Saheb Biwi Aur Gangster is a delightfully wicked and raunchy bedroom thriller where the best part is the anticipation of the next naughty and sharp twist, and then the next one.
The film’s title is a giveaway. We sort of guess what’s going to happen, and yet Tigmanshu Dhulia’s film packs in fascinating surprises en route to its twisted end.

We are told that Shah Rukh Khan hates Amitabh Bachchan and that is why he decided to piss on senior Bachchan’s legacy with his face-pulling Don. We have also heard about the enmity between Salman Khan and John Abraham, and that’s why, it seems, the Malayali-Parsi boy has jumped into the Afghan-Hindu Khan’s territory, his shirt off, muscles rippling and screaming, “Size dekh ke baat kiya kar.” I like it.

Pankaj Kapur’s directorial debut Mausam is a three-hour-long saga of love in the time of war and hate that travels across cities, villages, countries and continents accompanying lovers who seem destined never to meet.

What Lagaan was to impoverished, innocent villagers in dusty dhotis, Speedy Singhs is to a bunch of cutie Canadian sardars with shoulder-pads and crotch-guards. There the score was settled with blood-sucking goras on the cricket pitch, here the war zone is an air-conditioned auditorium with an ice rink and the enemy is the team of big-chested, racist, ice hockey champions, the Hammer Heads.

200 women become prostitutes everyday
80% against their wishes, because of family tradition

I am a sucker for good covers. If I spot a sexy, glamorous cover at a newsstand, I have to have that magazine. Once I do, this is my routine: I’ll rip off the plastic wrapper, flip through the pages, pause for a bit at some pictures, resume flipping, pause again at a seemingly interesting article, but after reading a few lines realise it’s old stuff regurgitated with maybe one new quote and two new pictures. I’ll fling the fashion/film magazine on the bathroom floor and sit on the pot feeling very stupid. I know I’ve been had, again.

Go back, return to those days when, on a slow afternoon, you’d hear the dug-dug of a damru and run in its direction. Inside a thick ring of people on a street corner, Ustad would be walking around Jamoora in circles, shouting questions.

Chitkabrey is being sold as “the boldest film ever” because a) it explores the “intricacies of relationships”, and b) we get a darshan of Ravi Kissen in the nude, full-frontal.

THERE ARE two Aarakshans. One is the two-and-a-half hour film playing at some cinema halls in India. This Aarakshan, unfortunately, has been pushed past the goal post of good-bad cinema. Rising shrill voices and bans have ensured that director Prakash Jha escapes the embarrassment of acknowledging that this is one of his worst films.

It was a different sentiment in 1957 when Guru Dutt, glass in hand, tottered through a badnaam galli. Hurting at “ye ismat ke saude, ye saudon pe takaraar”, he turned, looked straight into the camera and asked:
Zaraa mulk ke rehbaron ko bulao
Ye kooche ye galliyaan, ye manzar dikhao
Jinhen naaz hai Hind par, unko lao
Many in the government thought that they were being summoned to a people’s court, that Sahir Ludhianvi was being very personal.