Le Scaphandre et le Papillon ( The Diving Bell and The Butterfly) is one of the most remarkable films I have seen of late. It tells the the true story of Elle editor Jean-Dominique Bauby who suffers a stroke and has to live with a totally paralyzed body except his left eye which remains unaffected. Helped by two caring and sympathetic therapists along with an immensely patient and understanding scribe he succeeds in dictating the story of his life, all conveyed through the fluttering of his solitary eye-lid. The director, Julian Schnabel's sensitive depiction of such mournful a human tragedy is both heart-rending and introspective at the same time. Mathieu Amalric, who plays Bauby (Best known for playing Dominic Greene in Quantum of Solace), has only his eye to act for him and he does it to perfection, driving his audience to tears with his restless manouevers and naked helplessness. This film is not a journey of faith nor a story against insurmountable odds where the protagonist comes out triumphs. Rather it is a story which makes one ponder one's own way of life, how he/she treats his/her loved ones; for there could never be a chance to make amends tomorrow. This sense of foreboding fills us with dread as we see Jean-Do struggle to convey things we so take for granted in our lives everyday. We feel belittled by the impact of his infirmity, to watch how an ageless mind is trapped inside the rigid carcass of a dysfunctional body. Though Bauby dies only 10 days after his book is released, we are told, his story does its bit in putting a seed of consciousness in the heart of its audience and that for a film of mere 107 minutes is an enviable achievement.
A ennobling film based on an extraordinary story which tries in its own little way to make better human beings of us all; all it asks from us is a little empathy to truly appreciate and "live" its message of love and compassion.
Rarely while browsing through the mundane affairs in an old, abandoned magazine does one stumble upon an engaging nude and more rarely does one accidentally discover, in the midst of such activity of harmless ogling, the human face to that enticing naked body. Dev D is such an artistic nude in the middle of the moribund routine of Bollywood which makes a complete departure from custom and ends up as one of the most remarkable films made in recent history. Only it has a more than fascinating face and an infinitely tempting body.
Cinephiles of the blogdom were having words of praise for this movie when I decided to give it a dekko, albeit a bit gingerly after my last experience with Anurag Kashyap’s ‘No Smoking’ ending up in a hair-tearing frenzy of sorts. Before I launch myself into something with a semblance of a review let me thank Providence that Sarat Chandra Chattopadyay was born a Hindu and to the best of my knowledge died that way. If he would have been buried and not burnt the Bengali novelist would have surely launched into a bout of crazy somersaults in his grave by the manner in which the re-interpretation of his tragedy was executed with “carnal sins” as its new central theme. With unabashed vocalizations of every word/sound/noise related to S-E-X, Dev D has broken rules that might never get enforced in our films again. Every character in the film makes their candor on the issue of sexuality apparent within moments of their appearance. Even the hero’s father is emphatic in his displeasure over the “sooki sooki baans ki dandiyon” that his son is busy chasing, overlooking the “real” women in his vicinity. In a one-of-it’s-kind adaptation of Devdas - superbly superimposed on present social realities - Kashyap introduces us to a Paro unafraid of communicating her sexual urges and a Chandramukhi who is too-tough-to-be-torn by a society out to make her feel a miserable victim. The three main characters in unison make for an experience which is heady to say the least. Here are the highlights from my latest multiplex experience:
Parminder/Paro - She redefines “equality of the sexes” in a revolutionary manner as she eagerly seeks physical intimacy with her lover - more for her own enjoyment than toeing the “Boys love so that they can have ‘it’, Women give ‘it’ just to have some love” rubbish. She is in total command of her life and is unafraid in her attempt to pursue things which pleasures her the most. When a malicious rumor wrecks her love-affair she makes a desperate bid to make clarifications and sort things out but male-ego and frayed nerves become telling hurdles in her way. Hurt and insulted by the love of her life, that too on the basis of a flimsy rumor, she moves away without a word of reproach or spite. Instead, she wipes her tears, gets married to a respectable suitor and in general terms “moves on” with her life. While her feeling of being wronged by her lover fades into a wise acceptance of reality she also comes around as a woman of firm convictions as she is ready to help her old friend/lover in his hour of need (even with the chores) but not ready to cheat on her husband with a limp ‘for-old-time’s-sake’ excuse. There is sweet revenge at the end of the line for her when she shows Dev his real “aukad” not in any subtle terms but with considerable venom and bite much to the cheer of the audience.
Mahi Gill is the new find for the industry with this film. I agree with people already lining her up as the rightful replacement for Tabu. And that on her maiden film is saying a lot about her abilities. 10 on 10 for her Paro. I personally cheered for her on that “aukad” note.
Devendra/Dev – The maudlin hero who never valued what he had when he had it, the weak male with an inflated ego and a weaker spine to boot, a masochistic hedonist who escaped his troubles by drowning his consciousness in a flood of spirits - Kashyap’s Dev is an epitome of the Irresponsible for us. While trying to come to terms with Paro’s conjugal bliss he is driven more by jealousy than love when he decides to ask her to come back to him. Even when he gets a chance, he is quick to ask her to “make love” to him in order to reaffirm her allegiance without risking the spread of an elaborate apology for his past blunders himself. While displaying scant regard for emotional bonding he is unashamed in his wanton urge for flesh and hardly ever makes any bones about it. Though his self-destructiveness strikes a cord with Chanda, who eventually falls in love with him, he continues to remain the undeserving scoundrel with abominable aplomb. He is more of a chauvinistic demon than a tragic hero of any appeal. Though Kashyap cooks up a picture of the resurrection of Dev at the end of the story it somehow seemed unjust that the diabolical D must end up with the beautiful damsel in Chanda. Instead, he should have ideally choked on his “coke with vodka” concoction and died in the hole he dug for himself.
Abhay Deol might never see the lights or the cameras of the Chopras and the Johars but he is one incredible actor who will continue to make ripples with his association with “different” films. Considering he was great in his last release - ‘Oye Lucky, Lucky Oye’ too one can expect a world of good from him in the future. He brings to life Dev in all his morbid glory.
Lenny/Chanda – A girl who is a victim of urban voyeurism defies desertion from her own family and friends and discovers the most tangible reality of life a la Frost “That it goes on”. And with this earthy demeanor she tames her ghosts to submission and how! Fighting a lone battle from upon a tightrope of survival she has a handy lesson or two for all and sundry in the throes of depression. She is not in the slightest bitter about the treatment she has received and remains unapologetic for morphing into the “All America Schoolgirls” “CSW” with time and necessity. Bright and lively on the outside, she too nurses feelings of pain and hurt in the deepest corner of her heart that makes her so believably human. Though it takes Dev to unearth those feelings from within her neither once does she submit to the sway of her emotions nor give in to tears – not even when Dev leaves her in a huff. The scene where Dev first meets Lenny is full of sparkling conversation, not very conducive for ears accustomed to conventions of levity or innuendo though easily making for one of the highlights of the film. Chanda comes across as the strongest of the three characters as she inspires with the poise with which she handles her ‘situation’ and ultimately ends up to be the proverbial guiding light to the reckless ways of Dev. She is bold yet mature, ravishing yet restrained though all through there is this abiding subtext that it is the sheer suffering she undergoes that eventually moulds her into a superior individual by a slow, tortuous process – a true woman in the garb of a wide-eyed girl.
Kalki Koechlin, I doff my hat to you. She is the true star of the film. Having taken the film’s flow by the scruff of the neck she makes every viewer become engrossed into the machinations of her mind right from when she emerges on the screen. She is vivacious, thoughtful, emotive and a complete natural with the camera. Her depiction of the girl with a quiet sense of assurance and control that defines Chanda is so potent that it sweeps one off his feet. Doubtlessly, she scintillates with her brilliant performance though one cannot really put his finger on that-one-thing which really worked for her in this film – My guess is it was she, herself.
Coming to Mr. Kashyap, I think as a film lover I can discount him half-a-dozen of his ‘No Smoking’ duds for this one piece of pioneering work. Dev D is a bold undertaking delivered with consummate grace and a killer style. The popularity of Dev D can truly spark off a change in the way ‘the message’ part of ‘classics’ is redone to give a look of contemporary relevance and present them with fresh perspective and insight. No doubt we have a moody maverick inMr. Kashyap; we only hope we find him in his creative best (also tangible/comprehendible best) in Gulaal.
I for one will be watching out, waiting to be impressed once more. The teasers seem delicious enough.
The first reaction after watching'Revolutionary Road' this afternoon was that of surprise at the fact that it did not manage to win more laurels at the recently concluded Golden Globes. Though I have not yet seen 'The Reader' or 'The Wrestler' , both considered to be very good films (but yet lacking in 'that little something' which mysteriously tilts the balance on the Oscars night, we might find out), I still think I will persist with my initial opinion of 'Revolutionary Road' being much more than just a decent also-ran. It struck me to be a film of considerable depth and honesty sans any frills which smudge the lens of reality so often for the viewers. According to me, the Best Actress Golden Globe performance(very truly so) was one of the many highlights of the film and not the solitary feature that distinguishes it from the others in the fray.
The story focuses on an American couple, Frank and April Wheeler, who struggle to define the domains of their individual and collective existence and discover the myths and mysteries of the much overrated phrase - "Happily Married". He is the dreamer who never got the chance to stop and ponder on the life he really wanted to lead and then marriage and children gradually sedated him into the illusion of a life of "settled bliss". His wife on the other hand tries her best to make him live his dreams only to understand that those dreams are long dead to the rigors of responsibilities. Situations emerge and tempers soar to find two loving individuals in a quagmire of guilt, adultery and despair. An unwanted pregnancy complicate matters further and the thread of love seem thinning into an unnecessary appendage. The introduction of helpful neighbors and a gracious real-estate agent ( Kathy Bates) who has a mentally disturbed maths scholar for a son add to the maturing intrigue of the story. Amongst the bedlam of conflict and compromise love still thrives in curious corners of 115, Revolutionary Road, the address of the Wheeler family. It is this feeling of compassion and unexpressed longing that runs through the narrative which is so throbbing with life and vitality. The scene when Frank comes running helplessly to the hospital to see his wife towards the end is nothing short of heart rending with a strain of violin hanging in the air.
Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet in the lead roles seem to have rediscovered their 'Titanic' chemistry albeit with much nuanced performances, keeping to the complex characterizations this film demanded. The characters do not charm the audience with their act but put up a mirror to the frailties of any married couple which are only aggravated by haste and intolerance. They do not come up as an incompatible couple and on the contrary depict one which suffers because of the same love that keeps them together. If only a little empathy could be mustered, the involved audience is bound to wonder. And that's the tragic irony of this film.
After 'The Road to Perdition' this is one fine road that Sam Mendes has stopped to make his film on. He seems back to his 'American Beauty' days of masterful storytelling, getting inside the skin of the characters , narrating a most credible story in the most incredible manner while introducing sweeps of touch and finesse - the true hallmarks of a director who lives his film. To say the least, I will be mighty surprised, or rather vindicated, if 'Revolutionary Road' goes unrewarded at the Oscars this time.
Here's one for a rewarding watch. A very living story which lives among us, about us and inside us. Everyday.
“A film which transcends boundaries of mediocrity while portraying the conflicting realities of an inferior universe – Slumdog Millionaire goesprobing into the minds and hearts of the millions who jostle for existence in the dark crevices of Mumbai’s underbelly, nourishing dreams of a brighter tomorrow and a better deal from life and ends as a rewarding experience for all who decide to give the film a chance to exhilarate in all its ornate glory. It is a film which installs its protagonist Jamal Malik as a hero who emerges from destitution and homelessness to become a millionaire by virtue of destiny and little else. Slumdog Millionaire is a riveting depiction of harsh truths of life in an unforgiving city yet provides for the scope of human hope and love to thrive and blossom, thus, attaining its due share of greatness even without asking for it.”
Oh, how I would have liked my impression of Slumdog Millionaire to read like this. But no, my take on the film does not even step on the fringes of the above exaltation. That does not mean that my ‘real’ opinion of the film is the exact opposite of whatever is written within the quotes.In reality I found it to be a strange film which had enough cinematic cunning in it to keep me interested till its end. It did annoy, at some places disgust, but the queer mix of “all-that’s-Indian” cliché hung to it like an insistent moth craving for attention from the amused audience I provided it with last night. There are hundreds of detailed reviews doing the rounds in the cyber-space so I would not torture my solitary reader with specifics. I would rather put down in as less words as possible those attributes of the film which amused me with such unpleasant regularity.
First and foremost I think the film would have been far less ‘incredible’ if shot flat-out in Hindi. Seasoned actors like Saurabh Shukla, Irrfan Khan and Anil Kapoor look horrible caricatures of their true self while mouthing the average Indian’s Ingg-lissss. In one sequence Jamal, a slum-dweller since birth swears “Maa Kasam” in perfect phoren accent to his blind beggar friend who surprisingly knows Benjamin Franklin just from description. In hindsight one feels what a great relief it was that Surdas’ bhajan was not tampered with Beyonce-an wisdom to imbibe more cinematic meaning to the context.
Secondly, Danny Boyle, the now-acclaimed Golden-Globe winning director never misses a trick when drawing from the bag of The Great Indian Tricks – the one that holds all the hackneyed clichés and worn-out stereotypes that are associated with a resurgent India - A nation, which to the Wise Wise West, remains blissfully ignorant of the rot that ails the occupants of its vast netherworld.
According to the film:
Mumbai is just a vast slum, complete with railway tracks criss-crossing their ways to reach VT. It is only recently that slums have started to make way for high-rises like “JavedHeights” under the supervision of the local mafia.
3.Slum-kids are taught of Athos and Porthos from “The Three Musketeers” at school without having the faintest of idea of how the Taj Mahal might look like. Feigning ignorance of the great edifice, “slumdogs” are prone to mistake it for “heaven” or worse, “some hotel”. Globalization anyone?
4.One fine morning, there are communal riots without an inkling of suspicion or rumors doing the rounds.As a fall-out two Muslim boys (Salim and Jamal) and a Hindu girl (Latika. If that’s not an obvious Hindu name, what is?) get thrown in together to rue their fate and later, share their lives which are so inextricably entwined by fate. The lesson - Peaceful co-existence. Narendrabhai, are you listening?
5.Poor Indians are crafty little crooks who swindle rich gullible American tourists off their dollars, steal their shoes and pretend to be guides and ‘recycle’ mineral water bottles in their own ingenious way.
6.There are well-groomed, English speaking chaiwallahs who fill-in for their employers in Indian call-centers. Now Mr. Bob or Chuck will know the real reason behind the poor service that he receives whenever he needs help with his vacuum cleaner or dish-washer.
7.Mafia dons in Mumbai have mistresses for making unpalatable sandwiches for them and little else. RGV, your khallas days are numbered!
8.Beware of the jealous quiz-show host! Don’t win large sums of money to invite his wrath. If Amitabh Bachhan had pondered on this point he would not have been there in London promoting the film. After all he hosted our own “Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?” for real. Did he not? Any news of the winners since then?
9.Victoria Terminus is the new lovers’ spot in Mumbai. If you are looking forward to moments of pushing-shoving-hassling induced togetherness in the anonymity of a “spirited” crowd, here you go!
10.No film on/around/in/about/above/beneath/between/over India can ever be complete without the happy couple celebrating their reunion (in short – Destiny) by dancing on railways platforms, accompanied by hundreds of co-passengers doing their jig. Spirit of Mumbai? Naah, A Spirited India, I would say. High spirits at that. White rum, maybe.
I don’t have much to complain about the film. Its mode of narration- that of flashbacks between quiz-questions is a sort of welcome innovation. Some of the actors and child actors perform startlingly well. A.R Rahman’s music is foot-tapping, no wonder even he was surprised by the amount of re-touching done to the tracks. But inspite of all these virtues Slumdog Millionaire remains just a well-packaged product far removed from the altar of greatness or the praise of posterity.In its attempt to show-case hope amongst ruins it has turned the spotlight to filth and necessity, hunger and helplessness. Not that the India of today has moved beyond the grasp of these evils but surely it has moved out of their grip. And that is where the film fails. It fails in portraying the follies that are the bitter fruits of transition in any vibrant state and instead focuses on the age-old belief in Destiny and Fate being the only agents of change and reform. The avid film follower is bound to draw parallels from films as conjoined in conception and as disparate in delivery as Salaam Bombay, Tropa de Elite and Cidade de Deus – all wonderfully made films depicting grim reality of an alternate social setup in different countries, but Slumdog’s treatment of poverty seems prematurely poised towards garnering attention and awards leaving very little scope for cinematic subtlety to emerge and enthrall. It rankles to think how complete the film could have been with a bit of genuine intent, a slice of directorial integrity and a generous pinch of Life to it. But then, I believe a film on ‘hungry, naked Indians’, shot in English, directed by a British director, laced with intermittent Hindi mouthed by native actors help so much more in bringing out that desi flavour – that sure-shot ingredient to charm the Western audience with, win four Golden Globe Awards and pitch for the Oscars all at the same time.
With a strong cast of the finest actors available, one of them arguably the most versatile of all times, 'Sweeney Todd - The Demon Barber of Fleet Street'engages, enthralls and intimidates its viewers all at the same time. Tim Burton achieves what Tarantino killed in the womb in 'Kill Bill'. Who could have thought that a blood-fest, a sheer torment to the sensibilities of the weak-hearted, an instrument to inspire dread in the sane and the meek could be moulded into a musical.Men have done it firston stage and Burton's done rightful justice to it on screen. Sounds frivolous but I assure you that none of the deadly vigor of revenge, none of the monstrous facets of gore and flesh has been trivialized or euphemised with the song and dance ritual typical of musicals.
Where the story revolves around the life of a wronged barber and his lust for revenge can murder be far behind ?Johny Deppdelves into the skin of the title character with usual aplomb and gives a performance worthy of a standing ovation. Playing a man tortured for no crime he committed, he plays both a grieving husband and a longing father with no family to show his love to. So, he channelizes all his emotions into a frightful rage and in his own way justifies the murder of ones who never did him any harm. He becomes both the judge and the executioner, ironically driven to the task by a judge himself ( Alan Rickman).
Helena Bonham Carter( as Mrs Lovett ), the accomplished actress that she is, seems to have found her footing with a substantial role after a long while. Mrs Lovett is a guilty accomplice to the crimes and also a aspiring woman, longing for love and family. She plays the complicated female to perfection, both vicious and vile, while on the other hand she is all caring and affectionate. She scintillates as a complex mixture, a woman torn between emotional extremes, marked by warm benevolence and selfless love to Toby, the boy rescued from a London workhouse, whereas she is an epitome of witch-like manipulation of the barber's mind in order to gain his attentions.
I saw 'Donnie Brasco' and 'Sweeney Todd' in something of a back-to-back Johny Depp double-whammy at home today and I found that this one had Depp in full flow. Hence, this review. If you have seen him in 'What's Eating Gilbert Grape' you won't recognize him here. If you have lately seen 'Edward Scissorhands' chances are you will. With a white streak of hair, more stylish than eerie he wields his wares with razor sharp dexterity and comes out with the goods.
The film has its 'moments of truth', as every film worth its salt should, and for me it was when Todd, the barber decides to murder all and sundry and justifies it by saying,
I believe in watching films with a clear mind, without preconceived expectations or a care for their past laurels. I believe in judging a film for its message, the perfection it attains in being the vehicle of a certain sensation that lasts with its audience beyond its run-time, like a taste which is sometimes bitter and sometimes sweet, like an impression from memory which one often loves to narrate but cannot relive. A good film could be that magical a thing.
I never looked up 'Nirgendwo in Afrika' (Nowhere in Africa) on imdb before I watched it this afternoon and now as I sit to write a review, hurriedly, almost afraid that I may lose that lingering taste in my mouth soon, I find that it won the Oscar in the Best Foreign Film category in 2002.
The film is set in the 1935 period of Nazi upsurge of influence and follows the life of a German Jewish family fractured as a result of severe Anti-Semitism. Walter Redlich(Merab Ninidze), a Jewish lawyer fervently wishes to see his wife and daughter flee Nazi Germany and join him in Kenya. Being perspicacious he is able to ascertain the imminent Jewish persecution that is to soon engulf all of Europe. Though his wife, Jettel (Juliane Kohler) and daughter, Regina (Lea Kurka) find a way to Africa he fails to convince his father and sister who still consider Deutschland as their own. The story moves on with the family trying to find its footing in an alien land amidst all its attendant inconveniences. Walter's Kenyan cook, Owuor (Sidede Onyulo) finds a friend in young Regina and life settles down to a routine at the cattle-farm for the family. The film pictures every character and their personal little battles with 'change' and 'compromise', yet it portrays a blesmishless collage which is much more than being a mere sum of the individuals. The difficulties of Jettel in settling down to a life in the wilderness amongst 'negroes' and her constant worries around Regina's education and upbringing bring out one facet of resettlement, that of angst and uncertainty in the thinking adults whereas on the other hand, the way in which Regina holds onto her new life with fumbling little fingers drips with hope and inspiration characteristic of the unsullied infant mind. Her bonding with Owuor goes beyond ties of blood and is resplendent in all its innocent glory.
Walter, driven and determined, yet a practical and pragmatic character is portrayed with elan by Ninidze. In his little battles with himself he stands as both the victor and the vanquished. He is a strong provider, a caring husband and a loving father on one hand and on the other he has his own insecurities to tend to. The family is shattered as news from Germany leaks in, that of brutality and death. The helplessness in knowing that your loved ones are dying and you cannot do a thing grips them with guilt and grief at the same time. The film is more like a fascinating journey where one is almost moved to tears of joy, as in the scene where little Regina narrates how her 'Jewish' father has asked her not to waste "their little money" and "study really hard" to the stern and visibly prejudiced British Principal and it brings a smile to his face, to the delight of the audience. Certain scenes are sheer irony in motion, one of them being Owuor telling Jettel how "white women are weak. Black women can take care of themselves."
With Kohler playing the role of a conundrum of a character to perfection and the African setting providing the ideal backdrop for the drama the film attains great cinematic heights. Heights which are quite different from the ones attained by ' 'Schindler's List' or 'The Pianist' which stay within Nazi Germany and Poland respectively to tell tales of persecution and despair as 'Nowhere in Africa' carries the viewer far from the hotbed of war and hatred and show effectively, with all its cinematic poesy the plight of people touched by war, even thousands of miles away from it. A film which accomplishes the basic objectives of inspiring human empathy and thought, I believe, it should figure in every film-lover's favourite list.
The defining moment of the film for me was when Jettel says to Regina on the topic of Jews and how different they are from others, " What I've learnt here is how valuable differences are. Differences are good."
My feelings towards ‘Jodha Akbar’ was bordering on something of a pleasant confusion and a sense of dejectedness stemming out of unquenched expectations as the credits started rolling at the end of the film.
And it was this same feeling which occupied my mind as I made my way back to my home after coming out of the theater. A film which promised to deliver a cinematic spectacle of epic proportions had failed to deliver on its brief but, not without some consolation. The story revolves around the central theme of the blossoming of love between Jalaluddin Akbar and Jodhabai. The backdrop was provided by a mix of conspiracies, betrayals and blood-feuds that are so much part of power equations and empires from time immemorial. Only in this case there were hardly any attempts at intrigue or unpredictability in their unveiling. Akbar is portrayed as the righteous emperor coming to terms with the rigors of ruling a vast empire and facing enemies both within and beyond his dominions. Rajputana being the ‘iron fortress’ of defiance and pride poses the most formidable source of resistance to Mughal expansionist ambitions. As a strategy of alliance and appeasement Akbar marries the young princess of Amer, Jodhabai, to take a section of Rajputs in his confidence. The film tracks the graduation of feelings in Jodha starting from mild repulsion to acceptance and finally to complete submission in the Mughal emperor’s loving embrace. The sequences where little mind-games between the newly wed couple take precedence over the routine of matrimony is both absorbing and amusing. The rich decor and the overwhelming grandeur of the inside of the mahals are breathtakingly beautiful as are the scintillating spread of jewellery and costumes. The detailing of the backdrops merit accolades galore.
Hrithik Roshan as Akbar gives a good solid performance as the charismatic emperor and a passionate lover. He fits the royal-look requisite to the T and one cannot imagine anybody else in those regal robes strolling down the grand corridors of Diwan-e-Aam and Diwan-e-Khas. His delivery of chaste Urdu is flawless most of the times which does its part in lending credibility to the character. It is good if he sticks to do one 'film of substance' at a time for he is good in his role here, exuding a royal nonchalance and a princely swagger to charm his audience.
Aishwarya Rai Bachhan looks every bit the budding flower that Rajput princesses are supposed to have been. Delicate yet resolute. Passionate yet reserved. The sword-fighting scene actually takes the cake for her. She looks genuine in battle-gear though there spreads a shade of blissful serenity on her face when donning the elaborately embroidered ghagras, singing bhajans in front of her private deity.
Ashutosh Gowarikar has kept to the title of the film, devoting the lion’s share of its run-time to the ‘love-story’ amidst the bedlam of treachery and treason cooking in the background. Though one wonders if it was in fact the inspiration borrowed from Jodha’s love that compelled Akbar to ease taxes and regulations on his subjects, in the process coming out a reformed man worthy of a woman’s love and devotion. If history is so twisted to cater to the tastes of the ‘general’ audience and financers I believe there wasn’t enough evidence of ‘creative liberties’ being taken by the talented director in the film. I am sure a racy item-number here and a little outsourcing of certain parts to one Ekta Kapoor and Karan Johar would have done marvels to the prospects of the film at the box-office. With irrelevant songs in “Azeem-o-Shaan....” and “khwaja mere khwaja...” being packed in the most unceremonious manner into Mughal ceremonies one begins to feel for the poor director torn between duty and desire. Though on a personal level I liked the battle sequences which are quite grand compared to anything made before in Indian Cinema it feels just to be miserly when granting points to this film because of its sheer disregard in highlighting the policy and politics of the Akbar-era, the most remarkable aspects of the great reign and the great ruler.
If history has been dumped most listlessly for this film it will soon have some company.
“You could have just driven away without a care in the world for me, and forsaken me”
With a pause pregnant with unsaid emotions he whispers,
“Not a chance.”
These two lines which appear so unambiguously banal in content at first glance there lies the ultimate test and triumph of an alliance that is forged over a lifetime.
The alliance we call ‘marriage’.
‘Away From Her’ is a film which captivates with its sheer force of simplicity, all the while delineating the intricate details of a complex human story with the natural grace of life and nature. Adopted from the work named ‘The Bear Came over the Mountain’ by Alice Munro, the film revolves around the trials and tribulations of an elderly couple trying to come to terms with the curse of Alzheimer’s disease and its attendant complications. As Fiona (Julie Christie) starts to lose her memory she is shifted to a ‘retirement facility’ for ailing people, much to the despair of her husband, Grant (Gordon Pinsent), who is emotionally disturbed and much upset at the separation. The immaculate depiction of the traumatic phases that an Alzheimer’s victim undergoes poses a thousand pointed questions to the viewer. The very conception of ‘memory’, as we know it, is shaken to its foundations as one grapples to identify and later appreciate how singularly beautiful it might be to discover a fresh appeal within the confines of familiarity without our mental retention of the past and the memorized. How fascinatingly juvenile and invigorating it might have been to get lost in the woods that one was so accustomed to. How thrilling it might have been to start acquaintance with the person one loved for a lifetime and thereby script a story of rediscovery and revision.
The film lends a compellingly thoughtful perspective in this regard and thereby makes the journey for the viewer that much more enriching than mere enjoyable.
As the film moves on, the consequences of a depleting memory surface to test Grant while Fiona finds comfort and company in Aubrey, another ailing inmate in the facility, oblivious of her past affiliations and bindings. A period of insecurity and possessiveness consume him, which later transpires into a better understanding of the infinite complexities of human relationships. While Grant laments the look of unfamiliarity in Fiona’s eyes a tactile web of human emotions spins into motion. Without being opinionated in any way the film expresses its endorsement of human values and through a marvelous language of images convey the fear of isolation innate to humans. A work of passion by the director, Sarah Polly, ‘Away From Her’ will surely go down as one of the finest films on human relationships and connubial love I have ever seen.
Julie Christie has portrayed the central character to such precise perfection that she moves her audience to tears without being tearful herself. Her glazed blue eyes are so resplendent with an unearthy innocence that while watching the film one almost feels as helpless and cornered as her husband. Her infirmity is so obvious, yet so ostentatiously underplayed that nothing short of an Oscar would do justice to her moving rendition of an otherwise difficult character.
Gordon Pinsent is a figure of strength with his stoic acceptance of a tragic reality. Yet, he displays brilliance in scenes where he arrests the outpour of his spasmodic reactions in the face of piercing predicaments. One of the best performances of the previous year he might as well get a well deserved nomination for the ‘Best Supporting Actor’ category at the Oscars. I actually back Pinsent to bag the award for holding his own in the spate of an astounding piece of acting being delivered opposite to him, which if not belittling to say the least was more than intimidating in terms of pressure to perform his own brief.
An exceedingly well-made film which asks existentially relevant questions even to an average enthusiast, I will remember ‘Away From Her’ as one of the most beautiful films I ever watched. A film which promotes love and commitment and delivers the message of lasting togetherness that marriage as an institution bestows, the following conversation from it will remain imprinted in my mind forever (Alzheimer’s forbidding):
[ while leaving for her asylum Fiona asks Grant at their doorstep]
Fiona: How do I look ?
Grant: Just like always. Just as you always looked.
‘It’s easy to point out problems in this world. It’s difficult to offer solutions.’
The maiden directorial venture by Aamir Khan does ‘that’ difficult part with aplomb.
‘Taare Zameen Par’ revolves around the stifling pressures that a dyslexic child faces in our society, in our times. Ishaan Avasti ( Darsheel Safery) is like any fun loving kid who enjoys catching the odd fish from the gutters, keeps gawking at the mother-bird feeding her fledglings and pick up fights with the domineering bully of the pack when things become too unbearable. Yet, something makes him special. He sees the world through the colourful window of his mind. A fertile imagination gifts him with a creative edge he manifests through the interplay of colours in his paintings. Yet, something ails his progress in academics. Curiously, he mixes up all his spellings, can’t say a ‘d’ from a ‘b’ and ‘9 * 3’ is somehow 3 owing to some cosmic collision only his mind can conjure in its full imaginative inflation. Failure in exams ensues and parents get anxious. The apparent ploy to shirk studies seems to be the only plausible reason to them. Frustrated with umpteen attempts at correcting his ‘flaws’ and his habitual relapses he is sent to a boarding school. The sequence where his mother (Tisca Chopra) turns back to leave him at the mercy of the unfamiliar premises of the boarding school is so beautifully picturised, with the
heart rending delivery of “ kya itna buraa hoon main maa....” (by Shankar Mahadevan) playing in the background that I am sure there are few, if any, people who did not have a tear-drop gracing their eyes at that moment.
Expectedly, boarding school only makes Ishaan a prisoner of the ‘conventional treatment’ that is meted out to non-performers in our education system. He blots out the cruel world and locks himself in a shell of desolation and pain. The portrayal of helplessness in a child on ‘not being understood’ by people around him is dispensed with a nuanced perfection found only in past masters of cinema. Aamir (along with Amole Gupte) donning the director’s hat for the first time has charmed with his exquisite timing and sensitivity in dealing with the subject which demanded a perceptive depiction along with artistic finesse.
Aamir enters the scene as an art-teacher in the dying moments of the first-half (albeit with a
clowning act with much fanfare which seemed tad redundant) and hopes of resurrection are ignited. Being a victim of dyslexia in his childhood, Aamir identifies the problem in Ishaan. He fights with the principal, and later convinces him that it is only a matter of time before Ishaan can compete with others with a little help and understanding. He devotes his time and energies to address the difficulties that Ishaan is facing and soon the boy shows marked improvement. An ‘Open to All Painting Competition’ becomes the culmination of the mutual success of the teacher-student pairing as Ishaan beats his teacher to bag the first-prize in the competition.
The whirlpool of emotions ranging from despair to joy, from rejection to relief attains a magical crescendo at the prize distribution ceremony. A tearful hug replete with unsaid words of gratitude and affection are so touching that one cannot help but give vent to one’s emotions, hiding in the darkness of the tiers to shed a few tears of empathy.
Repentant and reformed, Ishaan’s father takes him back to his home on a vacation wherefrom a happy ending starts. Both for Ishaan and his family, and Aamir, the teacher.
The smell of success and hope is palpable even when the credits roll.
Prasoon Joshi, take a bow. The ad-man has penned lyrics laden with pathos and a deep understanding of children’s psyche (he says he owes it to his little girl) that has an evocative appeal written all over it.
Shankar is breathtaking with his poignant renditions of songs like, “ tu sab jaanti hai.....hai na maa...” (MP3 provided above), “Mera jahaan...” and the title track.
The trio of Shankar-Ehsaan-Loy has again proved what good quality jamming can produce as the music of the film is a sure highlight which is poised to make a mark of it’s own in the coming days.
Aamir as a director has shown the class expected out of an outright perfectionist like him. The sensitive interpretation of the story is so seamlessly accomplished till the end that one cannot really put a finger on a flaw that glares in its nonconformity with the script. The occasional inclusion of a few ‘symbolic scenes’ (as when Aamir watches a mother and child on a bus) and the comic (but of doubtful necessity) entry of himself as the art-teacher were noticeably deletable. Otherwise, “Taare Zameen Par” is a winner.
Aamir has delivered a success.
Darsheel has outdone Aamir
The child artist has not only done justice to the troubled character he portrays with élan but also etched a niche of special recall within the deep recesses of our minds where childhood memories and their attendant anxieties recline in blissful languor of forgetfulness, almost untouched by the mechanically motivated lives we live. After watching the film every person sitting in the stands who has ever faced a similar problem in his childhood will come to associate Darsheel’s gawky features, his wide expressive eyes and that ear-to-ear grin with his memories and rejoice at his victory at the end of the film, though not his own. That is exactly where the film succeeds, in drawing the audience to think sympathetically on a socially relevant issue.
“Taare Zameen Par” lets everyone take something back to their homes from the theater. A sensitive heart receptive to other’s problems, responsive to a child’s troubles, understanding of a passing disability and most importantly, throbbing with a lasting sensation of triumph.
“Film-makers sell dreams in bottles”, they say. Coming out of the screening of ‘Om Shanti Om’ I am sure to have augmented ‘their’ number by one.
Come Friday afternoon and one needed to click no further than rediff.com or any news-portal to know all about the two films (the other being Bhansali’s Sawariyaa). ‘Om Shanti Om’ got mixed response as I found out on the net. Some speculated on its hackneyed story-line. Some drew out daggers to dissect the film’s apparent lack of substance, befitting of men used to watching ‘parallel cinema’ in empty multiplexes. I went to watch the film with a blank mind and a subdued eagerness which often accompany film-enthusiasts who have been recently dished out a cinematic dodomaa wrapped in a glittering gift-pack ( in the form of ‘No Smoking’. Ohhh! Don’t even remind me of that).
Watching the noon show of ‘OM SHANTI OM’ this Saturday in a packed house full ofmad whistling and wild cheering changed all borrowed perceptions and premonitions about the film. The film is a thorough entertainer. So I thought.
Keeping with the traditions of upholding Bollywood-cliché the film doesn’t miss out on many. Farah Khan in this self-confessed tribute to the 70s has done much better than ‘Main Hoon Naa’, a film I came to despise marginally for its ‘lack of originality in copying’ Matrix-stunts. OSO opens by taking us to the 70’s of Hindi cinema where heroes in chequered suits and heroines in red convertibles (laden with giggling saheliyaan) used to hold sway. Shah Rukh Khan (as Om Prakash Makhija) is his own energetic self as a junior artist with dreams of making it big in the industry. He worships the screen diva, Shantipriya( the beautiful Deepika Padukone), whom he later rescues from a fire and expectedly love ensues between unequals in typical filmi style of yore. Only there is this problem of Arjun Rampal (playing the scheming film producer, Mukesh Mehra) spoiling the love-story for them. But, only for this life-time.
The second half sees a reborn Om Makhija as Om Kapoor(SRK of course) who is also a star-son enjoying all its attendant extravagance. Screaming headaches chase him to the discovery of his pichhlaa janm (previous life’s exploits).Suddenly there is vengeance in the air and a Sandy surfaces (Deepika in shorts, minis, spaghettis and shorts again. Well, that’s how Farah Khan decided to portray today’s modern woman. Goes down fine with the audience it seemed, from their cat-calls and all) to aid Khan in his mission. Then there is a twist in the tail of the tale. And then a happy ending.
The film is a sumptuous salad of all possible clichés ever employed in the services of Hindi cinema. From rebirth to forbidden love, from dreams coming true to poetic justice, from song and dance to filial love, we feel we have seen it all before. But, during the film we actually enjoy absorbing the time-worn plots and sequences, as if rolling them over our tongues to relish their old yet unforgettable tastes. Feeling just a tad nostalgic about the bygone days and their fashion symbols on our way. The spoofs on cine-stars of yesteryears are funny, the lookalikes poorly selected. The two romantic songs in “Ankhon mein teri...” and “Main agar kahoon....” are pleasantly melodious and craftily picturised. Shah Rukh is as vibrant as ever, a trait which has assured him his place at the top over the years. The passion which he brings into every character he plays is positively palpable to the audience, even sitting in the last row of a theater.
He does not belie expectations in OSO too. Delivering goods at every given opportunity (especially after an off-beat film like ‘Chak De! India’ did well) he has maintained his ‘Bankable’ status with style and much fanfare through OSO. Deepika Padukone is stunning and looks every bit the screen goddess she portrays in the film. But, only future can tell if she can perform, given a wider scope to actually act rather than just look ‘promising’. Kiron Kher and Sreyas Talpade perform to their brief and come up with flawless performances. Rampal looks menacing in his suits and sideburns. But what takes the cake, as promised, is the ‘31 star studded song’. “ The Song ” was enjoyable to the core (I actually counted all the 31 appear as others climbed up their seats for a little jig).It was mind-numbing entertainment. Totally in keeping with the Hindi filmi style.
No two ways about it.
‘Om Shanti Om’ will surely be a big commercial success. It might take some beating to equal its success even in the coming few years, I guess. And it will establish one thing beyond the scope of any doubt once again. That being, “We love our Masala films”. Even today.
Whether the advent of low-budget-meaningful-cinema ever overtake the grand success of magnum clichés like OSO waits to be seen in the future. Who knows.
If ever there was a film made with the sole purpose of frustrating the very principle of Tolerance; if ever there was a film made with the single minded motivation of blending all imaginable atrocities into a single celluloid cyanide; if ever there was a film which dragged the staunchest of abstainers to seedy corners of the cinema-hall during the interval, forcing them to take the first puff of their lives in utter desperation and mental vacuum, then, surely my friends, the film would be ‘No Smoking’.
Anurag Kashyap, has ensured that cigarette smoking in this nation is taken up as a welcome respite from films such as his and I am certain a good amount of moolah (as a token of appreciation) is already headed his way from the ITC coffers. Though this might not prove a sufficient compensation for the losses Vishal Bharadwaj (the producer of this 'torture') will incur, the rape of sanity and the risk of destabilizing the rational thought process in every individual who ventured out to watch this hideous film will remain irreparable.
The film starts with a Siberian shoot-out, followed by a series of events which takes its time to settle into the minds of the audience. Slowly, the curtains are drawn off the GREAT plot.
A strapping John Abraham {mysteriously named ‘K’ (understandably the audience had their own lewd interpretations of it)} who cannot live a moment of his waking hour without puffing at the cancer-stick is threatened with separation by his wife/secretary Anjali (the voluptuous Ayesha Takia) unless he quits. Faced with this imminent loss he goes into a rehabilitation centre (called Prayogshalaa – which when translated comes to either ‘laboratory’ or ‘work-shop’ but never anything close to 'rehabilitation' surprisingly) recommended by his old friend Abbas Tyrewala ( Ranvir Shorey). A head-churning sequence ensue where burqa-clad women throng the Prayogshalaa call-centre and fix appointments with the infinitely efficacious Bangali Baba Sealdah-walaa ( played by a stubble-sporting Paresh Rawal) who eliminates all addictions at the measly cost of 21-lakh rupees. K is forced to sign on an agreement which jeopardizes the life and safety of his entire family in the eventuality of him smoking again, which he obviously dares to, in crass defiance of the Baba’s diktat. Kissed with a number of handicaps within a span of a few reckless hours, he is kept on the treadmill of artificial anxiety by the Baba and his cronies. As if the pathetically painted expressions across John’s frowning face was not enough, the audience is greeted with an item number curiously picturised on Jesse Randhwa and sung by Adnan Sami (one cannot imagine the fruit of such heady a concoction of flab [formerly i.e] and abs). Then comes the history-mutilating pictures of Hitler seated beside a smiling Rawal, a rehabilitation-centre/concentration-camp designed on the lines of ones shown in Schindler’s List, a gross-inching- towards-gruesome take on Fidel Castro (a cigar made in Havana named 'In-Fidel Castrated' marketed by K’s close friend in India) and a ‘Memento’-ish rewind-play-rewind-play experiment which falls flat on its face. The final assault on human sensibility comes in the form of sepia-tainted black & white flash-backs of John and Shorey’s childhood escapades. One scene has the unmistakably imbecile John prancing with orgasmic ecstasy at having puffed at a cigarette, along with Shorey, in a locked bathroom only to be caught by Shorey’s father. Having caught two teenager boys holed up in the seductive refuge of a bath-room the father prepares to deliver a lecture on the monstrosity of a man-man relationship, when interrupted by Shorey’s clarification of the ‘real motive’ he sighs with understandable relief.
“Lucky man!” every person in the hall exclaimed, for relief wouldn’t be coming their way for another hour, they knew. So, in honest rejection they banged their heads against seats in front of them. But, to no avail.
The second half is replete with ‘Symbolism’, where ‘the Soul’ and ‘the Body’ is separated by a glass barrier (and interestingly the soul fails to communicate with the body for need of a One-Rupee coin). A filthy hodge-podge of murder, suicide, police interrogation, leaping into water, scuba-diving in bath-tub, waking up in Siberia is complete with a shoot-out( remember the first scene ?? ). But alas! John is still not dead. He still lives (or rather his ‘body’ lives). A body bereft of soul due to habitual cigarette smoking. And now there’s an ‘intelligent’ hint in the closing scene which tells us that the evil of smoking isn't confined in the white-paper wrapped svelte-menace but, it lives somewhere else.
In us.
And how we thank our lucky stars it does!
Cancer is more welcome than a 'Kashyap'!
From head to toe ‘The Biggest Cinematic Disaster’ of our times, the film leaves enough message to galvanize the average cinema enthusiast in mobilizing a resistance against the unholy alliance of Kashyap & Co. with Agra and Ranchi Mental Hospitals. Every ticket denied to them is a victory for sanity. Every moment inside the theater excruciating brutality.
