Can u plz send me an mp3 ringtone of Ghajini Dharmatma..When he is appears in the screen and his background music is like falling current Keeee.......kkeeeeeeeeeeeeekeeeeeekekekekekeeeeeeeeee. If u cant send it then plz send me suggestion to download this.
Regards, Ashish Sharma --- In [email protected], "Chord" <purev...@...> wrote: > > http://qalandari.blogspot.com/2008/12/ghajini-hindi-2008.html > > GHAJINI (Hindi; 2008) > If you don't know the story, you've been living under a rock: the > remake of a knock-off (Tamil cinema's 2005 superhit of the same name; > owing a liberal debt to the American Memento), Ghajini is Sanjay > Singhania's quest for vengeance: Singhania (Aamir Khan) suffers from > short-term memory loss, which in his case means that he forgets just > about everything every fifteen minutes -- including the identity of > the man who killed his fiancee Kalpana (Asin). If this perpetual > "rebooting" sounds a tad mechanistic, that's only fitting -- for > Singhania's vendetta has transformed his own body into mere > instrument, both to help him remember (Sanjay uses his body to scrawl > notes and instructions to himself; every incident of memory loss is > thus always followed by the shock of learning anew), and to help him > unleash carnage on his enemies (Sanjay's muscular body, first revealed > to us before his bathroom mirror in a disturbing representation of > tortured mind and contorted body, is nothing so much as a weapon). > That is to say, in the absence of love, Sanjay is no better than > machine -- one oriented toward tracking down Ghajini Dharmatma > (Pradeep Rawat), who murdered Kalpana before Sanjay's own eyes, and > killing him. Add in nosy medical student Sunita (Jiah Khan) who wants > to get to the bottom of things, and you have a recipe for one savory > khichdi. > > I needn't have fretted about the Hindi version's makers trying to > remake the Tamil masala film into something far more palatable to > contemporary multiplex audiences. To a far greater extent than I had > expected, the down-home ethos and vibe of the original has been > retained (if you want to know what I mean, think back to the childhood > flashback sequence in Tashan), a vibe more '90s B'wood than the > industry that gives us Life in a Metro or Taare Zameen Par (it must be > said that the Hindi version features more slick action than its Tamil > counterpart did). Indeed one cannot shake the feeling that the most > important thing Aamir Khan has forgotten with respect to Ghajini is > not the identity of his lover's killer, but the fact that the paradigm > this film represents has been killed. Or rather, more likely, the > opposite: the very fact that this film is an unabashed throwback > suggests that the filmmakers haven't forgotten at all. > > "Throwback" might conjure up memories of mindless beat 'em ups and > revenge sagas, and no-one can deny that there was much about the old > Bollywood that deserved to be laid to rest. But "throwback" can also > refer to Hindi cinema's traditional ability to harness the epic in the > service of the everyday; to tell a story with an emotional core, one > that could be re-visited, not simply consumed; where the characters > were more than mere toned and tanned mannequins, on the one hand, or > Hollywood-style "naturalistic" characters, on the other. And it is in > this sense that Ghajini is a throwback: in a word, what distinguishes > this film from its purportedly more sophisticated, more modern peers, > is the conviction that the trauma at the core of the film matters. And > matters enough to make psychotic rage seem like a plausible response > to irremediable loss. > > Ghajini would at first blush appear to be an odd choice to keep the > banner of old-school masala flying: its publicity campaign peddled > Aamir's multi-pack makeover, and the actor's shaven-haired look served > as Exhibit A to Bollywood's newfound professionalism, not averse to > getting in the skin of a character. And certainly Ghajini features > enough waxed chest to put Hrithik Roshan to shame, enough of a wannabe > vibe -- courtesy the video of the Behka song -- to make one cringe. > But what lingers is the emotional heft of the Sanjay-Kalpana love > story; and "lingers" is the word, given that director Murugadoss takes > a great deal of time to show the two talking, spending time together, > simply enjoying each other's company. In an era addicted to fast > forward, these two take their time getting to the point -- with the > result that one begins to care for the pair, even in the absence of > any great, passionate moment. The length of time the audience spends > "with" the lead pair is crucial (it is surely not coincidental that > the demise of an older cinematic paradigm has been accompanied by a > noticeable shortening of the films, to the point where the vast > majority are closer to two than three hours): absent such an > investment, it is unlikely Sanjay's loss could resonate to the extent > that it does. Equally important is Murugadoss' strategy of splicing > the flashback into three segments, and deferring the actual > representation of the trauma to the maximum extent feasible. Ghajini, > in short, doesn't just present us with a man whose fiancee has been > killed; it makes the audience feel that something truly meaningful has > been destroyed. For all the old-school clunkiness of Ghajini's > technique, that privileging of "showing" over "telling" announces the > film as more cinematic than many of its superficially hipper peers. > > Aamir Khan is the single biggest reason why Ghajini succeeds in this > "showing", in implicating its audience in Sanjay's trauma. For just > about every other aspect has been imported wholesale from the Tamil > version -- and yet the latter is somehow un-compelling, despite the > presence of a gifted star-actor at its core. The difference where the > Hindi version is concerned is Khan, who turns in not only an > authoritative performance -- one has come to expect these -- but (and > this is unusual for Khan) an uninhibited one, especially as the > psychotic post-trauma Sanjay. He rages, bellows, grunts, more feral > than human -- and makes it all seem plausible. His excess here is not > an excess of effort, but an excess of grief, of rage, of madness. > Despite the fact that I've seen the Tamil version more than once, > despite the fact that the Hindi version otherwise shares the Tamil > version's failings (not least of these is a script that where events > don't really move forward so much as just happen), from the moment > Aamir Khan makes his entry in a blaze of flying fists and broken > furniture, and even more so from the next scene, when Sanjay wakes up, > and the reality of his amnesia is revealed not by shots of his > apartment's walls covered by reminders, but by the fact that the > camera stays on his wide-open eyes, at once bewildered and vulnerable, > yet shaded with anger, I was completely spellbound by Aamir's > performance. Not since Mangal Pandey glowered outside his former > friend Gordon's house has Khan been so transporting. Certainly Pandey > is the better-written character, and hence the more complex role, but > the Aamir of three years later lets Sanjay go in a way he never did > with Mangal, even at his most furious. As in the under-appreciated > Mangal Pandey, however, Aamir Khan holds the film together; but the > achievement is all the greater in Ghajini, as, unlike in Mangal > Pandey, there wouldn't be much to salvage in the film absent Khan's > performance. > > Which isn't to say that the performance is perfect: Aamir is far less > impressive as the younger Sanjay, partly because he seems just too old > for the role at points (the only way to pull the Behka video off would > have been as spoof; sadly, Aamir and Murugadoss are deadly serious), > and partly because he doesn't appear to be doing much for long > stretches of the flashback except demonstrate to the audience that he > has the gesturality of this mode of popular cinema down pat (this is > made explicit in a clever bit of humor, when Sanjay instructs an actor > Kalpana wants to pose as Sanjay, on the importance of not overdoing > things. The fact that the actor in question has a theater background > might be a dig at Shah Rukh Khan, although the fact that he looks a > lot more like Aamir than Shah Rukh, combined with the evocation of > Aamir's own (in)famous inability to relax throughout the 1990s, makes > a self-deprecating reading the more plausible one). This isn't a fatal > problem -- more isn't required of Aamir -- but it is a letdown after > the intensity of the other Sanjay that the film began with. However, > the role of the younger Sanjay comes into its own as we move closer to > the tragedy, culminating in Kalpana's murder before the weeping, > helpless Sanjay -- one of the film's more memorable sequences. > [Another, more charming one is Sanjay taking Kalpana's "new" > Ambassador car for a spin, with Ramiaiya Vasta Vaiya playing in the > background.] > > Aamir Khan's is the dominant performance, but no discussion of Ghajini > could be complete without mention of Asin. As Kalpana, her task is to > get the audience to fall in love with her, while simultaneously > serving as a paragon of virtue, of the sort quite common in Tamil > cinema but almost extinct in Bollywood outside the world of Barjatya. > That she does so without boring the life out of moviegoers is no mean > feat -- and goes a long way toward this viewer forgiving her some > enthusiastic hamming (by way of an unmistakeable Sridevi-imitation). > Kalpana is the film's "ground": she keeps high-flying CEO Sanjay > Singhania tethered (equally, her death means there is nothing to keep > Sanjay in check), but more evocatively she keeps the film tethered to > the lives of real people. It isn't every day that major Hindi films > today feature characters with money worries, or who are forced to > confront some of contemporary India's uglier realities (such as a > kidney-smuggling racket preying on village girls). CEO Singhania is > himself the kind of easily wealthy character common in contemporary > Hindi cinema, and his "education" in the ways of the ordinary Indian > by way of Kalpana is also, perhaps, the re-orientation of a Hindi film > audience that has come to associate cinematic heroism with outsized > wealth. > > The title role is as disappointing here as it was in the Tamil > version: in both films the culprit was Pradeep Rawat, in what must > surely rank as the most underwhelming outsized villain ever. Rawat > isn't bad in either version, but mere competence is not enough to bear > the weight of the significance the film invests Ghajini with: he is > the source of the "founding" trauma of this film's universe, the > demonic deity who must be slain if life is to continue. Such a schema > required the services of an Amrish Puri; in these times of diminished > cinematic villainy, sadly, it appears Rawat will have to do. [The > mystery deepens when one reflects upon him being the choice for the > Tamil version as well; the film would surely have been elevated had > the likes of Pasupathy or Bhartiraja, or even the (admittedly > overused) Prakashraj, been given an opportunity to strut their stuff.] > > It is clear Murugadoss had greater ambitions than the depiction of > just another baddie -- Ghajini's last name is, tellingly, "Dharmatma" > -- and indeed the film's schema (indebted, of course, to Memento) > turns Freud's world on its head. Whereas in psychoanalysis it is the > repression of trauma that makes memory possible, the forgetting that > must occur if one is to live; here the trauma is precisely that which > cannot be repressed -- and being irrepressible, makes memory > impossible. The subject who cannot repress the trauma is a subject > condemned to forget everything but the trauma. One might even read > this as a complement to Freudian psycho-analysis: a depiction of the > perils of not forgetting the primal father's appropriation of the > woman one loves, re-cast as popular mythology. Sanjay gets his chance > for redemption by film's end, when he is able to rescue Sunita from a > fate identical to Kalpana's. But like the best masala films of yore, > Ghajini knows that what is done is irreparable: no ghosts materialize > to heal wounds here; rather, the film's final shot is of Sanjay > contemplating Kalpana's last memento, even as she appears to sit > beside Sanjay, gazing wistfully at him. The Dharmatma has been slain > -- but all can never be right with the world he has sundered. >
