The adversary within

Have been bitten by the nostalgia bug lately which drove me to comb the labyrinthine passages of Youtube; the results were absolutely worth the MBs invested.

Rays Calcutta trilogy: Jana Aranya (The Middleman), Seemabaddha (Company Limited) and the first of the series Pratidwandi (The Adversary) were the results when the Master decided to train his ingenious gaze on the Mahanagari Calcutta. I had seen the first two mentioned here (which are actually the last two of the series as I mention them in a reverse chronological order) earlier, however I was completely unprepared for The Adversary; the opening scenes had me swept up in a vortex of memories of my own hometown Kolkata, with her vintage public buses and myriad businesses, her denizens a study in contrast. I could almost feel the hot summer afternoon sun drilling through the shirt on my back as Dhritiman Chatterjee becomes my eyes and ears on the urban battlegrounds that was 70’s Calcutta. The initial scenes see the protagonist Siddhartha (Dhritiman) latched precariously from public buses, shunted from one failed job interview to the other, resignation and annoyance jostling for space in his expression. The exchange with one particular interviewer, where Siddhartha cites the Vietnam War as the most significant event of recent times, eclipsing mankind’s conquest of the moon, is telling, underscoring the strong political undertones of the film. The dilemma of the intelligent and educated youth is well conveyed: sell out, bag the job and look away when faced with a mirror or wear your ideology on your sleeve and survive on ideals and little else.

Siddhartha’s character is well contrasted by his younger sister, an attractive office worker whose contempt for traditional values is brilliantly depicted in her nonchalance. Her disdain at the family’s outrage upon her being accused of having a dalliance with her boss is used as a metaphor for a girl losing her innocence and coming of age. These are juxtaposed with flashbacks of brother and sister communing with nature as children, epitomized by the lilting call of a songbird which constantly teases the adult Siddhartha’s memory, unable as he is to recall which bird it was. The mores of a changing social order clash, with Siddhartha’s widowed mother and his uncle despairing at what they perceive as their offspring’s blithe and reckless behavior but powerless in the face of a youth unfettered by feudal mores. Siddhartha’s younger brother Tunu is the face of a brave new world, whose conviction and spirit seem to unnerve him. Siddhartha’s ego is left scampering for cover at Tunu’s brutal ripostes at his concern over the latter’s radical leanings and the possible repercussions, in an era when the regime was brutally putting down subversive elements. Tunu has grown into a self possession which Siddhartha secretly desire, but cannot, as his close friend sums up aptly: when the time to act comes, all his talk of a bloody revolution will evaporate as empty bravado.

This film is nothing if not about the Kolkata. Her spirit pervades all the characters and their unease reflects the social churn the city was witness to in the 70’s. The incendiary smell in the air stands in contrast to the stream of hippies into the city with their other worldy air. She manages to embrace all, be it the ambitious, the licentious or the hopeless starry eyed revolutionary. The manner in which Siddhartha disrupts an interview in progress, unable to live with his passive existence any longer, is symbolic of the city’s ability to inspire defiance from even those who seemingly have reconciled to fate. There is a hint of melancholy as he leaves Calcutta in the end, accepting in no small measure the death of his idealism as much as the reality of having to eke out a living.

Perhaps one of his best works, for once Ray eschews his lyricism to delve deeper into the existential questions. He doesn’t provide easy answers here; a number of metaphors remain ambiguous. Dhritiman is brilliant in his portrayal of Siddhartha, conveying the conflict of ideals with elan. A possible sequel to this could have been one with the protagonist in his middle years, perhaps even more battle hardened and cynical. Wonder what treatment the master would have imparted!

An unabashed review of Besharam

There are occasions when you decide to trust your instincts and go against your better judgment. Neurons are firing in your brain, willing you to turn back. You pause, take a deep breath and tell your heart, ‘there, there, its going to be alright’. You walk into the theatre, settle into the cramped seats, the movie opens, the script unfolds and you whisper to your heart, ‘bravo!’ Well, this was exactly what I did NOT experience last evening as overwhelmed by an attack of masochism, I found myself staring emptily at the opening credits, with its proud announcements of the many media partners that Besharam had wangled, an agony that you are subjected to before the real pain…oops movie begins.

From the very beginning the makers of Besharam – to their credit – warn you to what lies in store. Javed Jaffrey serves up a montage of his past caricatures in his depiction of a Hawaladar or a money launderer. ‘Bheem Singh Chandel’, he announces with his worst scowl to a hapless cop who had dared to halt his booty laden convoy, as you glance askance at the nearest exit, in case a quick evacuation is needed. A couple of Scorpios leap into the air in flaming infernos as if on cue; a stunt favored by the current brat pack  - read Rohit Shetty – to warm things up. It pretty much is downhill from here and you would do well to save yourself a few grey cells by realizing straight up one key fact – there is no plot. Besharam was meant to have no plot, for it is a vehicle for the latest progeny of the Kapoor clan (and his doting parents) to indulge themselves with both father and son outdoing themselves in letting the audience having a peek at err, well, their ‘crack’ and I’m not referring to jokes here, not the verbal kinds anyway.

With their investment secured by shamelessly plugging for an iconic car marquee and a popular candy maker – if you walk in a little late you can be forgiven for mistaking the movie for an elaborate Mercedes ad – Abhinav Kashyap sets about what could have been a comic caper and ends up dishing out sheer nonsense and toilet humor of the cheapest kind. Appalling one liners with references to flatulence to actually having to witness the elder Kapoor’s morning exertions on the throne, with its attendant ghastly acoustics, leaves you wondering if you can survive till intermission. This may well have been an attempt to recreate Ranbir in his illustrious grandpa’s avatar of a tramp in the cult Mera Naam Joker. I hope that is a figment of my imagination alone as Raj’s rendition of the forlorn clown and the timeless soundtrack exuded a fragrant whiff, best left unsullied by the fetid odor from Besharam’s armpits.

The characters are paper thin and silly; Pallavi Sharda’s character careens through the streets of Delhi in her freshly acquired Merc A class in the initial scenes (perhaps Merc wanted to show off the A class’ handling too, not content with branding alone) with a lunatic glint in her eyes, this impression of a vacuous belle quickly gives way to a self-possessed corporate climber who would rather putter around in an ALTO than hitch her ride to a sadakchap mechanic. As you try and reconcile these disconcertingly contradictory traits, the caricatures pop up thick and fast, threatening to nudge you over the edge. Warning: long forgotten twitches and tics may resurface, do carry medication for pre existing conditions. Neetu Singh looks ancient and gnarled; perhaps it would have been wise to let memories of Amar Akbar Anthony and Deewar reign in the hearts of admirers. Rishi Kapoor looks content playing a goofy cop but fails to evoke either humor or sympathy, in that order. There is an art to playing such slapstick roles where your gestures and sense of timing often complements and sometimes transcends the inane storyline to leave the audience in splits: Anupam Kher and Kader Khan in Haseena Maan Jayegi comes to mind, a movie which was hugely entertaining purely for the histrionic skills on display without having to resort to toilet humor. But perhaps the intent with Besharam is different.

If you are still reading this, it can mean only one thing, that you are hoping for a reason to still watch this effort. And the answer should be obvious: Ranbir Kapoor. You can’t help but think that someone with such screen presence is wasted here, but then that is stating the obvious; Ranbir follows in the long line of the Kapoor clan with Greek god looks and charisma and the female fan following with comes with it, but with little else. They have made Bollywood (sharing the turf uneasily with the Khans) and Bollywood is because of them. Every once in a while the audience is subjected to a grim reminder that they loom larger than trivial considerations like a good script and storylines and it will be easier for us to live with ourselves if we see Besharam as great family entertainer: not your family but the Kapoor’s. Pallavi Sharda has potential and we see glimpses of that here, with some luck and a few more mega budget releases, we should see her exchanging cold stares with the leading ladies of tinsel town. The rest are as forgettable as, well the gas that passes from the nether regions as so eloquently described by one of Ranbir’s flunkies in the movie.

Review: Prisoners

The camera pans into a dusty stairwell leading down from the trapdoor into the dark basement. A musty smell pushes him back momentarily, like a palm thrust against his face. The scene cuts to change the shot, now focusing at him from the bottom of the stairwell, as if something is watching him from down below. He chooses his steps carefully down the flight of stairs, cutting the darkness with the sharp beam of his flashlight. Camera angle changes once again, now over his shoulder staring into the darkness below ahead of him. You see a callused hand placing itself on his shoulder. That’s your cue to shriek, squirm, an opportunity to grab your boyfriend’s biceps perhaps. A familiar setting for a thriller/slasher flick? Maybe. But then again, not quite if the flick in question is Prisoners.

Folks who have seen Zodiac may get a sense of déjà vu with its intricate storyline and cerebral treatment. Same is the case here right down to the obsessive detective with his funny eccentricities, but more on that later. The flick opens with the brusque and brooding lead, Keller Dover – played by Hugh Jackman – uttering a prayer as his son shoots a deer in the woods; a symbol for the deep religious theme that underscores the movie. You see this surface throughout the movie – snakes which evoke the serpent in the Garden of Eden, the inner turmoil of a father driven to brutality in a desperate bid to locate his daughter. It reminds you of Se7en with a deep sense of melancholy pervading the length of the film. Unlike the former which skirts the thin line between mind numbing boredom and psychosis, this takes you back to the days of the frontiersmen when the American wild was yet to be won and men like Jackman’s character survived under the shadow of their hunting rifle.

The narrative is very verry deliberate but that’s what it takes to plumb the depths of the characters. And that’s also what it takes to convey the despair of two sets of parents dealing with the disappearance of their daughters. This is very much a good vs evil story and the descent of god-fearing men into violence and bloodshed. The movie’s greatest success is to depict that struggle; the scene where Jackman is barely able to restrain himself from rearranging the suspected abductor’s jaws with a hammer and brings it down crashing into a sink instead is stirring. This isn’t one for the faint hearted; you can’t help but cringe as you watch Paul Dano’s – playing the main suspect – character being pummeled into a bloody pulp by Jackman who brooks no resistance in tracking his daughter down. You hold your breath as you follow an intruder into the Birch – the family of the other missing child – home, clueless about the motive but with a clear sense of foreboding. You can’t bear to watch as you expect the worst and yet the scene culminates in a way which leaves you heaving a sigh like never before. Whether it’s one of relief you gotta watch the movie to find out!

The flick is nothing if not for its powerhouse performances. Jake Gyllenhaal playing Detective Loki is almost talismanic in his presence. His chronic blinking injects an almost farcical element in the otherwise grim proceedings. The portrayal of at times kooky and always obsessed cop is pitted against the other titan in the movie, the often maniacal portrayal of a possessed father by Hugh Jackman. Best known for his superhuman feats in X-Men, this dapper auteur turns in a delicious performance which surely must also go down as a lesson on Machismo 101. Styling himself on the intrepid patriarch from back in the bad old days when you stood guard with a gun as your family slept, the viewer can almost see a sleeping giant being roused by the sequence of events. He is taciturn but spits out words like gunshots, is moved to tears with grief but willing to scald and maim in an effort to locate his daughter. Wannabe tough guys, this is one playbook from which you could fish out a leaf or two. The supporting cast does their job well which is to reach deep into their souls to make sense of the sudden and inexplicable loss. Themes of alienation and isolation in small town America come to the fore. Things always aren’t what they seem and that’s what keeps the narrative chugging along, even if the plot unravels too early in my opinion for a classic whodunit.

This is a must watch if you are hooked to David Fincher movies although this one is by Denis Villeneuve. Don’t expect for all the pieces of the jigsaw to fall into place however, that would do disservice to such a nuanced film