Pink About the Panther

Before I begin this one, a strong recommendation to all readers–please watch Pink Panther and Pink Panther 2 (the Steve Martin versions) if you haven’t already. I haven’t watched the 1963 Peter Sellers starrer…so I cannot compare the two actors who play the protagonist–the incorrigible cretin, Inspector Jacques Clouseau. All I can tell you is Steve Martin turned my weekends into a laugh riot. So if it’s some wholesome fun you’re wanting, in between the cricket, the Madras heat, the grocery shopping, the cooking, and the power-cuts, go for it.
The first film marks the reappearance of the precious diamond—the invaluable Pink Panther—amidst much football hungama. A famous football coach is murdered in broad daylight, and the diamond is stolen from his finger. As Henry Mancini’s orchestral jazz plays on, Jacques Clouseau, the gaumless French policeman indulges in delirium. Is he like Mr. Bean? Well, definitely not. Bean indulges in idiocy, and somewhere in his journey, experiences remorse. Clouseau is too full of the archetypal French self-pride to feel regretful.
This man is a sad case of personified self-conceit, much like some of Congreve’s and Shakespeare’s characters. Be it banging neatly against cars in the parking lot, or sitting on the Pope's peaked mitre, be it ogling at a blonde with bursting shirt buttons, or setting a whole restaurant on fire by merely spilling wine, Clouseau is nonpareil.
And that amazing French accent…Steve Martin deserves an honorary French citizenship, if you ask me.
There is this session with an American accent trainer who coaches Clouseau before he is on his way to New York. He just has to say ‘I want a hamburger’. The way Martin makes a complete mess of it is novel. Old timers say Sellers did a better job out of portraying the idiocy. Having seen and loved Martin in My Blue Heaven, Father of the Bride (both parts), Bowfinger, Cheaper by the Dozen, Novocaine, Jiminy Glick in Lalawood and so on, I have my loyalties defined.
Trust me; there are big names in both of Martin’s Pink Panthers. Kevin Kline, Jean Reno, Beyonce´ Knowles, Andy Garcia, Alfred Molina and some of the others. But Martin leaves an indelible impression, and at the end of it all, you’re pink with those bouts of delirious laughter.
And now a line or two about our desi beauty, Aishwariya Rai. She plays a crucial role in the second movie, yes. And to keep the secrecy of the plot intact, I’m not going to disclose what it is. But the truth remains that Rai is a complete non-actor and a coquettish waste. Of course, this is a personal view, and I do not expect hate mails after this.
All said and done, please go ahead and watch Steve Martin shine in his imbecilic armor. You’ll not regret it.

The Sardar in Me!

Readers...please excuse, if this reads like a nefarious attack on Sardars across the globe...trust me, it's not. This post really is about the French classes that I am attending off late on weekends, and my complete incomprehension of the wonky language.
As kids, we have grown up listening to thousands of lame Sardar jokes, one of them being about Milkha Singh, the athlete. This is how it reads:
Milkha is resting after a win. Reporter approaches Milkha, and asks him "Excuse me, are you relaxing? (read Relac Singh)". Milkha with his proverbial Sardar brain replies "No, I am Milkha Singh" That’s the happy ending to this really sad joke. But the point remains; I am gradually discovering the Milkha in me…in the French classes.
I was over the moon when I enrolled at Alliance Francaise (I hope the spell check is working) last month. My long term ambition of learning a major European language was just getting fulfilled…wow! I was filled with absurd self-pride, having brought myself so far (Whatever this means).
So our classes started. The instructor made us sing French nursery rhymes to start with. Unbelievable eh? I even remember the lyrics…
“Bonjour bonjour,
coco salut,
je va bien,
merci beaucoup…”
It was just some elementary greeting song…and I went on like an imbecilic parrot…as they say “there are neurons, protons, and MORONS!!!”
Shell-shocked at my remarkable capacity to indulge in nonsense, I thought I should rise above all else and say something intelligent in class. So when the instructor asked “When you think of France, what are you reminded of?” “Da Vinci”, I bellowed. “Da Vinci is Italian”, the instructor snapped back. Eiffel Tower, I thought would be too plebian…Marie Antoinette, too esoteric…Bonaparté, too historic…so Da Vinci, it had to be. And that’s how my pride had to disappear.
In the next few classes, I tried my best to bring out the Newton in me. But Milkha kept peeping out. We were divided into groups to ask questions to each other in French, and nothing but French. I soon found out, not only was it that things were way beyond my comprehension; the others seemed to follow the ‘things’ just right. My 13 year old classmate comforted me… “Don’t worry Aunty. (aunty? You mean aunty? You really mean aunty?) It happens.” Sure.
With strained concentration however, I had started warming up to the idea that things would get better for me. I learnt to say “J’m’appelle Debanjana…et vous?” (“My name is Debanjana, what’s yours?”). With reinstated self-belief, I started ringing up every living well-wisher, to repeat the lines in French. More than me understanding French, French was starting to understand me. I was almost ecstatic.
Ecstasy switched to agony once more last week. We were practicing conversation in class as usual. The instructor asked me “Êtes-vous un ingénieur?” (“Are you an engineer?”) “No”, I replied, beaming with misplaced self-conceit. “Je suis indienne” (“No, I am Indian”). Milkha refuses to die!