Last night, I watched an insipid film that had everything a film should not have - a bad script, gawdy costumes, a hero who smells bombs when he is not being the cute chocolate boy in college, and a 'bebe' who hams like there is no tomorrow. But I'm not complaining. I made a choice, and a mindful one at that. The promos had got me sufficiently aware of what was in the offing, and I still gladly trotted along to the movie hall.
But then, there is something surreal about cinema that attracts me to it. It pulls me into its charm. It makes me want to believe in it. I have almost started pining for the power possessed by the protagonist. I mean, I could use some divine smelling power so that I can pre-empt my boss's attempt at peeping into my screen as I write this waste of a post!
I flourish in the vicarious thrills of being a hero some day, of riding bikes in the air, of dancing on stage even with two left feet, and of romancing a princess after rescuing her from a bunch of terrorists. Suddenly, cinema makes everything seem alright. Hail cinema!