Active Stocks
Thu Mar 28 2024 15:59:33
  1. Tata Steel share price
  2. 155.90 2.00%
  1. ICICI Bank share price
  2. 1,095.75 1.08%
  1. HDFC Bank share price
  2. 1,448.20 0.52%
  1. ITC share price
  2. 428.55 0.13%
  1. Power Grid Corporation Of India share price
  2. 277.05 2.21%
Business News/ Mint-lounge / Mint-on-sunday/  The (not so) Magnificent Seven
BackBack

The (not so) Magnificent Seven

Dear filmmakers attempting remakes: make your own movies, don't insult the ones that came before you

Premium

A few weeks ago, I had the terrible misfortune of watching the recent remake of The Magnificent Seven. Of course, it was entirely my fault. No one had coerced me into going to the multiplex and spending a thousand bucks; it was I who felt the irrepressible urge to go and see what a new director and a new ensemble cast had made of one of my all-time favourite films—and certainly my all-time favourite Western.

Foolishly, I thought that the film and the subject were in good hands—after all, hadn’t Antoine Fuqua directed Training Day, certainly a memorable film?

As I said, I was foolish. It’s quite astonishing how Fuqua and his screenplay writer(s) have taken away everything that was good about the original 1960 Magnificent Seven, and substituted it with... with nothing at all.

That takes a lot of effort, unless you are a moron who never understood what made the original such a classic. And surely the people behind this film are not morons? What were they smoking?

The only good thing that the new Magnificent Seven reprises from the old Magnificent Seven is a line spoken by the Steve McQueen character: “As the man who jumped from the fifth floor said, while he was passing the second floor: ‘So far so good’."

The amazing thing about the original film is that it itself is an acknowledged remake of the great Japanese director Akira Kurowasa’s Seven Samurai, but it differs in several crucial ways from the original and yet gives the audience a deeply enjoyable experience and also a not-so-hidden subtext (like Kurosawa’s film), if you are looking for it.

Viewing the new Magnificent Seven got me thinking about remakes. Why do some of them work, but most don’t? Some remakes follow the plot of the originals, some only use the title and are complete re-imaginings—they have nothing in common with the originals. Films like The Italian Job and Ocean’s Eleven fall in this category.

The 2003 Italian Job has a completely different story from the 1969 one. It shares only the title, and showcases the cute little car, the Morris Mini, which was made iconic by the original film (and also propelled it to be one of the best-selling small cars for some time in the Western world).

In fact, it’s quite impossible to think of The Italian Job—whatever version—without the Morris Mini. If it is remade once more, maybe many years in the future, the film will still have to feature this car, even if they have to pay the manufacturer to set up a new assembly line to produce a dozen or two of the antique cars. The two versions also share one more aspect—both are superb entertainers.

Steven Soderbergh’s Ocean’s Eleven is technically a remake, of a forgotten and forgettable 1960 film starring singer-actor Frank Sinatra and his acolytes—Peter Lawford, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr, etc., but it has nothing in common with the original, other than the fact that both are caper films set in Las Vegas.

The Ocean’s Eleven that we know has a great plot, great dialogues, serious star power (George Clooney, Brad Pitt, Matt Damon, Julia Roberts), great cinematography and editing, and owes nothing to Sinatra’s ego vehicle. Soderbergh has made two sequels since then—Ocean’s Twelve and Ocean’s Thirteen, but Thirteen definitely hasn’t lived up to expectations.

However, sometimes you bite off more than you can chew. That happened to Soderbergh, certainly one of the most competent directors working in Hollywood, with his remake of the Russian master Andrei Tarkovsky’s science fiction film Solaris.

Most of Tarkovsky’s films unfold at the pace of a glacier melting before global warming happened, but once you give yourself up to his vision, they can be immersive and magical experiences, and you can spend a lifetime decoding their mysteries.

Soderbergh’s Solaris is, of course, much more fast-paced, but somewhere along the line, he loses out on the wonder and the mysticism of Tarkovsky’s creation. (Tarkovsky based his film on Polish author Stanislaw Lem’s novel, and Lem thought the film was shallow. I haven’t had the courage to read the novel.)

But let other remakes wait a bit. What made the original Magnificent Seven such a beloved classic? And where does the new film fail?

The 1960 film, directed by John Sturges, is a great film for the following reasons (and certainly Kurosawa deserves enormous credit for this):

• Six of the seven are hardened mercenary drifters. The seventh, a key character, and has very different sensibilities from the other six, is a starry-eyed and innocent young man who wants to be a great gunfighter. He is a pure soul, and is absolutely vital to the story.

• The mercenaries do not have any personal grudge against the bandit who’s rampaging all over the village that the seven are brought in to protect. They are just doing their job, for which they are being paid.

• But they are not being paid enough. The leader, Chris (Yul Brynner), is impenetrable—we don’t really know what he thinks, but we know this much, that he has a strong code of honour and justice. In fact, one of the mercenaries believes Chris must have some big treasure in mind. He can’t believe that Chris can put his life at risk for so little money.

• Even the bandit cannot believe that the mercenaries are fighting for justice. As he is dying, he expresses his incomprehension to Chris.

• The mercenaries and the village people interact and while the villagers become braver, the mercenaries, all of whom are lonely people, learn to connect, with men, women and children.

• The film—the story—is about redemption, how six rootless gunfighters-for-hire discover a life to belong to, and to protect, at the cost of their own lives; how they meet the common peasantry and their children, and long—futilely—that they could live like that.

And now to come to Fuqua’s Magnificent Seven. This is what happens there:

• The overarching—and considerably underwhelming—theme is political correctness. So, the team leader is the charismatic African-American actor Denzel Washington. The seven also boasts a native American, a Mexican and even a Korean (for god’s sake!). Indeed, it’s surprising that one of the seven was not a woman.

• There are several long shots of the seven men swaggering down the streets, and they swagger very well, but that’s about it. The original film had no such shot, but everyone watching knew that these guys were epic stuff.

• The non-mercenary young man is missing, thus erasing an essential aspect of the story. Just as this character, played by Toshiro Mifune in Seven Samurai, is at the centre of the film, so is he in Sturges’s Magnificent Seven.

• In the new film, the Washington character has a personal grudge against the bandit. He is on a vendetta mission, which takes away all nuance from the story. Because then there is no code of honour, no redemption, nothing. It’s just another vengeance drama.

• In the 1960 film, each of the seven was a thoroughly etched out character. You tend to remember each one of them as individuals—Brynner, McQueen, Charles Bronson, James Coburn, Robert Vaughn, Brad Dexter, Horst Buchholz. In the remake, even with fine actors like Ethan Hawke and Vincent D’Onofrio, the seven are a persona-less jumble.

Of course, I may have missed some etching of character if it did exist—I dozed off for some time while the film was on, even though there was lots of heavy gunfire in Dolby surround sound.

All I can recall is that Washington was given ridiculous sideburns—maybe to add some “cool" quotient. The result is far from cool, it’s just plain outlandish. It could have worked in a Quentin Tarantino film, but Fuqua is no Tarantino.

• The motives of the men for taking on the job are unclear, except for Washington’s personal vendetta mission. There’s no honour and justice involved. If they are, I missed that part.

• The mercenaries do not interact with any village people, other than the girl who hired them. There’s no indication that the mercenaries discover their softer side, and there is no sense of their personal tragic realization that they would always remain rootless nomads and never know normal family life.

• In the original film, we get to know the village, with its church and its giant bell, the village square, its peripheries, the forests and mountains surrounding it. We get to know the villagers—the brave ones, the cowardly ones, the confused ones. In Fuqua’s remake, there seems to be no sense of geography at all. The village is just a neutral backdrop, inhabited by faceless zombies.

Magnificent Seven/Seven Samurai, I presume, has inspired many films in many languages in many countries. The best that I have seen is Sholay (I can think of at least two more Hindi films based on Magnificent Seven—Aandhi Toofan and China Gate. I am sure there are more.)

In Sholay, though the seven mercenaries are reduced to two, and the story deviates a lot from Magnificent Seven, the basic premise is the same. You would also notice that all the attributes that made the original film a great one are present in Sholay.

Talking of Sholay, the worst remake of any film that I have watched in any language is surely Ram Gopal Varma Ki Aag, in which Varma, a director of vaulting ambition and dubious talent, transplanted the Sholay characters from the panoramic and rough terrain of the fictional Ramgarh to a suburb of Mumbai.

I wrote in The Indian Express after surviving this outrage: “I sat through Ram Gopal Varma Ki Aag with growing disbelief and distaste, and when I finally reeled out of the hall, I was angry. Angry. Few films make you angry. You watch an incompetent film, you hate it, you move on. This film makes you angry. Because this—this remake or whatever of Sholay—is a monumentally idiotic insult to one of the most iconic films made in India, an insult to everyone who saw it and loved it, and to their memories. What crime can be higher than a boot stamping on your memories?"

The next day, Salim Khan, the Salim of the Salim-Javed duo who wrote Sholay, called me up. We had a long conversation. It was a private one, but I am sure Salim saab would not mind my reporting it, nine years after the atrocity of Aag was committed.

Apparently, Ramesh Sippy, the director of Sholay, was very unhappy when he heard that Varma was going to remake it. Salim saab told him that he had nothing to worry about. The moment Varma shifted the locale from Ramgarh to Mumbai, his film was doomed. The landscape is crucial to the majesty of Sholay. The story, quite simply, would not work in the narrow lanes and slums of a big city. Varma’s film, Salim saab said, would make audiences even more aware of how great a film Sholay was.

This prediction turned out to be absolutely correct.

Ram Gopal Varma Ki Aag was a very bad film by any standards, even if it had not been a remake of Sholay. But Varma was, literally and metaphorically, playing with fire (sholay means flames, and aag means fire). Why even think of remaking a film that is a milestone of Indian popular culture, and has been watched by a very large number of the Hindi film viewing public, either in a theatre or on DVD? How can any director, however talented, fight memories and nostalgia, especially about a film like Sholay?

Many people of my generation would, in fact, quite possibly remember when they watched Sholay the first time. The film was released on 15 August 1975, a Thursday, when I was a 12-year-old schoolboy, and I watched it with my friend Pradeep on 17 August at Odeon cinema in Ghatkopar, Mumbai. I watched it next with my mother in its 100th week, when a new re-edited version was released—at least one sequence was shortened, and at least one sequence was dropped altogether.

Since then, I have watched it many times, in theatres and on DVD. I have even managed to watch the pre-censor Sholay, where Thakur Baldev Singh kills Gabbar Singh, and Gabbar Singh is shown skewering the Sachin character. Amazingly enough, the censored version, which is available to the general public, is much more powerful, because these gruesome scenes were removed, and Sachin’s horrible death is left to the audience’s imagination.

So, how do you fight nostalgia? Even if much of the audience has not watched the original, most honest critics, before or after watching the remake, would go back to the original and compare. Should a producer and director wait at least 50 years before going in for a remake? Or, could it work if the writer and director manage to conjure up a reinterpretation that is as affecting and as effective as the original?

In the Hindi film industry, in recent years, there have been at least four remakes (that is, these are the four that I can recall): Victoria No 203, Zanjeer, Don and Himmatwala. The original Victoria No 203 was a wonderful entertainer, and you came out of the hall, invariably feeling cheerful, unless you were a manic depressive. Zanjeer introduced the concept of the “angry young man" and was the first push to Amitabh Bachchan on his path to superstardom.

Don was the ultimate B film, with little logic and lots of action, and thoroughly enjoyable, as long as you kept those areas of your brain that deal with rational thought in shutdown mode. Himmatwala introduced the Hindi audience to the south Indian hit factory—little logic, ersatz action, outrageous humour and jaw-droppingly silly song-and-dance sequences. It also let loose Sridevi on the national audience and she subsequently reigned for many years.

Other than Don, all the other remakes were terrible flops. I have watched parts of the remade Zanjeer and Himmatwala on TV, and they were such box-office disasters, I believe, because they were very bad films. Or maybe they seemed to be very bad films because we are a different India now, we are a different people now, very different from the days when these films were originally made.

We have come a long way, and we have far less patience, given the myriad choices we have, with what is served up to us, whether in restaurants or in cinema halls. Either way, these films were complete misadventures from the world go. Nothing could save them.

Coming back to my other question: Why would you want to remake films that are generally acknowledged as classics—some of them even as perfect films? Is there any hope at all for someone who wants to remake 2001: A Space Odyssey or Blade Runner? Or La Dolce Vita or Bicycle Thieves? Or Jaane Bhi Do Yaaron or Kaagaz Ke Phool?

There should be walls of fire built around such works of art so that no one can insult their dignity.

So, I went to rottentomatoes.com, where they have a list of the 50 greatest remakes, according to the bunch of critics that the site keeps track of.

Interestingly enough, the only filmmaker who features more than once in the list is Martin Scorsese, surely the greatest living American director.

In 1991, Scorsese remade the 1962 film Cape Fear starring Robert Mitchum and Gregory Peck. In the 1991 version, Robert De Niro turns in one of the scariest performances in cinema history as a psychopath rapist (Mitchum in the original) who comes out of jail after serving 14 years, determined to take revenge on his lawyer (Nick Nolte here, Peck in the original), because he believes—correctly—that the lawyer did not defend him to the best of his ability.

The truth is that the Nolte character was convinced—correctly—that De Niro was guilty and too dangerous a man to be left free to roam the streets, and subtly made sure that he was convicted. But De Niro has read up on law while in prison and found a number of loopholes which allows him to stalk Nolte and his family with impunity. It all builds up to a tremendous climax.

Scorsese also inserts a key reference to the original film, with a twist. In his Cape Fear, Mitchum (the bad guy in the 1962 film) is an honest police officer, and Peck (the good guy in the original) is an unethical lawyer who De Niro hires.

Scorsese’s Cape Fear is an exceptional—though harrowing—film, and while it pays homage to its parent, goes beyond the original in every way.

The Departed, which released in 2007, was Scorsese’s adaptation of the 2002 Hong Kong film Infernal Affairs. Leonardo DiCaprio is a cop who has infiltrated the Boston criminal underworld and Matt Damon is a criminal who has joined the police force.

As the late great film critic Roger Ebert wrote: “The Departed is about two men trying to live public lives that are the radical opposites of their inner realities. Their attempts threaten to destroy them, either by implosion or fatal betrayal. The telling of their stories involves a moral labyrinth, in which good and evil wear each other’s masks.

“... What makes this a Scorsese film, and not merely a retread, is the director’s use of actors, locations and energy, and its buried theme. I am fond of saying that a movie is not about what it’s about; it’s about how it’s about it. That’s always true of a Scorsese film."

The tension builds up to incredible levels as DiCaprio realizes that there is an informer inside the police force and Damon figures out that there is an undercover cop inside the mafia. It’s all edge-of-the-seat stuff, with a subtext (after all, hardly any Scorsese film is without a subtext), and matters are helped along very finely by Jack Nicholson as the big crime boss—a complete monster.

The Departed won Scorsese his much-delayed best director Oscar.

To stick with criminals for a while, Brian De Palma’s 1983 film Scarface was supposed to be a remake of the 1932 film of the same name, except that there is nothing in common between the two films other than that both are about the rise and fall of a gangster.

The 1932 film was based loosely on the life of Al Capone, while De Palma’s version is about a Cuban refugee (Al Pacino) who ruthlessly maims and murders his way to being a drug lord, becomes a cocaine addict himself, and finally gets his just deserts in a spectacular climactic shootout. Pacino, as usual, puts in a sterling performance. Scarface is hardly as celebrated as The Godfather, and that may be a bit of an injustice.

Unlike Scorsese, both of whose remakes are quite faithful to the original stories, De Palma merely takes the title of the film and then follows his own path.

Which is something that you cannot do when you are remaking King Kong. The hero must remain a giant ape, a fierce creature who falls in love with a young woman he can hold in the palm of his hand. And the climax must be at the top of the Empire State Building with dozens of aircraft strafing away, trying to kill Kong.

I watched a grainy black-and-white print of the 1933 King Kong when I was maybe nine or 10 years old, in a Calcutta cinema hall, and I was enchanted. There were dinosaurs and deep chasms and assorted other deadly perils, and lots of adventures, and like millions of others, old and young, I loved and cheered and was almost brought to tears by this ferocious animal who was a softie at heart and who found it very difficult to express his love.

King Kong was remade for the first time in 1976, and I rushed to watch it. It says something about that remake that I remember almost nothing of that film, while I can still see many scenes from the original in my mind’s eye. I only recall that Kong does not climb the Empire State Building with his beloved, but one of the World Trade Centre towers.

Even though the filmmakers could have logically justified this decision by saying that the whole point was to have Kong climb the tallest skyscraper in New York, and the Empire State Building no longer held that position, it would not have convinced Kong fans.

While doing an Internet search for more information on the 1976 version, I discovered that an IMDB member has called it the worst remake ever made.

Well, he cannot be expected to have watched Ram Gopal Varma Ki Aag.

In 2005, Peter Jackson, fresh from his magnificent Lord of the Rings trilogy, arrived with his version of King Kong. As is his wont, he used the very latest and most powerful computer graphics technology to create Kong and the diverse nasty creatures who love to kill and/or eat human beings. Nothing wrong with that. If the makers of the 1933 original had access to such technology, they would have gladly used it. Instead, they had to make do with painstaking stop-motion animation.

Jackson was faithful to the original film, setting it in Depression-era America, and in the few scenes when he paused to take a breath from the relentless action, he portrayed the relationship between Ann Darrow (Naomi Watts) and Kong with charm and sensitivity. (In 1933, Fay Wray screamed throughout the movie, with hardly any dialogues.) But Jackson is also prone to overdo things. So, when Kong fights a Tyrannosaurus Rex, the fight goes on and on and on, till you want to shout: “Enough! Got your point! Now shut off those computers!"

Jackson’s King Kong is certainly a spectacle to marvel at, but it is also an exercise in excess—he shows whatever he wants to, at whatever length he wants to, just because he has the technology to show whatever he can dream up. Maybe it would have worked better if Jackson had been a bit less self-indulgent and cut the film by 20 minutes.

To me, the best King Kong still remains the original one. But that may not be a fair comment to make. Should the impressions of a goggle-eyed nine-year-old be trusted, especially when they have been lovingly preserved in the formaldehyde of memory for decades? Maybe I will change my mind if I watched that 1933 film once more.

Some remakes, of course, pretend not to be remakes. While the Coen brothers remade the John Wayne Western True Grit with full acknowledgement (according to the rottentomatoes.com listing, this is the best remake ever made; I have no idea why), they passed off Miller’s Crossing as an original film, which it certainly was not.

In 1961, Kurosawa (ah, there he reappears!) made Yojimbo, which was very clearly based on Dashiell Hammett’s hard-boiled thriller Red Harvest. Kurosawa and his screenplay writer did not admit this. The only difference between Red Harvest and Yojimbo is that the former is based in 1920s USA, while the latter is set in 14th century Japan.

Then, in 1964, Sergio Leone, the Italian master of the spaghetti Western, made A Fistful of Dollars, which was very obviously based on Yojimbo, but Leone conveniently forgot to mention that.

In 1996, Arthur Hill made Last Man Standing starring Bruce Willis, where he mentioned in the credits that it was inspired by Yojimbo! The original source, Red Harvest was by now completely out of the picture, even though the book has been in print ever since its first publication in 1929.

In the meantime, in 1990, the Coen brothers had made Miller’s Crossing.

Thus, Red Harvest holds the world record for having been filmed the most number of times—and in three languages at least—without ever getting credit. According to IMDB, many years after making Yojimbo, Kurosawa admitted that the film was based on Hammett’s novel The Glass Key. I have read both novels and seen all the films referred to here, and I can confidently assert that time had dimmed the great director’s memory. It was Red Harvest, not The Glass Key.

Having bored my readers enough, let me come to the crux of the matter. Why do people remake films? Sometimes obscure films like Ocean’s Eleven; sometimes huge box-office earners like Ben-Hur. Sometimes the remake is a total re-imagining, merely retaining the title, like The Italian Job; sometimes it is the same story, with a few changes here and there, like King Kong.

And sometimes we have strange cases like the 1998 Psycho, which uses the screenplay of Alfred Hitchcock’s original and is a shot-for-shot copy of the 1960 masterpiece. Now, what is the point of doing that? Especially when you are dealing with one of the most cinematically perfect films ever made? What is the point of recreating the bathroom murder scene, when it is quite possibly one of the most memorable and most studied scenes in cinema history?

And if you are doing a shot-for-shot remake, why make it in colour, when Hitchcock consciously chose to make it in black and white, because he thought that there was too much blood in the film, and if shot in colour, would frighten off the audiences?

This sort of stuff defies explanation. And the director who undertook this utterly needless exercise is Gus Van Sant, a perfectly respectable filmmaker—he has directed films like Good Will Hunting, Finding Forrester and Milk.

As Pink Floyd put it: a momentary lapse of reason.

So, why do people remake films? One can only guess. A reason may be to pay homage to a film that the director and the producer love. That would be true of True Grit, or in a very weird way, Psycho.

Another reason could be that the creators like the basic premise of a film and think they can build something new around that. That would be true for Planet of the Apes.

A third reason could be sheer paucity of ideas; no one can come up with anything, so let’s just remake a successful film. If it worked once, it can work once more. These films often fall between two stools and satisfy neither the critics nor the audience. This is true for, say, the new Ben-Hur.

And then there are some outliers. Hitchcock made The Man Who Knew Too Much twice, once in 1934 and again in 1956. He explained his decision to French filmmaker Francois Trauffaut thus: “Let’s say the first version is the work of a talented amateur and the second was made by a professional."

Cecil B. DeMille made The Ten Commandments twice, once as a silent film in 1923 and again in 1956, because he felt that with sound and Technicolor, he could now mount a truly grand spectacle.

What is certain, though, is that remakes are a risky business. But then, making any film is risky business. All filmmakers, one suspects, are incurable optimists at heart. Why else would they be putting so much money and so many reputations at stake every time they go out to work?

Meanwhile, The Daily Telegraph reports that at least 25 box-office hits or classic films are set to be remade. These include:

• Mary Poppins, the musical that gave us that unforgettable word “supercalifragilisticexpialidocious"

• Commando, one of Arnold Schwarzenegger’s biggest hits

• An American Werewolf in London, a cult horror classic that had its tongue firmly in its cheek

• Wild Bunch, director Sam Peckinpah’s cynical and ultraviolent Western, being produced by Will Smith, who will also star in the film

• Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure, the crazy teenage comedy that was so goofy and absurd that it defies any classification

• Memento, Christopher Nolan’s directorial debut, about a man suffering from short-term memory loss, a fascinating riddle of a film that loops back on itself, and which “inspired" Ghajini, starring Aamir Khan

Now for the bad news. Hitchcock’s classic The Birds is also on the remake list. It will be helmed by little-known Dutch director Diederik van Rooijen and produced by Michael Bay, who is responsible, either as producer or director, for mammoth monstrosities like the Transformer series, Pearl Harbor, Armageddon and the recent rebooting of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles franchise. Be afraid, be very afraid.

The advertising line for Hitchcock’s The Birds was: “The Birds is coming." Do you really want this Birds to come, laden with special effects and shorn of human interest, just a big 3D production with the seagulls swooping at you? The side effect of the humongously efficient special effects technology is that it is all thrills, but the thrills don’t linger even for a moment after you have discarded your 3D glasses in the bin while leaving the cinema hall.

The bathroom sequence in Psycho does.

There have also been persistent rumours that Hollywood is planning a remake of Casablanca. Cinema buffs have protested energetically. It will take a true lionheart of a director to attempt to climb this cinematic North Face of Mount Everest, where a simple slip would mean death. But then, hope springs eternal.

Closer home, director Pradeep Sarkar (Parineeta, Lagaa Chunari Mein Daag, Lafangey Parindey) has, reportedly, recently bought the rights to Satyajit Ray’s novel Sonar Kella (The Golden Fortress), which Ray made into one of the most loved Bengali films of all time. While the film may be unknown to most non-Bengalis, most Bengalis who have heard the news are afraid, very afraid.

But why have I bothered to write more than 5,000 words on remakes and bore the bejesus out of you? The answer is simple. I believe that among all the remakes that I have watched, the best one is The Magnificent Seven, remake of Seven Samurai, and the best interpretation of Magnificent Seven is Sholay. All three are great films. Which is rare.

And that is what irritated me so much about this high-budget hi-tech desecration, which is what the 2016 Magnificent Seven is. Make your own movies, don’t insult the ones that came before you. Remake Magnificent Seven, or Ben-Hur or Total Recall, for all I care, but set it in a different locale, a different milieu, a different time. You have that freedom, use it.

What makes these movies precious is the core idea, and good ideas do not recognize time and space. It’s time dethoughtmonetized filmmakers, however, recognize that.

Sandipan Deb is the editorial director of swarajyamag.com

Comments are welcome at feedback@livemint.com

Unlock a world of Benefits! From insightful newsletters to real-time stock tracking, breaking news and a personalized newsfeed – it's all here, just a click away! Login Now!

Catch all the Business News, Market News, Breaking News Events and Latest News Updates on Live Mint. Download The Mint News App to get Daily Market Updates.
More Less
Published: 10 Dec 2016, 11:23 PM IST
Next Story footLogo
Recommended For You
Switch to the Mint app for fast and personalized news - Get App