is going to work?


Let’s cook some cult tonight

The ‘cult’ factor in Pulp Fiction is not format driven. It lies in the minutiae. It’s the details that are so laugh-out-loud funny, or hard-hitting, as the case may be. Sometimes it’s situational (Vincent shooting the boy in the car accidentally), while at other times, it is deep (Jules’ reinterpretation of Ezekiel 25:17). Sometimes, it is an exaggeration (Wolf, the cleanup man is a wonderful ‘what if’ character, somebody who may or may not exist in the real world, but is a killer idea of a character). This particular style of exaggerating minutiae as key plot points has come to be known as signature Tarantino (the Like A Virgin conversation at the breakfast table from Reservoir Dogs is a good example, where seasoned pro-league gangsters about to get into a ‘job’ discuss the true meaning of Madonna’s 1984 hit single).

Layered carefully within such constructs, are a million in-jokes, cross-references, and embedded pulp factoids. To the casual viewer, these easter eggs will remain invisible to the naked eye. But to the ardent follower, every repeat viewing will be rewarded with new and interesting embeds. Examples? They abound.

The marquee where Butch boxes, advertises the following fight: "Coolidge vs Wilson" is a reference to United States Presidents Calvin Coolidge and Woodrow Wilson.

The exchange in which Mia Wallace asks Travolta's character "Can you dig it?" to which he responds "I can dig it" is a nod to Travolta's role in Saturday Night Fever.

The motorcycle movie Fabienne is watching when Butch is waking up (before he discovers that his watch is missing) is called Nam's Angels. It's about the Hell's Angels fighting the Viet Cong.

An ad for Jack Rabbit Slim's can be heard during the torture scene in Reservoir Dogs.

Jules's Biblical passage (allegedly Ezekiel 25:17) is a typically obscure Tarantino reference to Karate Kiba/Chiba the Bodyguard, a 1976 film starring Sonny Chiba, whom the director would later cast in Kill Bill. Karate Kiba opens with a nearly identical misquote, likewise attributed to Ezekiel 25:17

And a whole lot many more to list here…


Hit and still running

Pulp Fiction went on to win the 1994 Palme d'Or at the Cannes Film Festival and the Oscar for Best Original Screenplay. Although it was his second film (Reservoir Dogs had opened in late 1992), it practically unleashed Quentin Tarantino as a potent force in post-pop American cinema.

In retrospect, the timing of Pulp was brilliant. It happened at the right time, when the world was ready for it, and therefore it tipped over and became such a mainstream blockbuster. If you really look at it, there were too many gambles thrown in that might not have worked the way they did. Travolta was a lost cause, a seventies boy wonder, who had been all but forgotten. Uma Thurman was virtually unknown, even known as a bit part wannabe star. The rest of the cast were also throwbacks from a different generation. The music, which played such a huge role in the film’s success, was not contemporary either. They were radio hits from obscure seventies one-hit wonders.

It all just came together in one masterstroke by a truly visionary pop culturist. And the world simply lapped it up. A bevy of Hollywood have-beens owe their revival to this film. An entire genre of sound owes its revival to this film. An entire generation of pulp literature found a new market thanks to this film.

Tarantino has gone on to create some of the most memorable Hollywood pictures over the last decade or so, and has developed a major cult (some would say mainstream) following along the way. Pulp Fiction, in particular, spawned a stream of non-linear, fast-paced nuovo gangsta flicks-. Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels, Go and Snatch are only a few examples.


An according to Hoyle miracle

A final mystery for true buffs. Speculation abounds about the exact nature of the glowing contents of Marsellus Wallace’s briefcase. The most oft-repeated theory is that it contained Marsellus Wallace’s soul. The story goes that when the Devil takes a man’s soul, it is removed from the back of the head. When we see the back of Marsellus’ head, he has a band-aid covering the exact spot. Interestingly, we see Vincent opening the briefcase using the combination number 666, which further substantiates this.

Fresh theory, anyone?

Bona Voyage

Richard Bona Plays NCPA


Once upon a lifetime, comes a moment when all the beauty of the world can be encapsulated into a single note of music…

A singular strain that ebbs and flows through the whole range of human emotion, until the collective soul resonates at the same frequency, and the sheer power of that moment simply drenches all who are fortunate to be in it. Such was the power of Richard Bona’s performance at the NCPA Bombay on Friday evening. It was as if God was in our presence. It was as though the angels had perched themselves along the dome walls of the auditorium, and were watching over us.

Attempts to describe the phenomenon called Richard Bona have been made before, usually all gushing in superlatives of some form or another. Of all that’s been said before, here is one that comes somewhat close- "Imagine an artist with Jaco Pastorious's virtuosity, George Benson's vocal fluidity, Joao Gilberto's sense of song and harmony, all mixed up with African culture. Ladies and gentlemen, we bring you Richard Bona!"—Los Angeles Times

A brief historical interlude- The grandson of a famous percussionist and singer, Richard Bona was born in 1967 in Minta, a village in the center of Cameroon. He was eleven when he went to Douala with his father; the sprawling, sea-port city was the second largest in the country, with almost two million inhabitants. He immediately got himself a job as guitar player in a dance group. Subsequently, the French owner of a local club gave him the task of setting up a little, jazz-inspired group and he was entrusted with a collection of some five hundred vinyl albums so that he could soak it all in. Richard discovered jazz, the freedom, complexity and virtuosity of the music invented by the American descendants of his forebears. It was how Bona came across the Jaco Pastorius album, the one with his name on it (Jaco Pastorius, Columbia 1976). Before Jaco, he had never even thought of playing bass. Before long, he was playing electric bass with a dexterity hitherto unknown to the local Douala jazz circuit. Cleary, the influence was strong enough to hold. Years later, Billboard magazine said of Bona, “Richard Bona is the hottest electric bass player since Jaco Pastorius – and the first since that past master with the potential for solo stardom.”

In 1989, when he was 22, Bona left Africa for Paris, where he quickly built a solid reputation playing with Didier Lockwood, Marc Fosset and André Ceccarelli, and taking part in studio sessions with musicians of the stature of Manu Dibango, Salif Keita and another Weather Report stalwart, Joe Zawinul (My People, 1992.) Richard crossed the ocean in 1995 and settled in Manhattan. He hooked up with Joe Zawinul again, and was invited to accompany him on a world tour. As fate would have it, Bona surfaced as the legendary Harry Belafonte’s musical director, bassist and arranger. A fabulous eighteen month collaboration ensued, as Richard Bona grew from strength to strength as one of the most in-demand collaborators in the circuit.
He has worked with a virtual who’s who of artists, and is one of the most widely respected solo performers in the world music/jazz circuit today.

And it’s easy to see why. Bona’s band was as eclectic as his musical antecedents. The drummer is Cuban, the percussionist Columbian, while the keyboard player and trumpet player are inner city New York. His lead guitarist looked like he was from Tel Aviv, and really underage, although he played a mean axe when called upon. And of course to round out the sextet, on bass guitar, vocals, whistles, pedals, finger-tapping and sheer genius, one Richard Bona.

The breathtaking array of musical styles left us dizzy and out of breath pretty much from the word go. This music was beyond nomenclature. It could just as easily be jazz, as it could be pop, or latin, or bossa nova, or simply earth. In one masterful a-capella, Bona started off a song by saying he would be performing an Indian song, while his band sauntered offstage. He started off with a beat, recorded a bass line over it, programmed that bit, and kept adding layer after layer of sound to this to build up to a crescendo that sounded like a 50 man chorus singing. This song was over seven thousand years old, he said, and that’s why we had all forgotten it…

On bass, Bona was simply masterful. It was reminiscent of Jaco in his heydey. But when those bass lines were punctuated by the range of his vocal scatting, it was simply mesmeric. The crowd literally gasped and gushed at every turn, sometimes breaking into involuntary cheer in mid-song. It was that hard to contain one’s emotions.

And then it happened. That singular moment. The band, the audience, the angels, even the constantly coughing uncle in the second last row. The note passed like electricity through each one of us, and held us together for what seemed like an eternity, but was actually just a moment in time. And then we erupted with the joy that each one of us knew we had felt, and shared together.

HE was surely here…