Love.Anguish.Music

It was exactly midnight when the last rain of the year came knocking unannounced at the train window. He suddenly realized that the moon too had disappeared somewhere in the dark skies, leaving him at the mercy of  the lonely world around him, which   had slipped into a silent rhythm comprising of the uniform beat of the moving train cutting through the tranquillity of the moist darkness of central India and the (now) large droplets lashing tangentially at the window sill, bouncing on them, and landing on his face.

 
 
 
He was not sleepy. It would be a long time before he would again rediscover his sleep. He was busy coming in terms with his failure. It had nothing to do with her. She had done what logic would have prompted. But then, matters of the heart would always  keep questioning logic. And he was busy reflecting on those questions that were bothering his twenty year old heart quite a bit. He knew that the shadows of the countryside slipping furiously behind him were taking along  a part of his life with them, never to return it to him again.
 
 
As the long night drew to an end and his destination loomed at the horizon with the first ray of the sun, he collected his bag, her gifts and a soggy note that he had attempted to jot down in vain, in the dark moving train. It was time to get back to life. It was time to get back at life. The  September sun reassured him that there would be no  more rain for a long time at least. And no more tears too.  
 
He had boarded the train, a boy. He stepped out of it, a man.  
 
He had spent his residual monthly allowance to make this last trip so that he may end things “in style, and with dignity”. He had wired home, reluctantly requesting for more money ,which would come in a few days. His bruised ego had stirred up some unreasonable self respect in him, which prevented him from borrowing from anyone. In the four days that followed, the neighbourhood temple miraculously came to his aid whenever he was hungry (which was anyway quite seldom). He felt at peace. He knew something new and good was happening to him. He was discovering himself. He was discovering God. And he was touching something else, something which had been buried deep within for long, as he kept drifting away from himself in the past five years.  

He re-discovered his music.
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That was many years ago. Much before the advent of the internet.  A time when love still managed to change lives and heartbreaks held the power to ignite the world around. People did not have social networking sites to turn to, in order to change their relationship status and move on. Something tells me that Imtiaz Ali is from that generation of ours and that’s what  probably made him conceptualize “Rockstar”, a saga of love, pain, loss, anger. And music. Yes, the movie has flaws, some of them gaping ones. But where the storyline lacks tightness, the emotions take over confidently. Over-fed by the media circus around this flick for the past few weeks and the manipulative promotional campaign, frankly I went into the theatre a cynic, waiting to list down and pounce on the defects one by one. However, as Ali meandered his way through his 153 minutes of self indulgent and self styled narration, the errors slipped into the background and as I came out of the theatre, all that remained was a bitter sweet hangover from his melancholic rendition. Take a bow Imtiaz Ali ! Come back home. All is forgiven. You have done good. Yet again. 
 
Let me get over with the flaws first and save the best for later. For starters, Ali ( keeping up with his own earlier films) works hard in creating a chemistry between the lead pair, giving them a regular, contemporary campus vocabulary. However the start of the relationship looks unconvincing and could have been better substantiated. He seemed to be hell bent on creating Nargis Fakhri as the most lovable girl on this planet (No harm in that. Been there, done that), but the final effect came across as forced (I doubt that a snobbish up-market Delhi girl from the best campus would go for a “desi daroo” and a “junglee jawaani” session with an ill-dressed aspiring guitarist from Haryana). But yes, the build up has it’s moments too, especially when the “Katyaa Karoon” number changes it’s scale and love silently creeps in, and keeps mum. Also the transformation of an uncouth and unpolished boy into a youth icon so suddenly, was a bit hurried and could have been chewed on  a bit more . Finallly, we all understood the recklessness of  Ali’s “Jordan” and his regular brushes with the law. But the core of it needed to be worked on. Where were the drugs , or the girls ? The edge was painted well. But the path to the edge was left to the viewer’s imagination. Maybe the maker was on an autobiographical journey and assumed that certain things would be anyway obvious in Jordan’s story.
 
 
Oh yes, Nargis Fakhri is pretty and she had landed herself a dream debut. She could however have considered taking some serious acting classes before taking the plunge. She fails to leave that longing and pain in your heart which you were hit with when you first saw Ranjeeta in “Ankhiyon ke jharokhon se” (No comparison , just an analogy)
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
That’s all about the defects. Now the great stuff. 
 
 
Ranbir Kapoor keeps getting better with each movie. No one and no one else but he could have pulled off “Jordan”, effortlessly slipping into his Jat “JJ’s” Manesar sport shoes, to his unkempt, rebel avatar in the first (& last) scene. Whether it be his doe-eyed lover boy gaze at his Heer, or be it him showing his middle finger to his fans as he is led away by the police,Ranbir shines in every frame. This is truly his best so far.
  
 
 
Rahman disappoints and falls short, maybe because he tries too hard. The numbers are mostly clones of Rahman’s own earlier work ( “Hawa Hawa” and  the Dargaah song stand out as the better ones, while the “Katyaa Karoon” delights only in parts). 
 
Coming to the real rock star of this movie, Imtiaz Ali paints his rebel musician in bold strokes, from his clothes to his personality. He reminds me of a young Yash Chopra or Gulzaar in one of his better movies. He breezes through his narrative, crafting out  a collage of the past and present, without bothering to wait and explain. He trusts and respects the intelligence of his viewers. Hailing from Jamshedpur himself, Ali probably had to wear off a number of shoe soles, trying to get acceptance in the ocean called Bollywood. And that’s probably why he is so high on his adrenaline and style quotient, something which an over-fed south Bombay mamma’s boy( or , is it Mamma’s girl ?) like Karan Johar can’t churn out , however hard he tries. Some of the best story tellers in the world are  born in  sleepy small towns with the sounds of moving trains serving as  background music. 
 
The masterstroke and the goose bump moment  of the film? The first scene of the movie where Jordan’s colourful portrait is morphed into a young Shammi Kapoor’s face wth his trademark “Yahoo” by his side. Imtiaz Ali pays his tribute to the first Rockstar of India with a lot of subtle style. 
 
What if I had to tell this story myself ? I would probably have taken off 10 years into the future, with Jordan having died from his reckless lifestyle long back , but still managing to have a small but steady fan following ,who still celebrate his brief stardom. The story is narrated in the first person by a cynical journalist who is attempting to do a cover story on a yester-year rock star. This person begins his / her research on him and starts collecting bits and fragments about the controversial man and in the process, discovers this person, gradually & grudgingly becomes a fan of his , and keeps wishing that he/she could find out more about the unrecorded portions from his life. Like every rock star, this guy would have left with some untold stories, some buried secrets and some last unsung notes from his music diary, which he took with him to his grave. All at that ripe old age of twenty six. When a  Rockstar dies . And a cult is born.