Long before the days of Imraan
Hashmi and Mallika Sherawat, the only source of titillation for the urban
adolescent was the late night show on MTV called Grind. A bunch of scantily
clad crowd swayed to some music which, I am sure, no one has ever heard because
everyone watched it mute to avoid waking up their parents. But, as Paulo Coelho
proclaimed, the entire universe conspired and I finally got to hear that
elusive music when I watched Cocktail. The first hour of the movie appeared like
a marathon MTV Grind. Seeing DP jumping from one table to another dancing in
dimly lit night clubs and prodding men to palm her derriere, I thought she was
a bar dancer. Just when I expecting that she would graduate from the table to a
pole, she appeared with a camera announcing that she was a photographer. So she
belonged to the tribe that goes pub hopping on ladies night when drinks are on
the house for the fairer sex.
To give her company we have our
very own old retard who wants us to think that he could forever floor females
with his facial contortions. They were once funny, but repeated overuse has set
in motion law of diminishing returns. The only thing new about his face is the
wrinkles. If that wasn’t boring enough, you had a third lady - the new DP. She
would consistently keep her gaze to the floor, speak in whispers and trot the
streets of London in attires tailored in alleys of Chandini Chowk. While older
DP tortured you with her endless prattle, the newer one stimulated the
experience with her silence. With a permanent apology plastered all over face,
she was just as lost as the remaining two. And so were we, with absolutely no
clue where the movie was heading.
While people on screen was desperately
trying to entertain, those in the theater showed the same interest reserved for
an air hostess demonstrating safety instructions aboard a delayed late night
flight. The quick repartees were lost into eerie silence. The funny antics were
greeted with sneers and snorts. Even when DP callously striped down to her
itsy-bitsy bikini, we just look at our watches wondering how far the interval
is. May be DP forgot that only after we
had enough of her as a bikini pinup she got clothed for her bollywood debut which,
ironically, had peace in its title but left the audience restless in the
theaters.
After what seemed like an eternity,
the interval arrived. As I tried to make my way to the aisle, a guy in the
adjacent seat lunged towards the knees of his date and pulled them closer to
prevent any accidental brush with my calves. In his reflexive concern for the
knees, he has, quite literally, scaled new heights of foot fetish. Argh, I had
to contend with morons not just on the screen but even before it. I pitied the
lady for dating a guy whose knowledge of erogenous zones is entirely erroneous.
The popcorn at the kiosk could have
been the best part of the movie. However, I wisely avoided because it was
always better to watch a nauseating movie on an empty stomach. I dragged myself
back to my seat and got ready for the remaining serving of the drivel. It
proved to be worse than the first half. The best props in the movie were
alcohol and sex with no strings attached. That gave way to more melodramatic
elements like love, relationship, marriage etc. Sudden absence of alcohol started
showing withdrawal symptoms in the older DP. She made a quick crossover from a new age
multiplex heroine to a single screen heroine whose dreams were woven around
fidelity, family and vermillioned forehead. A lady who invited unknown females
to her home and unknown males to her bedroom was suddenly mouthing
constitutional rights like right to dignity, right to marry, right to family
life etc. The rest of cast was talking about mutual consent, exploitation,
social service etc. I never knew that such complicated politics existed in one
night stands. The conversations became progressively unbearable. The
characters, who wallowed in confusion when the movie began, were now steadily
slipping into severe existential identity crisis. Finally, when both the
decibels and rationales became unbearable, the younger DP walked out of the
house. I too thought of leaving the theater but my masochism came in my way. I
was determined to test my limits of endurance.
On screen, our eternally young real
life nawab was also was getting his endurance levels tested. The older DP got
hit by a speeding car when she staggered on the road and proved that drunken
walking could be more dangerous than drunken driving. With one lady untraceably
lost and other on crutches, the philanderer who, supposedly, left no skirt,
saree and sarong unwrapped, had his libido left in lurch. Even when the lady
finally got back on her legs, she declared that she wasn’t going to spread them
for him. The mutual consent was withdrawn with immediate effect and until
further orders. However, taking pity on his receding hairline and increasing
facial lines, she decided to patch him up with the other DP.
Of course, that did not happen before
some schmaltzy acts and agonizing songs. But we were spared of the other
clichéd ordeals like stopping planes and popping pills. When I came out of the
theater, I realized that this Cocktail was actually foreign made Indian Liquor
a.k.a Daaru Desi. It left me stirred, shaken and brutally shattered.
