ACTUALLY, WORKS

DIRECTED BY RICHARD CURTIS

STARRING: LIAM NEESON, THOMAS SANGSTER, HUGH GRANT, BILL NIGHY, EMMA THOMPSON, ALAN RICKMAN, LAURA LINNEY and a whole lot of others

Hold your thoughts around, this is a one-minute review that took two (and a little more) hours to come about, so that means I’m not going to be taking much of your time. A kind of staunch opposite of Richard Curtis, who not only wants his audience to slack around until the very end where he has some violins he’d blast and some pipes and saxophones he’d let to flare for the full effect of a ‘finale’ to sink in, but also shows to be cheeky enough to laugh at it through a very depiction of ‘far-fetched’ness in form of the aptly-performing Thomas Sangster.

Inevitably comparable to such peers (or ‘soon-to-come’s) as ‘Paris Je T’aime’ and its New York mimic, or so I felt – I’m doing this not as a quality check or a judgement on entertainment quotient, but as a highlight of the fact that the tales are pretty much disconnected and not interwoven, resulting in the effect of a bunch of films with a Christmas connection thrown in, with a school play being the rehearsal room. What is disheartening (and also, ironically, enchanting) about this film is that there is no effort, not even the slightest assurance from the makers’ side to close-in on the gap that so clearly demarcates the conventional romantic comedy from anything else that’s remotely equivalent to a piece of cinema.

Does that make ‘Love Actually’ worthless? Absolutely not. It gladdens, it helps bring yourself together, it’d probably help bring people together – heck, it definitely did spring up quite an exquisite cast! – the music is good (central song plus sprightly additives) and all this along with a whole show of faithfulness to an existing formula means ‘Love Actually’ could be ‘the’ classic example for a romantic comedy, coming from the man who once helped spice the grammar of it by the very act of writing one of his own. And with his directorial debut, he’s gone on to make the moments stick out to take you through the hours, his attempt at making an anterograde amnesiac out of the avid viewer a considerable success.

I only remember the twinkly-eyes that’s Colin Firth, Laura Linney, Liam Neeson and the Portuguese temptress whose name I do not know. Now, would you blame me for that?

HOLY IT IS

DIRECTED BY ROB EPSTEIN & JEFFREY FRIEDMAN

STARRING: JAMES FRANCO, DAVID STRATHAIRN, ALESSANDRO NIVOLA, BOB BALABAN, JON HAMM, MARY-LOUISE PARKER, TREAT WILLIAMS, AARON TVELT AND JEFF DANIELS

‘Howl’ is the kind of film that makes you want to hear the opposition – the tone of the defence is so empowered and mighty with respect to your contemporary viewership that, perhaps out of pity or out of sheer curiosity, you want to hear what people could actually back their accusations upon when regarding contemporary literature and the acceptance (if not rejection) of the same. It’s like one can’t build something enough to beat the might of a new movement, one that not just reaches out for the masses but also endears, moves and has auditory intercourse with them, the perpetrator being a legend on the rise by the name of Allen Ginsberg (James Franco).

It’s easy playing Ginsberg, if you count the manner of speaking and the homosexual icing off. Agreeable that he isn’t the most celebrated, even in today’s cosmopolitan ambience where people had taken the pains to invent art out of profanity, vanity and insanity, and that’s not negative criticism on my part. But what hooked me in was the idea of a man of today stepping into yesterday’s shoes without a sign of being mortified about the very idea of it, if not shattered out of his senses and sentimentally regressive to be doing it in the first place. Yes, I speak for Ralph McIntosh, (David Strathairn) and more importantly for the actor himself, and in that context I was quite overwhelmed by his personal conviction that probably helmed the essaying of the role. But McIntosh definitely has to be enacted, for ‘to be lived’ is to be identified as alien – a Ginsberg equivalent in the world of now.

All said, James Franco does come up with a performance that helps grab a substantial chunk of the year’s acting potential, although the dimensions are in no way boggling. It’s neat, but not magnificent although it definitely was as lethargic as it’s meant to be, succinct with its depiction of superstardom and most importantly, a level of intensity that suggested that he was indeed having fun. The recitations are dynamite, animations repetitive, which, although helping enhance the psychedelic quotient, acts detrimental to the pace of the film that needs to be thankful to its sonorous backing track (not to mention the stirring score by Carter Burwell). But, with all its commendable thrusts of opinion and conventional standpoints on the idea of poetry, I would settle to view ‘Howl’ as a courtroom drama, a keyhole opening to distinctive reality that asserts itself with a failure to negate. Plus there’s wisdom, with Judge Clayton Horn contributing most of it – reminds me to look out for more of Bob Balaban.

A riveting drama that deconstructs dramatic acting to documentary proportions, thus making it far more endearing, ‘Howl’ necessitates itself with the viewer’s inclination to watch it, where it’s only clear that one’s decision to watch ‘Howl’ is not just an empowerment, but a guarantee to subsequent appreciation. 

It’s 80 minutes of Jizz and Jazz juxtaposed. Work it if you've a feel for it.

DRAWING-BOARD STUFF

DIRECTED BY EDGAR WRIGHT

STARRING: MICHAEL CERA, MARY ELIZABETH WINSTEAD, ELLEN WONG, KIERAN CULKIN, ANNA KENDRICK, ALISON PILL, MARK WEBBER, BRANDON ROUTH AND JASON SCHWARTZMANN

Why does a film like ‘Scott Pilgrim vs. the world’ deserve a review? I mean, this is a film that’s somewhere between a video game and a comic book (I prefer to use this term, thank you) – it’s actually a comic book about a video game, and where does that leave it on a level of seriousness that could actually provoke even the remotest need to be analyzed critically? Well, it doesn’t, but that’s not the end of the story. There’s still the originality element and the extravagant mood it creates by being what it is and that unavoidably made me to retrospect on its effectiveness as an entertainer.

Pretty effective, in short. Michael Cera stands there being himself with his awkwardly loose muscles that simply can’t get up in the air unless they’re hoisted, and as hilarious and laugh-worthy as that is, he definitely has to come up with something better in the immediate future to 1) break the cliché and 2) to actually get down to doing something. The dumb-cool guy look might suit him, but it’s still tiring. And the additives are enjoyable, this film discusses a girl who actually could inspire ‘like-at-first-sight’, something one cannot help but relate to the effect that Kate Winslet produced in one ‘Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind’ – there’s actually infinite number of resemblances, and I do not know if it’s actually a basis. From what I saw, there appeared to be some faith.

The duels with the ‘ex-es’ are enjoyable, the visual effects mind-manipulating, making one think twice about passing this off as yet another slipshod effort at invoking humour, something that makes ‘Scott Pilgrim’ stand midway between a 12 year-old show stealer (like ‘Spy Kids’ or its dubious sequels) and a signature flick that’s solely meant for the eyes. What’s pleasant, moreover, is the fact that it doesn’t defy itself. There’s absolutely no intervention from anyone who shouldn’t be in the movie in the first place (like Anna Kendrick in this wasted role of miss ‘phonecall sister’) and thus when I see Scott Pilgrim, I see a metaphor for one that’s trying to prove his love along with trying to prove himself and all said, the hilarity definitely takes the grit away from the intention, despite the fact that that hilarity serves to entertain by itself. It complicates the critical eye for this is a film that does not reach the mind with the wildest of its efforts, and what can one do if he’s been left eye-dazzled?

Well, then that person has fifteen minutes to wake-up in this ‘nothing’ of a climax that helps one get back to square one. To understand the no-brainer, laugh at Mr. Schwartzmann after a howl at Mr. Routh, have a smile on the face for ‘Monster vs. the Dragons’, a reluctant acceptance of Michael Cera for what could be the very last time considering tolerance levels and last but not the least, hope that no one – NO ONE – ever attempts to bring to the screen such infantile comic strips such as this, no matter how great the effort or the CGI team.

A PRELUDE; A TRIUMPH

DIRECTED BY WOODY ALLEN

STARRING: MICHAEL CAINE, MIA FARROW, BARBARA HERSHEY, CARRIE FISHER, DIANNE WEST, MAX VON SYDOW AND WOODY ALLEN

It is an unavoidable thought that tells me every time I deal with a Woody Allen film that I am up against a man who knows quite a lot of things, which is why the mind decides to probe beyond the film itself, seek for analogies, excerpts from quite a bit of life that he happens to have lived to find the phase that could probably have inspired the same. And the reason, I suspect, why I liked ‘Hannah and her Sisters’ so much is because it somehow completed the puzzle, which, I happened to be attempting to solve in the wrong direction in the first place.

But I’m not saying that this would revive my interests in my (personally) lesser-liked films of his like ‘Crimes and Misdemeanors’ (1989) or its 2005 replica ‘Match Point’, I had my reasons for the developed distaste that sugar won’t solve but I still managed to piece them into his life and I find that to be reassuring. To me, it is like knowing the man by knowing his phases so I can get myself to understand which phases of his I could (or should) actually like citing congruousness. And it is this congruousness that I found in ‘Hannah and her Sisters’, which easily serves to be the prelude to a disastrous chain of events, possibly a downfall of thought that he happened to revive only after years of stabilizing himself post-1997. ‘Vicky Cristina Barcelona’ is the gem that I’m talking about, following a couple of retraces he took to find his way.

It’s been 25 years, so I guess I’m alright with spoilers. ‘Hannah and her Sisters’ is essentially (as I saw it) a story of three sisters and three men, two of whom are (or have been) involved with more than one. And the course of things is not exactly an ethical dissection, as was the case with the then-forthcoming ‘Crimes and Misdemeanors’, but a basic pursuit of frames of mind and those lines that could possibly lead to the same. The King, as powerless as he stands by himself, is played by Michael Caine, a soft-spoken bureaucrat whose anxious moments are almost entirely correlated with his actions with the contrary being true too. The Queen (Mia Farrow) has princesses one too many associated with both her husbands in what appears to be an underdone amount of screen space and emotional scope, and then there’s Allen himself, the jester who was once a crown prince and gets there again towards the end. With him there’s his wit around, and also a level of tranquility that one associates with his more serious role like ‘Annie Hall’ – I could almost see shades of Alvy Singer or may I be deluded if I didn’t.

For a man who’s been around for almost a half a century, what could make ‘Hannah and her Sisters’ one of the most crucial films of his career? Well, for one, it’s clarity, something that he achieves not just by quoting Tolstoy but also sufficiently through even his lesser characteristic pawns on screen: like Holly (Dianne West) for instance. Maybe it’s that period when the train slows down to make the ride look a little longer, maybe it’s because of the three distinctly monotonous thanksgiving atmospheres that Allen manages to create, maybe it’s the dewy-eyed Elliot who sees what he sees in exactly the way he likes to see it. Or maybe it’s just the best of Bach that’s been extensively utilized to fill the canvases. Either way, I could convincingly say that despite all the references, all thematic elements dealt and all kinds of loud thoughts that Allen promises the viewer, ‘Hannah and her Sisters’ is one film where he’s had his words underplayed by the voice of heart and that, for once, helps appreciate its resilience.

In other words, this is a film about the women, where the men do a ‘come and go’. And that’s oddly strengthening, as a thought.

WELL, IT CONNECTS.

DIRECTED BY DAVID FINCHER

STARRING: JESSE EISENBERG, ANDREW GARFIELD, JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE, MAX MINGHELLA, ARMIE HAMMER, JOSEPH MAZZELLO, ROONEY MARA, BRENDA SONG AND RASHIDA JONES

Why should a film like ‘the Social Network’ be made? I’m not asking that question in a cinematic sense, I’m merely curious about what ethic could possibly motivate a screenwriter to write this case study or for a director (let alone the likes of David Fincher) to get this to life. It characterizes a widely talked-about bunch of events, and knowing that, the question becomes “Why should the world be told more on the founding of Facebook?” Maybe I, as the viewer, have no authority to ask that question, because to stand against the content would mean a contradiction of my decision to watch the film in the first place. And I needed to take my time to get that out of my system.

Past that, I come to the characters and related performances – an assembly of rising stars. The film’s intelligence begins with its casting, where the rawness of the characters is reflected in the actors themselves. Someone like Justin Timberlake is called upon to play an ‘aged’ campaigner; Brenda Song gets to play the clichéd girlfriend, and the rest of them make to prove a point. This is what I saw as perfect – an array of actors trying to make their presence felt incredibly correlates with the characters, who are more or less doing the same thing. Kind of like ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’, taking up the roles prescribed and trying to put some weight on them – but in suits (pun intended) and hoodies.

The people, now – with names unchanged, and that’s definitely something, because it means there cannot be room for dramatic fictionalization, which can come but only as a compromise. I would not like to comment on the extents of it (simply because I do not know) but I can surely assert upon existence. This film presents to you a Mark Zuckerberg of itself, of what the writer (Ben Mezrich, ‘The Accidental Billionaires’; Allen Sorkin) had extrapolated him to be. Same goes with those with him, those against him and I’m not saying that anything can be done about it, I’m just stating a fact. It has long been this fact that stands in the way of every ‘real’ story told, but ‘the Social Network’ didn’t seem to worry about it. And that’s because they’ve taken a story and have made it ‘cool’. That, I feel, seals it.

Now, how does this film, David Fincher and all, prove its worth? One, I felt, was through its exceptionally long conversations (two specifically delightful ones – at the very beginning and somewhere halfway through) and the film’s feat of arming them with wit and pace, aspects of fast-working minds. It is merciless in this regard, but while on the one hand where it blatantly says that it’s not one for you if you’re not up for the ordeal, on the other it serves to spoon-feed some major details while still not compromising on the speed of narration. The whole film could be bundled up as a bunch of extremely well-thought and vividly-enacted dialogues, where the latter serves to be its second most important stronghold. There is just so much intensity, so many hectic maneuvers through the plot that makes one feel that the swimming pool dip was entirely worth it. But on a serious note, nowhere is this film about the fun – 90 percent (speculatively) of serious conversation happens in places out of place, and I felt that was commendable, that helps keeps focus and also focus on the same. Uncanny.

Still, all said, the weight of ‘the Social Network’ lies on older (mature) shoulders. Marilyn Delpy (Rashida Jones) slows Mark down for a while where he leaves Facebook behind, Erika Albright (Rooney Mara) wishes him best with his video-game and a lawyer scoffs at him with the bottomline. And yet, this film would be known for the fistfight it is, the pace it’s presented in and not to mention its Jewish angst in hostile sociability and yeah, it’s wicked smartness. 

And that makes all the difference.

IT'S JUST THE MONEY THAT DOESN'T SLEEP

DIRECTED BY OLIVER STONE

STARRING: SHIA LABEOUF, MICHAEL DOUGLAS, CAREY MULLIGAN, JOSH BROLIN, ELI WALLACH, SUSAN SARANDON AND FRANK LANGELLA

‘Wall Street 2’ or rather ‘Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps’ makes sense from the first scene and sticks to its point from there on – except that it really doesn’t have much to say. I mean, I look at Gordon Gekko, I see Hannibal Lecter, like turning an edge against another, like a common enemy and hence a friend, but it’s just not going to be as simple as that. Things are interweaved, it’s easier thus to navigate between character-interactions, Winnie (Carey Mulligan) shares a common knot. Of course, Jacob Moore (Shia Labeouf) does too and so does Bretton James. I guess I don’t even have to mention Mr. Gekko in this list.

What I mean to say is that it’s much easier on the writer’s part to construct a scenario, but where it stands on shaky grounds is based on the fact there’s actually no ground at all. The factor of ‘greed’ taking a Buddhist turn appears to be at the forefront, the girl helps hold things up tight in the middle and stop people from falling apart. There’s not much of a pushing force to alienate the characters either way, Bretton James is easily way less fierce than Gekko from ‘Wall Street’ the original. True, Josh Brolin underperforms too, he should probably get back to the storyboard on ‘W’ instead of trying to motorcycle his way ahead – he’s hardly the shark he’s supposed to be. I think I’m mistaken, though, I think I’ve completely got the wrong end of the thread. Maybe I’m antagonizing the wrong person that my choice leaves me hardly shaken, despite one of my character-liaisons Louis Zebel (Frank Langella) bows out in front of a subway train.

Maybe it’s all about the market, as less as we see about it. This is a film where we hear more than we see; more than we feel. I can swear that I found more impact in a film like ‘the Girlfriend Experience’ than this one, despite all the hype and humdrums – at least in terms of being hit by the recession. I see people walking around with their foreheads wrinkled, palms on their faces, sobriety hovering around, but I really don’t get to ‘be’ there. I guess you’d get that right if you got your hands on this one.

I really do not want to call this film unconvincing, though. I’m torn between staying loyal to character consistencies and further development, radical changes, what not. It’s like liking ‘Spiderman 3’ because of a Stan Lee craze – entirely misdirected as it sounds. Am I to marvel at Mr. Gekko’s line-dropping, be it the ‘if someone took this place right now, there’d be no one left to rule the world’ or the ‘three words: Buy my book’, which certainly appears to be more effective, or should I seriously take the point of this film into consideration and hence call it a pot-boiler without much of places to stick it on? I’ve got no complaints regarding Shia Labeouf (this guy needs something bigger is all I can say) or Carey Mulligan, who ends up more or less the doll-face despite discontent with being the same, particularly because of this fact that when I see them, I see two people as one and not as two people trying to work something out. It’s not Bud Fox laying around with a Daryl Hannah prototype, this tends to make sense. And honestly, it could have been loads better if they didn’t inhabit a room with such a view – that’s like a blooper, a camera where it’s not supposed to be. A literal boom-mike fiasco.

I do not have a verdict on this one. I guess I watched it through, I liked the things I ought to like, there’s still a bit of faith on line-dropping and youthful extravagance, and I walked on the other parts. Hey, at least I didn’t sleep on them! (this to you, Mr. Eli Wallach)

SOLID

DIRECTED BY RYAN FLECK & ANNA BODEN

STARRING: ALGENIS PEREZ SOTO, RAYNIEL RUFINO, ELLARY PORTERFIELD

The moment I was done with watching ‘Sugar’, I knew I wouldn’t be able to say too much about it except that it was a wonderful film. And I also knew I’d be able to justify that.

‘Sugar’ is from the Dominican Republic. Sugar is not American, and ‘Sugar’ endlessly illustrates that to the viewer. The eyes are fresh, they don’t see what they usually see and the effect is that of an alien who is still working on getting used to the place. Sugar (Algenis Perez Soto) is the alien, Jorge is one somewhat lesser. Sugar is a heck of a pitcher, Jorge sketches to wriggle out of a knee injury and that’s when I was able to place the film. Not an ‘against the odds’ venture, definitely not ‘Remember the Titans’ or a ‘Glory Road’, because by the time that I was shown, I was sure that this dark horse is destined to stay so. And yet, the end comes up to be a surprise for it defies believability, helps strikes some awe.

The task of casting one who spoke a little to no English wouldn’t have been half as difficult as writing him in, although Algenis Perez Soto fits the role from shoulder-frame to the cut of his butt. Sugar is not introverted; it’s not a ‘lost in translation’ either and yet there are sequences to suggest the opposite (like the end-of-match interview). There are a thousand things waiting to spill out without means for the same, and that makes it a wait until there’s a water-dispenser in the way. But everything is visible, everything is perfectly clear, inclusive of the way ahead, but there’s really nothing that can be done about it. Not by Sugar, not by Jorge; not by Ryan Fleck, not by you. Reality is their movie-screen: they simply can’t get to the other side of it, and the fact that Sugar is about my age (a couple of years in between) made me want to.

I remember the illustrious scene in the beginning of ‘Jerry Maguire’ that made me think “now, here’s a film that gets down to the issues!”; ‘Glory Road’ had me feel that better. ‘Sugar’ is not one that discusses the issues: it shows them – something not uncharacteristic of Fleck and Boden, as observed from their masterful ‘Half Nelson’. Everything as it is, nothing said that ought only to be implied, ‘Sugar’ steps out of the screen, walks about and takes you around on this self-discovering endeavour that could potentially help project a country of theirs that even Americans won’t have seen before. A mission statement and an actual triumph, it prints in bold the fact that its makers don’t really believe in the spike curves they talk about, and that Ryan Fleck and Anna Boden are here to deal direct.

And they do it with jerseys – not captioned tees.

THE SELF-HELP BOOK ON SCREEN

DIRECTED BY KEN KWAPIS

STARRING: BEN AFFLECK, JENNNIFER ANISTON, GINNIFER GOODWIN, JUSTIN LONG, JENNIFER CONNELLY, SCARLETT JOHANSSON, BRADLEY COOPER, KEVIN CONNOLLY and DREW BARRYMORE

Not to be mistaken, I wrote an earlier review which I thought complimented the film for more than its worth. I do not shout a denial with this one, there’s still ample scope for amusement, for knowing smiles with tongue-in-cheek, I most definitely still dig the role that Ben Affleck plays in this film, the role of the ideal man-for-all-occasions for he’d rise up to the same. But then again, I don’t think the film says anything more than what we already know, and that doesn’t mean I ask it to defy logic – I guess I just don’t want it to re-emphasize with an ownership claim. We’re all carpenters, they’ve made no better chair just because they’re putting it on a pedestal for everyone to see and that doesn’t mean I deprive them of their right to make the movie, I’m just a little stronger in reserving mine to like it or not.

‘He’s just not that into you’ is like a collection of six or maybe seven different stories that are linked together to make the film look integral than to serve any other purpose. ‘Paris Je Taime’ showed a certain subtlety in letting its episodes stay episodes, while ‘New York, I love you’ tried a little harder to push the fragments together, something characteristic of the American tendency to keep it whole than to like it in splits. This film, in turn, tries to jam-pack it and call it a picture, except there are crisscrosses and the sellotape is only too visible – it has the mischievousness of a child without the ability to remain delightful. It’s very unfortunate though, for while the film was likeable in bits and pieces, the inter-connections made it impossible to be liked so. It’s like a package deal, take it or leave it – an expensive tradeoff for precious little in return.

The characters didn’t help my purpose either. Okay, fine – a couple of them did, but not entirely. Drew Barrymore throws some jokes on herself in a sort of extended cameo as the amicable Mary, I’ve already mentioned Mr. Affleck at the top of my list. Now, I have no idea as to how they’re friends with the scorching hot, excessively understanding (or someone who thinks she is) and lesson-learning Anna (played by Scarlett Johansson, who plays mediator yet again after a successful exploit in Woody Allen’s ‘Vicky Cristina Barcelona’ – the role is not too different either) and her wife-cheating lover Ben (Bradley Cooper, who shamelessly suits his role as well) who simply loves to play the in-out game with the both of them (you can assume the pun, for there is a devastating sequence to prove my point!). Same goes with other matchups – Alex (Justin Long) and Conor (Kevin Connolly) fit as buddies, there’s chemistry, Ben and Neil are a mismatch, as are Mary and Anna. Ultimately it’s the self-assumed rejected trio of Janine, the victim (Jennifer Connelly), Beth, the wannabe (Jennifer Aniston) and Gigi, the Quixote (Ginnifer Goodwin) that stands out.

But that does not mean ‘He’s just not that into you’ is badly cast – it’s quite the opposite, in fact. The actors are a snug fit into their roles and there’s an immense amount of potential. The fault is with the characters who do next-to-nothing to endear. We see sparkles, very brief sparkles of true impact, like that of Janine cleaning the room she just wrecked, that of Neil cawing his delight on watching Beth blossom as he asks her to marry him, of Mary as she wise-cracks at the departmental store and a sliver of Anna as she finally rejects Conor, her emotional dump. Still, the film is nothing but a fair drawing of a familiar picture, as obvious as the fact that it was co-authored by man and woman. As obvious as the fact that it’s badly titled ('How Men and Women think they know everything about each other till they're proven they're wrong or maybe not' seems too long even in abbreviations, and might not even work); as obvious as the fact that I am still on two minds about liking it. 

Mary pays a pittance to Conor, thus tying the one loose end secure because - heck, she's the one that's behind the whole thing. Look at it this way - I'd love the film if I produced it, I'd be in for a commitment. 

Or maybe not. 

Eh, I don't know.

MY FILMS OF THE DECADE (2000-2009) - PART III

• WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE (2009): Here’s a film that’s as innocent as it’s not. Spike Jonze’s latest offering might have been an exhilarating kick-start for Max Records, but it still surprised me with the amount of impact it could pack into a picture-book. Neither instructions to the brat, nor guidelines for the ones who manage him, ‘Where the wild things are’ balances an unbelievable level of innocence in a hefty lot of subject matter in a package that’s water-tight secure. Also commendable is the lush soundtrack by American musician Karen O.

• THE GIRLFRIEND EXPERIENCE (2009): If this film is feminist, then it would be my second inclusion to the list, for which I wouldn’t apologize. Sasha Grey takes acting to levels it hasn’t seen before by the merest act of bringing it down to what she is and nothing more, and director Steven Soderbergh nails his position in the integrity of American cinema. In what could be branded as the most faithful American allusion of the decade, ‘The Girlfriend Experience’ takes one through what’s inarguably the most mysterious dimension on the face of the earth: the mind of a woman. And what a woman, that too!

• GOODBYE SOLO (2009): Inter-ethnic complexities being his recurring theme, Ramin Bahrani (‘Man Push Cart’, ‘Chop Shop’) lives up to his name of being hailed as ‘THE American director of the decade’ by Roger Ebert. Inconsequential as it might seem (as it is written out to be) in this version called ‘Goodbye Solo’, Bahrani serves to extrapolate the possibilities of human behaviour to a new high solely by sticking to the basics: Keeping it real. A masterful life that’s lived on screen, requiring nothing more than photography, ‘Goodbye Solo’ helps induce that kind of a numbness that you’d attribute to perfect sense. And that’s exactly what it is.

• HALF NELSON (2005): This undoubtedly is me saving the best for last, and I don’t want misconceptions about it. Affecting as it’s real, heavy as it’s built to be and powered by utterances that are no less relevant than they are impacting, Ryan Fleck bundles the reality of a thousand yearning minds into an epic film venture that served to hold me closer, every time I watched it. ‘Half Nelson’ is a film which I’d brand to be my life, and I’m glad that it happened in the decade where it exactly mattered to me. Special Mention to Ryan Gosling for having added flesh to this blueprint of Dan Dunne, an acting capability that’s more channelized than forced. Unforgettable, to say the least.

MY FILMS OF THE DECADE (2000-2009) - PART II

• 3:10 TO YUMA & GONE BABY GONE (2007) – Is it time for Hollywood already? I think it’s better to credit those who are worth it, so here goes a couple from the ‘magic year’ again. First up it’s James Mangold’s reinterpretation of an alleged classic ‘3:10 to Yuma’ that has Russell Crowe and Christian Bale battle it out for a shot to further fame. But what makes the film unforgettable is how immense it was with what it had to say. Quiet, solid, yet firmly placed. Ben Affleck’s debut as director ‘Gone Baby Gone’ was no lesser in intensity, firing with the questions it raised in my mind when I was done with it (or was I?). Overall, these are two films that inspire a higher level of empathy that’s been made incredibly rare.

• BEFORE SUNSET (2004): Richard Linklater deserves this credit for what he weaved nine years previous to this one with his dream on screen that he called ‘Before Sunrise’. But of course, I would only allude ‘Before Sunset’ to an even higher level of impact, reinforced with stronger emotions (and by stronger, I mean more relevant), additional maturity and an increased sense of despair that makes it more equipped than its prequel. Power-packed in the battle of words.

• THE SON’S ROOM (2001): As he demonstrates in the ensemble tribute to the Cannes Film festival, Nanni Moretti prefers exactly what he does, interspersing serious content with believability that almost always involves a level of honesty that’s rare to find. He could have lost a son and I wouldn’t know, and this could exactly have been the scenario. I hope I’m understood when I say that this is an achievement in parallel cinema that has never been accomplished by directors from the middle-east, who make it a point to serve it as a cliché.

• SIDEWAYS (2004) & LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE (2006): My entrants to the ‘comedy of the decade’ section, both films established relatable human tendencies by laughing at them: If it was infidelity in Alexander Payne’s ‘Sideways’, it’s underage overindulgence in ‘Little Miss Sunshine’, directed by Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris. An additional similarity would be the road trips, ravishing with the scent of quality wine with the stench of human complexities and the simple knots that need untying in order to be free of the same. Winners, in their own ways.

• THE DREAMERS (2004): Not some close-run contest for ‘Best Erotic picture of the decade’ (with Alfonso Cuaron’s incredible ‘Y Tu Mama Tambien’ and Giuseppe Tornatore’s lustful ‘Malena’ as top competitors), but as the right mix (to ODing proportions) of love, sex and ideology. A film equivalent to a tasteful meal that has the power to linger than to pass off as masturbatory, wrapped in the folds of a tribute to Cinema, ‘The Dreamers’ is a massive chunk off the uncontrollable Betrolucci that’s here to stay. One of pure pleasure.