Mumbai: Makers of the film ‘Kushi’ starring Samantha Ruth Prabhu and Vijay Deverakonda dropped the teaser of the first romantic single.
Sharing the teaser, he wrote, “Kushi. 1st song. Full song out on May 9.”
In the video, Vijay can be seen adoring Samantha Ruth Prabhu who is busy offering her prayers.
The video opens with Vijay standing on the edge of a cliff with open hands while facing his back towards the camera.
The music is composed by Hesham Abdul. Na Rojaa Nuvve in Telugu, Tu Meri Roja in Hindi, En Rojaa Neeye in Tamil, Nanna Roja Neene in Kannada, and En Rojaa Neeye in Malayalam are the names of the first single, which is anticipated to be a love song.
On the occasion of Vijay Devarakonda’s birthday which is on May 9, the first romantic track will be released.
According to the poster, the film appears to be a love story set in Kashmir.
Earlier, the film tentatively named ‘VD11’.
After ‘Mahanati’, this will be Samantha and Vijay’s second project together and also it is Samantha’s second collaboration with filmmaker Shiva Nirvana, who previously collaborated with her on ‘Majili’.
Jayaram, Sachin Khedakar, Murali Sharma, Lakshmi, Ali, Rohini, Vennela Kishore, Rahul Ramakrishna, Srikanth Iyengar, and Saranya are among the cast members of the film.
‘Kushi’ will be released in Telugu, Tamil, Malayalam, and Kannada theatres on September 1.
Meanwhile, Vijay will be seen sharing screen space with Sreeleela in Gowtam Tinnanuri’s new film, which is tentatively titled ‘VD 12’.
How do you make the life of a poet work on screen? It helps if they had scandalous personal lives (Rimbaud and Verlaine in Total Eclipse, Dylan Thomas in Last Call and The Edge of Love). Robert Graves was last seen on the sidelines of Terence Davies’s biopic as the friend of the first world war poet Siegfried Sassoon (Benediction). Now the tables are turned, with a cameo of Sassoon in a film about the early career of the man who would go on to bag the prize of being anointed poet laureate.
Graves is an unfashionable figure today, known chiefly through I, Claudius, the TV serialisation of two of his novels, starring Derek Jacobi as the Roman emperor. But he regarded himself first and foremost as a poet, memorably declaring that “prose books are the show dogs I breed and sell to support my cat” – a line that William Nunez, writer-director of The Laureate, reluctantly had to excise from his script because none of the show dogs had yet been born in the years he chose to cover.
Daniel Craig as Ted Hughes and Gwyneth Paltrow as Plath in Sylvia (2003). Photograph: Bbc/Allstar
Those years, between 1928 and 1930, turn out to be a gift for a film that follows in a hallowed tradition of lit-pics in which the introverted act of creation comes second to the “creativity” of writers’ love lives – think Gwyneth Paltrow and Daniel Craig as Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes in Christine Jeffs’ 2003 Sylvia, or Emma Mackey and Oliver Jackson-Cohen in last year’s Emily, directed by Frances O’Connor, the glamorously fictionalised portrait of the least romantically inclined Brontë.
The Laureate gives us that most exotic of domestic arrangements, a menage a quatre. Tom Hughes’s Graves is in his mid 30s, shell-shocked and struggling to write, when the bucolic life that he shared with his artist wife, Nancy Nicholson (Laura Haddock) in an Oxfordshire cottage is turned upside down by the arrival from the US of the intellectual adventuress Laura Riding (Dianna Agron). Their unconventional relationship evolves into a four-person game of swapsies, after Riding reels a starstruck young Irish poet, Geoffrey Phibbs (Fra Fee), into what they called their “holy circle”.
With cameos for Sassoon, TS Eliot and Edmund Blunden, as well as publisher Jonathan Cape, this is a goldmine of vintage literary gossip – but how true to life is it? “If you’d said it was like Downton Abbey, I would have said great, because everyone’s going to say, ‘Oh, it’s a movie about poets’,” says Nunez, who makes no apologies for the occasional detour from biographical fact. For instance, Graves and Nicholson had four children when Riding arrived in their household, but in the film they only have one. This was in part a pragmatic decision. The vast majority of the people who see the film will watch it as a straight drama, Nunez points out. He didn’t have a huge budget to play with, “and if it had four children, I’d have to write something for them to do, so that was an economic decision”.
But he admits that is not the only reason. In terms of the story, “I think, no matter what day and age we are in, a man leaving his wife with four children is a tough one to get sympathy for, and I wanted people to go along with Robert’s journey. It’s really a film about the power of creativity, and, you know, it all comes at a cost for any writer, painter or musician.”
Jeremy Irvine as Ivor Novello and Jack Lowden as Siegfried Sassoon in Benediction (2021) Photograph: Roadside Attractions/Laurence Cendrowicz/Allstar
In an age of male artists being called to account, Nunez’s candour is disarming. In briefing sessions with Hughes – “a big Beatles fan” – he drew a parallel with John Lennon. “I told him just to look at this part, as when John Lennon was with the Beatles, and he was successful, and he was married to Cynthia Lennon. And then all of a sudden, he met Yoko Ono, who was a polarising figure, but he made the conscious decision to go with her and he became a different artist. His ability to write great music didn’t go away, just like Robert Graves’s writing didn’t go away, but his trajectory went another way.”
Nunez discovered Graves as a teenager in New York through the TV serialisation of I, Claudius and his mother’s book of the month club collection of novels, only later moving on to his poetry and to the war memoir that made his name, Goodbye to All That. “There are people who like the war poems and others that like the novels, so if you ask me if he sold out or not. I’d say, No, he just became a different artist that maybe more people enjoy.”
Equally contentious, for fans of Laura Riding, who was a poet and critic of some renown in her own right, was the portrayal of her as a marriage-breaker and good time girl who led everyone on, including Nicholson, and jumped out of a fourth floor window when she didn’t get her way. The window incident is a matter of fact, Nunez points out, as is the fact that Graves jumped out after her, only from a lower window.
His cast includes the poet’s de facto godson, Julian Glover (playing Graves’ father), who met Riding when they were living in Mallorca, where they ran their own influential publishing imprint until the Spanish civil war forced them to leave. “She was such a polarising figure – probably a better editor than an artist. They [Riding’s defenders] can’t deny that, and it is part of the allure of the story,” says the director.
Emma Mackey in Emily. Photograph: Michael Wharley
Riding had no children, and none of the four that Graves had with Nicholson are alive, but three from his second marriage, to Beryl Hodge, turned out for the film’s premiere in Mallorca. “They were relieved, because of course, no one wants to see their own dirty laundry,” says Nunez. “But what’s interesting to me, and this is just my supposition, is that they were fine with it because it obviously happened before any of them were born.” Graves continued to have his “muses” in New York, while married to Beryl. “I wonder whether they would have been as happy if I wanted to pursue that angle of an old man chasing young muses around in New York.”
If the film is relatable to people who would never pick up a book of poetry then it will have done its job, says Nunez, who attributes his biggest compliment to a “British gentleman” who went up to congratulate him after the Mallorca premiere. “He said, ‘I served two tours in Afghanistan. And when I came home, I had the exact same problems reconnecting with my wife, and I started having an affair, and it totally tore us apart. And I didn’t know anything about Robert Graves, but now I’ll read something.’”
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( With inputs from : www.theguardian.com )
My wife is amazing at a lot of things: spotting a typo from 10 paces, retaining obscure facts about medieval English food customs and, as seems almost obligatory these days, making sourdough bread. The one thing she is absolutely awful at, however, is art. Back in the 80s, her art teacher wrote in her end-of-year report: “Claire has a tendency to be highly experimental – which I would praise, were it not for the fact that her examination pieces were experiments which appeared to have gone very badly wrong.”
I tell you this not in order to publicly shame her – how could I, as the owner of a D-grade German O-level? – but to highlight how wonderful it was when, in 1996, on our first wedding anniversary, AKA our “paper” anniversary, she presented me with a papier-mache heart that she had sculpted with her own fair hands.
There is something undeniably romantic about gestures that involve artistic creation. It’s the willingness to lay it all on the line, the readiness to make oneself vulnerable, that I admire. All the more so when you have been told that, at best, you are a “trier”, while, at worst, you are in danger of negatively skewing your school’s exam results.
Mike Gayle and his wife, Claire.
When, with no small degree of meekness, my wife handed me a large box wrapped in gift paper on the morning of our anniversary, I eagerly tore it open, fully expecting to find a copy of Independence Day on VHS (I had been dropping hints like crazy)or a box of cherry liqueurs (my favourite of all the confections). Instead, lying on a bed of tissue paper in an old shoe box was the aforementioned papier-mache heart. I loved it immediately.
The idea had come to her, she told me, after trawling the aisles of HMV for gift inspiration. Finding none, it dawned on her that she should instead make something – something made from paper.
Several weeks later, having gathered all the materials together – wallpaper paste, a couple of small cereal boxes, old newspapers and paint – she began her first art project since leaving school. Whenever I was out of the house, she would add a couple of layers of gluey paper to the boxes, which she had sandwiched together to make a basic frame for the heart. Day by day, layer by layer, she sculpted and moulded her work until it resembled the organ classically perceived as the seat of the emotions. Finally, after a week of drying it out in the airing cupboard (a place I never ventured, clearly), she added the first of several coats of paint.
Claire’s love heart.
The time and effort my wife put into her creative endeavour was an obvious, but nonetheless utterly gorgeous, metaphor for her love for me. Had she given me a copy of the classic Will Smith movie or a customary box of chocolates, I would undoubtedly have been pleased. But I can also guarantee that the video would have long since been dispatched to Oxfam, the liqueurs regretted as soon as I stepped on the bathroom scales.
A quarter of a century later, however, the heart still has pride of place on a shelf in our living room. Its bright-red paint might be chipped and faded, its paper-and-glue surface more than a little fragile, but it’s there watching over us nonetheless, having become a regular talking point with our kids and houseguests. It’s an exquisite reminder of our love – and why you shouldn’t always listen to your art teacher.
Mike Gayle is the author of Museum of Ordinary People and A Song of Me and You, which will be published in July (Hodder & Stoughton)
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( With inputs from : www.theguardian.com )