I seriously loathe American romantic comedies. I realize that sounds a bit hypocritical coming from a Bollywood-phile like myself. But while you, dear reader, may remain skeptical, I argue that Bollywood romcoms remain in a sphere separate from your typical romcom. Sure they both have the goofy meet cute deal where you have the ravishing heroine collide with a studly hero. (Boom! Bam! Voila! Sparks!) And both contain the usual mix of mishaps, misadventures, misinformed relatives and the like. But I watch Bollywood to practice my Hindi, catch up on the latest fashions and of course – to find new music.

The average modern American romcom, on the other hand, has little to redeem itself. Exceptions exist. Woody Allen can do fun things with romcoms. I’ll watch anything with Jimmy Stewart and Carey Grant. And of course, there’s Love Actually. Wait, that’s British. But overall, I find American romcoms vapid enough to induce nausea at the slightest exposure. Nowadays, when my friends drag me to the theater to see the latest Drew Barrymore romcom, I try not visibly gag and treat it as a sociological experiment or sorts. Why the human insistence on retreating to the fantasy of finding one true love when realistically, very few of us will? (And speaking of love, Pew Research Center showed that four in 10 Americans believe the institution of marriage is becoming obsolete.) But enough of this talk of love and doom. Let’s talk romcoms. Continue reading →

It was 1999, the movie “Sixth Sense” was packing theaters and M. Night Shyamalan looked like a genius, a directing prodigy destined to win more Oscars than Meryl Streep and Jack Nicholson combined. He was soon dubbed “The Next Spielberg” and every moviegoer learned to pronounce his name — or at least gave it a game try: “M. Night Shy May Lawn.”

A movie trailer trumpeting his name — “FROM THE MIND OF M. NIGHT SHYAMALAN” — would keep you from running to the bathroom during a Monday Night Football timeout, never mind that you’d just downed five Budweisers. You’d sit there and try to imagine what suspense and intrigue the mastermind had conjured this time — and how soon Spielberg would make his concession speech.

Shyamalan was the biggest South Asian name in America, with apologies to Deepak Chopra and Apu Nahasapeemapetilon. Malayalis were quick to pronounce him a fellow Malayali. Tamils were quick to say, “No, he’s a Tamil.” And Philly Grrl was quick to say, “No, he’s a Philly Gy.”

Then came a string of movies that caused critics to groan and audiences to moan. His last offering, “The Last Airbender,” was the last straw for many fans. It virtually swept the Golden Raspberry Awards, winning five Razzies, including “Worst Director” and “Worst Picture.” Roger Ebert gave the movie half a star and called it “an agonizing experience in every category I can think of and others still waiting to be invented.” Malayalis conceded that he’s a Tamil. Tamils insisted that he’s a Malayali. And Philly Grrl said, “You’re both right.”

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