Oscars Special- Darkest Hour: Daredevilry Dumbed Down

'There is a battle outside and it's raging, it'll soon shake your windows and rattle your holes for the times they are a-changing'

Bob Dylan's immortal lines, so prescient in the peak of the Vietnam War, would be still astute about two decades before it was written. 

The war in Europe had just begun, many a European nation was surrendering to the relentless tyranny of Herr Hitler and it was, eventually, up to a small island nation, and an Empire on its last legs, to scrape the barrel for every reserve of defiance against the tide of destruction about to sweep them across the Channel. 

The fact that they succeeded at that, even with much ruin and loss of life, would itself be a wonder had not enough been said about the portly, porcine-looking cigar-smoking political bigwig who, reportedly, led Britain through the mostly dire wartime days on a rousing surge of willpower and optimism. 

Joe Wright's latest film is about that man, one Winston Churchill, the Prime Minister both famous and notorious for his steely determination and his unbridled racism respectively, and how he, facing all odds stacked against him and his country's chances at victory, rose heroically, if adroitly, to the challenge of garnering enough support for the renewed war effort. 

It makes for a terrific and even timely premise; in an age when most our political leaders are content only to side-step and compromise on issues, it would be heartening to see someone as shrewd as the wizened British Premier rallying around his people at a crucial juncture. And 'Darkest Hour' starts with crackling, almost electric promise. The House Of Commons erupts in unanimous dissent when Neville Chamberlain is deemed unfit for the demanding role that his recent fiasco compels. The seething and sinister looking Viscount Halifax seems like a worthy replacement but the party will only agree on the most unlikely and infamous candidate. 

And as we are introduced to Churchill, a cantankerous man who is inscrutably slippery over dictating his messages and whose image is tarnished by his blunt views, the film intends, refreshingly enough, to posit him as every bit the outcaste in a political circuits domineered by soft-spoken elitists. 'A drunkard at the wheel', opines one bystander while another shrugs at him being full of 'too many ideas' at the same time and Christopher McCarten's script lingers on both these facets even as the film is focused primarily with painting an overwhelmingly larger-than-life portrait of its subject. 

That portrait looks often mesmerising, as it should be in any slice of biopic meat. Bruno Delbonnel's cinematography is assuredly magnificent throughout the film (more of that later) but it shines the best when throwing its spotlight, either through sepia-tinted shadows or by the stream of daylight in the underlit House Of Commons determinedly on Churchill, endowing us with an intimacy, at least skin-deep, to see that familiar swarthy yet almost baby-like face writhing, quivering, grimacing and even grinning devilishly in turns. Gary Oldman, with invaluable help from the brilliant makeup artists, appears transformed into a devilish doppelgänger of the man whose face is so ubiquitous in those propaganda posters; as a matter of fact, he appears, with those menacing eyes, more ghoulish than the usually wry and affable essence that those pictures reek of. Just how much of this portrait is effective in conveying the confounding layers to this controversial man is something more debatable. 

As it happens, those little nuanced bits and the explicitly visual replication of Churchill are all that we get. Wright's direction, and McCarten's narrative, is alas a lot more one-dimensional in their approach than expected, sticking safely to only the wrangling of political support behind the scenes of miraculous coup of the evacuation from Dunkirk rather than digging out the more troubling, complex truths, not only about the inscrutable and even insufferable man but also the political attitude of Britain towards the impending war knocking on its doors. 

'Darkest Hour' is hardly a typical biography then but while it is understandable that the makers wanted to ratchet up tension to make it a thriller about the leader of the nation facing difficult, even suicidal choices, the lack of palpable tension is glaring. Too much of the script is given to only dry, even drab verbal exchanges rather than the simmering backdrop of the events and ultimately, the film nails the penultimate moment of victory, with Britain finally gearing up in all vigour to fight back Hitler's invasion, as a bit too facile and easily accomplished. 

And that is a shame given how hard Wright tries to infuse it with enough stirring drama, at least when it comes to the utterly immersive, even jaw-dropping scale in which he mounts these predictable proceedings. As said before, the visuals and settings are truly absorbing and dramatic, from the fluid stylistic long-takes that tug the viewers inside the twilit War Cabinet Rooms to those sweeping overhead shots that zoom out to lend the menacing view of a Luftwaffe bomber up in the skies right down to the niftiest details like nail-polished fingers pecking at typewriter keys or the shuffling of spectators seated in the House Of Commons. The interiors of the royal palace look lavish while those lamp-lit Underground stations feel atmospheric in their grit and grime. It is a film of staggering craft desperately in need of an equally incisive and probing story.

The acting ensemble, on the other hand, is pretty uniformly solid, with my fondest praise reserved for Ronald Pickup as an enigmatic Neville Chamberlain and Ben Mendelsohn as a tight-lipped George VI. Unfortunately, the ladies don't get much to do, even when played by capable actresses. The evocative Lily James, who sparkled like bubbly champagne in the rollicking 'Baby Driver', looks still striking as ever as trusty typist Elizabeth Layton but is made to sob and simper while the always reliable Kristin Scott Thomas is full of pluck as the adorable Clemmie Churchill but is never quite convincing as  the crucial character propelling her husband's path to glory. 

That leaves me to talk about Oldman's much-touted turn as Churchill. Granted, the actor's uncanny ability for sinking deeply beneath the flesh and blood of his many roles, both heroic and unsavoury, is evident here in spades; he embraces the stifling makeup and enacts the hunched stride and mannerisms with gamely spontaneity and, in one helpless confrontation with the reluctant Franklin Roosevelt,   startling emotional pathos. But there is ultimately something underwhelming and obvious way his arc is sketched out. Given his repertoire in more sensational previous performances, especially as the cold-blooded yet vulnerable George Smiley, this is just another great act, just nothing as spectacular as being hailed. 

That is more of a problem with the film than with the performer. Eventually, the Churchill of 'Darkest Hour' comes off as a blubbering, moist-eyed leader who, after that bombastic scene with the daily Underground commuters (one that belongs ideally to a Kabir Khan film), rises to his real strengths in statecraft instead of being, already, a shrewd manipulator who was perfect for the difficult situation facing them all. More accomplished films like 'Gandhi' and 'Lincoln' portrayed their titular legends leading their nations to revolution and redemption with a blend of adroit smarts and strength of will; this film asks us instead to have, to quote the best song by the Rolling Stones, 'some sympathy' for a man who was always a cunning and intelligent daredevil. 

My Rating: 3 Stars Out Of 5

Padmaavat- Poetry Served As Plodding Pulp

Sanjay Leela Bhansali knows the meaning of the word 'epic'. 

It might feel ironical that one of Bollywood's most unashamedly bombastic filmmakers would be the artist of choice when it would come to make truly larger-than-life cinema. Yet, that is what it is in 'Padmaavat', a film in which the director guns, right from scene one, for nothing less than just overwhelming us with sheer, jaw-dropping scale. 

Cinematographer Sudeep Chatterjee seems to be enjoying himself to the hilt with the humungous scale of material that Bhansali presents him to and it would not be far-fetched to comment that 'Padmaavat' is an astonishingly well-shot film, bringing unexpected texture and perspective when most mammoth productions of this budget and breadth could have only blown it beyond proportion. There are fascinating, frequently awe-inspiring overhead shots that soar literally above the more dramatic and grandstanding moments and yet Chatterjee is equally keen on capturing nuance and movement, from the crescents on flags borne among the marching troops to the swirling red skirts to warriors bending down their heads in silent namaaz to lend a surprising amount of urgency to even the most staid plot proceedings. 

There is the beautiful Padmavati, born and raised as a literal jungle princess in Sri Lanka, who pierces literally  both her arrow and her beautiful gaze into a king’s heart and is crowned as queen of his empire. There is the said king, Raja Ratansingh, a slightly flawed poster boy for ideals and honor and finally, there is the arch villain of the piece, the repulsive and rambunctious Alauddin Khilji who loves everything ‘nayab’ and would do anything, even be unfaithful and murderous, in his pursuit of the same. 

There is mendacious menace on one side and even insidious treachery inside the Rajput court. But for all the film’s 165-minute running time, Bhansali is more content to hurtle through these developments in the buildup and reach the boiling point without much delay, pausing at the meat of the plot itself and this is where the problems begin to emerge.

Khilji, spurred on by a traitor who, in a nod to the brilliant ‘Parinda’, plays the flute a lot, declares war on Chittor in the hope of stealing away the beautiful queen for his evil designs but is countered by the defiant Rajputs who do everything to keep him at bay. It is a crackling moment, seeing the two kings, the aggressor and the defender, outsmarting each other over a meal and a game of chess but the steam runs out soon once Bhansali and co-writer Prakash Kapadia swing the film into the second half. 

For all its massive scope and ambitions, the film could have been a lot more crisp and tight. Even the bulkiest of epics need economy or at least a taut purpose to all their flourishes; here, the director struggles to keep the pace going and when he runs out of ideas, his only resort is to throw in scheming side-players. But while it is fine to add sub-plots and even intriguing characters in any court drama, at least make them worthwhile. Instead, what this film has peripheral and disposable sneak-thieves that are only there to have themselves killed or decapitated. And this happens fairly frequently, you know. 

Speaking of decapitations, it is also worrying just how callously Padmavati, the original heroine and martyr of the ballad, gets short-changed in the deal. The narrative introduces her with enough aplomb, especially the way she can both hunt and answer tough questions unblinkingly. But after that, apart from some spirited monologues and that inevitable climax (which, in hindsight, underlines the main problem with this film but more of that later), she is given precious little to do, apart from swirling around in dance and staring, with eyes alternately mesmerised and moist, at her king. Deepika Padukone’s performance is exquisite, to say the least; the intelligence and enigma that burn in her beautiful eyes are enough to suggest the strength that the film never quite portrays but she is somewhat let down by the inconsistent, not to mention indignant, treatment that Bhansali has to offer. 

It is to do, perhaps less with the script’s inherent pratfalls, and more with the film’s curious, if guiltily entertaining, decision of giving away the lion’s share of the limelight to Khilji himself. Raw, ribald and ruthless, he is also portrayed as something of a perverse poet in the garb of an invader especially how he justifies his amoral deeds and his full-blooded lust with lines that give him more incidental empathy than nailing his villainy as utterly believable. There is also precious little of the infamous invader’s much-touted penchant for strategic attack and subterfuge, except for a stray reference to him thwarting supplies of food to the castle and even that is never lingered on and its consequences are never explored. 

There is, however, a lot of unbridled energy and spontaneity on display as Ranveer Singh plays Khilji with the kind of furious vigour and enthusiasm that marks even his weakest roles as an actor. Wild-eyed, loose-haired and bearded like a sexed-up Khal Drogo, he looks striking in the part and swaggers, as he best can, through the frames, assured of his natural flammability to set the stage on fire. And that he does, from writhing with desperate yearning to sizing up nearly everyone, even the ones who stick with him till the end, with sadistic glee. He is quite easily the best thing in this film. And that is not a good thing.

‘Padmaavat’ makes the gross error of focusing on him when it could have given equal importance or space to the others in the film. Jim Sarbh, playing Khilji’s slimy slave-cum-competing paramour Malik, is exciting enough in his own terms but the film wastes him away only as a slave. The worst is dealt out to Shahid Kapoor’s Ratansingh; he acts well enough and delivers even the most bombastic and laughable lines with force and flair but his arc comes off eventually as half-baked and even annoyingly selfish, not to mention unforgivably sexist. 

And this is where I bring up my biggest problem with ‘Padmaavat’.

A hilarious scene from ‘Monty Python And The Holy Grail’ is one in which several villagers set out to burn a woman as a witch. The whole thing is a ridiculous sham, rendered even hopeless by how Sir Bedevere, played by a fantastic Terry Jones, eggs them to use a bewilderingly stupid method to determine the truth and this they do, with much glee. For all its entertaining ribaldry, it also, like classic Python, takes a jab at the frequent sexism and misogyny to be found in most medieval films. 

This film conforms to that norm and ends up being obsessed more with its alpha-male protagonist and antagonist than the confidence that the tale’s heroine summons. The biggest letdown of the script is that Padmavati’s defiant determination and rousing courage needed more space alongside her king’s grating insistence on honor and decorum and Khilji’s blatant objectification of every single woman in his sight, except of his long-suffering wife Mehrunisa, played with ample conviction by a stunningly sad-eyed Aditi Rao Hydari.

I am not even bringing up the lost chance for the film to bring some debate to the table. The film justifies the final act of jauhar almost blithely and unashamedly, insisting, with a touch of regressive tastelessness that what Padmavati does, including asking her husband meekly for permission for the same, is not only right but also something sacred and important. So much for being a medieval epic made in the 21^st century.

Granted, not everybody is Akira Kurosawa or Ridley Scott and Bhansali should be credited at least ensuring that ‘Padmaavat’, even when it misfires in small and big ways, never stops impressing us with sheer style. This is an undeniably good-looking film, even one with detail; the production design by Vishal Bhardwaj-regulars Amit Ray and Subrata Chakraborty is both surreal and meticulous, from a Buddha carved in stone to the majestically carved courtyard of the Rajput palace to the ragged tents of Khilji’s troops to the animal fur that shrouds his throne. It also has a few subversively clever bits, like warriors disguised as an entourage of women clad in red ghunghats and Malik wishing wistfully if he could replace Padmavati as his master’s object of affection. But it falls short of what it could have been. The director’s last film ‘Bajirao Mastani’ was by no means perfect, itself (I still cringe at those illogical battle sequences) but it had a solid plot, told very well with confident restraint and doled out enough meat given to each actor and character. This film, even by being bigger and more breathtaking, only gives us a burning pyre when it could have given us fire.

My Rating: 3 Stars Out Of 5

Oscars Special- Phantom Thread: Silken, Stunning and Stifling

There is something to be said about that stare. 

It is not, as Bowie once sung, a ‘gazeless stare’, nor it is one of pure alarm and fright; instead, the way Sir Daniel Day-Lewis stares at both fellow actors populating the silver screen and at us is both charismatic and chilling, both intriguing and insidious. Whether he is a heroic scout and a chivalrous romantic hero, a showboating grandiose villain, a ruthlessly ambitious oilman or even the finest American president ever, that stare is probably one of his most recognisable and indelible trademarks, be it gazing admiringly, unblinkingly at Madeleine Stowe or sizing up everyone around him with ravenous fury. 

In Paul Thomas Anderson’s marvellous ‘Phantom Thread’, the ace actor’s supposed swansong before retirement, that famous stare drops its guard. 

Day-Lewis is Reynolds Woodcock, a highly touted dressmaker, an effete and efficient craftsman entrusted with the task of dolling up the dames and damsels of the crème da la crème of London’s social elite. It is the 1950s, the exclusivity is still hard to shake off and routine rituals of pomp and show are observed to remind both the old-timers and the newly young that the Empire is still alive.

Does Woodcock care, though? Obsessed with the smallest detail of his craft and life, he is, for all warm familiarity with ladies who are transformed, in his studios, from women to decorated mannequins of flesh to be gaped at by spectators and snobs, nothing less than a lone, wizened wolf. He lives in seething unease with his equally frosty sister Cyril and cares little about his lovers and even less about their talents at breakfast. 

Everything is clockwork for this suave yet often inscrutable man when, all of a sudden, a visit to the countryside, feeling predestined, changes everything inside him. 

The girl who wins his fancies, for once and for all, is Alma, a sweet, if somewhat slippery, waitress at a diner where he stops for his breakfast. Anderson ratchets up the sparks with disarming deftness; Woodcock orders a breakfast of sumptuous, salivating proportions while Alma is quietly bemused and after she has noted it all down, he grabs it away, egging her to remember everything that he told. She succeeds and wins his heart and his rarest of smiles and dubs him ‘hungry boy’. Sure, they have hit it off now. 

It is at this juncture in the film when Anderson hits the only note of comfortable familiarity before pulling the rug beneath our feet. After all the initial reluctance at courtship, Woodcock and Alma are now facing each other, him besotted in his unending gaze aching with a heart-pounding silence while she counters it, remarking with much bravado that he cannot win this ‘staring game’ for long. Almost on cue, relieved of the need to put on an act, Woodcock drops his guard, by now a prey to her not-so-explicit charms. 

That is, when he is not wearing his glasses, though. Once he slips into them, the scene runs dry of all warmth and poignancy and instead of the dashing, distinguished lover, we have the devilish artist neglecting even the woman who stole his heart as he pores over her measurements indeed, while she stands in front of him and the coolly cold-blooded Cyril, confronted suddenly and almost callously with all her inner fears and insecurities.

The writer-director has dabbled in romance before, too and not only the odd yet perceptive love-hate homoeroticism that flourishes between his flawed and overarching male protagonists, but also in the ravishingly quirky ‘Punch-Drunk Love’. But this is already something else, something deeper, more twisted and even grotesque as the elaborately spun plot unfolds, laced with bitterness on the edges of that immaculate beauty. ‘Phantom Thread’ is a stunning film, silken in its grace and yet stifling and sudorific in its tension, its core of gloom beneath the rich glamour underlined pointedly by the most minute and telling of details. 

Initially, Alma cannot quite help herself but stare at everything in wonder. Reassured confidently by Cyril that she is a perfect fit, if only that Woodcock likes a ‘little belly’, she plunges willingly inside the artifice of his life only to be repulsed by what she sees. Even that is secondary, nevertheless, to the way she feels so peripheral to his demand for perfection and even decorum. Anderson, always assuredly a gifted storyteller of real punch, bursts the bubble of doe-eyed innocence early on; a scene at breakfast, made tense by the sound of a knife scraping a slice of toast with Jonny Greenwood’s melancholic, almost mesmerizing swells in the backdrop scraping at our hearts, explodes without warning into discord and the stage is set for heartbreak as Alma tries to tease out the battered, world-weary soul inside the shell of this seemingly indifferent, even slovenly man. 

Woodcock, who does not miss a single detail with his discerning eyes. Woodcock, who fusses over meals and loathes the gala parties to which his admiring patrons invite. Woodcock, who is aroused when Alma knows for sure what he needs and even shares his snarky nihilism as a partner-in-crime. Woodcock, whose first reaction on being surprised by the woman he loves is to ask for his sister’s whereabouts. The man is all these twisted, confounding and even perverse things and yet none of them because he is not quite the monster as he seems; he is just trapped in a stifling domestic space where his feelings are trivial and his only escape is his art. Anderson has built an oeuvre of lambasting and lamenting society’s resident snake-oil salesmen built on false strength and hollow confidence, from Frank T.J Mackey in ‘Magnolia’ to Lancaster Dodd in ‘The Master’. Woodcock is not even the king of his domain; he is prey to the firm and unrelenting grasp of Cyril’s hold over the household and dreams of his mother. It is like one of those brilliant romantic thrillers that Alfred Hitchcock made in the 1940s, except that the stakes feel even more deathly than ever. 

That resemblance to early Hitchcock is not a coincidence, really. Anderson's film is less about the broader brush strokes of the narrative, which become Macguffins (except one damning detail that becomes the axis on which the whole moral compass of the film swerves) and more about the little details and the finely embellished layer of subtext that thickens the stew with relish. There is enough sweltering suspense crammed amidst both conversations and silences, in stolen glances and smiles of compromise, in the way Woodcock arches his majestic brows or how Cyril, played with eerie effect by a terrific Lesley Manville, stays poised forever on the brink between indifference and affability. There is also enough perverse comedy bursting at the seams when it sniggers at the sagging flesh of mediocrity beneath those meticulous dresses but also in the juicy, almost Wilde-like dialogue that these fascinating performers sink their teeth on. Alma sums up her commitment to Woodcock as giving away 'every part' of her while the latter, in the film's finest line, remarks cuttingly but elegantly as ever that he is admiring his gallantry to eat the asparagus prepared by her. 

As always with the director, 'Phantom Thread' compliments its heady intelligence with craft that absorbs as much as it makes our jaws drop. Mark Bridges' dazzling costumes, from lacework and gowns of satin to Woodcock's checkered coats, flutter across misty interiors in the film's ethereal yet earthy frames which take the spell-bound audiences on a waltzing serenade so much that the film brims with crackling vigour even when confined inside the imposing walls of houses. Yet, the inexorable feeling of claustrophobia lingers, so much that when the film flits outdoors, we are overwhelmed by the relief offered. I am still at a loss by wondering just whom can I credit for that highly dramatic and always immersive cinematography (as a fun fact, it is reported that Anderson shot the film himself after regular collaborator Robert Elswit could not join the ride). It looks and feels like 'Barry Lyndon' on a nuanced and much more intimate scope.

Any battle of sexes is made even more deadly when there are equally matched players on both sides and it is in this crucial bit that 'Phantom Thread' that delivers a literal sucker punch. Vicky Krieps is unbelievably smashing as Alma, a self-doubting, innocuous lass morphing uncannily into a shrewd lover, who would never share her man with anybody, or rather anything else than her. Her soft glances, looking deceptively demure, are contrasted perfectly by his piercing, razor-sharp glare. By now, Sir Daniel Day-Lewis can master a role even in his sleep but there is yet again something unpredictably engaging, something again hypnotic about how he fleshes life, acid and anguish into Woodcock. He nails both the excellent lines and the almost unbearably tense silences with both seething anger and tender vulnerability and there is something quite unsettling and unforgettable about the way he lets those magnificent eyes and that dapper face do the talking. He looks handsome as he always has looked but it is when he refuses to drop his steely gaze while ruminating on an omelette that he leaves you bewildered and besotted in equal measure. 

This is then to be expected. Coming a decade after 'There Will Be Blood', the previous tour de force in which the director and the actor outdid themselves, 'Phantom Thread' is more than just a fitting follow-up; it is a film woven of a cinematic fabric unlike any other. Like any of Woodcock's creations , it is tailored with jaw-dropping finesse and yet, like his signature tricks, has many a secret message hidden in it. Secrets that come out tumbling like skeletons in a closet, even one shared by a couple. 

My Rating- 5 Stars Out Of 5

Oscars Special- The Shape Of Water: Spectacle Made Sublime And Sensual

Dr. Seuss, that devilishly witty teller of some of the most ingenious fairytales, had to say this about that wonderful, almost dreamlike thing between a couple that everyone, from Elvis Presley to Kishore Kumar, crooned about. 

'You know you're in love when you can't fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams'. 

Many a romance has captured this giddy, delirious feeling of your fondest, most sublime fantasies coming alive but it had to be only a master fantasist, a bona fide teller of some of the most ravishing and revelatory parables, to understand exactly what that legendary raconteur meant and translate it on the screen with both vivid surrealism and powerful, heartfelt empathy. 

That fantasist is the brilliant Guillermo Del Toro, who has built his career in serving exotic wonder and emotionally unsettling terror. In 'The Shape Of Water', his latest marvel, filled to the brim with the potion of pure, literally naked wonder, is where he trades the crafty cynicism that marked his more Gothic and blood-splattered fantasies (the hypnotic 'The Devil's Backbone' and the unforgettable 'Pan's Labyrinth') with winsome warmth, so palpably tender that you can almost taste it. 

It is also a film in which Del Toro's narrative, usually pointed in allusion and allegory, is more than willing to take a comfortable backseat and let the unabashed romance and poignant yearning take over the film, to the point of, occasionally, diminishing the director's trademark incisive edge. While those films were unmistakable grown-up horrors fashioned as fairytales, this one is instead a child's fable trying to be disguised as one for adults. That might be the only flaw in a film with so much to love (or more crucially to gaze at with wide-eyed admiration) but I will talk about it later. 

'The Shape Of Water' begins, literally, like any fairytale, complete with a narration just short of the magical, promising words 'Once Upon A Time'. It is Baltimore in 1962 where Elisa Esposito, this film's archetype Del Toro princess, lives and works in almost utmost isolation. Rendered mute from scars on her aquiline neck that mar her luminous, if waif-like, looks, she is a meek, mild-mannered janitor at a top-secret military research laboratory who is, like everyone else, a victim of not just routine monotony but also disillusionment. She craves for contact, so does her friendly homosexual neighbour, the silken yet struggling Giles. And while she has a confidante in her African-American co-worker Zelda, she starts feeling alive only after the day when the tough-as-nails uniformed brutes around her bring into the lab a 'new asset'. 

It seems, initially, from these initial proceedings that this is nothing else than a formula preserved in the jars belonging to Steven Spielberg; the central idea, of an unsmiling, even exasperated loner befriending a fellow hapless survivor from a wholly different world or dimension, is straight from 'E.T: The Extraterrestrial' (right down to this creature's gift of healing). But trust the devilishly imaginative director to tweak on formula in little and big ways. 

What starts as a forbidden friendship with hard-boiled eggs replacing Reese's Pieces soon blooms into a swooning dance of budding love set to the swinging tunes playing from a smuggled record-player in the dim and smoky interiors of the laboratory. Not all is hunky dory, though, as evidenced by the way the director and co-writer Vanessa Taylor splashes gore, dismemberment and even bloodier stakes liberally across the frames, setting up a backdrop of the Cold War and the sweltering technology race between the superpowers as its dangerous backdrop to these simmering passions. 

Visually, too, the film plays safe choices initially, with Baltimore lit up with neon glares and retro flourishes, not unlike the tinseltown served in the cinema of Robert Zemeckis but again, the most unexpected touches come in both big and small strokes. Cinematographer Dan Laustsen lets his camera serenade stylistically through the wooden corridors,  chunky television screens, dank toilets and steampunk military brass interiors with both rusting metallic hues and wistful tints of sepia to lend an immersive atmosphere of both pathos and paranoia. And Del Toro has lost none of his eye for minute, ingenious detailing; eggs boil in a kettle while Elisa toys with a clock shaped like an egg and there is something disarmingly real about how she, after having filled up a bathtub with salt, lets it go with the powder falling to the floor, forgetting it all in her elation. Beautifully done.

The performances are mostly brilliant. Sally Hawkins, playing Elisa, is stunningly evocative and, almost naturally, expressive using her enigmatic wide-mouthed Cheshire grin and her probing eyes to lend even her silences with almost organic and cathartic. She bursts with effervescence but never overdoes anything, not even the sign language that the director never labours hard to exaggerate, using it only to let her communicate her deepest thoughts and desires (and in one wicked moment, a bit of profanity). Richard Jenkins is a crushingly vulnerable and warmly affable Giles while Octavia Spencer is reliably full of bonhomie as Zelda. But it is Michael Stuhlbarg's admirably prudent scientist Hoffstetler, armed with a lethal secret, that makes him, to some extent, the moral compass of the drama. 

The only problem with 'The Shape Of Water' is that, when it is not being passionate, it turns predictable. Del Toro is grappling with many ideas at the same time and he finds the balance difficult to sustain; on one hand, the film is reaching out to tell us the importance of love to overcome differences and disparities not just physical but on the other, it is just too content to present us with some obvious shadowy espionage elements and a well-worn critique of military nihilism. Some of it works in places; Michael Shannon's bullying, cattle-prod wielding Colonel Strickland, this fantasy's monster, comes off also as credibly world-weary, beleaguered official bloodhound seeking some dignity from his dirty deeds. But the rest, from thick-necked American generals boasting about their stars to beefy Soviet spies chomping on butter-cake, is a bit too stereotypical for a storyteller capable of so much insight. 

This is his most breezy film yet, a literal celebration of hope over cynicism and even of good against evil and yet, even with all its poetic power, one wishes that it could have been even more potent. One expects more punch from Del Toro, rather than just the spectacular punches that his superheroes and Jaegers throw around in his wildly entertaining blockbuster movies. 

Still, all these considerations go to waste once we see our helpless yet blissfully happy lovers locking eyes and themselves in passionate embraces that make them forget everything pitted against them. 'The Shape Of Water' might be the most enthralling and ethereally spectacular romance in recent times, for the way it celebrates the pure, raw and fierce ecstasy and excitement of being in love and making love too. This is not just yet another watery platonic romance; instead, the director floods the moments shared between Elisa and the creature, played by regular Doug Jones, with a throbbing, pulsating sexuality that reverberates in our senses aided in no small measure by Alexandre Desplat's stirring score. And it is also frequently filled with wet, almost rippling poignancy as in the operatic musical interlude towards the end when Del Toro doffs his hat at the spirit of Hollywood romances with blissful glory. 

'The Shape Of Water' is a feast of fantasy, both supernatural and sexual, served up for only those sink into love for a more glorious reality. As its name suggests, this is a film for the starry-eyed dreamers who gaze too long at raindrops on window panes so that they can conjure up beautiful shapes to linger in their mind. And no matter what another great storyteller believes in, the best dreams don't build up always to perfect shapes. 

My Rating- 4 Stars Out Of 5.