'ALLINOL' INDEED!

DIRECTED BY JOHN LASSETER

WITH THE VOICES OF OWEN WILSON, LARRY THE CABLE GUY, MICHAEL CAINE, EMILY MORTIMER, BONNIE HUNT, JOHN TURTURRO, EDDIE IZZARD, JASON ISAACS, THOMAS KRETSCHMANN, JOE MANTEGNA, PETER JACOBSON, TONY SHALHOUB, GUIDO QUARONI, PAUL DOOLEY, JOHN RATZENBERGER with JEFF GORDON, LEWIS HAMILTON and VANESSA REDGRAVE

‘Cars 2’ is not a film that can pause to answer if you ask it to explain itself. It’s not futile to ask that; it’s mindless. It’s something the film sidesteps on its race ahead. Lightning McQueen (Owen Wilson) could have had a hand in the ‘Toy Story’ franchise playing grease-man in Operation Rescue-Woody. Same goes with Mater (Larry the Cable Guy). These are two cars with as much utility as depth in character. Their presence would make an ‘Ocean’s Eleven’ out of ‘Toy Story’ centered on a moral bailout. With them, you could’ve had more effective, much more diversified action that would pacify the Hot-Wheels-Kid as much as the Teddy-hugger; the Action-figure bully as much as the Barbie doll. They’re universal, in short.

And yet we find that John Lasseter, the man behind Pixar Animation Studios in both heart and mind, prefers to write a movie for them than make one out of them. And then a second. We ask why. Chinese food in China is ‘food’ where you can tell good from bad. Doc. Hudson in ‘Toy Story’ could have been the ‘Wise Old Hornet.’ With ‘Cars’, he became a character. He played Mickey to McQueen’s Balboa. Now we hear he’s no more.

It’s been five years since the film that portrayed people in ‘Cars’ in a mix of oil and water as thick as blood. It’s been sixteen since the one that built on the question of “what if your Toys could talk?” With Pixar, it has ever been a magical journey, through tall stories as a consequence of a heightened imagination that nurtures the same. They’ve had the means, they’ve had the method. They’ve got the wildness that gives means to the method. There’s no story untellable, no dream too far.

There’s none like Pixar that understands the concept of an animated feature. It’d only take you a look at the chronology with Pixar contributions to see what I’m saying. The ‘Toy Story’ series. ‘Monsters Inc.’ ‘Finding Nemo.’ ‘Cars.’ ‘the Incredibles.’ ‘Ratatouille.’ ‘WALL-E.’ Startlingly original stories brought to life with the help of computer-generated imaging. The animation is but an accessory to the storytelling, it’s the brain that dazzles. Its complexity is not evident, its joints not seen. All that shows is an organic whole, taking off with astounding precision. With Pixar studios, it’s all about the baby without fuss on the miracle of conception. They’re like a real force of nature that way.

‘Cars 2’ is no different. It’s an espionage routine set on a racing circuit with oil tycoons and an alternate energy bubble. A comprehensive turn of events fit into a framework that actually provides scope for questioning – how many films are we having to take for granted these days? ‘Cars 2’ is an exciting break from that drill. You accept the very basic premise and you get to savour the storyline, its logic intact. This world is nothing but talking cars, talking ships, talking 747s and helicopters. Fuel and water turn delicacies, the Big Ben is called the ‘Big Bentley’ with windows shaped like radiators. Dying is but engine-burst where people are cars. Like Lewis Hamilton. Like Finn McMissile (Michael Caine) who is sort of an Aston Martin, James-Bond-styled. If there was to be a superhero, it’d be the Batmobile. Or Mater.

There’s something very special about ‘Cars’ and its sequel. These are the only films that have had Lasseter involved in the creative process. Films that he’s directed, films he’s conceived. The others, he’s executive-produced. In Lasseter, I draw a Judd Apatow comparison. That he saves only the best for himself. By ‘best’, I mean the ‘closest to heart.’ Films that he simply cannot let pass. Films that, undeniably, are HIS. It’s uncanny, his eye for detail. The setting, the characters, the voice-acting, the little nothings you’d probably not even notice and the consistency in the same. It’s amazing how his cars are both real and yet extremely imaginative at the same time. They’re ‘intricately-detailed-characters’ taken a little too literally. Every single one of them is loveable. They all grow on you. Even the Queen (Vanessa Redgrave) – the ‘Shakespeare in Love’ sort of cameo by an equally exciting actress.

McMissile calls Mater ‘the smartest, most honest chap he’s ever met.’ Holly Shiftwell (Emily Mortimer) adds ‘most Charming’ to the list. ‘Cars 2’ calls for similar praise. It’s pure celebration that never runs dry. The only thing that’s missing would be a dance-routine. And I would watch a third film just for that.

WHAT THE... HECK?

DIRECTED BY JOHN ERICK DOWDLE

STARRING: CHRIS MESSINA, LOGAN MARSHALL-GREEN, JENNY O’HARA, BOJANA NOVAKOVIC, BOKEEM WOODBINE, JACOB VARGAS, JOSHUA PEACE with GEOFFREY AREND and MATT CRAVEN

‘Devil’ is conceptualized by Manoj Night Shyamalan (‘the Sixth Sense’, ‘the Happening’) and directed by John Erick Dowdle (‘Quarantine’), two people with contrasting histories in this type of movie. Shyamalan can’t break crust without drama, Dowdle could have made ‘Paranormal Activity’ had it occurred to him. It’s two schools of thought in a destructive mismatch. Kind of like Nicolas Winding Refn meets a John Woo treatment in a horror-drama equivalent. The story could have worked with a little lesser, the film needed a whole lot more. The balance was never achieved.

Remember Joel Schumacher’s ‘Phonebooth’? ‘Devil’ has an elevator-replacement of that claustrophobic space, with the ‘voice on the other side’ taken a little too literally. And no Forest Whitaker to save the day either. You’re in for confusion. What is it that’s going on? There’s a difference between ‘suspense’ and a lack of clarity. The ball could have gone both ways on multiple occasions. Immaturity, we find, has been confused with prowess. We’re having to marvel at baby-talk. It’s cute in a puff-pout sort of way. It amounts to little else.

Ramirez (Jacob Vargas) narrates the story of how ‘he’ (personifying the ‘adversary’; the ‘alpha and the omega’ in small letters) comes to surface with a mission, how he moves in on his prey, and how there’s nothing anyone can do to put a stop. Five people are trapped in an elevator. We learn their names in a scramble and hence assume unimportance. There’s a mattress salesman (Geoffrey Arend), a temp on guard-duty (Bokeem Woodbine), a wizened old woman (Jenny O’Hara), a smartly-dressed young woman (Bojana Novakovic) and a young man (Logan Marshall-Green) who wears his jeans like overalls so you know exactly what he is. Glad we didn’t have an axle-grease giveaway as well.

The film opens with a man falling to his death like one of those crazies in Shyamalan’s ‘the Happening’. He holds a Rosary in his hand. Detective Bowden (Chris Messina) at the scene of crime tells his partner (Joshua Peace) the most obvious thing – that someone who’s grabbed his Rosary beads cannot have been pushed. Ramirez would disagree. So would the face in the elevator; the parlor trick. It’s freaky, it’s funny. But everyone is serious about it. That’s horror for you. Innocent people die, people are killed in front of their loved ones just to show the cynics. Come on. That’s not the Devil. That’s a truck-driver on an alcohol high running headfirst into a school-road-crossing. That’s an Adolf Hitler parody. We’re talking about the ‘only one’, the fallen angel. Isn’t it time we gave him some class?

Slowly we find that the five inside didn’t chance to be, but were meant to be. As was the Detective. That was a head-turning bit of detail, nevertheless completely anticipated. There’s no marks to guessing it’s a supernatural thriller and not a ‘whodunit’. It’s more like a ‘howdunit’. Safety cables, glassware, mirrors, electric mains all come from the ‘Final Destination’ franchise. The Devil has his contacts. He’s pretty sure-shot about that. People fall like pins and you’re not to ask if they deserved it. What saddened me was that you could have, but in a different movie. I wanted that movie. ‘Devil’, at one point, was so engaging, so brimming with potential that I desperately wished it wouldn’t disappoint me. It did. With the very ruthlessness of the one in question.

I can’t tell you more without giving it all away. Trust me, it wouldn’t matter. You could watch it instead, but you’d only be watching what you wish you wouldn’t. “How will it all end?” Detective Bowden asks Ramirez. “They all die”, he responds. “That’s all?” comes the question. It would be yours as well. It was mine. There has to be a remedy. Ramirez, a curious choice for the all-knowing, tells there’s hope only when people stop pretending and see what’s right in front of their eyes. Something that this movie never did, nor intended to. It could’ve been what it could’ve been. It never considered the option.

‘Devil’ is a bad Satan-flick. As a disaster-movie, it’s terribly underfed. It’s shot in a low-fi camera and it’s set in real-time, tying an ‘I want to fly’ sort of story to the ground. It’s neither Shyamalan, nor Dowdle. It hovers in between, lost. Talk about misshapen demons.

THE LONG WAY BACK HOME MADE LONGER

DIRECTED BY JOHN HUGHES

STARRING: STEVE MARTIN, JOHN CANDY, LAILA ROBINS, DYLAN BAKER, OLIVIA BURNETTE, LARRY HANKIN, RICHARD HERD with BILL ERWIN and KEVIN BACON

I used to travel a lot when I was younger, to the extent that I got used to trains and surviving in one; getting by. Actually, I remember the experience to be quite uncanny. I’m talking about the time I was 13 or 14 years old and I had a trip to make almost every week, rain or shine. And I remember how it always used to be uncomfortable and messy at first and how, after the hours spent or days in some cases, the journey would have coaxed me to get into it. It had become an integral part of my life cycle. And the best that I remember of it is how there would always be a sinking feeling in my stomach as we neared this station called ‘Basin Bridge’ which was just a stop away from Chennai Central where I get down and make my way home, my Father with me. The train slows down, you see buildings for the first time – concrete, rundown and pale – as opposed to fields or factories that always served to remind you there was a little more to go. I’ve liked them only for that reason.

Neal Page (Steve Martin) sees the big city for the first time in two days that turned his world upside down. Or right side up. He’s sitting in a train that’s moving past buildings for the first time and he looks forward to seeing his family – his wife, his three children, their warmth and the sumptuous thanksgiving dinner, all waiting for him. It had only been scenic routes before, a scenery that he never got to appreciate, for it was against intention; it busted his action plan. There are moments when you catch sight of the buildings along with him: tall buildings in brick and stone. I’m not talking about the ‘Chicago along the horizon’ moment. I’m talking about watching buildings go by.

How much would Neal have given to just watch buildings go by sitting in the metro a couple of days before! The best of his project pitches. $75 on a cab he didn’t get into. $700 on a wallet that needn’t have been stolen. A whole lot more on credit cards that needn’t have burned. A rental car service that enraged him than give him a car. The woman behind the counter who only added to his fury, telling him he’s ‘screwed’ when he knows he is. A kiss on the ear from an oversized shower-ring salesman named Del Griffith (John Candy) that he won’t feel squirmy about anymore.

He has a moment just then. The same sinking feeling that I told you about. Neal Page, how much ever glad he was at having come back home, has had a journey. A journey – not a trip or a skip or a skittle. A journey. Something you’d never have these days, thanks to planes and A/C compartments and floating buses where you breathe the same air that you let out, but modified. You might as well be on a space shuttle or Michael Jackson’s gas chamber, you would never know. It still is oxygen, but it’s just not right and you know it. But then, you can’t step away from the grind now, can you? Not in 1987. Not now.

I’m sorry to refer to films from ‘the future’ to interpret ‘the past’, but ‘Crash’ (2004) written and directed by Paul Haggis begins with this line that’s also its underlying theme that goes like: “You’ve got to crash into each other just to make contact these days.” The statement is both literal and metaphorical. ‘Planes, Trains and Automobiles’ is that sort of ‘crash.’ It’s about two people who are unlikely to have met otherwise – not unless they were forced into each other, there being no other go. It’s not a class difference, it’s not a question of conflicting moralities. It’s just basic human nature. It’s like having food favourites knowing what they become once you’re completely done with them. Del calls Neal hostile and intolerant which is ‘borderline criminal.’ Neal calls Del a blabbermouth amongst a whole lot of other things that make him live up to his name. Or Del’s description of him, at least.

John Hughes’ film is patchy with such moments and lack thereof. It’s an 80s film, a kind of exploitation era in itself. You had to be funny, you had to be bittersweet and you had to find a way of being heroic about it. Just like how you had to have a soundtrack that’s unclassifiable and thus characteristic. People liked those things. The idea beats the shit out of rendition, its conception – half the deed done. ‘My Cousin Vinny’ was an 80s film that stretched into the 90s. You see what I’m saying?

‘Planes, Trains and Automobiles’ is not the best version of itself, but that’s the way you’d like it. There have been more romanticized versions, from Kamal Hassan’s ‘Anbe Sivam’ to the more recent ‘Due Date’ with Robert Downey Jr. playing Neal to Zach Galifianakis’ Del. They’ve all had the same idea of a simple trip gone wrong. There’s John Lasseter’s ‘Cars’, if you want another example. But this film is like a ‘Sideways’ or a ‘Little Miss Sunshine’ for me. This is where it all began. And this, I find, is exactly what I wanted, in all its imperfections and its bursts of joy. It’s the original – and like how all ‘originals’ go, it’s not beyond duplication. But the experience, you’d find, is.

'HALL PASS' OR THE ABUSE OF ONE

DIRECTED BY THE FARRELLY BROTHERS

STARRING: OWEN WILSON, JASON SUDEIKIS, JENNA FISCHER, CHRISTINA APPLEGATE, NICKY WHELAN, ALEXANDRA DADDARIO, STEPHEN MERCHANT, JOY BEHAR, LARRY JOE CAMPBELL and RICHARD JENKINS

The Farrelly Brothers have the inimitable knack of giving you a less-than-perfect version of their film. I don’t know why they do it, but they do it. They’re champions at it. They’re like kings at blue-balling people. All their films have a remarkable central agenda which they address (and fairly well at that) as much as their self-induced cheapness permits them to. ‘Shallow Hal’ dealt with a man’s inherent dread of going with a ‘less-than-attractive’ woman. They chased high-school love in ‘There’s Something about Mary’; even ‘the Heartbreak Kid’ was on a middle-aged man’s discontent about his relationships.

No, I’m not trying to romanticize their work over here. I’m actually telling you how much they don’t want you to. They would do anything to make sure you don’t have fond memories of their film when you’re done watching it. Anything. You’d be amazed. They’d show you penises of different shapes and sizes and colours, they would make a full-grown man defecate in a golf bunker, they would show a woman do the same on a bathroom wall and have someone ogle at it like it were artwork. I don’t know if this makes them the vilest of human beings in the world or if I’m just not a sport because I don’t take their shit. Literally.

Or I don’t know if they’re masters at pastiche who make you laugh your gut out one second and then trigger the same reaction the next, except it’s not out of laughter this time. They’re disengaging with such deliberation. It’s like they’re on a mission.

What’s even worse is that they do these things to really likeable people. And characters. You could put Jason Sudeikis in a sticky situation like this, but not Owen Wilson. Maybe Jeff Anderson, but not Seth Rogen. You see what I’m saying? Or maybe it’s just me. I thought ‘Horrible Bosses’ had it right in that it kept aside the best of its disengaging humour to Sudeikis and a little of Charlie Day but never Bateman. Because he just wouldn't do. He wouldn’t have been appropriate to be in an inappropriate position. Neither was Owen Wilson, I thought. Of course, I find that I’m talking more people than characters here. In my defence, the film stuck to their usual screen-selves. It was a Steve Coogan thing once. I guess it should be called a ‘Sudeikis thing’ from now. He’s the one who’s typecast more. Coogan at least has ‘Night at the Museum’ to his credit.

‘Hall Pass’ is about Rick Mills (Wilson) and Fred Searing (Sudeikis) who are given a ‘hall pass’ by their wives Maggie (Jenna Fischer) and Grace (Christina Applegate) respectively. A ‘hall pass’, as we learn, is a week of freedom from marriage extended to a man by his wife to let him accomplish everything that he believes his marriage is keeping him off from. Or find that he can’t. In Rick and Fred, we have two kinds of men – one who’s disappointed that he can’t pick up other women and one who wants to. It’s much like the difference between Maggie and Grace themselves. Maggie finds she wanted a break from her marriage. Grace finds use for one. The two couples are written in stone on this script that wants them to get back together in this road trip towards each other.

There are no collisions, no discomforts. There is absolutely no irreparable damage. Nothing happens to the two couples to alter their courses even by an inch, the most disturbing event in one’s married life passes off as a beer joke. On the one hand, I was startled at how easily the Farrelly brothers could take in the premise (conceptualized by Pete Jones). On the other, I was annoyed at how easily they threw it away and how their film played along like a shameless farce. It was like double-indemnity but the contextual opposite. And what can make it worse? A Grand Theft Auto with the police involved and a psycho in the middle who simple had to be there. And a hospital scene. Yes, it had it all.

‘Hall Pass’ thus, like every Farrelly fare, is an idiot’s treatment of a serious premise involving characters who deserve more. There’s more happening with these people than what they show you, what’s going on is not just what they say is going on. There’s more to the film than what you just saw, something its makers can’t handle. A stronger film would have had a confrontation saying “Whose Hall Pass is it? Yours? Or mine?” This one drops a line at best. But hey, at least they mentioned it! It’s that line that saved some face. Without it, we’re talking reimbursement. Of time and energy lost in deliberate ‘stupid.’

AN ALL-HEART EXPERIENCE

DIRECTED BY THOMAS McCARTHY

STARRING: ALEX SHAFFER, PAUL GIAMATTI, AMY RYAN, JEFFREY TAMBOR, BOBBY CANNAVALE with MELANIE LYNSKEY and BURT YOUNG

This is my first McCarthy experience of the three films he has made. I’ve watched bits and pieces of ‘the Visitor’ when they premiered it on Television. ‘the Station Agent’ has long been on my to-do list. Both are immensely acclaimed, the man himself deemed an up-and-coming writer-director of independent films which, again, do not stick to the usual norm. One of the reasons why I long contemplated writing this review right after ‘Dan in Real Life’ (directed by Peter Hedges), an immediate sample of a film that’s as entertaining as it’s full of heart. Well, I don’t think one can put ‘Win Win’ any better than that. Hence the hesitation.

The storyline of ‘Win Win’ is fairly convoluted, but pretty clear. Which means there are dimensions to it which, however, do not serve to complicate the premise. It’s one of those films which is so intricately detailed that it turns out to be quite simple and wholesome. Do you get what I’m saying? Life as it is has facets to it, only parts of which we come to confront on different days in different ways of living it. And yet, one can put it in a few words. Or in a paragraph.

Thomas McCarthy achieves that simplicity in his film, tying all ends together, welding his joints, making them secure so as to give the viewer a smooth, uninterrupted ride. There has been a lot of work, a lot of effort gone into this film which does not show on the surface. Everything that we see is undeniably a product of concise writing with utmost care. And the film, on its part, never ceases to be funny or smart – it might not always be tongue-in-cheek cocky, but it’s smart. It’s rich with moments but not in a face-saving sort of way. After watching ‘Win Win’ you might, you will go around recollecting sequences, possibly one particular sequence, a ‘turning point’ both figuratively and literally, but then you would have loved experiencing the film as a whole as well. Your joy would not have been curtailed to the lengths of scenes or lines, for the film in itself is utterly enjoyable. There is not a dull moment. There is not a vile moment in it. There is not a moment where you wish you had it a little differently. I had no second thoughts after watching ‘Win Win.’ It’s simple, whole-hearted joy.

Mike Flaherty (Paul Giamatti) is a small-time lawyer who’s married with two kids. He goes for a jog every morning, with or without the company of best buddy Terry Delfino (Bobby Cannavale, less annoying than usual), and he spends evenings as a local high-school wrestling coach assisting Coach Vigman (Jeffrey Tambor, delightfully subtle). He values physical fitness and there is an inherent love for the sport, which doesn’t let the viewer corrupt his intentions as purely being after the money in it. Mike would not coach the kids if he didn’t get paid for it, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love what he’s doing. He reminded me of my father, who never said no to the extra money, but the thirst to get the satisfaction of having impacted upon at least one person – well I have been so used to that thirst that I was simply overjoyed when I saw it on screen, what can I say.

But then there’s a flipside. Mike’s a lawyer, right? The proverbial one. He doesn’t mind where his money comes from as long as he gets a fair bit of it. Actually, it’s not as harsh as I made it sound, but I guess you get my point? Anyway, in this case, he eyes a $1500 a month commission on serving as the guardian of Leo (Burt Young), who’s at the onset of Dementia. The man requests to be let to stay at home, Mike capitalizes on that request, takes control and puts him in an old-age home instead. It might not be as sad as you think it is, but it’s sad. The place has TV, incredible furniture, 24 hour service. But it’s not home.

Sometimes you need to get a little topsy-turvy to straighten yourself out. Kyle Timmons (Alex Shaffer, a jaw-dropping find) serves as motivation for that sort of inertia bust. He’s Leo’s grandson who has run away from a ‘druggie’ mother and has come to live with his granddad. Jackie Flaherty (Amy Ryan, with a startlingly likeable performance), Mike’s wife, assumes responsibility here. Reproached in the beginning by the boy’s appearance and his habits, but humbled by his story and conduct in general, she takes him into their house. Kyle becomes a Son she never had, or something close. To Mike, it’s business with a hint of emotion. The boy is a prodigious wrestler, one of uncanny skill and mental strength with a touch of ‘cool’. To Mike, he’s the dream student. A protégé. Someone he’s always dreamed of. But then, he’s not his own. There’s the boy’s mother (Melanie Lynskey, tailor-made) and there’s a price that he has to pay; people he has to disappoint. Including and especially the boy himself.

Paul Giamatti in any film instantly takes me back to ‘Sideways’. Mike and Terry are no Jack and Miles, but it’s remarkable how effortless Giamatti is in playing the guy who likes a friend to look down upon. He is superior in his being, but in a humble sort of way. “Who’s crazy?” his little daughter asks. “Me”, he responds, a dull smile on his face. Alex Shaffer is Kyle Timmons. But he isn’t. Kyle barely strings two words together in his language of ‘yeah’s and ‘okay’s and ‘sure’s. And he’s rich with his outbursts, at getting out exactly what he wants to put out there. Shaffer himself admits to being too extroverted to play Kyle. But then, that’s exactly what Kyle is. He’s who you try to be when you don’t talk for a long time that you get used to not talking. He’s an extrovert’s shot at introversion. And with that and his wrestling skills, you find it’s all that you want.

Which brings me back to my previous assertion. There’s absolutely nothing that I wanted more. ‘Win Win’ was as fulfilling as a film that I badly wanted to watch. It not only lives up to your expectations, but it pushes on the borders to make the experience bigger and more nourishing than you can ever imagine it to be. It’s one of those films where the experience outdoes its content. Like the scene in ‘Once’ where the man at the studio is brought to work by the sheer inspiring force in the band’s music. Well, ‘Win Win’ is like a movie-equivalent. It sets you upright in your chair, jumping with child-like joy. It’s exhilarating. It truly is, Win Win.

REALLY, NOW?

STAGED BY ‘SHARAS’ PRODUCTIONS

NOTE: If you find this review to be humorous, you’re mistaken. If you don’t, you’ve got issues. Or you’re part of the ‘Sharas’ unit. Poster/names/insignia used neither with the consent, nor with prior permission obtained from the production group. Sue me. And once again, expletive-alert. If you have issues with the throw of words, I kindly advise you to stop reading any further. For this could be my most offensive effort at film/dramatic criticism ever. And a personal one as well. A first.

Their play had exactly what they claimed it had (‘Meta-theatre’, for dummies). A beginning. A middle. And an end. That’s as much as I can give to Saraswathi hostel’s production of Stoppard’s ‘the Real Inspector Hound.’ The Theatre-Fest version, I felt, progressed and we found ourselves struck by passable fascination as every facet of its actors’ potential was uncovered in the course of the play. It had mood, it had a certain deliberation towards elegance which I thought was intended, and it had Kalki Koechlin play a ravishingly convenient stereotype. The copycat version, on the other hand, limped along one leg at best with a squeak every now and then. Like a broken toe on an overweight tween.

And it had Saudamini, who plays yet another stereotype: the quintessential ‘insti-female-play-actor’ who can be roughly characterized as ‘smutty, amateurishly, with an arrowhead’s deliberation at crass humour even which, in effect, is non-existent.’ Do not bother to look that up on the Urban dictionary. It’s one of my own. I shall share it in detail with you if you’d like me to.

Her Cynthia, who’s supposed to be the sensual crux and pivot-point of the play, is unabashedly deglamorized. She wears a pillowcase, for heaven’s sake! And she porno-talks and kisses more than one person, but only behind a Japanese fan from the Audrey Hepburn wardrobe. A twitchy, freakishly-funny procedure that shouts 'Let us Kiss!' Where’s Zack and Miri when you need them? (You’d understand what I’m talking about only if you’ve watched the Kevin Smith movie as well as this train-wreck)

Jokes apart, I found her performance as inept as it was unnecessary. And of course, funny, including and especially those places it wasn’t supposed to be. Like when she stands between lines with a compulsive twitch or turn just to show a stay in character. Or lack thereof. Her tattoo acted better, I felt. It shut up and stayed still; warrants a special mention for that. Sushmita as Felicity was worse; hurtful, actually. One wishes she had gone a little easier on the eye; a lot stronger on the ear. Her Felicity, we find, speaks to herself. The audience is unnecessary. These were the two characters that made the Quaff Theatre production endurable. This version, on the other hand, throws an ultimatum. To stay or not to stay.

I did, incidentally. I wasn’t going to miss the climax for anything, given I knew exactly what was going to happen. It has an on-stage gunshot from a gun that shoots twice, miraculously, with a single pull on the trigger. Or wait… Three times, to be precise. It was like Albert could not wait any longer. Wheelchair mishaps are so embarrassing; plus, the beard must itch. The man was in a rush, looking for a kiss that he’d never get. For Cynthia didn’t have her fan with her this time. Duh!

Of course, I can’t talk. I’m someone who wrote and directed a double-disaster last time: two shoddy translations-to-stage of the same play (‘the Patricide’ that I killed). I played the wrong track for the climax that I changed halfway through, the first time around. Next time, we staged a complete Farce. Of my own play. Against intention. This director (whoever he/she is) has worked a miracle, comparatively, pulling this off. But then, it’s like Will Hunting says to Sean Maguire in ‘Good Will Hunting.’ “You spend all your money on these fucking fancy books, you surround yourselves with them. Except they’re the wrong fucking books.” Well, ‘the Real Inspector Hound’ is the wrong fucking play. Plus it has been done this season, and moderately well. Doing it again is like a ‘Transformers 3’ re-release. It was tortuous enough the first time around. Kindergarten skits are more honest. The phone-sex hotline would do better accents. The upside about this thing, I felt, was the swap of the maid for an effeminate butler (rules don’t permit a third actress) who comes up with a noteworthy performance. That was the only detail that pushed on the bar a little. It was kid stuff, otherwise.

‘this Real Inspector Hound’, in all, was an hour-long squeeze of a one-and-a-half hour play – a slurry of fake accents, bad girl-costumes (the menswear was fine, especially the trench copy-coat: Thumbs up for that) and a tasteless rendition with a stolen set. In short, it had every ingredient for Litsoc success. It actually placed second, losing out to a one-act clown-comedy show featuring… clowns. I felt like I was at Vaudeville, yesterday. God help theatre. Or at least Litsoc Dramatics. If that’s even possible.

A SOURCE OF HEDGE(S)D HAPPINESS

DIRECTED BY PETER HEDGES

STARRING: STEVE CARELL, ALISON PILL, JULIETTE BINOCHE, DANE COOK, MARLENE LOWSTON, BRITTANY ROBERTSON, NORBERT LEO BUTZ, AMY RYAN, JESSICA HECHT, FRANK WOOD, HENRY MILLER, ELLA MILLER with EMILY BLUNT, JOHN MAHONEY and DIANNE WIEST

The thing about Peter Hedges is how less he tries to stop you from classifying him. And how, as a result of that, you don’t want to. He’s a writer-director of independent films who doesn’t stick to routine and thus produces a stronger outcome. ‘Pieces of April’ was reflective of that. ‘About a Boy’ probably lesser so. You could credit him for inventing a unique blend of feel-good fiction with a relatable storyline that’s simple and straight as people can be. There’s something very wholesome about the experience, a strong sense of empathy that he inspires. With Hedges, it’s not your life on screen. It’s a life you like, idealized, where everything is in the perfect amount, neither amplified, nor diminished. The ups and downs. The contradictions. The resolutions. And best of all, Hedges doesn’t push his luck – he tweaks it.

‘Dan in Real Life’ is no different. It’s a Hedges film. It’s about Dan Burns (Steve Carell), a columnist who gives parenting advice and who, appropriately, is a widower raising three girls on his own. Is he doing a good job? Who knows? Parenting as such is a paradox of free will and enslavement as well as everything in between. Who knows what a good parent is? Lilly Burns (Dan’s youngest daughter, a proud fourth-grader) could probably have the best answer when she calls Dan ‘a good father but a bad dad.’ Dan’s skeptical about the fact that she coined it; he thinks it came from his oldest daughter Jane (Alison Pill) or the lovestruck and angsty Cara (Brittany Robertson) and is probably right about it. But then they have a point. He’s the strict father of great kids who don’t look at themselves and admire his work. They’re defiant, and at their ages, they’re justified. We know for sure that they’re bound to grow up and feel more affectionate. For Dan’s the kind of Dad who’s better looked-back upon than lived through.

The four of them head down to the Burns’ family home, a seaside bungalow that always has someone running around, kid or adult. It’s Thanksgiving and they can afford to miss school for that. I’m unclear about the number of siblings, but there are four couples in the house including Dan’s parents Poppy (John Mahoney) and Nana (the ever-delightful Dianne Wiest) Burns. It starts with three, initially, with Marie (Juliette Binoche, who is as Americanized a Frenchwoman as Julie Delpy in ‘Before Sunset’) being the last one in. She is the newly-found girlfriend of Dan’s younger brother named Mitch (Dane Cook) like all younger brothers are. Marie calls him ‘fun to be with’ in a gym-instructor sort of way. We understand. He’s the real-life rebound guy that’s great at his aerobics. You know at once that he isn’t going to come good on the longer run. Literally.

A darker drama might feature intrigue, but here Dan and Marie find each other by accident and in ignorance. He plays librarian to her book requests. She gets his jokes and commands his actions. They’re like the movie-definition of soul mates. She then excuses herself and leaves early saying she has a new boyfriend whom she has come to visit. She gives him her number though and asks him not to call. He is hesitant, but his brothers disagree. They deem it not unethical as long as she’s not engaged. Dan, on the other hand, knows that for family, those rules don’t apply.

Steve Carell is the perfect Dan Burns. Not just him, but everyone is at home with their characters. Alison Pill is convincing as a seventeen-year-old. Dianne Wiest hits an uncanny high as a romantic-comedy-Mom with her portrayal of Nana Burns. Juliette Binoche, John Mahoney; even Dane Cook is well-cast. Every side character has been written, not just filled. They’re all well-defined, the mark of a novelist. The household is integral, Dan sticks out. It’s a love-hate thing. He’s the columnist who speaks too soon, only to find that life’s problems aren’t solved by printing retractions. “Someone hasn’t been reading his own column”, he says. Haven’t you felt that? It’s not a moral dilemma as such. It’s the bane of nature. Like finding yourself driving on the wrong side of the road in Rhode Island – you can’t even have a police officer set you right. For Dan, however, there’s hope. There’s Marie.

Roger Ebert derided the film’s soundtrack (by Sondre Lerche) as it its only flaw. He says it gives too much away. I was surprised to find I felt that too. It rang a bell. Aren’t all indie scores like that? ‘There’s Something about Mary’ spoke too right too soon – we need a new reminder. But then, ‘Dan in Real Life’ is beyond such letdowns. It’s organic and concise at that. And I found that to be a deadly combination.

ON OVERCOOKED RECIPES: ONE SWEET, THE OTHER SOUR

DIRECTED BY RON HOWARD

STARRING: VINCE VAUGHN, KEVIN JAMES, WINONA RYDER, JENNIFER CONNELLY, CHANNING TATUM, AMY MORTON with CLINT HOWARD and QUEEN LATIFAH

Beth is the kind of girlfriend who’s around because she likes the guy and isn’t just morally obligated to be. I found her reminiscent of Emily Deschanel’s character from ‘Glory Road’ as well as one of Jennifer Connelly herself in the self-help kitsch called ‘He’s just not that into you.’ She’s the next generation. Women in romantic comedies leave their men only to return when proven against, to arms that always stay open no matter what. Beth is a progression from that stereotype. She’s the woman who has a hand in the resolution, not just reaping the benefits and signing her name on the ‘happily ever after’ charter. She’s organic, she’s more than that. And she’s played by the bankable Ms. Connelly who, I felt, dropped anchor and was completely at home with playing Beth.

But this story is not about her. It’s about everyone else. It’s about her boyfriend Ronny Valentine (Vince Vaughn) who faces ‘the Dilemma’ on whether or not he should tell his friend that his wife’s cheating on him. It’s about Nick Brannen (Kevin James), his friend, who spends too much time revving up car engines that he doesn’t see his wife texting as much as a tween. And of course, it’s about Geneva Brannen (Winona Ryder), Nick’s wife, who plays Diane Lane to Channing Tatum’s Olivier Martinez. The film in itself is like a comic ‘Unfaithful’ with two Richard Geres instead of one – one who isn’t aware of what’s going on and another who tries to put a stop to it. But then it’s not all that funny either because it can’t afford it. At one point responsibility kicks in and wants it to be honest to the emotions involved instead of coming out as a farce and then conveniently calling it ‘black.’

I thought the entire success of Ron Howard’s film rested on how well he treated the least common denominator. Beth, in this case (I leave out the sister, her husband and Queen Latifah’s frivolous little cameo citing irrelevance). Take her out and if the film survives, then it had better not been made. But then Connelly constitutes the entire acting credibility of this film. She, I thought, kept the whole film intact, as well as Nick, Ronny and the rest of the lot. On the writer’s part, I wished her more importance; to the director, I appealed for more time. It’s almost like a real husband-wife thing – the woman is so goddamn nice that you wish she were treated right. It’s not infuriating when she’s not. It’s plain wrong.

Overall, ‘the Dilemma’ is a film that has the ever-likeable Kevin James (though you wish he weren’t always cast as one among the money and hence the pretty wife), the successfully annoying Ms. Ryder and a deflated Vince Vaughn on a Jennifer Connelly platform. It’s a five on ten.

DIRECTED BY FRANK CORACI

STARRING: KEVIN JAMES, ROSARIO DAWSON, LESLIE BIBB, DONNIE WAHLBERG and KEN JEONG with the voices of SYLVESTER STALLONE, CHER, ADAM SANDLER, JUDD APATOW, JON FAVREAU, FAIZON LOVE with MAYA RUDOLPH and NICK NOLTE

I have always found it uncanny that the best things a person says go unheard of, lost inside his own head. In a sad way, of course. Griffin Keyes (Kevin James) speaks his mind out, but he does that only to zoo animals, the ones in his care. They eventually talk back. He finds they always could. One of them (a Capuchin Monkey) has Adam Sandler’s hoarsened and accented bawl. An alpha-male Gorilla has Nick Nolte’s deep-yet-friendly tone. Stallone does a Lion King while Cher plays his disapproving ‘better half.’ Them, and a dozen other animals, want to help Griffin get his girlfriend Stephanie (Leslie Bibb) back. Because she’s a supermodel. And because Rosario Dawson goes de-glam with gloves and boots.

The animals are a convincing assortment and an excellent platform for something amusing. In the end, only one of them gets the leg-up. The others just sit around and order in. Or well, almost. We have watched them talk in ‘Madagascar.’ There has also been ‘the Wild’ and ‘Open Season’ and sequels galore. What makes this film any different? There’s something inimitable about the delightfulness in watching talking animals in live-action. They bring out the child in you. That way, ‘Zookeeper’ is just about everything that was likeable about ‘Dr. Dolittle.’ In fact, it is everything that Dr. Dolittle ought to have been but never even tried. Plus, it has Kevin James at the centre. He makes better a fat man cartoon than live-action. ‘Zookeeper’ in itself is more like a cartoon that’s well-adapted, voiced by a kick-ass bunch of actors. It’s remarkable.

‘Zookeeper’ is THE talking-animal movie we have been waiting for, if there ever can be one. Sometimes you’d be so tired you wish you had a Gorilla that could drive for you. And you find you need a film like this for you to know that it’s a bad idea.

A WASTE OF SPACE THAT'S BRILLIANTLY NAMED

(this Film Review is filled to the brim with expletives, which I felt the film warranted. I thus caution the reader and recommend that he/she discontinue reading right now if unwilling to encounter the same. I hope you'd understand that it's that kind of a film)

DIRECTED BY KAUSHIK MUKHERJEE

STARRING: ANUBRATA, JOYRAJ, KAMALIKA, SHILAJIT and RITUPARNA

Kaushik Mukherjee’s ‘Gandu’ is not a film. But it is a revelation. It brings to our notice a bunch of people in India who would do a things on screen than anyone else within the country would even dream of. The actors. The music department. The director himself, for that matter. I find that very reassuring, as well as intimidating and questionably so. On the one hand, I think they would inspire writers to come up with meaningful films about meaningful characters in a meaningful plot that would warrant the explicitness that ‘Gandu’ messes around with. On the other, they could spawn faithful stereotypes. Like a ‘Chuthiya’, for instance (excuse me for my language). Or a regional equivalent. The question is how well an actress like Rituparna (who plays every object of fantasy of the protagonist) would respond outside of her boyfriend’s territory – probably the same question that an actress like Kalki Koechlin faced post ‘Dev D.’ It pertains to Anubrata (who plays the fairly likeable ‘Gandu’) as well. We shall have to wait and watch.

I would rather not give away the plot of ‘Gandu.’ I do not wish to romanticize it, and I find myself incapable of telling a story without doing so. Hence I don’t want to. A film like this doesn’t deserve that. It is crass. It is deliberate. It doesn’t feel what it shows. Sex for Mukherjee is perversion. Perversion is compulsive. Films break taboos and remain intact with themselves. ‘Gandu’, I thought, was lost. It is absolutely non-erotic, wherein we know it tries to be. Mukherjee blends Gaspar Noe hallucinations with a Wong Kar Wai style. The effort is shamelessly visible. The result: a semi-erotic mess of a scene that holds one’s attention but for the wrong reasons. It’s bad pornography; worse cinema.

I talk about that one scene in particular, shot in colour that was meant to steal the show. I would credit the scene with as much potential as the encounter between Renato and his fantasized version of Malena Scordia in Giuseppe Tornatore’s ‘Malena’ (2000). My expectations only made the drop steeper. Sure Anubrata was hooked with eagerness; sure Rituparna sets the screen on fire. That is perhaps the problem in itself. Because the scene is ugly. It comes out as exhibitionist than celebratory. You watch the scene, you aren’t into it. Which makes me repeat my statement – it is bad pornography. A sex scene is like a concert experience: You’ve got to be there. This scene is badly edited, uninterestingly pieced. It’s plastic. It’s like a game of ‘Doctor’ at best, minus the innocence. Which is a big letdown for the engaging Rituparna, who, I thought, was feeling it.

I was reminded of Bertolucci’s ‘the Dreamers’ (2004) as I drifted off in search of a better place. Matthew (Michael Pitt) in the film endears with his helplessness. His charm is in his submission and the wild-eyed eagerness with which he’s up for the experience in the earlier stages of the film. Isabelle (Eva Green) is a warm place to be. Rituparna, I felt, was quite close. But our Gandu is no Julio or Tenoch (from Alfonso Cuaron’s delightful ‘Y Tu Mama Tambien’), let alone being Matthew. He does a Rocco Sifredi. You expect him to do a ‘stand and carry’ next. Inexperience walks out the door.

But Gandu is capable of such innocence. He is, actually, innocent enough. The film, I felt, takes a likeable adolescent and distorts him for the heck of it. His thoughts are perverted, his music is too. But he isn’t. I found that hard to deal with. What do you think? Seth (Jonah Hill) from ‘Superbad’ had a very dirty mind. But then he was still likeable with it. Gandu, on the other hand, shoves it up his namesake. The music is mind-blowing, Mukherjee has talent with words. Rickshaw (Joyraj) is adorable. There are things that put a smile on your face. There are things that kill it for you. They make the film unacceptable. The good things stand no chance.

In all, I found ‘Gandu’ tastelessly bold and pointedly defiant. I didn’t think it needed to be. It’s cocky, no doubt. But then it’s like a 4-inch intrusion in an 8-inch business, too noisy to make up for lost pace. It’s like a bad dick-joke that I didn't want to hear; that I wish was told differently. Throughout 'Gandu', I wished for a different movie. So I stand repulsed.

THE 'LAUGH AT ME' POSTER THAT WORKS

DIRECTED BY MARTIN SCORSESE

STARRING: ROBERT DE NIRO, JERRY LEWIS, SANDRA BERNHARD, DIAHNNE ABBOTT, SHELLEY HACK with ED HERLIHY and TONY RANDALL

The funniest from Robert De Niro turns out to be his saddest as well. Martin Scorsese’s ‘the King of Comedy’ might not have any of the gags one would expect it to have, it has absolutely no stand-up save for Rupert Pupkin’s (De Niro) final monologue that comes as but a last gasp. But it’s funny. And cute as a button. You might have nothing to talk about once you’re done watching, you’d have no haul of memorabilia, no scenes or lines that you can tell a friend, but you absolutely devour what goes on when it’s on. It brings about the eagerness of the fan in you, never the disappointment. And when it’s over, you come to realize that Pupkin was no pity-bin where you could dump your sighs. He was just what he claimed he was – a really funny man.

Jerry Langford (played by Jerry Lewis) is a television star who has it big on his own show that features such names as Tony Randall, Richard Dreyfuss and Elizabeth Ashley. Everyone else plays himself or herself, name unchanged, but Lewis is victim of a filmmaker’s caution, the sort of thing Steve Coogan was to clear of in the variations he has played of himself in a bunch of Michael Winterbottom films. But then again, an actor like Lewis would have a lot more to lose. Plus, this film is not about him. The star is distanced from the viewer, it’s but the minnow who’s supposed to endear as has always been the custom. At least up until George Simmons came along.

As Langford, Lewis keeps his initials as well as his style. He has a characteristically twitchy, effeminate walk that looks out of place on a middle-aged man. He's grumpy. He looks like the sort of person you’d never attribute comedy to at sight, but then change your mind the moment he moves. He’s funny when he’s afraid, funnier when angry. Some of his expressions are gems on screen except they’re products of timing more than prowess. The role is convenient, the actor a good match. You could upturn your dinner table just to watch him frown than eat with him and have a talk. He’s that comedian.

Pupkin, on the other hand, is the fan who gets funnier with failure. De Niro would come to do another performance on similar lines in Tony Scott’s ‘the Fan’ (1996), one that would serve to destruct the niche he had carved for himself with this film. I’ve always thought that comedy came easy to De Niro ('Meet the Parents', 'Analyze This'); it’s his lighter side that has appealed to me than the angry young man or the sadistic prizefighter or the dozen odd mob bosses he’s played. There’s nothing specifically stupendous that he brings to this film. Neither is his portrayal a show of heart – the film came rounds after his tryst with stardom. What sells, however, is the fact that he doesn’t have to put on clothes for this role. He’s already wearing them, he’s got what he needs. Pupkin is second nature to De Niro. The sad wannabe with all bitterness scraped out leaves a caricature pretty close to the actor's personality. Or an amplification. De Niro is at home with his performance as the clown without make-up. They can save the cherry for another film.

By the way, I lied when I said there are no memorable sequences worth talking about after the film. The cue-card sequence is absolutely hilarious, both during and after. But it’s one of those scenes you’d rather watch than be told about. Because it’s one of those films.

Martin Scorsese directs a comedy that doesn't want the laughs it gets. It’s not a comedy that wants to be – it’s a comedy that is. A little more colour would have rendered this ‘dark’ comedy unrecognizable. A little less colour, on the other hand, would have turned it black. We find balance. Scorsese’s film is as dry as it’s lively, as cute as it’s in denial about it, as intense as it tries to steer clear. It’s as intimidating as it is leisurely. It’s good.

DO NOT WATCH THIS FILM

DIRECTED BY LARS VON TRIER

STARRING: KIRSTEN DUNST, CHARLOTTE GAINSBOURG, ALEXANDER SKARSGARD, KIEFER SUTHERLAND with STELLAN SKARSGARD and JOHN HURT

Lars Von Trier has successively won his lead actress an award at Cannes. In 2009, Charlotte Gainsbourg bagged the honour for her portrayal of a mother who retaliates with sexual aggression against the pain of having lost her infant child in ‘Antichrist’. This summer, Kirsten Dunst walked away with the same for ‘Melancholia’, where she plays a woman who’s crippled by her fear about the end of the world. Crippled, as in mentally/emotionally. The film is said to be based on Trier’s therapy sessions during a depressive episode in his life, and it features Gainsbourg who’s already proven her worth in grieving with grace. Here, she’s comparatively cheerful. Dunst herself has had a popular bout of depression for two years, breaking the ice with her 2010 release ‘All Good Things’. This film is part of her comeback, and could very well be her definitive, breakthrough act.

That’s as much trivia as is required to understand where this film comes from and what nurtures it to an organic and rotting whole. Its achievement, I felt, was in the semblance of home as well as the equally-incisive portrayal, both of which had firm roots in the people involved. In other words, it’s a depressing film from a depressed person about a depressed character played by an actor who has faced the worst herself. That, I think, would sum up what the viewer can/will expect even before the film opens.

There’s very little to speak about the film, which actually doesn’t come as a surprise. It’s in two parts, one named after Justine (Kirsten Dunst) the bride-to-be who destroys her own wedding in a sort of defeatist endeavor like in a move to make the end of the world more sufferable. The other is named ‘Claire’ after her sister (Charlotte Gainsbourg) whose consumption by fear is procedural and intensifies with time and event. Justine plays the aggressor, Claire is submissive in the broadest sense of the word. This is not the first time I’ve watched Trier situate the entire emotional crux of the film with his women, their men accessorized. But here, he polarizes it. Justine and Claire are on the opposite ends of the spectrum. They, in all essence, complete the picture that he breaks in the end.

Does this imply that Trier is the feminist of this generation? Perhaps. It’s complicated, actually. He relates his depression to the suffering of a woman; somehow, I felt that he feels something very feminine about it. His men are plastic. He associates them with science, with logic, with power; with humour that he derives little pleasure from. His women, on the other hand, are pinnacles of expression, chasms of depth. We see shades of the woman in ‘Antichrist’ in Justine. She corks her sadness with sexual aggression, and suffers more at the relapse she helps trigger with it. I imagined for a second how it would be if he were to centre his story upon a male equivalent – that is, if ever Trier decided to write himself in a story. I think the concept of a woman has such an inherent sense of pity it’s bound to incite, which a male character, in his sexual dominance, would only lead away from himself. Somehow, the idea of a woman predating and suffering from the same seems far more acceptable. Even artistic. Or else it’s a consequence of Trier’s craft that renders us to believe so. I can’t tell.

Accepting that it’s backed by exemplary craft and deft use of ideas in Trier’s impeccable quirk, I take the liberty to call the film pathetic. It’s unendurable. It’s not even a film that can be enjoyed by a depressed individual; it’s no key to suicide either. I felt that it was a film that be enjoyed only by those in it; those snared by commitment and self-propelled interest to carve a way out of their heads in form of this film. Trier HAD to make this film, Dunst HAD to act in it – it’s in convenience to help resurrect her fallen career as well. She fits like a glove and he wears her performance like a crown. Dunst is both actor and character for the film that Trier knew exactly how to make. It comes easy for him, he extracts performances effortlessly. He’s backed by a talented bunch of actors who are well-cast and devoted as well. It’s tailor-made.

But what about the viewer? There’s this one film that Willem Dafoe as Carson Clay writes, directs and stars in at the Cannes Film Festival in ‘Mr. Bean’s Holiday’. The man is ruthless. He eats screen-space and deletes other characters to facilitate his own. I was reminded of that film when I watched ‘Melancholia’. There are films which disrespect the viewer. This one disregards us. It doesn’t care. It prides in its depression and destroys the world to beat its gloom. I’ve always had this theory that one would miss life lesser in its absence if one lived lesser. The film destroyed that theory of mine simply by reveling in it. I felt tainted. It does not eat into your optimism. It leeches on it and comes out strong. 

Roger Ebert called Tinto Brass’ ‘Caligula’ (1979) a heinous excuse for sex in film. ‘Melancholia’, to me, is a depression equivalent. It's ejaculate. It's a 'burn after reading' that it warrants. Not a world-premiere. Or any premiere, for that matter.

BENEFITS? COME ON, SERIOUSLY?

DIRECTED BY WILL GLUCK

STARRING: JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE, MILA KUNIS, NOLAN GOULD, WOODY HARRELSON, PATRICIA CLARKSON, RICHARD JENKINS, ANDY SAMBERG with JASON SEGEL, RASHIDA JONES and EMMA STONE

The most engrossing aspect of Will Gluck’s ‘Friends with Benefits’, a boring self-advertisement of an overwrought product, I felt, were the sex scenes. Let me tell you why. Mila Kunis as Jamie, before she engages in intercourse (and a whole lot of other things) with Dylan (Justin Timberlake), tells him she has sensitive nipples. He, in turn, warns her of a similar situation on his chin. In the scenes that follow, we get to see his weak spot, but never hers. I was eagle-eyed about it. Not a trace. I felt cheated. It felt like such an ‘entertainer’ thing to do, you know? You hype a feature on a product that’s barely saleable otherwise (relating ‘Mila Kunis’ and ‘acting’), you make people wait for it even if only to counter-check or call for a contract-void, but then you never give it to them. The mystery is strenuous. For all you know, they might have used a body-double. I think they actually did. The girl in the long-range topless shot is not Kunis, but her voice distracts. Filmmakers these days are so full of tricks up places least expected. Like the one that Dylan seems particularly fond of.

What I said above is not an effort at undermining a well-packaged film that’s actually doing pretty well with critics and other audiences alike. It’s genuinely the only thing that I got to appreciate in the movie. And I actually called it a ‘movie’. That’s strange. I usually stick to ‘films’ – ‘Cinema’ for the rarer kind. This is one that chased cars in a guise of self-importance. I just sat down and counted them as they passed. One. Two. Three. Clichés. Pointy references for the heck of them. Supposed intelligence that’s but an abuse of ‘stupid’. Manipulation. Pretentiousness; it never stood for the stuff it preached. I mean the premise and the movie as the end product that plays in theatres and cineplexes and drive-ins and what not, didn’t go together. It’s like a bad lie that’s better untold.

I’m not going to discuss the plot outline of something that even a ten year old would get these days. It’s like what Roger Ebert once said about self-help books in his review of ‘He’s just not that into you’, as well as what Sam Elliott said about ‘Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus’ in this film called ‘Did you hear about the Morgans?’ It’s that you don’t have to read the book to know what it’s about. Which means everything comes down to the other things – the surprise elements. Like in a sports film, where it’s about what happens off of the field than on it. The X-factors, so called.

So yeah, I thought this ‘movie’ had none whatsoever. I’ve never looked up to the abilities of either Mila Kunis or Justin Timberlake. They’ve been good in smaller roles, previously. Timberlake was alright in ‘Alpha Dog’ and as Sean Parker in ‘the Social Network’. Mila Kunis as Rachel Jansen in ‘Forgetting Sarah Marshall’ is a role I’d ascribe sensibility to. What didn’t make sense was the move to give them both a wider berth where there’s ten times the chance to blow their covers. Emma Stone (whose role in this film is sheer suicide) made this transition to game-changer from ‘good new find’ (‘Superbad’ to ‘Easy A’). One can give that credit to Seth Rogen (‘the 40-year-old Virgin’ to ‘Knocked Up’) or even Jonah Hill (‘Knocked Up’ to ‘Superbad’). Never to Kunis. Never to Timberlake.

What’s even more of a bother is to see how many good actors have been wasted at the wasteful expense of no-brainer eye-candy. Patricia Clarkson. Richard Jenkins (who plays someone with movie-Alzheimer's). Woody Harrelson. I might add Emma Stone to this list, but the girl is on a downtrend. Still, it’s demeaning to be assigned to play a gawky John Mayer fan. Sucks to say you like ‘Your Body is a Wonderland’ as opposed to something like ‘Gravity’ or the ‘Bold as Love’ cover. It’s like discussing Cohen and saying you like ‘Hallelujah’ the most. And that too because Jeff Buckley’s covered it.

I just plain-hated the movie, if that’s not evident by now. Maybe because it’s a John Mayer put-down by Timberlake who can’t spell music even on ‘Hollywood’ letters. Or maybe it’s because I think this film should never have been made. Not because ‘No Strings Attached’ got there first. It’s not even about that. And that’s what I figured from whatever little I paid attention to.