Akshay Kumar's Ghis Ghis Ghis is not here to win critics; it's here to hijack weddings, reels and meme pages

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There are songs that arrive with mood lighting, designer costumes, international locations, 400 background dancers, drone shots, neon frames and a marketing deck longer than the screenplay. And then there is Ghis Ghis Ghis from Welcome To The Jungle, which seems to have arrived with only one mission: Boss, speaker phaadna hai. In an industry that has become painfully obsessed with looking cool, sleek, premium, curated and Instagram-safe, Ghis Ghis Ghis feels like that one loud baraati who enters the wedding before the groom, dances with the band, argues with the dholwala, eats two plates of chaat and still becomes the most memorable person of the evening. The recently released song from Welcome To The Jungle features Akshay Kumar with Bhojpuri star Akshara Singh has clocked more than 6 million views in the past 24 hours. But the bigger story is not just the song. The bigger story is what the song represents. Bollywood has spent the last few years trying very hard to decode virality. T...
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‘I’m not a saint’: Abel Ferrara on his wild career, rehab and nightclubbing with Donald Trump

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The last time our writer interviewed him, the drugged up director dozed off then asked for coke. Now sober, he reflects on #MeToo, Italian fascism and his fight for the final cut

The last time I met Abel Ferrara, he dozed off in the middle of our interview then woke up and asked me to score him some coke. It was 1996, and he was in the UK promoting his gangster drama The Funeral – which the actor Vincent Gallo alleged Ferrara had been too blitzed on crack to direct properly – and his vampire horror The Addiction. He was on a roll, his reputation fortified by King of New York, starring Christopher Walken as a flamboyant crime boss, and the gruelling Bad Lieutenant, with Harvey Keitel as a bent junkie cop. Ferrara was the scuzzball Scorsese: no matter how celebrated he became, he never shed the patina of grime from his early days as the star and director of porn film The Nine Lives of a Wet Pussy and the infamous “video nasty” The Driller Killer.

“You were the guy I fell asleep with?” he gasps now from his bright, high-ceilinged living room in Rome. He is calling via Zoom, his laptop resting on a shelf so he can pace around as he speaks, drinking from a bottle of San Pellegrino that he clutches by the neck. “You’re the guy? I’m sorry, man! Really, really.” Then he switches tack. “You let me down! You were 24, living in London, and you didn’t know where to score?” He shakes his head in disbelief. “All right. So where could we get some now?” A sandpapery cackle fills the air as he rocks on his heels. His hunched posture and jutting jaw make him the spit of the cartoon dog Muttley. He laughs like him, too.

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