Tashan: Explaining My Love For The Film Itself In Love With Bollywood

Almost a decade ago, I did something that would strike to most people as unbelievable. I walked out of a theatre full of people shaking their heads in disbelief, including my mother and my sibling, and I actually started smiling, not out of cynicism but out of sheer admiration. The incredulity on their faces was something to remember for a long time. But I did not care. Yes, you can say that I enjoyed 'Tashan'. 

Now, of course, in a time when cinephiles can worship Kanti Shah movies precisely for their deliberate, utterly unsubtle mediocrity, this does not sound so surprising. But back then, the giddy, deliciously nutty experience of walking out of a theatre, with the title song playing in my ears and that assorted miasma of quixotic delights still lingering in my mind, was an act of heresy, least of all to someone who was avoiding, consciously, mainstream fare in a desperate, foolhardy bid of adolescent years to be taken seriously. In a way, though, enjoying 'Tashan' liberated me from those pretensions and while I still prefer a film with real plot meat, subversive wit and solid storytelling over just glossy blockbusters, I can settle any time for a no-brainer as long as it knows how to entertain without sounding too serious about it. 

And 'Tashan' does that. The average Bollywood action film is a godawful affair, populated by blockbuster-churning superstars fitted out as paper-thin and poorly etched imitations of their counterparts in the West and cast as self-worshipping super-humans expected to not only dance their jig in midst of shoddy real life parables but also try hard to be cool about them. The women end up getting a raw deal, merely there to look gorgeous and kick ass in a selected spree of scenes which is hardly giving them a fair deal for their natural spunk. And the villains start promisingly but end up being inefficient kingpins and are even robbed of the chance  to wield some personality, let alone intelligence. Just watch 'Tiger Zinda Hai' for evidence. 

It is therefore rare to find a Bollywood masala actioner that basks in the unabashed, unashamed glory of being purely Indian in its mindset. And I am not talking about those 'Dabangg' movies which are themselves blithe and blatant recycled versions of Southern action cinema, which feels more genuinely nutty, even with all its mediocrity. I am talking about a film which celebrates the grandiose, silly, spectacular, colourful and even shamelessly but somewhat inventively rehashed essence of action cinema as we always saw coming from Bollywood throughout the decades. 

I have already poured out all my love and affection for the film's many virtues, from the film's berserk yet beautiful visual palette alternating from Yashraj-romance sublime to graphic novel frenetic to Robert Rodriguez blast-em-up to even more to how it does adequate justice to the archetype heroine with Kareena Kapoor's spirited, slim and spunky Pooja being shades fresher than the empty-headed bimbettes we get. There is also the film's cheeky film and pop-culture referencing, from a character's English equated to first George Bush and then Prince Charles (I am not revealing the final punchline, though) to the villain touting himself as a blend of Lara and Tendulkar both.  However, I would also like to make a case for two things here, one of its maker's delicious love for the very tropes that fill his film and, of course, the hero. 

If you are one who enjoys, without a shred of guilt or pretension, those preposterous Manmohan Desai multi-starrers or the kind of elaborate, grand action sagas made by the likes of Subhash Ghai and Rajiv Rai in the 1980s, you qualify for 'Tashan' too. Vijay Krishna Acharya, who penned the first two 'Dhoom' films (and even directed the abysmal third film, but more of that later), understood that perfectly, perhaps to a better extent than most of our current breed of filmmakers. While they only end up making mediocre films which try to compensate by pretending to be, in throwback fashion, deliberately self-depreciating as films of yore, Acharya ended up making a film that was not only comfortable in its silliness but also celebratory of the sometimes slipshod yet always energetic and exuberant feel of those films of yore without ever forgetting to forge its own radical path. 

In 'Tashan', the first half feels as if it belongs to a Guy Ritchie caper: slick, urban and even quirkily obsessed with flipping between languages, from Hindi to English to Hinglish. When the plot twists come, the film switches over from being a noir-lite caper, complete with a leading lady morphing into a femme fatale, into a full-fledged 80s-style potboiler yarn, with bloody revenge, the villain's silly sidekicks, adolescent romance blooming in adulthood and grand, even lengthy climaxes in the villain's massive lair, being doled out. This indulgence, however, comes across as most refreshing and it indicates just how coolly unpretentious Acharya is about his film. 

Compared to that, other big-budget Hindi action films start by trying too hard to be as slick and cutting-edge as their American counterparts and then end up sliding ridiculously into the same stew of ham-fisted cliches and much portentous intensity. 'Tashan', on the other hand, follows this template but it does not give much of a damn about logic, seriousness or even rationale to begin with. The plot is as flaky and deliberately loopholed as it should be; what amazes is how Acharya, his well-cast actors and the crew gloss over these inherent setbacks and runs with that idea of a truly freaked out Bollywood action movie. This is why that moment of transition, from referencing the West to being truly desi, feels so effortless and entertaining. 

Of course, not all of it works. The film goes on for far too long than it is supposed to. I guess that has to do with the usual overkill ambition that any newbie director brings to his work and while it is justified eventually, some of it can be a bit too ponderous, especially to the uninitiated. There could have been a lot more juicy wit and warmth in places when the narrative pauses to cut the characters some slack and while Vishal-Shekhar did serve up an exquisite and eclectically Bollywood soundtrack, the songs do delay the action and wisecracks significantly. More crucially, Acharya builds a potentially thrilling screen villain and then nearly wastes away that potential on repeating the same gimmick. Anil Kapoor's Bhaiyaji, a gaudy, garrulous kingpin, who could not have been out of place in a film like 'Tridev', is indeed quite a hoot, indefinitely more interesting and enjoyable than both hunky studs being carved out as rivals to our aggressively alpha-male heroes and arthouse actors made into forgettable punching bags for the more muscular of our leading men. See him gamely throw in gravitas of menace to his frequently hilarious Hinglish outbursts or bring unexpected warmth with that memorably goofy grin. But in the last half hour, he becomes, regrettably, only a comic book villain to be defeated and nothing else. After such a thrillingly alive turn so far, he turns out to be ultimately cardboard. 

But that is a minor complaint.  In Akshay Kumar's deliciously named Bachchan Pandey, Acharya also gives us a hero so coated with flavour, texture and charisma that I wonder why the hell didn't the screen stud trust him to helm all the increasingly mediocre action films he has done subsequently. Today, I complain about his lack of histrionic skill to pull off roles that need more capable performers but I also remember the field in which he is most comfortable and memorable, that of a fighting man who is unafraid to embrace his own lunacy without ever losing his heroism. Like Jackie Chan in those Hong Kong karate-chop comedies or Bruce Willis deflating the mock-seriousness of those 'Die Hard' movies, Kumar is utterly irresistible in 'Tashan', carrying off both the rippling essence of a truly macho hero of the heartland and a goofball with an unforgettable grin and one whom we really need to be alive and kicking at the end. He alone proves just how well the director nailed the tongue-in-cheek essence of Indian action cinema. 

It feels sad, therefore, that Bollywood chose to shove aside this odd, unlikely gem of a film (of course, the scathing reviews helped a lot in this) and chose, instead, a whole new sub-genre of mind-bogglingly mindless superstar vehicles intended to appeal to masses which had only pointless superstar celebration and nothing else. On the other hand, there were more of the shoddy, superficial Hollywood imitations that further plunged the genre into lurid depths. I regret also that Acharya himself fell prey to the latter and ended up making 'Dhoom: 3',  film which comes as a rude shock after such madcap, even inspired brilliance in the misunderstood debut. Some things don't change, I think. 

But it is nevertheless equally sad to see just how the action film genre has become so deathly dull in Hindi cinema with big studios only spending either on flimsy spy thrillers or on hinterland yarns and populated solely with big stars and nothing else. Witty action capers now belong to the unconventional talents like Sriram Raghavan and Abhishek Chaubey and nobody can take a risk on making a retro-fitted throwback of the 80s cinema (though everybody will praise the latest 'Dabangg' or 'Singham' sequel).

Gone are the days when Viju Shah's ripped-off yet rollickingly enjoyable tunes lent melody to those pulpy twists or when Mahesh Bhatt shed his arthouse sensibilities to serve compelling masala after repeated viewings of 'Lethal Weapon' and 'The Fugitive'. 'Tashan' is indeed something to be celebrated but, given the cold response it got from many, it is also something to be mourned. 

2001: A Space Odyssey- A Golden Jubilee of Spectacle And Symphony

Sometimes, you need an epic, something truly larger-than-life to capture the incredible, jaw-dropping scale that our universe boasts of. 

And I am not talking just about space operas that spawn so many sequels, prequels and spin-offs, overarching albums by Pink Floyd or mesmerising ballads sung by David Bowie and Elton John; I am talking about something so  awe-inspiring, and not just awesome, that it takes your breath away, leaving you floating in the not-so-star studded inky black expanses of space and marvelling at every stunning sight and sound, or rather the shattering absence of sound. 

Five decades ago, long before tycoons envisioned setting controls for the heart of the Sun, a visionary named Stanley Kubrick plunged us into that first, utterly seminal and sensational experience of the universe and beyond. A space odyssey, then, in the most literal space. 

And yet while '2001' also has something of a side reputation as a film whose grasp of the science of gravity in those weightless, disorienting depths can rival decades of study done by NASA scientists, it would have only been a literal documentary on the exploration of the frontiers of space had it not been a terrific, almost thrilling cinematic experience in its own way. 

We begin with the Dawn Of Man. Scraggly apes scavenge to thrive in a bleak, desolate milieu even as they have to squabble among themselves over a water hole. One morning, something mysterious and mind-numbing pops up in their midst; moments later, set to the majestic, immortal swells of Richard Strauss' 'Also sprach Zarathustra', we see an ape smashing the skeletal remains of their new prey and while weaponry is used first for survival, it soon becomes a means to thwart those contending for the same. Even before evolution, war has begun. 

Millions of years ago, with us being shuttled through that ingeniously conceived match cut, we find ourselves sailing across the galaxy, astounded by the very incredible nature of advanced technology and our conquest of this uncharted territory but also skeptical, coolly cynical. American scientists are hushing up some truth about a discovery on the Moon with some flaky cover story that the Russians cannot help but be suspicious about. The film's main narrative has not even kicked in hitherto and yet Kubrick and co-writer British science fiction great Arthur C. Clarke have already set up a brilliant parable: apes fighting over the water hole and spacemen stashing away their intentions and other secrets underneath elaborate lies. 

One of the common complaints that most uninitiated viewers make of '2001' is that almost a chunk of it is slow, almost to the point of being glacial, and nothing much happens in the first hour, until that breathless, terse tale of moral wrangling and cold-blooded evil kicks in. It is easy to see why people would think that; Kubrick strips his waltzing, sweeping frames of dialogue and plot and instead compels us, with even maddening obsession, to go with the flow without ever telling us where we are headed. What those people miss is the beautiful, wholly organic process of his storytelling, building up note by note a labyrinth of suspense and subtext, the mood shifting effortlessly from wide-eyed wonder and even whimsy to an uncanny sense of uncertainty and even fear. 

'2001' is also filled to the brim with delicious nuance, which is unexpectedly subversive for a film mounted on such a mammoth scale. For all the narrative leisure that Kubrick lends to the film, there is just so much to observe at, so much to savour and enjoy. '2001' lingers, not only on those rotating spaceships and ethereal vistas of the Earth and the Moon, but on the smallest of details, from stewardesses struggling to walk down aisles in space airships with their grip shoes to scientists video-calling their daughters right down to unexpectedly hilarious bits in which they try to figure out zeo-gravity toilets and out of nowhere, a fountain pen floats weightlessly, reiterating the sight of a rudimentary bone descending unforgettably from the sky. It is also extremely, almost forcefully poetic, the always absorbing silent scenes reminding us of the not-so-uncanny similarities between the African wilderness of the prehistoric past and the pitted, disgruntled surface of the Moon itself, something that is more than just a coincidence. 

So much in '2001', in fact, is more than just coincidence. As the film's latter hour tugs us into the water-tight atmosphere of two unsmiling, almost disillusioned astronauts (one sunbathes and plays virtual chess while the other makes sketches of astronauts hibernating) pitted together in the film's literal odyssey and then hurtled into danger, we are plunged from wistful admiration and observation to almost sweaty, perspiring tension. I would hate to reveal the film's arch villain here to the uninitiated but when even the same has his moment of comeuppance, it is still hard to shake off the feeling of that almost claustrophobic, utterly eerie dread that precedes it. 

Yet, all that would be only mental masturbation if the film did not deliver so splendidly, so subversively on the spectacle. That much-touted visual wizardry and that sublime use of symphony are really worth the praise and stand up remarkably even today. Working in tandem with legendary cinematographer Geoffrey Unsworth (who also shot 'Superman') and special effects veteran Douglas Trumbull, the director unleashed also all his scientific knowledge, unrivalled technical prowess and obsessive taste for perfection in crafting the marvels that feel so iconic today and must have felt audaciously revolutionary back in 1968. From gigantic centrifuges to recreate the gravity, or rather the lack of it, in space (a technique that Christopher Nolan would use for 'Inception') to the meticulously conceived plethora of lights and colours in the famous 'Star Gate' sequence right down to the ingenious use of front-projection, everything feels as fresh and vivid as it was back then and the sheer marvellous quality of '2001' refuses to age or fade away. The use of music is beautiful, so stirring in its elegance and poetry that it lends a throbbing heart to even the merely contemplative moments in the narrative. 

It is a film that begs every time for revisionism. My first feelings on watching '2001' were, like for any other first-time viewer, those of sheer incredulity and disappointment. It was less to do with the minimal exposition and the symbolic enigma of the orchestral finale and more of Kubrick's frequently misunderstood coldness in approaching the human characters populating his overarching canvas. But subsequent viewings, as I can vouch, will present truly the miracles of the film and also explain the essence of his deliberate formality of tone. By making his characters helpless against both predestined doom and discovery, he also proves that it is only the worthy who deserve the enlightenment and progress that the universe holds for us. 

'2001: A Space Odyssey' is quite unlike anything else in this much-abused genre of films and while many a great film has threatened to beat its influence, there is still something hypnotic, almost overwhelming about surrendering to its Herculean vision. In today's times, when almost every few months we are given science fiction that is all about hefty concepts and little about the crucial importance of truly groundbreaking storytelling, here is a film to be treasured time and again to be reminded about the pure power of a true auteur in top form, wielding all his strength and grace to pave the way forward, not just to new cinematic benchmarks and even to the universe. 

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.