Drug use, for example, is apparent - Jordan offers his girl a hit of a joint in a longshot, and is clearly sky-high during an indulgent on-stage rant about uprooted birds - but not highlighted. It's an assured film that believes in restraint. With this film Imtiaz often makes the ordinary interesting. Not just the gorgeousness of Prague or the motorbike jaunts through snow-capped hills, but the texture visible in the throwaways: Jordan playing guitar at a Mata-ki-chowki isn't new Shiv looming overhead looking like a giant blue Rakhee Gulzar, however, is. Neither exposition is lingered on, and the impact is dramatic.Įqually dramatic are the visuals. That a character's marriage is less than ideal is made clear through little revelations, that she has a therapist, and sleeps in a separate bedroom. It's remarkable how much narrative detail Ali leaves to the asides, to margin notes not underscored and overwhelmed by AR Rahman's grand, lovely soundtrack. Once, while in a meeting with a massaged music mogul, he breaks into a guffaw that, in itself, is worth the film. His fingers close concentratedly into mudras as he sits in a recording booth trying to strike the right pitch, and while his guitarwork is unimpressive and often anachronistic to the music, his electric wriggling on stage makes up for it. He wraps his mouth around Mohit Chauhan's voice with desperateįervour, flinging out the words as if they were his own. It is a performance that breathes life into the character, making us care about his JJ more than the story deserves.
Ranbir shines through the film, be it on stage tossing his tonsils into the microphone looking like a slightly oriental Frank Zappa in a Sgt Pepper's jacket, discussing the terms of a kiss in a Czech field, or at a formal dinner dressed in upholstery. It is a simple, unspectacular tale, sometimes even predictable, but Ali masterfully weaves in details that draw us in while his leading man basks magnificently in the glow of a bespoke script.
There is much to admire as the film leaps dispense with linearity, starting with a concert in Rome and then flashing back and forth to fill in the backstory of Jordan - christened thus by his luscious ladylove. Meanwhile, at home he stays away from the family business, and while that is reason enough to be ostracized in most Bollywood films, here the familial fuse erupts when Jakhar lashes out at an overtly affectionate young Bhabhi for being all touchy-feely. He befriends the striking Kashmiran - telling her how he slaps alcohol onto his face like cologne and pretends to act sloshed and then gulping submissively when she orders him to drink for real - completely besotted by the unlikely firebrand. He does so obediently enough, but JJ, a warmly irresistible hero who mistakes bugger for burger, also seeks out much heart. He succumbs to the savoury and looks sheepishly on as his talcumnecked mentor, played wonderfully by Kumud Mishra, tells him to go find real hurt. He hits on a devastatingly pretty Kashmiri girl from Stephens in an attempt to get his heart shattered, but when shot down, his desolate act dissolves when distracted by a passing samosa in the college canteen. Told that great art is born out of pain, he chides his comfortable upbringing and berates himself for never having been in an accident or for having a set of legitimate, alive parents. Played by Ranbir Kapoor, Jakhar starts out amusingly wrong.
The finest thing about Imtiaz Ali's Rockstar is that it gives us both, the misguided scowling and the cheeky boyish smiles, and strikes a balance solid enough to make us believe in his flawed but phenomenal protagonist. The juvenile brooding of apparent depth is replaced by candour, by a real person sometimes having a good time. Jim's best photographs are ones shot later, where the mask is off and the grin is wide, loving, Cheshire. He works at it, occasionally misguidedly, finds his own trajectory, and in his quest to emulate Morrison, becomes a massively loved, hysteria-inducing performer who never smiles.įor the cameras, that is.
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How to get it, he wonders, when told he doesn't have what it takes to rock. Janardan Jakhar, a Delhi collegian enshrining Jim on his wall, stares back at the posters, his reverence surpassed by bewilderment. The others occasionally smirked affably enough but Morrison, yearning to showcase his searing intensity as a poet ("a word man, better than a bird man") stared solemnly into the lens, and thus at all us onlookers, his piercing gaze shoving us toward attention.
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When The Doors had their first ever professional photographs taken, to go with their incendiary 1967 debut, frontman James Douglas Morrison consciously chose to leave the smiling out of it. Raja Sen writes Rockstar is a simple, unspectacular tale, sometimes even predictable, but director Imtiaz Ali masterfully weaves in details that draw us in.