Slapstick comedies can be a risky affair for any filmmaker. Sneak in marriage, love and family into the picture and the challenge just amplifies further. Second Hand Husband treads on a fine line between funny romance and offensive humour. Most of the time it stays on the right side. But the few times it strays it really does disservice to its star Dharmendra as well as the efforts of the rest of the cast. A loud, over-the-top comedy about loony relationships and far fetched situations can be tolerated with a pinch of salt. But with Second Hand Husband the pinches turn into handfuls, all too often.The story is as senseless as the name of the film. Gippy Grewal plays Rajbir, who is the average punjabi boy albeit not the most bright one. He's in love with his lawyer Gurpreet (Tina Ahuja). But before he can tie the knot with his sweetheart, he must settle alimony matters with his ex-wife Neha (Geeta Basra). The brilliant idea is to play matchmaker and find his ex-wife a new husband so that Rajbir can stop paying the hefty alimony. Better still, he decides to hitch Neha with his own boss Dharmendra, who's a much married and wealthy man. Of course, none of it pans out according to Rajbir's wishes and that's where all the confusion leads to all the comedy.Director Smeep Kang had his work cut out trying to make semblance out of that contrived plot. As expected things get out of hand too soon. The biggest problem arises with the idea of Dharamji getting misty and mushy with Geeta Basra. The ever green star still has loads of on-screen charisma but the situations used to depict his romantic flair turn out to be a little too awkward. The humour just doesn't work. Gippy's foolhardiness on debut works to an extent. But then over a period of an hour and half it does get a bit monotonous. The peppy and strong punjabi music though is a welcome addition.The film has more than able supporting cast. Between Vijay Raaz, Ravi Kissen and Alok Nath, the character actors do a decent job. They hold fort for the leads out of which, not surprisingly, Dharamji does the best. Pity that his character doesn't allow him to be better than the settings. Tina Ahuja, who makes her debut, doesn't have a lengthy role. She looks pretty and in the limited screen time, displays enough talent to be future name in the movies. Papa Govinda would be proud.There are a few surprise appearances in Second Hand Husband. They add to the experience of the film. But again, most of it seems like a fancy commercial movie gimmick. It actually does nothing for the story. But it does give fan boys a chance to root for the film. If you are a fan of punjabi movies, music and actors Second Hand Husband has the right trappings. Otherwise it's all a bit too pointless.
Talking about the movie, Geeta told IANS: "As the title says it all, the story is based on a second hand husband. It's a very funny film and I am playing a Punjabi girl and actor Gippy Grewal's wife in the film.
Second Hand Husband dubbed movie
Watch the movie Second Hand Husband on the free film streaming website www.onlinemovieshindi.com (new web URL: ). Online streaming or downloading the video file easily. Watch or download Second Hand Husband online movie Hindi dubbed here.
The same as other websites such as hdmovieslatest, filmypunjab, moviemora, fridaybug and etc. You can watch the free online movie Hindi dubbed here. HD movies latest to see without a proxy unblocker app.
Rati Agnihotri plays the role of Ajit's wife. She has her hands full as her husband has a flirtatious nature which always spells trouble in her paradise. Rati Agnihotri is a veteran actor who has appeared in a number of films over the years, across different languages.
Research has clearly shown that secondhand smoke causes many health problems, including cancer, heart disease and respiratory illness. The effects from long-term exposure to the toxins in thirdhand smoke are not as well studied. But research has shown that indoor smoking raises the risk of exposure to harmful chemicals, and that ventilation and cleaning cannot adequately eliminate these hazards.
Exposure to second-hand smoke in cars involves higher concentrations of health-threatening chemicals than in larger, open areas. Even if the windows are opened or air conditioning is used, harmful particles can remain in the atmosphere long after the visible smoke has disappeared.
Opening a window does not get rid of the harmful chemicals from second-hand smoke. Therefore, no matter if you have the windows open and/or the air conditioning on, if you smoke in a vehicle with someone under the age of 18 you are breaking the law.
Orders of magnitude are multiples of 10. Therefore, 10, 100, 1,000, 10,000, and so on. What Burstyn means is that the exposure to toxic chemicals in secondhand vapor is so slight as to pose no real threat. Whatever the risk may be to the users themselves, it is 10 or 100, or even 1,000 or 10,000, times lower for the bystander.
So she owes her husband this change, this chance for a new place.Only an hour ago she'd been going on and on about its beauty. Look atthe mountains, David! Oh my God, smell that air! The kids are going to lovethis. But David, too, is gone from her. But she isn't thinking of him,not even a little bit, and for that she will later feel guilty. She isthinking of the children, and then, briefly, her lover (her ex-lover, withhis soft blonde hair, his judgmental eyebrows), Jim. They were practicallythe same size: it was like being exactly with herself. But Jim gets pushedout, too, in this terrible careening as the car it spins around, the impactof the metal against the metal shooting straight up her spine, the worldtilting dangerously, but not unfamiliarly--it is every bad dream she'sever had and every cop movie she's ever seen--and she knows the ending:both she and David, crushed by a car. Not the way she'd planned it. Justfor starters, it is so damned trite. And her children. Her precious children.How she and David, sitting over glasses of red wine in their kitchen back inCincinnati, had fretted over which of their relatives should be appointedguardian in the advent of their untimely demise. "Stop worrying aboutit, Ruthie," her sister--her younger sister, the one she's alwaysbeen closest to--had said to her only a month ago, after Ruth had taken thenewly-minted wills to the vault for safe-keeping, "because if you andDavid die in a car crash, your kids will be fucked up no matter who you givethem to."
"Okay, okay," David says. Kind, cool, unruffled David,rubbing his wife's back, hoping, Ruth knows, that she won't cry.But she cries, anyway. The tears fill her eyes and start running down herface, and then her whole body is shaking with sobs, and it's all runningtogether--the trip out west, the chance for what she still, pathetically,thinks of as a "new life," the skinny young man in Cincinnati whotold her she was killing him like a cancer, her own inadequate attempts tomake art, her sisters on either coast and her mother and father getting oldin Jersey--and she's talking and talking, sobbing and talking as if shewere in therapy (and indeed she'd been in therapy for most of her life,up until the time she met and married David, at which point her therapist, asixty-something Freudian with very clean hands, had pronounced hergraduated), and her husband, David, is rubbing her back. Solid, solid David,taking her back after her fall from grace. Taking her back after all thatfucking, that frantic fucking that even now she yearns for, like some animal,some beast in heat.
The fighting--the real fighting--starts on the airplane goingback, when Ruth tells the man seated next to her on the flight to Dallas (adark-skinned man, with dark hair pulled back into a pony tail) about thecrash. Saying: "I know it sounds silly, almost cliched, but it was as ifwe'd been snatched back from the brink of death. We were headed for thegrave, I swear we were, and then, at the last split second, something held usback." Knowing full well that David, sitting just across from her on theother side of the aisle, is listening to every word, not that he wants to,what he wants to do is read Four Reasonable Men and then fall into a doze,but now he can't help but listen, resenting not only her inability tokeep her big mouth shut, but also her very nature, her recklessness, herchattiness, her greeting-card thinking and love of hackneyed phrases."Christ almighty, Ruth, enough," is what David hisses to her as theplane parks in Dallas and they reach for their overhead bags. And squeezesher hand.
Whereas she is an artist--the emotional one, the instinctiveone--a painter of large colorful naive city scenes, peopled with crowds:black mammas dandling black babies, fat pink men floating in the sky,alligators dancing down the street. Chagall's rabbis and Hasids in herhead--all those rabbis, all those bearded floating Jews--and here she is, theproduct of 100 years of assimilation, with her own, American visions: hericonography, as one of the galleries that had recently begun to show her workhad put it. Such bullshit it all was. Iconography! An excuse to do what sheenjoys. An excuse not to have to have a real job! Her studio, on the thirdfloor, is smaller than David's office on the second floor, but getsbetter light: a room filled with light, filled with sun from its two bigwindows, perched high above the garden, where all those wild flowers grow infrenzied abundance. She loves the house extravagantly, outrageously, so muchso that she sometimes thinks she loves it more than she loves her ownchildren (whom she loves with a fierceness bordering on desperation.) Sheloves the old-fashioned flowered wallpaper in Emma's room, the wallpapershe'd kept even though it is faded and even ripped in places (she'dcovered the rip with Emma's nursery school finger paintings), and thetribal rugs scattered along the long narrow hallway leading back from thefront door to the kitchen. She loves the arches between the living room andthe central hallway, the curving, finicky staircase, and the creaky plumbing.And upstairs, her studio--with all that white light. It's obscene howidyllic--how charming--it all is. She worries that she loves it all, all thethings of it, too much. How could she possibly give it all up? And how couldthat dreadful realtor, that dreadful, ditzy Suzanne with her cell phone andperfectly-coiffed hair, so much as suggest that there were houses in thedesert equally lovely? That bitch, that thoughtless, stupid shiksa, her cellphone pressed up against her ear as she told her husband to call theinsurance company, and, later, her loud attempts to find a witness to verifythat it wasn't her fault: "Did anyone see what happened? Would youmind giving me your name?" The three of them three seconds from thegrave and all she can think of is a law suit. How dare she suggest that therewere houses in the desert equal to the one she lives in now, the one inCincinnati? 2ff7e9595c
Comments