The Dhobi Ghat Review

Some Bollywood films boast definite punchlines, while others capture a mood or offer up an open-ended slice of life. Dhobi Ghat hits the sweet spot. 

This film is a triumph. It is nothing short of a slam-dunk for cineastes, romantics, and Mumbaiphiles. Dhobi Ghat is gorgeous, bittersweet, tender and transcendent. It doesn’t reveal its writhing agony until the final act - it's risky material for a first-time director, but Kiran Rao’s involving screenplay and her remarkably assured handling of the material somehow brings it all together into an effective, charmingly offbeat whole. Rao sustains a lyrical, moving tone all the way to the film’s satisfactory ending, and invests a great deal in every scene - the power of even the briefest of human interactions and the fall-out of being in the wrong place at the wrong time are communicated with depth and economy. This is Rao’s audacious ode to Mumbai - a dark place where intense sadness and closure co-exist side by side. Pain resurfaces, and though washed in redemption, it still demands a sacrifice.  

With grey shots of a rain-soaked Marine Drive, Rao begins on slightly shaky ground, but once she settles in, she gradually twists the fabric of her film into something moving, deep and sophisticated. Dhobi Ghat explores an array of timely and time-tested themes such as infidelity, grief, loneliness, racism, immigration. There is beautiful imagery - most fine are those scenes that strive to capture the swooningly mysterious, grungy atmosphere that's endeared so many to Mumbai. The film is rooted in the relationship between four people, as well as between those people and their milieu. Atmosphere and mood are-a-plenty as we see Munna (Prateik) taking a bath near the railway tracks outside his chawl, Arun (Aamir) painting in torrid rain to the backdrop of Siddeshwari Devi and Begum Akhtar, Munna and Shai (Monica Dogra) strolling along the yellow gaslit Mohammad Ali road. Examinations of varying degrees of compassion accumulate through many of the scenes until it infects the film as a whole. With plot threads about people jilted, married, or about-to-be-divorced, about relationships about to begin or that could have been, Dhobi Ghat movingly weaves a quilt of optimistic humanism. If there is a recurring theme, it's the power of love, or perhaps the endless possibilities of the city. What is amazing is how each sub-plot of Dhobi Ghat involves you in the plight of characters you identify with and resolves their predicaments in a devastating manner. There is a scene where a character repeatedly tries to inscribe letters on a sandy beach, only to see the waves wipe them away  each time - of all such segments that comprise the film, it comes the closest to depicting honestly what it feels like to fall helplessly in love. 

Dhobi Ghat ends on an unexpectedly wistful note (though it could also be hopeful, depending on your perspective). It's not sexy or stylish or glamorous or any of the things you might assume Mumbai to be after watching such horrendous films as OUATIM or Life in a Metro. 

Problems? Yes there are a few - as a singular essay on Mumbai, the film doesn't quite succeed because the vision behind it isn't unified. Instead, it achieves success sheerly through the talent involved.  What you're left with is somewhat disjointed and only as satisfactory as the quality of the plot shards that agree with you. It's like having the sample plate at a restaurant - it never feels quite like a real meal, yet can be delicious just the same. A generous critic might try to conclude that Aamir’s English is, in fact, intended to reflect a virulent strain of urban Mumbaiyya lingo. Shockingly, it’s not, and it comes off as jarring and unconvincing. Regardless, it's a bitter piece of dessert with which to conclude Dhobi Ghat's assortment of trifles.  Shame, because Aamir’s eyes can communicate in five minutes what most Bollywood actors couldn't do in half-an-hour. Interstitial shots of Aamir painting don't add much and veer dangerously close to saccharine.   

While too fleeting in grace to be a truly great film, Dhobi Ghat does however reward the hope offered with this prestigious cast and crew. Both Prateik and Monica Dogra are excellent finds - and these two are given the space to win us over gently.  Prateik in particular is marvelously subtle as the young Bihari immigrant dhobiwala who moonlights as a wannabe actor and a gigolo. Kriti Malhotra is excellent as a hapless wife of exquisite complexity, as her character grows increasingly crucial to the film's emotive punch.  Director Kiran Rao communicates the understated despair of average individuals with poignancy, humor, and sympathy. It's amazing how much depth was drawn from quick character sketches and how deftly they worked my emotions with simple performances and the film’s ingenious narrative. Watch.

The Tees Maar Khan Review

There are students finalizing masters degrees in Artificial Intelligence who were newborns when Akshay Kumar last appeared in a watchable comedy. And if they’re still debating their thesis, they might consider Akshay’s synthetic fixations, given nauseating display in ‘Tees Maar Khan’. There is something to be said about Bollywood production houses when a film as desperately inane as TMK comes along - only a human vegetable could have seen the final cut of this movie and not have had any concerns about the putrid level of quality on display.

Hideously directed by Farah Khan, ‘Tees Maar Khan’ just staggers on as if it is paralysed, completely oblivious about what to do and how to do it. The film is nothing but a gimmick in masquerading as a movie – how to get Akki into as many silly costumes and deliver as many stupid expressions as possible, plot mechanics be damned. This poor excuse of a comedy is so misconceived on every level, it's almost mesmerizing to watch, if you don't mind pain, that is. And Sirish Kunder  knows how to make you hurt. On a scale of cinematic pride, Farah Khan qualifies a rung above the makers of snuff films. There is not a shred of originality or invention in 'Tees Maar Khan', as Messrs. Kunder and Khan borrow listlessly from a certain 1966 Peter Sellers film which poked fun at movie stars and film critics. I'd recommend this Bollywood remake for a good nap, except the grating, infuriatingly out-of-place sound effects and cheaply conceived music by Vishal-Shekhar would jar you awake.

‘Tees Maar Khan’ has all the nuance of a film made to entertain a donkey – the cast and crew members receive Oscars at the climax, no less. At the very thought of Akki dressing up in different costumes and conning the heck out of everyone, with Katrina gyrating to ‘Sheila ki Jawani’, one may expect some timepass entertainment value. Sadly, we’re treated with Tabrez Mirza (Akki), who while in his mother’s womb is inspired to rob. The lad grows up to be Tees Maar Con and dates a dumb-as-a-doorknob wannabe actress (Katrina). The conniving Johri twins (the annoying Raghu Ram and Rajiv) brief Tabrez to rob a locomotive full of antiques, and what follows is a train wreck barrage of recycled spoofs and excruciating jokes that render you stonefaced. It’s all just a poorly disguised cesspool constructed as a motion picture, complete with blaring inappropriate music within badly bungled gags. ‘Tees Maar Khan’ also appears to be chopped up and put back together again by Mr Kunder, as the narrative profusely leaps around from one scene to another, relying on irritating plot conveniences to fill in the blanks. It’s this kind of negligence to the art of comedy construction that plagues the film. You get the feeling that Akki gave his all, and that he and Farah Khan relied on the belief that gold could eventually be culled from Akki’s hamming.  It only makes for the cinematic equivalent of a kid who annoys you by repeating everything you say.

It becomes impossible to pity Akshay Kumar as he stars in another loop in his shame spiral, a path that began right where ‘Tashan’ ended. A glance at his filmography makes one wonder if Akshay is deliberately trying his best to sabotage his own career. And his career will not recover from this mess, though on the bright side I doubt that anyone will ever care. Katrina needed a paycheck so that's understandable, but after a such a surreally horrid turn in a movie like this I hope she isn't expecting to pick up another. Third-rate cameos by Akshaye Khanna, Salman Khan, Arya Babbar etc are inexplicable. There is just one person who scarcely manages to muscle his way out of the wreckage - Chunky Pandey - the man is so far above the insulting material he has to work with that he might as well have filmed his scenes in outer space.

‘Tees Maar Khan’ is brutally unfunny, horrendously contrived and wholly annoying. There is nothing more nightmarish than a comedy film that doesn't have even a single tolerable moment of hilarity, unless it is a film that doesn't have even a single tolerable moment. ‘Tees Maar Khan’ has achieved such a feat. 

The Nagavalli Review

There was a time when P. Vasu was a great director. In 1998, he made his splash in 'Suyamvaram'; in 1999, he burst onto the horror scene with the spine tingling 'Hogi pyaar ki jeet'. Of course, his best film was 1996's masterpiece 'Love birds', but he also made 2004's 'Apthamitra', and its 2005 remake 'Chandramukhi'. Somehow, Vasu lost his touch, with junk like his failed 2008 remake of 'Kadha Parayumbol', to his uninspired but successful sequel 'Aptharakshaka' and 'Gajibiji'. Those movies, however, look like cinematic works of art compared to his latest film remake. Neither the spooky antagonist's novelty nor Vasu's horror skill have aged very well, as evidenced by the schlocky 'Nagavalli'.

 

It is a sad state of affairs when the trio of Anushka, Richa and Venkatesh can star in something as misguided and flatly written and filmed as 'Nagavalli'. This film leaves you with a groan: a groan that this tired series may not yet be over; a groan that you blew hard-earned cash to see it; but most of all, a groan that you've just lost 150 minutes of your life that can never be recovered. Nagavalli's got loud music, it's got cringe-inducing humour, it's got jarring camera angles and sinful psychosis. It's only a matter of time before it's declared a sacrilege. As in most desi horror films, there isn't much character development, just a lot of screaming, dancing, pouting, gasping, eyebrow arching, costume flaunting and makeup. There are a few surprises and some attempt at a plot, but generally, despite a promising start and generous footage of Richa Gangapodhyay quivering, this movie fails to rise above the muck of the horror genre.

 

There is, in fact, an awful lot of hokey lore to absorb in the story - the characters spend far too much time telling each other (and the audience) a lot of mumbo jumbo that presumably they already should know. They also regularly remind each other of the rules of ghost hunting (Rule No. 10: You can't ever buy a big mansion as it will most certainly be haunted). Keep track of all this because there's a quiz before they'll let you out of the theater. Here we have a wealthy bloke (Sarath) whose eldest daughter Gayatri (Kamlinee Mukherjee) dies after being gifted a painting of a certain medieval dancer in Revlon and Maybelline (Anushka).  Naturally odd things begin to happen, and Mr Cash calls Head Shrinker (Venkatesh) for help. Like in 'Apthamitra', 'Chandramukhi', ' Aptharakshaka' and 'Bhool Bhulaiyya', the psychiatrist moves into Mr Cash's home to solve the case. Forget prayers and jadui tabeez: it takes a lot of aggressive hamming and singing to subdue a ghost enough to get her out of a dark shelter. 

 

All of the added humor does not make 'Nagavalli' a good film - just a campy one. In fact, the film's big problem is just that, being too over-the-top too much of the time, from the acting (the dreadful Shraddha Das in particular) to story developments (yes, six leading ladies and Venky wearing jewelry are a treat to watch, but still...). Even a film called Nagavalli could use some restraint and be all the better for it. The most disheartening thing about Nagavalli, however, is not its campiness, but its lack of scares; it's hard to believe the same man who made the elegantly scary Captain Vijaykanth classic 'Sethupathi IPS' directed this piece of schlock.

 

What Nagavalli does get right is atmosphere. A great deal of credit goes to the cinematography by Shyam Naidu, and Rama Rajamouli's costumes which are convincing and, yes, less than repulsive. Venkatesh's insufferably smug performance makes the character even more unsavory. He is into his I'm-just-holding-on-to-sanity-by-a-thread persona here. Anushka in her minuscule role harnesses a certain look in her eyes and various gradations of trembling to convey a striking range of conflicted emotions. Richa's telepathic frissons help deepen the film's basically irreverent stance.

 

There is not an ounce of intelligence, or excitement in 'Nagavalli'. If anybody out there doesn't have enough corn in his life already, consider giving Vasu's newest remake a whirl. I do admit his prowess behind the camera and his ability to make you unintentionally laugh, although not his creative ability.

 

 

 

 

 

The Harry Potter & the Deathly Hallows Review

What a disappointing dearth of cinematic magic.

The latest Harry Potter film is Deathly Shallow and proves that it is possible to portray JK Rowling's outrageously entertaining, labyrinthine saga as a lumpy, bland, gray slop of pulpy goo. In the fifth book Dolores Umbridge had outlawed both fun and magic, and it is unfortunate that UK TV director David Yates and screenwriter Steve Kloves have done just the same in the past three installments. Is James Cameron the only Hollywood director allowed to make three plus hour films? I find it hilarious that Potter fans have believed Warner Bros' claim that there was too much material in the seventh book to fit in one film. Avarice and hogwash. Didn't Peter Jackson and Phillipa Boyens skilfully adapt the outsized 'Lord of the Rings' into a classic trilogy? Deathly Hallows is just something out of an assembly line that is packaged with the ad 'Part 2 in July 2011 in 3D'. Its daylight robbery is what it is. And Warner have a 800+ million reasons to break into your Gringotts vault.

With 'Deathly Hallows', a fruitcake of a film rife with exposition but woeful lack of payoff, the Harry Potter franchise hits a stiff series low. Even the wizards can't seem to wave off irony with their wands, as the most exciting book of the septology feels like the longest film of the lot. The decline of the Harry Potter franchise has always been due to its unrelenting change in directors - Chris Columbus was criticized for being too faithful to the first two books (for reasons I cannot quite fathom); Alfonso Cuaron's refreshing 'Prisoner of Azkaban', the best film of them all was dark, artsy and glorious, but curiously made the least amount of money. Mike Newell's 'Goblet of Fire', an inhumanly chopped product was the most action-packed but also jarringly disjointed. Yet even in those movies there were beautiful moments - like Harry, Ron, Neville, Seamus goofing around in 'Azkaban', the flying car sequence from 'Chamber of secrets', Hermione passing a message to Harry from a disgruntled Ron through ten other people in 'Goblet of Fire'. Moments like these made for great cinema. 'Deathly Hallows' has no such moments. All we get are dozens of aerial shots of sweeping plains a la LOTR, loud noise and eye-glazing edits - nothing that is the least bit magical or original.

Cuaron and even Newell demonstrated that darker Potters could still be fun, but Yates, with his gray and black palette paints some deadly dull imagery. He has absolutely no flair for visual grandeur. Nor for seamless direction, as he doles out a watershed of backstory, revelations and plot clarifications with fragmented subplots from the novel that are never given any screen time to develop or any real importance. Kreacher shambles on screen a couple of times without his significance ever explained. And like in the previous film, we are treated with a barrage of supporting characters made of a dizzying onslaught of Britain's finest actors, who're yet again left unexplored - they're merely used as props in a speed-tour through the mythology's greatest hits. Lord Voldemort continues to show up only as a teaser for future installments, has Yates forgotten that there's only one film left? The legendary John Hurt, who plays Ollivander and was last seen in the first film almost a decade ago has exactly one line.

I get that reviewing a film based on a book is like uber-fan nitpicking. They messed with the opening chapter! They didn't show Mad-eye Moody's death! They omitted Voldemort's presence at Godric's Hollow! What next, God, what next?! Understandable, but how can one forgive pedestrian direction, less than spectacular CGI and narrative padding? They're all legitimate targets for criticism, and one can find all of that in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

There really is just one scene in the film which leaves an impression - a nifty flashback involving gorgeous, vibrant, animated silhouettes that explains the origin of the Deathly Hallows. The Mission Impossible style sequence where Harry, Ron and Hermione pop some Polyjuice and assume the form of office workers to penetrate the Ministry of Magic is decent as well. But the overall impact wanes more than waxes, courtesy of an amateurishly filmed clutter of explosions, plot shards and celebrity cameos. Save for a little dance between Harry and Hermione in a tent, there's no room for the gentle human moments that anchor Rowling's heroic fantasy epic to the everyday world. And then there are metaphors that are all too implicit in the film - Nazis, bureaucracy and racism - strangely none of the political subtexts really come alive.

Daniel Radcliffe is clearly willing and able to take Harry to deeper, darker places, but is in severe need of Helena Bonham-Carter's manic cartoonish energy. Rupert Grint displays sparks of brilliance but is frustratingly dumbed down by Yates. Emma Watson, a super star in the making, mercifully keeps her eyebrows under control. The much-ballyhooed nude scene between Radcliffe and Watson renders the least passionate kiss in the long, sad history of dispassionate Hollywood kisses. The only reason I'm looking forward to Part 2 is that I will finally have put all this behind me.

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows would have worked as a single film and a single colossal experience for audiences. Imagine reading the final Potter book on the first day of release, and JK Rowling suddenly apparating in your room and snatching the book from your hands while you're on the 500th page. And then asking you to read the rest next year. And then telling you to buy the book all over again to read the remaining portion. Dear Pottermaniacs, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows is nothing more than an exercise in loyalty. Avada Kedavra, franchise.