Spider-Man: Across the Father-Verse

As time flows in this dimension, you will hear glowing reviews of the new Spiderman animated movie in the next few weeks. And they'll largely be correct. The animation is the best i have seen this side of Arcane. The voice acting is on point, especially from Hailee Steinfeld as Gwen Stacy, and a funky Daniel Kaluuya as the irrepressible Spider-Punk. The many threads of the multiverse are woven with enough competency to feel like a silken spiderweb that moves the plot along rather than a frustrating slog through Shelob's lair. While i do think the pace of the action is sometimes too chaotic, and you wish the colorful frames took a breath and enjoyed their own beauty once in a while, these are but minor quibbles in what is essentially a high grade entry into the world of animation. This one is definitely going into the animation hall of fame.

You will hear all these superlatives and more, and they will be well deserved. However there is a singular thread in this masterful web of storytelling that i wanted to pull on here. It is the soft loving focus on fatherhood, a beautiful background theme that runs throughout the most important parts of this movie, and is easy to miss in the smorgasbord of color and confusion. 

 At it's heart, Spiderman: Across the Spider-Verse is a film about family. The many unfulfilled expectations from our most valued relationships. The disappointments and heart breaks. And yet the hope that all the negotiations are tied to something deeper....unrelenting love. The expansive love of a parent for their child, and the utter desperate silent need of a child for their parent's attention, guidance, nurture and understanding.

While Miles Morales struggles to balance his life as a student, and a vigilante, he may find the attention of his parents overbearing, but there's no mistaking the hugely important role they're playing in his life. He may take it for granted, but as a viewer, you immediately recognize the freefall he would be in without their grounding influence. An influence that is sorely lacking in Gwen Stacey's life, who's single father has so dedicated his life to work, that he doesn't see that his daughter is drifting further away from him. And drifting towards danger, and dangerous influence. Her fear of returning home to a father she hasn't reconciled with, keeps her on paths that are inherently unstable and unfulfilling, no matter how hard she tries to find a replacement family.

Once you see this pattern emerge, of fatherhood and it's singular importance, it's hard to not see it peppered all across the spiderverse. Peter Parker, who is now the father of a toddler endowed with abilities similar to his, has been entrusted by MJ to look after the precocious kid. Clearly he would be the better equipped of the two to handle a baby with superpowers, and better yet teach it to control them, but it's still a strange sight to see him carry the baby around through potentially life threatening missions. Until you notice how seriously he takes it. The baby is not a gimmick. It's part of the thread. He wonders if he'll do a good job with the baby. He takes the jabs about his mentoring ability to heart. He holds back, is way more conservative in his actions, avoiding unnecessary risks. It's all there. A father looking after his kid.

On the other end of the spectrum is the ever brooding and slightly menacing Miguel O Hara, who seems to have lost his kid in a tragic turn of events. You see in his eyes and hardened mirthless face, the depths of despair from the loss of a child, and the unyielding, bordering on psychopathic belief that such tragedies can be avoided in the future, if we just accept the predestined path of the SpiderMen and Women. 

And speaking of eyes, at the very end, in a brilliant bit of direction, you get to stare into the eyes of a youth that has lost their father. The dead, pitiless, vengeful eyes of a child that has been left without a father in a world that is not kind to such innocence. And the contrast......the contrast in those eyes will haunt you and leave you wanting a quick resolution.

Unfortunately this movie is not about quick resolutions. It's about the things that take the most time to mend. About relationships. And sometimes one has to cross the multiverse, to look into the eyes of an alternate reality, to truly heal what was broken. To get back what was stolen. 

In my view, hidden in plain sight, this movie is a silent ode to fatherhood.  

Bheed

BHEED. CROWDS. There's a poignant statement made right in the beginning of the movie on what differentiates a society from crowds of people. It is the threads that bind. Social norms. Expectations. Shared experiences. Common struggles and common celebrations. Take all that away, and all you're left with are swirling masses.

But as the movie progresses, a new question begins to emerge. These threads that bind, are they also ropes that tie our hands, hold us back, and sometimes turn into nooses? Is a hierarchical social structure all it's cracked up to be? Is classism in society inevitable? Is religious orthodoxy worth the danger of religious bias? Do social norms thwart love? Can these masses, tied together now by social media, be trusted to sort truth from false? Will the power structures put in place by civil society protect all of civil society in a crisis, or just the privileged few?

These are some of the burning questions that emerge in this very contained story called Bheed. It's a microcosm of Indian society, where these various threads of casteism, classism, power, media, religion, law enforcement, love and destiny weave themselves into a complicated yet rich tapestry that demands viewing.

The backdrop of the movie is set in rural Covid India, where tens of thousands of poor city workers are migrating back to their villages to seek safety and succor, only to find that the entire country and it's infrastructure has been locked down and the key thrown away. Left to fend for themselves, in the midst of a strange national affliction, their fear and helpless is only exacerbated by law enforcement that is trying to follow orders that feel counter to humanitarian impulses. It's a time of utter confusion, as many will remember from that time, and is well captured. The black and white palette lends itself nicely to the stark tone of the movie, and is well supported by looming cinematography and a background score that increases the sense of dread and panic as the situation for all concerned parties continues to deteriorate.

The narration comes at you from many different perspectives. There's the internal dialogue in journalism, captured well between three voices. Then there's the various faces of law enforcement, harsh and unyielding, sometimes corrupt but also reflective and questioning, sometimes unsure of itself. The confusion and inherent distrust of the migrant workers is captured beautifully as well, with veteran actors like Pankaj Kapoor and Veerendra Saxena making you wonder why we haven't seen these thespians more often. They're sorely missed. 

The only minor quibble i have with the movie is that the lead actor, Rajkumar Rao, sometimes struggles to handle the requirements of the role. Every actor in this movie carries two responsibilities. To stay true to the character they inhabit, and also serve as a narrative device for larger themes. Watch Pankaj Kapoor effortlessly move from helplessness and anger over his family's hunger, to the larger thematic failure of his life's journey, and back to current helplessness within a single scene. It's a masterclass in acting. Rao's transitions however, from an ambitious cop dealing with an unusual crisis and opportunity, to his internalized hopelessness due to his social station, can sometimes be jarring. It's a pity, given how he's usually on top of his game.

There's nothing new in Bheed. After the credits start rolling, you will feel you've been looking at an old black and white photograph from a long time ago. It feels familiar, yet distant. Disconcerting, but not surprising. In an age where we have convinced ourselves that the story of India is a brightly colored kaleidoscope centered around bustling metropolitan cities, this photograph is a grim reminder of the past that still lives on for the vast majority as a present to contend with. It bears taking another look. 

The Winter Soldier

"I thought the punishment usually came after the crime."
"We can't afford to wait that long."

"Who's We?"

Great question isn't it? Who IS We? Who decided that pre-emptive strikes would overturn due process? When did this happen? Who is a threat, and to whom?

These are the questions Captain America, and it's titular hero, throw around with increasing disbelief. In hindsight, how could he not. A walking anachronism from an era where millions died gruesome deaths to defeat the forces of authoritarianism, the Captain feels disconnected from the current state of social apathy towards freedom. If Steven Rogers is the embodiment of old American values, his juxtaposition with the mutilated military-industrial-complex draws a sharp and uncomfortable contrast for the viewers. How has this evil survived, even grown, while the rest of us bury our concerns deep like human ostriches? If this was Star Wars, Yoda would probably say, "The dark side clouds everything. To see the future, difficult it is". 

We live in a world where the volume, variety and velocity of user data being generated is so large that we've had to coin a new word for it - Big Data. From marketeers to intelligence analysts, everyone is trying to predict future behavior. Without giving too much away, this forms an important theme around which the entire Marvel Universe turns on it's head. While i was watching the events unfold, i was reminded of the underrated Minority Report. PreCrime and PreventivePunishment. Of course instead of precognitive beings, we now have data and predictive engines. When all is said and done, do we truly trust absolute power to decide between patriotism and terrorism? The future of drones and government tagged terrorists isn't as far off as somnolent citizens might believe, and the Winter Soldier makes that point eloquently, and urgently.  

Since this is a Captain America venture, the movie itself doesn't get bogged down in a downward spiral of cynical nihilism. The Captain and his physics-defying shield smash through walls and windows and villains in a frenetic fashion.  Which is not to say that his path is clear, or even safe. There is a foreboding sense of peril every time the Winter Soldier manifests like a familiar apparition. The fighting is kinetic and meticulously choreographed. Blink, and you'll miss Natasha Romanov shoot a window first, before crashing through it trying to escape a grenade. This is a fun, intelligent action movie that will stay with you for a while, if you let it. The dialogues carry timely meaning, if you impart them the value they deserve. 

Most people will come out of the experience thrilled and optimistic about the future of the quintessential American hero, and in some way, about America itself. If a fight for the soul of the nation needs to be fought, then so be it. Heroes shall win. I myself came out wondering. There was a mandatory superhero exposition towards the end, where Capn America tells his fellow Americans that the price of freedom is high. And he is willing to pay it, even if he's the only one. But he's willing to bet he's not.

I wonder about that. I'd be willing to bet he is. 

Watch Milkha Run

A cursory look over Milkha's life produces copious material for a rollicking celluloid production. Surprising it took Bollywood so long to catch on. Based on Milkha Singh's biography, Bhaag Milkha Bhaag chronicles the life and times of a legendary athelete, whose life and times seem so typically Indian through the eyes of ROM(the director), that it makes you wonder just how much we take our history and identity for granted.

Lets see here:

1. See ur family get murdered in front of your eyes, like Batman - check

2. Run away on your own and nearly become a criminal, like Batman - check

3. Use your determination to turn from underdog to unlikely hero, like Batman - check

4. Dogged by trauma from childhood, like Batman - check

5. Sacrifice love for duty, like Batman - check

In short, Milkha's story is made for the big screen. And i really liked it. Yes, it was 3 songs too long, but i've never seen slomo put to such good use in an Indian fillum. I like biopics, and i think this one ranks among the top few in Indian cinema. If it suffers, its only because the 'song and dance' routine makes it feel like fictional formula, which its anything but. I think this is where ROM falters. But his reverence for the man and his past shows, and is infectious enough.

And let us enthusiastically welcome Farhaan Akhtar into a small coterie of actors, made up of the likes of Saif Ali Khan and Abhay Deol. Actors who display such fierce commitment and talent, that it rockets them into rarefied air, where their voice sounds really funny. This is a breakout role for the man, and he swallows Milkha's identity whole, both physically and mentally. From his beady eyed grin to his peculiar gait, everything screams a flying Sikh. I dont know how close Akhtar's art was able to imitate Milkha's life, but if i had to imagine a rustic flying Sikh, who ironically is quite terrified of flying, Akhtar's potrayal would be it.

For the last two decades, every 9 years or so, cine goers have had to put aside their rom-coms, cancel their dates with million dollar explosions, avoid the summer superheroes that promise to save the day, and clear the calendar for a very special occasion. A walk with Jesse and Celine.

Whats so special about this walk, the uninitiated might ask. I dont know. Whats special about a long walk with old friends you havent seen in a while?

We still remember our first walk together, a magical night among the lamp lit streets of historic Vienna. The free abandon of youth, the electric silences, the pressing conversations, a race against time. It was a beautiful ephemeral night, sadly to end. We met again, as they met again, 9 years later, this time in sunny Paris. Along the banks of the Seine, we exchanged glances and regrets. A faint promise of what could have been, and in the end, a hope of what would be. It was a good day for a walk in Paris.

It has been 9 years since. And its time to check up on Celine and Jesse. We had busied ourselves, sometimes fondly remembering our romantic friends, and then getting back to the rigors of life. As we catch up with the fiery couple on the rested islands of Greece, we find that they have been busy too. They are now a family. With everything that entails. As we saunter across rocky trails, it begins to dawn that there is trouble in paradise. Not the kind of trouble that would accompany the almost fictional moorings of their unusual story. But of the kind we ourselves know intimately. Suddenly, the walk isnt what it used to be. Suddenly, you dont want to know how they're doing anymore. The more they talk, the more you want them to stop. You know where they're headed. You've been there before. Almost everybody who claims to love has.

In the real world, love has a tendency to mutate, and clearly it has done so here. They are having trouble recognizing it, amid all the "bull****". Our friends are not the fallible, yet fictional, characters of intrigue any more. They are fallible and real, like you or me. And it is with a sinking feeling, like a car heading towards a cliff, that you watch them accelerate with a sickening familiarity. You want to warn them, but they cannot hear you over the din. You're not even sure what you would say. They are at the edge of the cliff, ready to keel over, when the magical thing happens. The magical thing of love in the real world. Someone gives an inch, someone takes that inch and pulls them back, and the love that was lost and mutated is found again, breathes again, and saves them both.

Phew. They know what to do. And thanks to the walk, for a while, now we do too.

Take Shelter

Something wicked, this way comes

The ancient Greeks would love Curtis LaRouche. He is the quintessential great man with the one tragic flaw. Unfortunately for Curtis, he inhabits a contemporary mid-western American town, where his paranoia and misgivings are not a tragedy but a potential prophecy/lunacy.

Curtis is an ideal protagonist. He is a loving husband and a compassionate father. A good friend and a smart worker, an upright pillar of the community. And yet, something sinister is stirring under the idyllic of the american dream. Or at least Curtis believes so. Bedevilled by dreams and hallucinations of impending doom that he cant shake off, Curtis is driven towards building a storm shelter for his family. He is using his very limited resources towards an enterprise that nobody, including his wife, thinks makes any sense.

Its difficult to surmise whether the film works as a metaphor, or is simply a study on human reactions to stressful situations. But the dread of the unknown works very well, as a statement of our times. Curtis feels a cataclysm coming, one that nobody is prepared for. He feels it in his bones. Showers of oil inhabit his dreams. He stands transfixed by the dance of starling murmurations. Thunderclaps and lightning are always lurking in his increasingly fragile mind.

Is his state of mind a muddy reflection of our own in these very trying times? I think so. The world has become unpredictable. Natural and financial catastrophes have blindsided us so often that most of us feel unprepared for whats to come, no matter our station. Like Curtis, we too have begun to question the nature of our alliances. We may not feel compelled to address it, but the film gives voice to an ineluctable sense of doom that pervades the air these days. As Curtis spends his time cleaning and mending the storm shelter, one wonders if the JFK generation felt a similar chill of uncertainty during the Cuban Missle Crisis? Will we survive the way they did? Or was the shelter locked down only to be opened again, this time for good?

Michael Shannon churns out another tortured performance as Curtis. The movie is often slow, but his natural brilliance along with the beautiful and very talented Jessica Chastain(Tree of Life) keep you riveted nonetheless. Something about Chastain's earthy eyes can lift even the darkest gloom. And we thank her for it.

Curtis thinks a storm is coming, the likes of which we have never seen. His friends and family think he's gone off the bend. They're probably right. But if they're not, one thing is certain. No one is prepared.

The Tree of Life

What is our faith based on, when the roar of a waterfall can drown our prayers for help? What do our questions matter, when entire galaxies are being created and crushed on an incomprehensible scale all around us? What is the value to our pain, the depth of our loss, the tragedy of our mistakes, when our lives are but a cosmic blink. Mallick wonders about these, much like his characters, who speak more through silence and reflection than through dialogue. A son has died, a brother has been lost, and human questions rise like smoke in whispers, trying hard to be heard, searching for sense through the cold magnificence of nature. The mother who wants to fly with grace and love, finds herself bound to the ground heavy with grief. The father who respects nature as much as he fears it, only occasional sorrow breaking the stony facade to reveal a sliver of grace. The brother, who mourns the early loss of innocence, and carries it through his life, meanders a lonesome landscape looking for the same answers to the meaning of life and death as we all do.

What is profound about Mallick's evocative labor of love is how he tries to put the miseries and triumphs of the human experience in context to our place in the Universe, without making them seem insignificant. You are awed by the spectacle of the birth and evolution of cosmos, and our solar neighborhood, even the little rock we call home. And yet, it doesnt eviscerate the dull pain you experience for the family. You ask the same questions, in the same hushed tones, with the quiet frustrating knowledge that no answers are forthcoming.

'The Tree of Life' is not flawless by a long shot. The vagueness of art is more suited to music than to movies, given to seemingly irrelevant stretches. But that is also what makes it an experience of note unlike any other. It seemed like a worded rendition of Koyaanisqatsi. Some will love it, others will walk out on it, both will not completely comprehend it. That in itself is worth the price of admission.

The Secret in their Eyes

This is a wonderful lazy-weekend fare. TSITE is neither your joyous romantic comedy, nor your assault-the-senses action flick. Its an Argentinian piece of art that makes you wish you intimately understood their language and were familiar with their mannerisms, even if only for a couple of hours. It tastes like old wine, with a flavor that is distinctly cultural and a flow that is effortless as it weaves between love hate and horror. Im afraid speaking too broadly of the plot might give too much away. So i'll restrict myself to what i liked about this movie.

To start with, it feels terribly old school, but in a good way. There is direction here that is comfortable, yet unpredictable. It never gets in the way of the characters or the story, and the director's steady hand keeps it from becoming a hyperbolic Hollywood disaster. The characters are everything here. Their eyes speak volumes, as they should given the title. Your cinematic conditioning expects them to react differently than they do. It is only later you realize that you would probably react the same way. Although this is a thriller of high order and electric tension, it is Campanella's tender questioning of the meaning of love and its consequences, that shines as well as frightens through this beautifully executed film.

Great movies not only entertain, but stay with you, like the aftertaste of that great wine you just had. This one will have you smacking your lips for days to come.

Spartacus: Guts, Glory and Boobies

Rome. The word conjures images of armored soldiers in red tunics, prime politicians under flowing togas, and a suppressed proletariat living on scraps. A city that rose from a predominantly warrior class to the first Pan-European Empire. Birthplace of the conceptual republic and home to the most brutal dictators to ever rule the world. But one image lends itself to the idea of Rome more than others. The image of the Colosseum brimming with hordes of ecstatic Romans, screaming for blood.

Nothing epitomizes the Roman lust for action more than their reverence and hatred of the Gladiators. Picked up as slaves from defeated colonies, all Gladiators were reviled uniformly. They had to earn their respect, and seldom their freedom, by walking over the butchered bodies of the fallen in the arena. The only way out of the hell of slavery and certain death was to elevate yourself to the status of God, by satiating the blood-thirsty crowds.

'Spartacus: Blood and Sand/Gods of the arena' is about these Gods amongst men. The series is based loosely on the story of Spartacus, a gladiator whose battles against the Roman Legions sent tremors through the very corridors of power in Rome and reverberated across the vast Republic. It chronicles the beginnings of the servile revolt, and does it with such panache and color that you begin to wonder if such a society ever existed. For the Rome depicted is exotic and extreme. It is a society so overflowing with life that nothing seems strange after a while. Absent any organized religion, the pagan Romans are decadent only in their actions, not in their culture. While sex and nudity seem no stranger than eating or walking in this pre-Christian era, the politics and treachery remind us that lust for power is not endemic to regions or cultures but innate to individuals.

The story centers around the ludus (training school for gladiators) of one Lentulus Batiatus. The House of Batiatus has been in decline, the former champions of the arena a distant dusty memory on the undecorated walls of the mansion. While the scheming Batiatus and his equally venal yet voluptuous wife oversee the training grounds from a safe height, the souls and stories of the slaves training to become worthy gladiators forms the real heart of this series. While the halls above reek with depraved machinations, hard won honor is often found in the grime of the ludus below. It is in the ludus that Spartacus gets molded into the legend he will be one day. And it is an epic journey to be on with him.

This is a first rate action series with some brilliant plots and characters and wonderful creative direction, no doubt taking cues from worthy predecessors like HBO's Rome and Snyder's '300'. I would definitely recommend watching 'Blood and Sand' before 'Gods of the Arena'. Once you move past the weak first episode, the rest quickly becomes a delicious ride into a time and space that once was, and perhaps will be again some day.

And oh, dont let the nudity distract you. After a while, you'll wonder why you thought it was odd in the first place. Have fun in the arena.

Network

Best.Movie.Ever.

Thats why nobody remembers it. You'll not see it featured on any premier cable channel. Nobody will reminisce about Chayefsky's devastating screenplay or Finch's self-incriminating powerhouse performance, except to maybe compare it with Ledger's Joker for the haunting madness of their roles that landed them posthumous Oscars. Its a forgotten gem, truth fortified in stone and dropped into the lake of celluloid obscurity. Perhaps its just as well, for its characters often threaten an unwelcome dislocation into real life. In the iconic scene, where Finch's Beale goes mad as a hatter on live television, you see him walk slowly and deliberately off the stage, like a stalking Velociraptor, sending his crew scurrying for cover. The entire film moves that way, sometimes walking right into your living room, trying to shake you out of your stupor.

I am afraid of this movie. I am afraid to review it, ink my thoughts on it. I am afraid i might find the language of television emerge through the heart of what i have to say. I am afraid i cannot think about it, or anything else for that matter, without donning the mask of some on-screen character first. I am afraid we are all mad. Not as hell. Simply mad. Lost and hypnotized. Having the script of our lives read out to us. Terrified by our own thoughts, always seeking validation from the alternative reality only a remote click away. I am afraid Mr. Beale, were he alive, would address me thus:

"We deal in *illusions*, man! None of it is true! But you people sit there, day after day, night after night, all ages, colors, creeds... We're all you know. You're beginning to believe the illusions we're spinning here. You're beginning to think that the tube is reality, and that your own lives are unreal. You do whatever the tube tells you! You dress like the tube, you eat like the tube, you raise your children like the tube, you even *think* like the tube! This is mass madness, you maniacs! In God's name, you people are the real thing! *WE* are the illusion!"

~ Howard Beale, the mad prophet denouncing the hyporcrisies of our time.

Dear Zachary

'Is there anything you would like to say to Zachary?'

How do i review this?

Let me start by saying that this is not a movie. Its not even a documentary. Its a memoir and a letter. Its an attempt to capture the fading memories of a dead friend, a beloved son, a respected colleague, a flesh and blood human being whose violent death has created an emotional vacuum that should normally have been filled with rushing anger and bitterness, even a lasting hatred.

What you see instead is something incredible. You see a clear line being drawn in the sand; between good and evil in our world. You see circumstances shatter and shake all beams of reality, and then you see different people fill in those vacuums differently. While some expand into luminous beacons of humanity, others grow hollower by the day, until they are consumed by the echoes of their own vacant words.

I will fail miserably to review this, so i will not even try anymore. One can review a film, because it is reviewing the structure and execution of a perspective. One cannot review life, for it will always astonish you with its vastness, with the richness and depth of its color, and the black abyss of its madness. I wish there was a tangible takeaway from this viewing. A deeper understanding of why anything happens at all. But in the end, there's only what you have experienced. There's only what you have seen.

Go watch it. Thats all i can say.

Netflix Movie of the Week: 12/3/10

Crimes and Misdemeanors by Woody Allen

Only half of 'Crimes and Misdemeanors' plays out the way it sounds or vaguely promises. You walk into it hoping for scoundrels and damsels. You expect capers and glib social innuendos. Perhaps even a clever bank heist, Woody Allen style, dripping with wry humor and scheming cons.

Well, no, this is not one of those movies.

CnM in fact is an uneasy alliance between two parallel story arcs, that meet only once, not as a plot device, but as an exclamation point of resounding volume. Its a disturbing confluence of criminal tragedy and romantic comedy. The stressful drama unfolds in the life of a successful opthamologist (Martin Landau) whose mistress of the past few years (Anjelica Huston) has had enough of sitting on the sidelines. She does not want to share Landau anymore, and is willing to go to any extreme to achieve that goal. The oddly endearing comic relief is provided by Allen himself, a middle aged documentary maker who yearns for the affection of a kindred spirit and fellow artist (Mia Farrow), while getting increasingly distant from his uninterested and disappointed wife.

The genius of Woody Allen's work is in portraying the every day life with such precision that the pathos of it's characters seeps into you like water in sand. As a conflicted Landau struggles to deal with the increasingly neurotic and insecure Huston, you often find yourself taking his place and dreading it. As he slowly unravels in the face of the constant threat that could utterly destroy his life, his family, his career, you find yourself admonishing him under your breath for his indiscretions and infidelity, at the same time thanking the Universe for not placing you in his cursed shoes.

While we watch Landau's fall from grace with increasing discomfort, Allen's own dilemmas leave you wishing for a happy ending for the despondent filmmaker. Not only does his wife have no love or respect for his non-commercial work, he finds himself constantly pit against his arch-nemesis, the wildly successful brother-in-law (the great Alan Alda). Allen's Cliff sticks to his principles and integrity inspite of being constantly upended in love and glory by the maverick Alda. You root for him till the very end, even as he sits confused and defeated, unable to find a single ray of light to brighten his derailed life. Of course, how Landau's guilt ridden opthamologist fits into this end is what Woody Allen and the film is all about. As expected, Allen leaves you with more questions than answers, with a faint hope that the truth lies somewhere between the crimes and misdemeanors of human existence. Nobody portrays the irrationality of life in cinema, without being cinematic, better than Woody Allen. And here, he's at the top of his game.

The idea of an idea

If you wake from a dream only to find yourself in another dream, the idea of an elusive reality can take hold and propagate like a virus, never giving up. An idea, that most resilient of all parasites, that can give purpose to existence, or tear it to pieces.

Thats the central premise behind Nolan's latest mind-bender, 'Inception'. It becomes fairly obvious from the start that one needs to grab a thread and hold it tight lest you lose yourself in a maze of dreams. As a cinematic production, the film is layered with genres across the board. It operates on some levels as a thriller, on others as a romantic drama, and some ingenious action sequences quite rightly push it well into the action category as well. But to qualify this feature into genres would be a mistake. For while the movie revolves around a curious plot involving corporate espionage, it reveals a surprisingly Freudian affection towards the various dream states and their influence on our subconscious. One would be forgiven to call it a thrilling study on the possibilities of dreams and the movement of ideas, to and from these dreams, into the human subconscious.

DiCaprio brings an understated tenderness to his character, which is why i suspect Nolan picked him over the equally talented and oft-used Bale. Gordon-Levitt leads a strong supporting cast, along with the ever-cute Ellen Page. Cotillard deserves a special mention for the haunting presence of a captivating wraith, dwelling inside Caprio's mind as a promised escape as well as a vengeful curse. What's most impressive is how deeply the cast believes in the world of dreams they inhabit. DiCaprio's expression on Page's especially inspired physics-bending trick in Paris is priceless. Even the old hat at dreams confesses himself impressed.

This movie is a must-see, not for it's 'entertainment' value, but for the sake of an exhilarating new experience, quite like the ones we find in an alternative 'reality' buried too deep to be recalled later.

This Is It

I came out of the theater dancing. I came out wanting to celebrate life. I came out inspired. And it's only been four months.
Directed by Kenny Ortega, 'This Is It' takes an unabashed look at the last few months of Michael Jackson's turbulent life. Thankfully for us, and Michael, those last moments were spent doing what he loved to do. Entertain. The sets are vast, the creativity of his team unbridled, the magic of the man still sizzling on stage. Ortega takes us on a journey showcasing not only MJ's passion for his craft, but also his vision of what was to be his final 'curtain call'. What emerges is a man not willing to settle for the ordinary, to compromise on the mediocre. You see Michael quietly take command of this gigantic ship with an authority and calm that would put the best MBAs to shame. He is an uncompromising task-master. Asking softly for reruns 'one more time'.
Even as his perfectionist self demands the best from those around him, he is quick to remind them of why they do what they do. 'All for the love - l-o-v-e. God bless you all.' His sharp cool mind keeps tabs on everything happening around him, even as he loses himself to his art.
I often found myself wanting to reach the person behind the glasses. To understand the driver behind his life, the demons and pain he would undoubtedly carry around. And yet i couldnt hold on to that thought for more than a few moments. For the truth is Michael was real only when he was on stage. And never has that come across more clearly than it did with 'This Is It'. He comes alive in a way few people do. At 50, he seems just begining to take off. With a voice as moving as it was 30 years ago(watch him croon to 'Human Nature'), a verve that runs through his body when he dances, he simply awes the people around him, no strangers to performers themselves. An undeniable presence, that believes with every breath he takes that this is what he was meant to do. And what he was doing was important. Because he was doing it for us. Nobody else. The fans. He would not compromise. He would not be lenient, even with himself and his failing health. For that one last spectacular show. To 'show us a time we had not seen before'.
An inspiration. A man as men were meant to be. Alive.

Capitalism

I'm not entirely sure what an appropriate approach for this review is. And i think that is symptomatic of another Michael Moore production. Once you leave the theater, you're never quite sure what it is that you've witnessed, what the necessary import should be. You're only aware of having been swept away in a wave of reactionary emotion.
'Propaganda is a very strong weapon. I'm always amazed by what propaganda can do', opines an elderly statesman clearly in awe of the State's propaganda machine. Ironically, Moore doesnt seem too reticent in crunching the machine himself. He weaves in and out of political and economic terminologies without as much as a pause, never once clarifying what he means by them. Words like Capitalism, Socialism, Democracy, Corporatism are thrown around in good measure, without a clear ideological thread that binds them or a vision that differentiates between them. Moore uses dramatic footage to prove the evils of Capitalism, but one is never quite sure what he means. He presents unethical company practices and uses them to discredit the 'profit motive' principle. What one has to do with the other, Moore doesnt delve into. He uses priests and bishops to pontificate over how Jesus would not deal in derivatives. He provides endless examples of how the govt-corporate nexus is eating through the core of american value and economic system, and yet ends up promoting further govt intervention.
To Moore's credit, he has a compelling collection of heart-wrenching and anger-inducing portions that eventually work towards getting a rise out of the viewer. But it's painfully obvious that his latest work of fiction is not thought provoking, but simply provoking. He ends the unrelated string of sob stories by insisting on a people's revolution. Whether he prefers a systemic change from within, or simply an off-with-the-head French revolution template, one does not know. What is clear however, is that there is a paradigm shift taking place in this country, where a citizen can create a raw unapologetic piece of propaganda promulgating socialism and receive rave reviews and a thunderous reception from the every day american. This is a far cry from the America of McCarthy, another extremist who attacked american principles from the other side. These are dangerous times, dangerous times indeed. I wonder if historians, decades from now, will consider Moore's Capitalism the first shot across the bow.
'Democracy instead of Capitalism', he exclaims in the end. Moore does not know what he means. Neither did the people in the theater cheering him. And i am sufficiently concerned.

PS: As an aside, one would like to thank Moore for revealing a new hero. Marcy Kaptur kicks ass.

Låt den rätte komma in (Let The Right One In)

Låt den rätte komma in or { let the right one in} is less horror and more of a sweet film potraying a relationship between a normal useless boy and a vampire kid...yeah!! you heard that right a vampire..both of them are of twelve..The film is all about this coward kid who gets a timely teasing fron his classmates learns how to stand and come out of his mess when this little vampire girl comes to his town...The part of vampire played by the little girl is really worth seeing..and you may get attracted to her eyes all of a sudden...The film has an excellent plot,goes by the time,and you might not get bored.The director did make sure that the vampire tradition is shown.I mean they cant get out in sunlight,gets crazy with blood,stuffs like that..The overall film revolves around the friendship and love between this two totally different kid with shots of bloods,headless bodies and some creepy scenes..In the end we have this so called happy ending..well thats all..Last and ofcorse not the least.when i was finished with the movie i had only one word in my mind....STRANGE..
HAPPY WATCHING.

Revolutionary Road

Sam Mendes is a man on a mission. He intends to seek and capture beauty everywhere. Even in the most melancholy situations, in stories that drip despair, Mendes contends that the beauty lies simply in the fact that the situations exist. American Beauty was a masterpiece. But it was also obvious. The ending of the movie, where the fleeting protagonist offers universal redemption, lifts the pall of gloom that desperately needs lifting and concludes that all of human activity is nothing but a series of beautiful actions, irrespective of the emotion attached to it.

There is no such reprieve in Revolutionary Road. The director provides no escape route from the brutal mental hammering that the movie is bound to inflict. There is no benevolent voice of hope that promises answers or eventual peace. In RR, Mendes revisits american suburbia of the 50's, an especially conservative and domestically trying time for the american people. diCaprio and Winslet are a married couple who move to a suburb in hopes of reigniting their rapidly failing marriage. Caprio is stuck in a job he has no love for, while Winslet, a failed actress, finds her dreams of living an exciting life slowly slip by as she spends her days tending to her home and children. The future looks bleak till Winslet suggests that they take life into their own hands, and move to Paris, as Caprio had always dreamt of. There is an especially touching scene, where Winslet tries to convince her hesitant husband why she has any faith in his ability to live life beyond the ordinary. 'Dont you know?', she says holding him close, 'its because you're the most beautiful thing in the world. You are a Man.'

What happens next forms the remainder of the movie, swaying from periods of joy and hope to despair and tragedy. It is the above scene between the husband and wife however, that sums up the movie for me. While Winslet believes that they are meant to be something 'special', Caprio himself has no such illusions and only flirts with the idea. It is this conflict, between what could be, and what is, that threatens to destroy not only their marriage, but the fabric of their existence. It is barely ironic that the only person who calls them out on their silent pretense of a marriage is a social pariah and an implied lunatic(a brilliant Michael Shannon). What gives the viewer the shivers is how easy it is to relate to either of the characters. You WILL relate to one of them. A few will to both. And thats the genius of what Mendes has achieved here. In this relentlessly repressing story, he manages to effuse a sense of beauty simply by tearing the curtain away and presenting you with the truth. And the truth, no matter how dark, no matter how tragic, is always this. Its always beautiful.

X-Men Origins: Wolverine

My earliest memory of Wolverine is a tattered dusty comic book i found at my cousin's place years ago. His room had always been a veritable treasure chest from the perspective of a teenager. As i settled into a corner, the comic began (as Wolverine story arcs tend to do) with Wolvie pissed drunk in a bar, quite unaware of the impending danger headed his way. A group of villians, previously torn to ribbons by his admantium claws on some occasion or the other, have joined forces with the intention to de-fang him forever. As they approach the bar, armed to the teeth and well-prepared, a terrific battle rages with Wolverine finally taken prisoner after inflicting much damage. So strong is the thematic violence, that not only do they mercilessly restrain him, they decide to crucify him. So as per plan, Wolverine is shown carefully nailed to the cross, through places not reinforced with the cursed metal. He is raised on a cross, bleeding profusely in the middle of nowhere, left for dead. The loss of blood and scavengers are assumed to finish the job. Close to death, Wolverine turns to what he fears the most, his animal rage. With screams to chill the bone, he begins to pull the nails out by sheer force of will. By the time he pulls himself off the wooden cross, he is a spent force, almost insane with pain and fury.
As i sat watching 'Origins', i couldnt help but replay those feelings of raw animalistic ferocity i had imputed to Wolverine as a young reader, and how those same attributes were now glossed over by this formulaic Hollywood junk, ever so eager to please the average movie-goers baser instincts. I cringed every time Stryker asks Logan to become the 'animal', the latter growling as if doing a Garfield imitation in response. In all fairness, Hugh Jackman does try. But what's clear from the outset is this: they just dont get it. With a healing power making him almost immortal, but not inhuman, Wolverine is perhaps the most exciting of all Marvel characters. Having endured centuries of pain, loneliness, hatred, love and loss, the comic books treat his backstory with a reverence reserved only for Kal El and Bruce Wayne. And yet, all the production houses can offer us in terms of character development is nightmares and screams. What a waste.
Mercifully Schreiber plays Sabretooth with enough menace to give his character some 'teeth'. Spoiler: Reynolds isnt half bad as Deadpool, though i cant imagine why they had him decapitated towards the end. The movie seemed like an extended trailer for future spinoffs, and Deadpool should most definitely get a larger share of that pie.
Overall, the movie doesnt suck. But comic book fans will be disappointed. What could have been another Dark Knight was duly turned into a Spawn because the makers didnt care enough for the character we have come to know and love.