It’s hard out there for an International Khiladi.
If your time to you is worth savin', then you better start swimmin'. Or you'll sink like a stone. For the times they are a-changin'.
Pico Iyer has a new book, and it’s a thing of melancholy and ping pong.
In which I, as usual, find myself growling angrily about something that everyone seems to love.
Captain Marvel isn’t the best film of Marvel’s franchise, but it might well be the most thoughtfully-written script of the Avengers narrative.
When a romantic comedy made in 2019 makes you remember a romantic comedy from 1958 for its boldness, it’s time for a (long) post.
From lesbians being overshadowed by men to obsessed women in Mumbai, reel life is tough on the ladies.
Somehow, this ended up being 3,000-odd words. It was just supposed to be a quick overview. On the plus side, contains pictures.
Simryn Gill’s Soft Tissue, Atul Dodiya’s Seven Minutes of Blackmail and the imagination.
Two films, two nannies, one critic. Let the analysis begin.
"The satiny material of her burkha shone where it caught the sunlight. It stretched, dipped, billowed and moulded against her body because of the wind. The magnifying glass inched down her form, past the arc of her covered head, along the fluid lines of wind-puffed material. Hadpude didn’t blink. He just looked. His eyes travelled from head to toe, from photo to photo."