Friday, July 15, 2022

Awwal Number (1990) - A Review

The Hindi Film Industry has churned out plenty of memorable sports films.  A sports film is generally trope-laden, and truth be told, audiences watch sports films knowing this and expecting this.  The story of the underdog.  Trial.  Misery.  Pain.  Tenacity.  Hard work.  And victory at the end.  We all love this.  You know the Chak De Indias and the Lagaans.  Even the biopics, although sometimes more like extended skits of anecdotes and recreations of actual videos from the past making you wish that you were watching a solemn documentary instead, give you the buzz of euphoria you expect from a sports film.  And within this genre, you will sometimes get a Dangal that has a narrative that transcends this cliché by addressing the human condition, a Bhaag Milkha Bhaag that deals with the sensitivity surrounding the Partition, and a Paan Singh Tomar that is raw and honest with incredible acting.

And then you have Awwal Number.

Remember how India as a whole felt proud and honored when Lagaan was nominated for Best Foreign Language Film at the Oscars but failed to win?  I think that is just gross underestimation of talent and a false sense of mediocrity.  Do you really think we don't make Oscar worthy films?  Let me tell you that the only reason we have never won an Oscar is because back in 1990, Dev Anand never cared to submit his masterpiece Awwal Number to the Academy.  In fact, Awwal Number outclasses any film that has ever won the Oscar.  

Awwal Number is a story of three men, Vicky, Ronnie, and Sunny.  Vicky, played by Dev Anand, is the President of BCCI, chief selector, cricket coach, and a retired Director General of Police who is on the Home Minister's speed dial so that he can be pulled out of retirement whenever needed because of his brilliant terrorist catching abilities.  He is a skilled helicopter pilot and can accurately shoot villains with a rifle using only one hand while flying the helicopter with the other.  He knows that the only effective way to interrogate a male terrorist suspect is by injecting sach ugalwane ki dawaa into him and a female terrorist suspect is by flirting with her.  He also knows the names of all the cricketing shots, and shouts them out at random while coaching his step-brother Ronnie, thus turning Ronnie into the world's best batsman.  He is also emotionally very stable, evidenced by his lukewarm reaction when 10 year old Ronnie shoots a man dead.  To top it all, he is also a man of principle because he drinks exactly one scotch and soda before dinner and smokes exactly one cigarette after dinner, votes to drop his own step-brother from the cricket team despite having been partial to him when selecting him the first time, and also has the gall to override the Home Minster's orders when it comes to following his usool to carry out his duties as a policeman.


Ronnie, played by Aditya Pancholi, is Vicky's younger step-brother.  While Vicky was born to an Indian mother, Ronnie was born to Cindy Crawford.  Yes, you heard that right.  Cindy Crawford.  Legend has it that Dev Anand asked his assistant to go buy the first photograph of a European looking woman he saw on Ranade Rd Dadar West, and the assistant returned with an exquisitely framed photo of supermodel Cindy Crawford, who then Dev Anand cast, uncredited and unaware, as his deceased step-mother.  Having those Angrez genes, it is no wonder that Ronnie has cricket in his blood.  With top class 1:1 coaching from his brother, he becomes a superstar cricketer who is famous for hitting sixers, because that's all really matters in cricket.  He is also a bad person because he is arrogant, disrespects his fans if they aren't pretty women, sleeps with them if they are, and also drinks a lot of beer (as opposed to drinking exactly one scotch and soda).  He usually scores centuries when he is in form, and gets out on zero when he is out of form.  He is currently out of form because of his aiyaashi and lack of focus.  He is jealous of younger cricketers who can also hit sixers, and generally wants to kill them by planting dynamite under the pitch, right around the good length area.  His MO for carrying out this operation is wearing a hat and a fake mustache and yet making no effort to hide his identity so he can use his name to get a free seat on a helicopter to fly over the stadium and press a button on a remote to activate the dynamite.  And as I said earlier, he is also a juvenile murderer on the loose.

Sunny, played by Aamir Khan, is an up and coming cricketer, which basically means he is a sixer hitting batsman.  He makes it clear right at the beginning that although his name is Sunny, he isn't the great Sunny Gavaskar.  However, he and his aging father, played by Bharat Bhushan, once receive an autographed bat from Sunny Gavaskar (not shown in the film), which our young Sunny, played by Aftab Shivdasani, then brings back to his chawl, starts playing cricket with, and grows up into a sixer hitting Aamir Khan.  Sunny is a good person, because he drinks neither beer nor scotch, he has never killed anyone in his life, and his behavior toward female fans is appropriate, i.e. he falls in love with them, sings songs with them in swimsuits on the beach, eats bhaang waale bhajiya with them on chowpatty, and eventually promises to marry them by meeting their aging mother.  He is also a big fan of Ronnie, but doesn't shy away from getting into a bar brawl with him when the senior cricketer speaks cheaply about women.  He also carries a tape recorder in his pocket, given to him by his girlfriend Aarti, played by Ekta Sohini, with "I love you, I love you, I love you" recorded in her voice in varying pitches.  Sunny uses this recorder like the Sanjeevani herb whenever he gets injured on the field, so that he can jump back up on his feet and resume hitting sixers.

Awwal Number is not just a movie.  It is a grand journey.  It is an adventure that traverses from cricket selection comprising of 5 people choosing between Ronnie and Sunny, to flash backs of cricket coaching accomplished either using a cricket bat if you are rich and by running on the streets on Mumbai if you are poor, to bad Tamil accented Punjabi actors playing LTTE members (the "Ayyo, umm tho thum ko jaantha hi nehi hey ji" kind), to Punjabi Tamil groundsmen named Kundi because apparently it is a South Indian word, to buxom women who pose as air hostesses in order to smuggle gold bars in their bras but end up becoming bar dancers without ever being arrested, to an Australian cricket team that consists of mustached white-face brown actors and just a single fast bowler that bowls every single over of the match, to policemen who are able to converse with villains in helicopters using some sort of mysterious telepathy.  Staying true to the sport film genre, India finally wins the match against Australia.  Sunny scores a century in his first ODI and achieves the rare feat of breaking Ronnie's test record in an ODI.  He is also named the Man of Match and is awarded a Mercedes Benz car, which then he gives Aarti a ride in.  Oh, and also, Vicky kills Ronnie, and the Tamil villains lose.

Wednesday, July 13, 2022

Continental Breakfast

A Man Who Enjoys a Continental Breakfast - Key & Peele

"Here's your key, sir.  Elevators are to your left.  Breakfast is from 6 am to 10 am."

I glanced at the breakfast area.  Through the darkness I spotted a bagel slicer.  My mind darted back to a stay I had endured at a questionable hotel in Manhattan about a decade ago.  I recalled the tempestuous debate I had had with the hotel manager regarding some crumbs I had noticed inside the bagel slicer; the point of contention being that the manager believed they were innocent scrapings from cinnamon-raisin bagels and I believed they were remnants of ordure produced by the rodents I was sure to have seen scampering around the corner.  

I shuddered.

As I walked towards the elevator, I hallucinated rainbow colored mice carrying cinnamon-raisin bagels alongside me.  It was almost midnight.  I clearly needed sleep.  Leaving the rodents behind, I stepped into the elevator.

The oblique light of dawn kissed me into wakefulness.  Propping myself up between the severely tucked sheets, I looked around, squinting.  The room looked pretty neat.  A huge window, a large screen TV, a small frig, a microwave, a fancy upholstered slipper chair, and a pretty clean looking carpet.  I took a deep breath.  No musty smell.  Not bad, I thought to myself.  I rolled out of bed and walked up to the window.  The sun was rising over the horizon the DC metro area seemed to disappear into.   My gaze got fixated on a systematic cloverleaf highway interchange that was layered carefully over a labyrinth of disorderly local roads, and it suddenly gave me a sense of security and strengthened my faith in the positive nature of evolutionary advancement of civilization.  A great deal of good cheer returned to my disposition.  Bagel bearing vermin were long forgotten.

My stomach growled.  

As I took the elevator down, I caught a whiff of bacon.  Being a vegetarian, there was a slight dwindling in the optimism I had garnered earlier, but I didn't lose heart.  Complimentary breakfast is a good thing, I told myself.  I stepped out of the elevator and incorporated my hungry frame into the esurient assemblage of a couple dozen hotel guests.  The mob seamlessly transported me to the hot food section with three stainless steel chafing containers.  I ignored the first one that contained bacon.  The second one had breakfast potatoes.  You know, the cubed and roasted and seasoned kind.  Good, I thought to myself, this I can eat!  And just I had made up my mind, the sinless fella ahead of me in the line used the bacon tongs to serve himself the potatoes!

Great!  Potatoes were out now.  

I strengthened my resolve.  Complimentary breakfast is a good thing, I told myself, and approached the third chafing container.  Scrambled eggs!  Yay, I told myself, I can eat this!  I could almost feel the good cheer returning as I dug into the eggs with the ladle.  And just as I was about to serve the eggs on my plate, I saw a small piece of bacon stuck to the bottom of the ladle!  This time, all of the good cheer vanished.  I must have dropped the ladle hard on spoon rest, because my sinless friend suddenly turned around and stared at me.  I looked at him and shrugged.

Next was a wall mounted plastic cereal dispenser with Froot Loops, and a jug of cold milk labeled "skim".  Although by no means was cereal my breakfast de choix, I decided to suck it up and serve myself some, because, you know, complimentary breakfast is a good thing.  Mustering up some of that good cheer again, I took a bowl and turned the knob on the dispenser.  What followed was an ugly crushing sound.  Before I knew it, a jet of colorful fairy dust like powder shot into my bowl!

Eggs out.  Cereal out.

By this point, good cheer was beginning to seem like an academic abstraction.  The mob now ferried me over to the section with breads.  As I walked past the cream cheeses and butters and jams, I managed to muster up just a tiny bit of some lukewarm cheer.  Bread it is, I told myself, I can eat thatWith butter.  May be I'll even throw some ketchup on it.  Oh, and I can even season it with black pepper.  Or how about a jam sandwich?  Or may be I could do a nice crisp toast with cream cheese smeared on it.  Oh, and I could season this one with black pepper too!

It wasn't exactly good cheer, but it was something.  I straightened my spine and marched forth with the mob.  And just as I was feeling more determined, the mob deposited me right in front of that bagel slicer!  

As I felt my PTSD kick in, I rapidly looked away and focused my attention on the bread case next to it.  I scanned the assortment to make my choice.  White bread?  No, I can do better than that, I said to myself.  Multigrain bread?  Nah, that's basically white bread with some grains.  Rye bread?  What is rye bread anyway Oh, wait, what's that...?  

Lo and behold!  I could spy with my little eyes some innocent scrapings from non-existent cinnamon-raisin bagels!