Leela Naidu

It is a dry, unsatisfactory and jaded memoir which callously fails to decipher one of the most reclusive and inscrutable beauty of Indian cinematic history. Personally, I deem that a biography is very much like an onion. To reach to its core, one must peel the outermost layers revealing every aspect of the bulbous infrastructure. Conversely, Jerry Pinto pictures this memoir more like a bunch of grapes; sugary and uncomplicated without much to divulge about.

The laissez-faire and audaciously personified Leela, which the newspapers boasted about, seems to be lost behind a rosy sketch. I reckon that Pinto developed a sympathetic heart towards his subject, thus averting from illuminating the darker and tumultuous side of Leela’s life. A celebrity irrespective to their stature or era has always been a puzzle waiting to be solved, ultimately being a delight to lesser mortals. The aura of an icon concocts an illusion of perfection ready to be dissected with every given opportunity. Regrettably, the institution of such illusion is maintained with utmost care, mocking the very foundation of a candid biography.

What a waste! I would have rather utilized my time surfing Perez Hilton’s webpage.
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