Monday, May 25, 2015


Cast: Ranbir Kapoor, Anushka Sharma, Karan Johar, Kay Kay Menon, Manish Choudhary, Satyadeep Misra
Director: Anurag Kashyap
Runtime: 149 min.
Verdict: Probably the most interesting of Mr. Kashyap’s films.
Genre: Drama, Romance, Mystery

                The thing that fascinated me most about the world of Bombay Velvet was the narrativization of spaces, and unlike say Deewar, where the building Vijay buys is some sort of a personal controlling-my-destiny statement, Mr. Kashyap’s places mostly seem to suggest that the urban spaces around us are but one of the tools via which capitalism seduces us all. If we were look back till the beginning of the 20th century, our great cities – New York, Paris, London – were probably built brick for brick over a span of several years with individual entities – buildings, bridges, parks, shops and so on and so forth – collectively creating an identity. An identity for which, in the age of modernization, say since the beginning of the 20th century, no state and no establishment has neither the patience for nor the resources for. An urban space is now a template, a readily available product that needs to be replicated wherever deemed fit. Our movies, where capitalist villains in Bombay would always want to erect tall buildings by wiping out slums, reduced this equation of urbanization to a blunt interplay between the rich and the poor. Which it is, but rather than rape, it is probably more of a seduction.
                So for starters Bombay Velvet is the story of the city if Ramadhir Singh (Gangs of Wasseypur) were asked to tell one. Mr. Kashyap establishes the two dreamers – Balraj (Mr. Kapoor) and Rosie (Ms. Sharma) – rather clumsily (he absolutely needs to get rid of the cinema image shot, and so should every filmmaker), but the strictly workmanlike cross-cutting between their origin stories curiously felt poetic. Rosie’s even felt intriguing, for a woman readily letting go of her “morals” is ripe enough to graduate into a femme fatale, and her stone-cold silence even tempted me to shrug and classify her under the same category of some of Mr. Kashyap’s other women (for e.g. Durga in Gangs of Wasseypur) – bitch. Thankfully, Ms. Sharma’s whale of a performance, especially her wallowing in Dhadaam Dhadaam, lends the kind of grace Mr. Kashyap’s women almost always seem to lack. For a quite while during the initial half she had me guessing about her intentions.
                The dreamers tend to become stand-ins for somebody like me, who’s having a bit of an identity crisis. The whole deal with Balraj and his guardians and what seemed like attempts to walk as far away from all of it as possible had a decent conversation with me, so much so that I chose to ignore all the repression around the fights and the pseudo-Scorsese-male behavior. I mean, it is natural isn’t it, to choose different strands from an artwork than what everybody else has focused and analyzed upon, for what it is readily there to digest is hardly interesting. So coming back, having the two dreamers the principal actors in Bombay Velvet (the club) and having it become the place-to-be for all enthusiastic dreamers makes it a crucible in which capitalists can shape the spaces for future Bombay. You see, it is one thing to erect several buildings and it is another thing to sell Manhattan. Cinema, much like tourism, is after all an agent for us consumers.
                What else did I like? I mean, considering the film is universally panned, I was quite surprised for this is a decent film with quite a lot to chew upon. Like for instance, the arc Chimman (Mr. Misra) is provided with. In films like Public Enemies, where the friend (Red Hamilton played by Mr. Jason Clarke) is all too loyal and dutifully dies, Mr. Kashyap kind of provides a signature weight to his death, in the process completely trivializing the protagonist. But then, if we’re to speak of structural integrity, that trivialization and the moving final shot, of Rosie looking at the dead Johnny (reminding me of Ms. Cotillard’s final moment in Public Enemies) do not necessarily belong in the same picture.
                So yes, a film wanting to be a hardboiled crime movie in the mold of L.A.Confidential, Mr. Kashyap’s films is far too frivolous. I might be tempted to invoke the Thelma Schoonmaker argument, but I would rather want to indulge myself with the whole deal around Rosie’s resurrection via her sister? Assuming that it is a complete joke of the WTF kind, you got to ask yourself this question – is the film laughing with you, or are laughing alone? I don’t know, but the utter ease and downright insignificance that is attached to her re-introduction – in the graveyard scene, it is not her making the entry but Johnny – makes me really curious. Why have that? It was ridiculously funny, but why? And if you had to have it, why not go all the way and have her sing at the club again and nobody ask any questions. That would have been real bizarre. 

Thursday, January 01, 2015

The Best Movies of 2014, and your Best Picture

Discovery of the year: Two Faces by James Benning.

10. Back to the Temple of the Sun (Dir: Marco Pando)
Mr. Pando hails from Peru, seems to have learnt his craft from Netherlands, and I’m at a time in my life where I’m questioning the nature of my being, i.e. what am I a product of and what product am I. The cultural artifact under the scanner is Tintin and the Temple of the Sun and its function as an agent of assimilation. Between the western/colonial/alien gaze and its opposite, there’re folks like me who’re in neitherland, whose vision of everything – local and foreign – is colored by culture. I don’t know much about Mr. Pando, and since Festival Scope allows one viewing without rewinds (pretty inadequate for me to process) I cannot claim with any degree of authority if he is being purely descriptive or if there is a hint of condemnation. The animated Tintin film seems to overlap his images, sometimes so much that it is hard to distinguish where one begins and other ends (symptomatic of consumption culture) but it does seem to mimic the sweetness of this culture (read nerds). The question though is this – with folks like me (mirrored via guinea pigs in the opening frame) devouring (or at least trying to) every aspect of culture like the consumers we are, what’s left to see here other than representations of representations. It’s a verifiable hall of mirrors, and I don’t want to be depressed. Interesting counterpoint – Peter Krüger’s N: The Madness of Reason.  

9. Transformers: The Premake (Dir: Kevin B. Lee) (Watch here)
In its form it is the year’s most product-of-its-times movie, not least because of the manner in which it tries to arrange itself so as to find a meaning from the numerous videos on YouTube, which themselves are arranged without a central narrative and follow the logic of database – of tags, of users, of titles, of searching and search results. It is a film that is not merely content to be a product of its times, and that it finds a way of aligning the very spaces that Mr. Michael Bay used for his film to find an altogether different meaning, alliances, politics, and ideology guiding our world is touching in its sincerity. Its raw-material/medium/unit is a database of videos, creating a trail of “hyperlinks” that could have been arranged or picked differently, to find a new narrative, and in that I feel it is, at least for now, the ultimate digital film of the year. What’s more, Mr. Lee uploaded it onto YouTube, thus merging the creation of content (culture) into the representation of content (culture) as an essential democratic feature of the medium it is operating in, rendering the restless curiosity of its gaze and the volatility of its experience as another passive entry in YouTube’s huge repository (what Lev Manovich calls the new cultural algorithm: reality-> media->data->database). Until, someone, you or I, open it, view it, and make it talk again. To our tune. 

8. Non-Stop (Dir: Jaume Collet-Serra)
Mr. Neeson played an enforcer/detective with an alcohol problem in two movies this year, and in Mr. Frank’s A Walk Among the Tombstones what could have been a perfectly decent stab at Vertigo was let go by diluting it all into an old-school hard-boiled mostly useless detective story. Not with Non-Stop, and Mr. Collet-Serra, who is surely one of our candidates for the unenviable title of the next Hitchcock, seems to be channeling the psychological spaces of Memento. Like Orphan, there is a lot of fun to be had in the manner in which Mr. Collet-Serra ever so skillfully and ever so efficiently seems to be playing around with his protagonist’s mind, and us, every inch of space around him a question about his very identity, before relenting and almost choosing him to be the hero of his tale. Here is a filmmaker on the expressway to vulgar-auteurdom. 

7. The Rover (Dir: David Michôd)
For being a document of Mr. Pearce walk alone, which has been something of an influence (the arms swinging with big steps, especially comes to me when I am walking down an incline) ever since I watched Memento, this is one of the year’s great pleasures. It is how a proper motherfucker walks, and Mr. Michôd follows both him and his car showcasing some serious skills along the way. Case in point: the truck following the car is quite possibly the leanest and the best depiction of on-road vehicle-as-an-extension-of-id I’ve ever seen. The narrative here seems to be so specific and so detailed that it hardly seems to be about anything, so much so that I am waiting for a case to be made where a world after “the collapse” is all about no meaning. There’re no morals, no good guys bad guys, and in that way Mr. Michôd’s film can be called the anti-western. So much so that our protagonist, whose sweaty face is so bare one can see the nerves and whose remarkable shirt always seems to be of the same shade as its surroundings (the car, the dust) up until that last moment where it does provide some semblance of contrast, is probably the baddest guy in the whole tale. Mr. Pearce’s is a performance for the ages. 

6. The Dragon is the Frame (Dir: Mary-Helena Clark) (s)
Vertigo is a great framework film, i.e. flexible enough to accommodate most thematic projections. Ms. Clark here is paying tribute to a person I don’t know and unlike the narrative features surrounding loss, there is neither the sufferer nor the one absent (the one being remembered) for us to project ourselves or associate further reducing the Hitchcock to its essence – the search for something that was never present, apart from memory (read: In the City of Sylvia). It is a great trick, to “remove” the players from those places, thereby what was peripheral becomes the very object that stimulates the memory (City) but does not condense the image (Sylvia). Mark Aguhar, in whose memory Ms. Clark dedicates this film, does appear in the form of old videos, but for some reason that is not the memory Ms. Clark has. So she keeps on searching.  

5. Jauja (Dir: Lisandro Alonso)
The square-boxed curved-angles aspect ratio and the moving images create a neat little tension - of causing something of a crack in the illusion of events happening before us are in real-time (present) – making the film a kind of time-capsule where the events seem both now and recorded, like Cloverfield or Paranormal Activity. Only to an extent though (mostly because the aspect ratio only frames and doesn’t own/invade the image), and once Mr. Alonso starts stacking up the details – of boots, of water, of knives, of water both clean and dirty – the illusion is somewhat restored and the tension more or less relieved. I wouldn’t claim to understand any of it but that land Jauja seems to be personalized territory, where everybody seems to be up against his own space and time. Organizational structures, like family, are mostly constructed on the basis of geography (united v/s nuclear) and Captain Dinesen, in his military coat and boots and sword wanting to chart this strange land and save his daughter Ingeborg from being consumed by it is probably on a redundant cause. Control is an illusion and also the precursor for a family to exist and provide for the necessary space for a man to control, and when he meets the old self of his daughter, alone, in her own space-time, at peace and in complete ease with her environment it is a priceless moment of realization we see on Dinesen’s place. He doesn’t need to control and validate his existence. Interestingly, the future Inge’s house seems to have no family photos on the walls (just paintings), and when she ventures out with the dogs only in her panties and a top with a shrug, we feel the same ease. Nature communicates, and it seems to make Jauja the year’s best adventure film.   

4. Xi You (Journey to the West) (Dir: Tsai Ming-Liang)
The circa-2008 part in me would say – this is the most straightforward (read: no plot) contribution to the you-complete-me series, former entries to which have been the Joker searching for Batman, or Hannibal Lecter looking for William Graham (ever more so in Bryan Fuller’s magnificent television series), or more recently Ryan Gosling’s uber-cool personality seeking punishment in Only God Forgives. The title suggests the journey of Xuanzang (almost immediately elevating Lee Kang-sheng) and Sun Wukong, and in the opening shot of Lavant’s tears (a close-up with an almost claustrophobic feel, as if he were trapped somewhere) and the longing for the monk juxtaposed via the profile of Lavant out of focus with the red figure a dot in the background, as if a dream or a prayer, Mr. Tsai Ming-Liang makes it all so directly devotional it brought all those memories back, from when I really do believed a soul-mate is out there to salvage me. But yeah, apart from bringing a tear there is a whole lot of fun to be had to – like a showdown between a mannequin and the monk.

3. The Portraits (Dir: Rachel Goldsworth) (Watch here)
The year’s celebration of Béla Balázs face of man. Considering that all of sport is a giant performance, a realization of something close to an alter-ego, a space to transform oneself into what one desires or wants to portray, a creation of an image that can be sold, these little portraits create something of an odd combination to that more familiar images of Maria Sharapova or Rafael Nadal or Roger Federer or Serena Williams – an out-of-space time-transcending look into that innocent little kid hiding behind his own image, and on a more cynical note the image being a performance/projection in itself. This is not much unlike Andy Warhol’s Screen tests or Mr. James Benning’s Twenty Cigarettes or After Warhol. More importantly, this duality is not surrounded with negative connotations (read Gone Girl) but represents something that is ultimately human. It is just the face you know, devoid of any playing -style, devoid of any classifications, or hierarchies in rankings or earnings, and in that moment they might be as vulnerable as much as they have constructed over all these years. These might as well be kids in a class, and I wish for a film where Virat Kohli and David Warner and Cristiano Ronaldo and Lionel Messi and Jose Mourinho and Magnus Larsen are all given such a moment – a chance to create an identity away from their identities. A freedom that, I think, is a triumph of the close-up. Which brings me to…

2. Dedh Ishqiya (Dir: Abhishek Chaubey) (Read review)
…Mr. Chaubey’s film, a tender little plea for that freedom from identity and performativity, and one that gives us one of the images of the year. There is a tremendous amount of historicity in his staging, which is observational but ultimately humane – the damsel in distress is an essentially patriarchal construct and the solution isn’t to move her from one to another but to remove that very classification from her identity. I hope what we’re seeing before us is a great series in the making, with a filmmaker at the helm, who just after two films, seems to be something of a master.  

1    1. Interstellar (Dir: Christopher Nolan) (Read review)
I love this film. Love it love it love it. I think of it, this young film I love so much, and I seem to feel the ghosts of Satantango, Le Cercle Rouge, The Good the Bad the Ugly, Sonatine all circling around me. I want to wrap a warm blanket around Mr. Nolan’s film and give it to them, and I know they’ll take care of it. I, meanwhile, will celebrate it on the New Year.

So, Mr. Nolan’s masterpiece takes this year’s Grumbach to its home. And if he can top this film, I’ll be gob smacked.

I am so very happy!!

Movies to be Watched:
Goodbye to Language -3D (Jean-Luc Godard), National Gallery (Frederick Wiseman), Winter Sleep (Nuri Bilge Ceylan), Natural History (James Benning), Leviathan (Andrey Zvyagintsev), Horse Money (Pedro Costa), Pissasu (Myshkin), The Lesson (Kristina Grozeva, Petar Valchanov)

And I wish all of you a great 2015! 

Monday, December 15, 2014


Cast: Marion Cotillard, Fabrizio Rongione, Catherine Salée, Timur Magomedgadzhiev, Christelle Cornil
Director: Jean-Pierre Dardenne, Luc Dardenne
Runtime: 98 min.
Verdict: More interesting when the economic situation provides for the backdrop to the family dynamic.
Genre: Drama

                Now, here’s the deal – because of the stage I’m in my career at the moment, where the office and the home are for the first time in my life are past having a dialog with each other and are now fiercely quarrelling, Two Days, One Night, is too close for comfort. Watching Sandra’s (Ms. Cotillard) slender body wade through those two days, across alleys, staircases, sidewalks, with the feet falling sideways, with her bent back and her tummy sucked in (the walk so closely resembles that of Maria Sharapova) as if there is the strongest wind that needs to be negotiated, achieves the effect of a class one synecdoche. Hers is a body in subordination, a site that is directly and apparently the space on which the film’s central drama/dynamic hinges upon and as much as the request is for her job, there is an implicit plea for her space too.
                But then, is she? I mean, is her body the site? Or is the site, the string that exists between her body and the table on which the kids and her husband eat the pizza or the bench where she and her husband Manu (Mr. Rongione) eat their ice-creams? Isn’t she much like Susy like Wait Until Dark (a home-invasion picture), whose personal space has been invaded by the very capitalist entity from which we’ve been brought up all our lives to separate our personal spaces from (the myth of work-life balance and all that), and whose husband is almost hell-bent to empower her. Trust me, I do not want to sound cynical but maybe empowering, much like money or sex, is actually an act of regaining one’s purpose in the beneficiary’s life and hence reclaiming that ego/identity space. To be at the source of one’s strength is to be that strength itself, and it compensates for the lack of family wage he is unable to muster and thus essentially becomes the master of the house. A what-if crosses the mind – (a) instead of a depressed wife, it was a kid (child labor) negotiating his way, or (b) it was the man himself – and would it have altered more in quality than quantity our reaction to the predicament. I might be thinking of Dan Evans in 3:10 to Yuma, and I also might be digressing.
                I return to Sandra, and wonder if she is the representative of the working class, and if it is her versus the system. Or, as the central premise goes, is it as simple as her and her co-workers pitted against each other by the unscrupulous capitalist entity, making it a case of pure working-class exploitation (the factory building might as well have a giant moustache to be twirled), and hers a tragic case of hopelessness ala High Noon? The film is indeed about her meeting all her co-workers and convincing them, individual to individual, like 12 Angry Men. But then, all of those individuals are defined by their families. In one case, it is a wife, in another it is a daughter and a wife, in another it is a wife and a baby, and so on and so forth. And thus emerges the broad outlines of my interpretation of the film rather being about the tussle between two social institutions powered by self-interest – the family versus the capitalist entity – and also a reason for me to change the paragraph.
                Now, because the Dardennes provide no time to understand Dumont’s (the owner of the factory) motivations, which is I suppose understood/assumed to be the capitalist’s greed/selfishness, let us talk about the Family, and the families. Let us begin, taking our cue from Heaven’s Gate list the families and their compositions one by one.

Sandra and Manu – husband (chef/waiter), wife, two kids
Juliette – husband (mends cars on the black) and wife             
Julien Lemmens – wife and a kid.
Kader – not specified (talk over the phone), probably plot-point to get Sandra motivated for the mission.
Mireille – divorced, with a new husband, starting life from scratch.
Willy – husband, wife and kids (number unspecified, but one daughter to go to college)
Nadine – has a daughter
Timur – has a daughter, and an unspecified family.
Hicham – wife and two kids
Yvonne – father and young son, both working at the same place. Representation of the proletariat family and generational workforce. Son seems to have a girlfriend, and since he drives off, could be considered as a case of nuclear family.
Miguel - ?, plot-point to get Sandra out of the bed.
Anne – husband, whom she leaves.
Alphonse – wife and daughter.
Dominique – alone at the door.

So, except for the guys on the phone, who become plot-points for Sandra’s odyssey, and for Dominique who obliquely refers to his family when he says he is the sole breadwinner, all of the others are profiled via their families, bringing home a clear representation of the heterosexual workforce. That makes me wonder if bachelors, or guys with alternate orientations aren’t capable enough to provide a dramatic foil to the narrative strategy here, which is essentially about a woman who has lost her identity to the extent she is losing her very voice (at times literally) going through a journey of door-to-door of rejection and ego-destruction. All of us, or at least me, who have been rejected in job interviews, know exactly what I’m talking about, where your identity and worth become one and the same, and where repetition is the key. It is like part of you dies inside every time, for those few hours. And yet the next call fills you with hope, so that you brace yourself to die again. I sure am making it sound melodramatic, but when the job enters and disrupts the personal sphere and you so desperately need an exit, it does feel like that. And I’m also beginning to wonder what would happen if Interstellar and this one here were to swap narrative strategies, and if either of them would benefit any.
But coming back, would bachelors, or let us say guys with no apparent, or let us say obvious families, come across as needlessly selfish for they do not so desperately need that 1000-euro bonus? Because believe me, that is not true, for that very lack of obviousness, I’ve young guys in my office working from Friday evening to Monday morning with no time for home. These young guys, with their own dream of the bourgeoisie dream of families, are probably to us (I work in the IT industry) what women and children were to men during the early industrial age – cheap labor with twice or thrice the output. So, would their claim to selfishness be any less legitimate than say Hicham’s or Willy’s? There’s also a guy at the end, on Monday morning, Sandra meets in the locker-room, and by appearance he looks to be a bachelor. But then that’s not the point.
You see, the film justifies the selfishness of the people Sandra meets by presenting the needs of the family, which are for obvious reasons assumed to be absolutely necessary. The families, or the Family, is thus automatically absolved of any guilt, or at least of the guilt that is attributed to Dumont and his factory, and rather it is entitled to be selfish to seek the bonus (a welcome surplus, mind you) because it is necessary for their survival, since they seem to have planned their lives (like college expenses for the kid) around that surplus. I mean, the family never has enough, do we? It is a lovely little institution this, borne out of man’s inherent need to find a personal space and room of control beyond his own body, and encircled by a common factor – mostly blood, or race, or religion, or whatever. I’m no anthropologist, and these are mostly freshman efforts at theorizing, and family does provide man the satisfaction of thinking beyond himself, of caring for a body that is not him (philanthropy), and at the same time makes it all limited to the confines of his circle. It is the bastion of a moral framework he believes in, a private space that is to be protected from the public sphere’s ills but benefited by its riches, and in a way, he is having the cake and eating it too. It takes a great deal out of us, isn’t it, caring for our community – like say pooling funds to repair the building you live in, when you aren’t one of the owners as opposed to when you are on. I hate to put it this way, but the image before me is of a virus, that much like capitalism, can adapt to the societal needs. It could be extended, in a marketplace where home production is the key, or it can cut itself off and be a nuclear one, or it could exist in several forms. The essential bit is that it adapts and survives, and if free market applies the Darwin principle to the capital class, so does it should to the family.
So yeah, as sure as hell capitalism exploits the man’s need for this anchor, doesn’t family – broadly defined as an earning member(s) and dependents joined together by a common moral/religious framework – use it to survive and thrive in return too? Here’re a few questions then – aren’t Dumont and his factory comparable when they’re selfish enough to seek that bonus? Is Sandra, with her pitifully frail figure, a convenient representation of the family (as opposed to say Manu himself)? Are her travails about her locking her light-saber (family) with those of the other workers? Is it better, for say her community, if all the workers get their bonus, as opposed to her getting her salary, especially when the final moments suggest victory in (a) her finding her voice/stand and (b) her looking for a new job? Also, which selfishness is one entitled to and which one not, because mind you, we’ve no idea how good or bad Dumont’s factory is doing. Are the profits in place, or is he struggling to keep them up in this tough economic situation where everyone is fighting to survive? You see, that is what troubles me regarding Two Days, One Night – the representation of the workforce and the families, with their details listed above, as specific units, but Dumont and his factory given a short shrift by giving no details, and thus in a way making them a representation of the system (capitalism) itself, when the latter is as much a unit as the workforce and their families are. To pit a specific against a representation is to obfuscate the issue, and maybe even simplify it.   
               The way I see it, Two Days, One Night is about one unit (Dumont/Solwal) trying to maximize its position by exploiting the other units of workforce to get rid of a specific unit (Sandra), which in turn gets around propagating guilt-complex (a form of exploitation?) so as to get back. If it had been Mr. Cronenberg behind the camera, I would have got the opportunity to read Sandra’s (powered by Manu) movements across the length of the frame, in all directions and essentially haphazard, as a Jean Painlevé-like treatment of the proletariat family unit. Forget about the whole boxing match one round here one round there structure, and forget about the whole deal with suspense about the final score of the poll. What had me worried, throughout, was if Sandra and Manu would pull through together at the end of it. There were two kinds of spaces – the external ones at the doors, and the internal ones, in the cars or on the bench, or in the hospital ward – and the health of the latter was I suppose the narrative’s primary concern. What’s really lovely about all of it is that they are in one piece at the end of that weekend, and when she is speaking to him on the phone after the poll on Monday morning, you know the love has only grown further. Her face is the site, not of the capitalist exploitation, but of love fulfilled. I know Manu would be a very happy and contented man, and as much as Sandra is seen walking down to the road for the struggle ahead, I have the feeling that they are going to have what might be the best sex of their lives.

Thursday, November 20, 2014


Cast: Matthew McConaughey, Anne Hathway, Jessica Chastain, David Gyasi, Matt Damon, Mackenzie Foy
Director: Christopher Nolan
Runtime: 169 min.
Verdict: Personal territory I would want to keep coming back to. Also, might just be Mr. Nolan’s most accomplished film yet.
Genre: Sci-fi, Drama

(Spoilers abound! I assume you’ve watched the movie because I’m not devoting any obvious space to introduce the plot as such.)

Memory must be a medium for love. Faith surely is fuelled by memory. I mean, if our movies have managed to tell us one thing it is that objects do retain the past as a narrative, transforming the commonplace present into a meaningful past, snatching history from the jaws of archival hegemony, as if it were closed and sealed forever, and make it personal memory, living and breathing, isn’t it? The objects this time around are books, and the bookshelf housing them, and dust, and a written word, and a watch, and a bed and a model spaceship. Even a sweater on the seat of the truck. I love the watch. It is a mass-produced thing, like so many other things, and yet, all my life, I’ve had an instinctive attachment to watches in the way I’ve associated my faith with them. You see, a coin is different, because it only responds, or talks, when you flip it, making it an object whose response is caused by us hence making us aware of its inanimate and mathematical nature, i.e. chance. It is, in many ways, a representation of our rationality, and a reminder of it. A watch, or a clock, is different. It’s always running, always doing its thing, and when I use it to make decisions, based on whether the second-hand is between 1 and 30, which is a yes, or it is not, which is a no, I feel as if I am tapping into a stream. I feel like I’m talking, and for a large part of my conscious life, the watch in my home was how God communicated to me and I communicated with him. The watch made sense. It is what kept me moral, and at this point in my life, when I am questioning the rationality of all of it, there is a huge part of me that so desperately wants to return to the simplicity or those days where I could just ask my watch. You could say I’ve issues in the upper part of my hemisphere, but my binary conversations with my watch – and it is incredible how I could reduce a whole set of stuff just by thinking about it in my mind and then seeking confirmation from that watch – will always be muscle memory to me.  
There’s a room here, a sort of personal temple, which probably makes it unlike the one in Stalker, that houses all these objects and thereby the memories, and towards which everything in Interstellar gravitates towards. This is a space movie which under the guise of travelling outwards eventually reaches inwards. It is the central figure here, this room, in the first act and the third act (I suspect, from a Bordwellian angle, this is a film with the three acts and an epilogue rather than four acts, but I will be happy to be proved wrong), absolutely absent in the second, and it becomes both the source and destination that Mr. Nolan shapes his narrative around. Cooper (Mr. McConaughey) keeps looking beyond the frame of that monitor searching for his little daughter Murph (Ms. Foy) and, or maybe in, that room, as if to create a new memory overwriting the older one where he left her to pursue the pioneer half of himself, and it seems to be stubbornly resisting that, growing more and more intense. Like the man in La Jetée, and like Graham Hess in Signs, Cooper, as Aaron Stewart-Ahn mentions here, becomes something of a prisoner of this memory space where only he and his daughter ever enter in the entire film. If the home, and the farm surrounding it, and the dust covering it come to represent the mortality of our existence that needs to be transcended (as when Alfred Borden knocks on the wall he is leaning on) via the pioneer within us, the room becomes the meaning we seek and the interpretation of our memories we construct – Interstellar gradually becomes the journey of a man marked for the rest of his life by a memory of the past.
At the same time, do not allow me to convey the impression that Cooper is some kind of variation on Scottie, obsessing over a memory image, because he’s not. He’s a prisoner of that conflicting emotion that drives all of Mr. Nolan’s guys, between the ambition and the domesticity, between the curiosity of the Langford double and the satisfaction of the kids and wife, for both are essential parts, and I probably should link to Mr. Jonathan Nolan’s interview where he articulates that predicament most simply and precisely.
There’re television monitors too, not skype (digital) but having the grainy monochromatic almost grungy quality of old video, and they are not live and do not allow two-way communication, thus becoming, like letters, information that has travelled and experienced the passage of time. They are memories, and for some strange reason, probably because Tom and Murph look up at it while speaking into it, they feel like prayers. Tom sharing his life into that little screen not knowing if somebody on the other is listening, and Murph pouring her heart out, and there is the unmistakable need of hope, of faith. Much has been said about Mr. McConaughey’s performance, none more encompassing than Danny Bowes defining him as the guitar string that resonates at the frequency of America, and all of that ought to be extended to Ms. Chastain. Mr. Malick made her the mother, and Mr. Nolan comes perilously close to making her the daughter, essentially bringing her to the center of it all. I remember the film, and I am reminded of her, just like the mere mention of The Mirror condenses the image of the mother sitting over the fence. It also ought to be said here that rare has been the occasion where such significant emotional sensual (in a purely platonic way) returns have been drawn from the head of a performer, and this here is one. If that wretched opening-closing shot in Gone Girl is abstracted misogyny, this here is all grace.
As always, I digress, and as always I use those words to pull myself back. To the room. Murph might be the room’s soul, for without her, the room almost doesn’t exist. She’s resisted and seemingly repressed the feelings (memories) the room evoked, and Mr. Nolan patiently builds the narrative, selecting his moments most carefully to switch between the space travel and earth, none more effective than the screen-switch from Cooper to Murph on the other side. Or a pan up to the clouds when Dr. Brand (Mr. Caine) visits Donald (Mr. Lithgow) at the farm , evoking the sense of loneliness and distance and disconnectedness. After the simple narrative pattern of this happened and then this happened of the first act (single line), and the this happened and meanwhile this happened of the second act (parallel lines), it is almost as if he seems to find within the moment Murph mentions the memories of her ghost and the image of Mr. Nolan’s daughter Flora (I suspected the little girl on the truck Murph sees is Mr. Nolan’s daughter, and the end credits told me I suspected right) the necessary trigger to weave all of it that memory space the film seems pre-destined to move towards. There is also the second video from Murph, questioning his intentions and thus questioning the faith and love, and that video causes the same kind of desperation that is most vulnerable because of the guilt inherent to pursuing one’s ambitions. He needs to get back to her, and to that room, and what follows is  unlike anything Mr. Nolan has done till now, for what seem to be mostly disparate this-here-and-meanwhile-this-here events on paper seem to be galvanized narratively finding a new meaning for Murph’s memory. Or Cooper’s. I won’t go into the details of the context, yet there’s probably no harm to be had in disclosing that on the one side of that shelf exists Murph and her memory, and on the other side her father both in and seemingly causing that memory. Or maybe, even caused by the memory.
It is heady upon reflection, and visceral in its immediate impact, with Cooper struggling to survive and trying to dock the ranger, and Murph seeking meaning to her faith in that room, each event seemingly shaping the other. Love, Amelia (Ms. Hathway) says, transcends time, and I think the conduit is memory. You see, memory is not fact, memory is not archived, and memory always exists in the present, being shaped and reshaped all the time. Leonard Shelby wanted to overwrite his memory, but unfortunately he neither had cross-cutting nor did he have Mr. Zimmer’s score. Most importantly, he wasn’t in a science-fiction, and I’m not implying the whole Cooper is dead and these are his dying memories scenario, because Mr. Nolan really wants to transcend the solidity of the world, and yet he is constrained by what he can perceive (Is it rigid, and if it is, is there some kind of relation between that and the lines – the books on the shelf, the sand, the contours of the robots, or the spacecraft, of the representation of the fifth dimension). His characters feel the instinctive need to touch the surfaces around them a lot, Cooper here mostly. The surface of the surveillance drone. Or the air of Miller’s planet while landing. The video screen. The handshake. Even the craft touches the frozen cloud and its legs the surface of the frozen ground of Mann’s planet. There’s this elemental almost perceptible quality he brings to Interstellar, in the texture of the close-ups, in the contrast of the wrinkles of old Murph (Ms. Burstyn) and Cooper, in the crops, or the dust, or the steam coming out of the coffee, or the fireballs crackling along the ship. We need to touch it to know it, I suppose, and as my dear friend Srikanth tells me whenever I start raving about my kindle, hey, we can drop those books on the floor!    
So yeah, Mr. Nolan isn’t implying that all of this is happening is some sort of head-space, because he is probably not even making that distinction. As long as we can touch, as long as we can perceive, as long as we’ve our memories, we’re in our realities. He tried to say the same thing with that damned ending in Inception but I believe he chose to focus on the wrong object, and he doesn’t make that mistake here by providing any sort of easy cynical ambiguities. I’m not really suggesting here that the spinning top is a cynical or gimmicky move as much as it is a filmmaker trying to end with his signature of what his beliefs are, but I would have wanted him to rather make a statement – maybe via a pan from the top towards Cobb. So yeah, Mr. Nolan needs reasons to believe, and believe he does want to. There’s nothing out there and nothing out here, except for us, and that his both humbling and moving. Two people fight in the middle of the icy planet in a bird’s eye-view shot that dwarves us to mere particles against the impersonal enormity of the planet, and yet through the score, and his framing, he finds humanity. Mann (Mr. Damon) is leaving Cooper to suffocate and die, and yet Mr. Nolan finds an over-the-shoulder shot of him looking back. There’s so much there in that shot, like the best of Melville, where we all understand each other’s perspective, for Mann is merely an extension of the pioneer part of Cooper, just as Tom at the farm is the domestic conformist part  (or whatever there is of it) of him. Mr. Nolan rarely, if ever, judges. Mann cannot watch, yet he turns back twice, part of him deeply sorry, part of him wanting Cooper to survive and a part of him rationalizing it all as necessary sacrifice for the larger good of mankind. I had tears in my eyes, and Mr. Damon is an incredible incredible actor. Wonder to Mr. Nolan is in a family pursuing a drone through cornfields, tragedy is in the shot of a man standing in the darkness behind a door waiting for 23 years – that shot of Romilly (Mr. Gyasi) is incredible in the way it both captures his loneliness by crushing it to a moment and a stance. A blip, in the enormous context of the universe. Grace, to Mr. Nolan, are people driving their vehicles in a file while migrating away from the dust bowl, sanctity to him is in those objects we perceive and send to our memory (it is interesting   mystery to him is in the diaphysical rather than the metaphysical, (cue: Mr. Carruth’s Upstream Color), in what we create as opposed to what is already out there (seldom has there been such scant disregard for spectacle provided by outer-space relegating it to the domain of purely functional), warmth to him is Ms. Chastain’s hair (I hope for purely descriptive purposes, this is considered Mr. Nolan’s The Tree of Life rather than the Kubrick film, because he seems to be interpreting/charting history as personal memory most clearly represented in the talking heads), in medium shots, in close-ups of faces looking at each other and up towards the sky, for the sky itself is empty and barren and indifferent and, well, just stares back. Gosh, do the clouds even move?
So yeah, I’ll want to disagree any theory out there that classifies this as a dying man’s wish, because I believe and I want to believe that what’s happened is Mr. Nolan finding a way through the genre he is working in (rationality) and through his technique, to actively shape and alter the memory and its perceptions, thus ending up causing the reality around. Cooper is struggling to survive gasping for air, and Murph once again sees Ms. Flora Nolan, and Mr. Zimmer’s score soars, almost causing her to feel something to push the jeep into the cornfields (almost mirroring the wonder of the earlier drone scene). Like The Hours, or Cloud Atlas, show us, cross-cutting causes the kind of exhilaration music often provides, because there is an inherent immediacy caused by the motion in it. The past becomes alive, and it feels as if anything might be possible.
In Mr. Nolan’s hands, across the barrier of space, it becomes an evidence of the transcendence of love. More than Memento, and maybe even more than The Prestige, there is an incredible union of form and content, and in that room, where Cooper is caught up in the memory space, and Murph outside desperately reinterpreting her memory, it feels almost as if the narrative is fuelling itself. Cooper watches those moments helplessly from the outside practically praying (like the video screens) across the bookshelf to be heard by his daughter and to be stopped, and it is one of the great moments movies have given us. He sees himself leave, and he breaks down, and in a classic usage of deus-ex-machina (as I said, narrative fuelling itself) TARS appears, both to provide context and to provide purpose (the transmission of quantum data). As Leonard Shelby did it all those years ago, the need is to rewrite those memories, or re-contextualize them so as to shift the guilt. This is where Mr. Nolan has made his most poignant and hopeful film yet, helping his protagonist leave the cage of individual memory and finding via love a way to not merely share the memory but essentially rewrite/repurpose them via those memory objects, rendering within them an associative sense and through them a meaning. It is terribly intimate moment, and Mr. Nolan plays it to the grandest most melodramatic pitch possible, wanting to celebrate this transcendence. He believes in the sanctity, for the room and its objects come to represent experience, aspirations, and identity, i.e. memory, and curiously that room with that book shelf and all its objects is not even present (or at least not shown) in the archived model of it on Cooper station. As Amelia says, migrating is not really finding a new condo.
               I want to come back to that room, and Ms. Chastain’s-Ms. Foy’s Murph, and their virtual absence from the final moments on Cooper station and beyond. I look back at the films I have unabashedly loved over the last few years (so much so that some of them are my passwords) – The Grey and its wallets, In the City of Sylvia and the unknown faces, Public Enemies and the trivialization, via history, of pursuits that probably were most personal, Moon and the commodification of memory – and I realize that memory is what kills it for me at the movies. The room is gone, earth’s gone and most importantly Murph has left it behind now that she has the closure and the comfort that it was her dad all along. And yet, amidst all of that there is just that tinge of sadness to the fact that Cooper just doesn’t belong to the present, on the station, where he meets the older Murph, her wrinkles a perceptible reminder of the passage of time, of a memory lost. Cooper has essentially seen three persons in his daughter, and when he feels her hand on her chin and closes his eyes, all I wanted to was to stop articulating it all and cry. She asks him to go, and in what might just be the most moving moment in all of his films, they seemingly share the memory of a new home to return to. It is a glorious declaration of our need for domesticity, of destroying loneliness. Cooper flies, to find Amelia, in the vastness of space, and I hope that wormhole is no longer there, for theory makes way for love and memory. After all, as Mr. Jonathan Nolan observes here, if science (nature) is enormous and formidable and indifferent, science fiction is always there to provide, in the form of a wormhole or a robot, the deus-ex-machina. It is so profoundly sincere and innocent in that hope of its that I want to cuddle up in the corner of my green room and cry. Mr. Nolan here has made a truly great film. More importantly, while I’ve always had boy-name for my future kid – Takeshi Kitano, with Beat being the nickname – I now have a girl-name too. 

Sunday, November 02, 2014


Cast: Madhuri Dixit Nene, Naseeruddin Shah, Arshad Warsi, Huma Qureshi, Vijay Raaz
Director: Abhishek Chaubey
Runtime: 148 min.
Verdict: An intelligent film with an incredibly humane plea.
Genre: Drama

                Let us start with something that sounds like good old-fashioned hyperbole – it astonishes that Mr. Chaubey has only ever made two film, including this one here, especially after one were to parse the images he puts on screen – and then proceed to try and argue that the way it sounds isn’t remotely the way it is. As in, Mr. Chaubey might not be the best filmmaker we have, although he could be there very soon, he sure could be, through their density, up there with our best image-makers. Consider a moment at the very end of his debut film Ishqiya which I discuss here (and I was only disappointed by his choice because it end up as the film I wanted it to be), and its strict cutting out of the external world through stonewalls and a dimly lit room from what is the true essence of that picture – a husband and a wife and the dynamic of their relationship that surrounds them symbolized via the gas cylinders. Unlike his mentor (?) Mr. Vishal Bharadwaj’s recent offerings. Mr. Chaubey’s images sure feel organic to the story but are to be read as much as they are to be felt.
                Consider one here, towards the end, where Khalu (Mr. Shah) and Babban (Mr. Warsi) are bound in something of a warehouse, and they both (not us) see Begum Para (Ms. Dixit Nene) and Muniya (Ms. Qureshi) indulge themselves in bonding and playfulness that is, let’s just say, seems to cross the boundaries of mere friendship. Now, here’s where watching the film as late as I did with complete knowledge of the supposed relationship between the two women – apparently they’re lesbians – really helped, for as with most narrative twists, I was looking for evidence and I could find none. I was confused, until this shot came along, and in hindsight I consider myself so fortunate to have watched the film the way I did, for often I’m slow and I fear I might have completely missed the point.

                But let us come back to that shot, and parse that wonderful wonderful image. Khalu is hand-tied, and so is Babban off-screen, and to the left we see the shadows of Begum Para and Muniya together in a heap. As in, no daylight between them. Moments earlier both the males look with their brows raised as Begum and Muniya play together, leading Khalu to comment – Thand lag rahi hai, lihaaf maang le (It’s pretty chilly, should we ask for a quilt) – leading Babban to laugh. Over and above being a nod to Ismat Chughtai’s Lihaaf (more of which could be learnt here), and something that smacks of homophobia, what it also reveals is our need to classify things into brackets so that we can understand them. A green apple is an apple, and a red apple is an apple. It makes us less anxious, making the unknown familiar. Mr. Chaubey’s orchestration of the image and all its variables (and what they represent) is quite genius in the way he doesn’t show us the action, but turns the view on itself. The shadows aren’t Begum and Muniya, as much as they are our viewpoint of them, and Mr. Chaubey smartly and dare I say damningly turns that on us. As in Ishqiya, Khalu and Babban seem to represent something close to idiots, i.e. us viewers, who scarcely understand the world and its various dynamics. They’re journeymen, or like one of them travel-channel anchors, trying to discover (and in the process sell) the world for us, and as much as Krishna (Ms. Balan in Ishqiya) turned their (and our) perspective of her upside down, the shadowplay is desperately interpreted as foreplay by that comment from Khalu.
                And in this image from Mr. Chaubey, those shadows being viewpoints is not merely an interpretation. That is, it is not the prerogative of the viewer, but that these shadows are a part of a performance. It might be worthwhile here to mention that if not anything else, Dedh Ishqiya is all about performativity, especially of the gender kind, and all of its characters are caught in moments where they are exhibiting themselves to an audience, and thus conducting themselves accordingly. Allow me to share a few of these –

Here’s Begum Para being a dancer, and Khalu with all the chauvinistic entitlement one can attribute to such a moment, peeking through the door and appreciating the “feminine grace”. Also, that the performer is Ms. Dixit (whose identity/classification can be done on two counts – (a) dancing queen (b) million dollar smile – and I suppose I don’t have to tell you it is as much an appreciation of her talents as much as it is a straight-jacketing of her identity).  

Here, moments later, Begum and Muniya perform together, and Khalu and Babban peek together. Performance being watched by, well, a performance. 

Crudely speaking, boys and their toys. Crucial here, Mr. Chaubey’s composition. 

Men standoff in a circle, while women gather in a circle. In the night. 

Men, aside from peeking through dusty windows, also wax poetry, for it is their prerogative to appreciate. 

                Now, I do hope that these moments have provided some kind of context as to what that film is all about – we are all performers, performing to the idea of an identity created by society culture and history. Mr. Chaubey’s great move, both via the script and via his staging, is to classify sex as an act, as a performance. In that way, the irony within the scene is not slight as most of the irony in movies is these days, but heavy and bordering on tragic. On the face of it, Khalu and Babban are tied, but by turning it into a flat image by superimposing the performance on the viewer, Mr. Chaubey’s makes the performers prisoners of their identities.
                Does this fly in the face of Freud’s pleasure principle? Rather, I would say, it argues for it, for sex is a desire, but a performance is an act that communicates with the ego. Leonard Shelby was indulging in a broad performance of an avenging husband for he wanted to satiate his ego, i.e. his identity of himself. Thus performance is ripe enough to use as a manipulating device, and our culture does make sure that our desires are strongly dictated by our identities, which in turn are shaped and classified by that culture. Muniya makes sure to manipulate Babban, for his identity (alpha male) is intermingled with his desires (heterosexual male) so much so that there’s significant confusion over there. Mr. Chaubey implicates Babban too, when he kinda cuts the sex from the frame, and instead zeroes in on him early in the film. 

So yeah, what he intends to say is to want the id and the pleasure seeking impulses not to be hijacked by the pressures of identity. Begum Para and Muniya are thirsty, and when the two are running away, hand-in-hand, towards freedom, all they seek is to quench their thirst. That they drink straight from the bottle sticking it into their mouths, or pour it into a glass and sip it is their prerogative. In fact, even they are thirsty might just be our assumption. Dedh Ishqiya sure has a twist in its narrative, but the twist isn’t that Begum Para is not an aristocratic woman, or that she and Muniya are lesbian lovers. The twist is that their identities and desires and pleasures are far different from what their society attributes them with, or even forces onto them. Mr. Chaubey never concedes, and in his determination to not include anything gratuitous or indicative, all he wants to say is that two people can mean the world to each other without us wanting to throw in desires and sex into the mix. Here’s a thoughtful filmmaker for you, and I tell you, they come so rare.