A UNICORN WITHOUT A HORN

DIRECTED BY SUSEENTHIRAN

STARRING: APPUKUTTY, PIRABHAKARAN, ADVAITHA, SOORI, ARULDAS, AZHAGAN TAMIZHMANI, DEVARAJ and SARANYA MOHAN

An end-to-end with ‘Azhagarsamiyin Kuthirai’ and it strikes with conception, its flair imminent. It does not leave the viewer dissatisfied, but it doesn’t bear fruit either and I found myself a foot away from true delight, mouthing an “is that all?” with a curious smile on my face. For after all I thought was in store, the film somehow disappointed me by turning out to be exactly what I expected – in other words, it gave me the worst of let-downs, that of satisfaction. It took me along the route that I would take, instinctive and not predictable, but it still matched mine. At least it didn’t lead me astray with an excuse of ‘getting back on track later’ and I guess I’ll have to be thankful for that.

Yet another stretch of a rubber-band plot where it’s pulled to the extreme that its creases show, with more emphasis on fighting fatigue than driving actual impact. The storyline is spacious though, the playfield expansive with an immense amount of scope for inserts, the actual contributions of screenwriter-director Suseenthiran. The film is in adherence to the usual sketch on superstitious belief and exploitation to match, its quirk being the fact that it doesn’t strive to emphasize. Some of its best moments could thus very well go unnoticed, a fact that makes them a self-assured delight for the attentive viewer – a risky bit of detail since it could pretty much split ‘intelligent’ from the otherwise-usual verdict of “subtle and enchanting.” And that’s double the points for just taking that risk.

All said and done, ‘Azhagarsamiyin Kuthirai’ joins the likes of films as ‘Onbadhu Rubai Nottu’ and even the immensely-acclaimed ‘Paruthiveeran’ in the fact that it shows not as much promise as premise. And quite as much as the above-mentioned films, it also serves to hide its strain behind visible expertise. By that I speak not of their choice of locations or an interesting assemblage of ‘people being people’, but of their actual ‘beacons’. If it was Yuvan Shankar Raja in ‘Paruthiveeran’, it’s the old warhorse this time who’s come around to prove a point, championing a competent cause. It’s amazing how Ilaiyaraaja complements the film with his intelligence, provoking response to match his class. And the effect is spell-binding; near-parasitical.

The film predates on his prowess, but the Hero stands tall. Which is precisely what makes him one.

Needless to say, ‘Azhagarsamiyin Kuthirai’ is still a boring film, with the silver-lining being that it doesn’t complete its task, for it leaves you with a dash of life – it’s a stretch, but not to breaking point. The performances aren’t too great either, but it’s unfair to expect: it’s a question of affordability. And again, I’d have to appreciate the fact that the film actually saw some light, instead of fading out in conception.

This Horse loses its bronze-medal match for this year’s best, with vacant spots for second and third. On top is the obvious construct of a multi-faceted stadium on an ‘Aadukalam’, with this film merely being an interesting exploit with hooves instead of feet. But then I guess it’s the men who matter more.

WITH A FEW TO REMEMBER

DIRECTED BY PETER SEGAL

STARRING: DREW BARRYMORE, ADAM SANDLER, BLAKE CLARK, SEAN ASTIN, DAN AYKROYD and ROB SCHNEIDER

The premise is unreal, I’m told. There is no illness as this, something depicted to be a curious spot on the spectrum of anterograde amnesia. Sure enough, the situation is hard to fathom, perhaps laughably so – but it is clearly defined, nevertheless. The woman can’t distinguish today from yesterday; yesterday from the day before. Tomorrow would be no different, once she’s done living it. The father worries like any father should but trusts like a man, and the man in question has an expansive road ahead of him. The brother is for comic relief – a blotchy reminder that we’re still in Hollywood land. The starting point is clear, and the definitive factor for '50 First Dates' to work as a film would be down to a choice between making the two ends meet and letting them run parallel till their inks dry out. And there’d always be the question of ‘how?’

It’s needless to say that anyone can conceive the basic plotline of ’50 First Dates’. What would help distinguish prowess from prude is an acceptable end, not to mention a convincing route.

Now, I’m not going to lie about this – I liked the film more for what it could have been than just for the film it was, but I did like it for that reason as well. For one, I found the Hawaiian setup to be more convenient than convincing, the Walrus-trainer to be apt in patience, what with the remotest scope of an alter-ego neatly siphoned off. Lucy (Drew Barrymore) is no ‘sheep in a big city’ – she’s almost queen of the town, a wink-back at ‘the Truman Show’ and the then-yet-to-come ‘Lars and the Real Girl’, both featuring subtle discretion and cooperation from places frequented, if not the entire township. The ‘What if?’s are talked about, if not entirely ascertained and accounted for – the more sinister ones are better left untouched, for the Father doesn’t look like one to cross and our Hero himself is written out to have a heart and a head than just a working wiener. And as stated, his employment reflects on mental-makeup, the casting is appropriate and all that Adam Sandler has to do is read his lines out in an underplay, on the edge of emotion. Which he does fairly well.

But then, has the world come across an illness with such intricate functioning of the mind except for a tiny blot? Leonard Shelby remembers part of his trauma (or what he’s conceived to be so) in ‘Memento’, which in itself was overly fictionalized. And Lucy’s painting here is found flawless but with a hole. Can one forgive Hollywood for that, especially after this specific isolation of cause? For on the one hand, while we take a heavy blow as far as believability is concerned, we do find our tongues in our cheeks as the writer comes out in a confident tone with a happier happy ending than you’d ever conceive.

So yet again, it’s the package deal – while you get a good chunk of meat thrown in, you still get the irksome little bones, making it harder to chew on. ‘the Last First Kiss’ could have brought the ‘Nicholas Sparks’ out of the film and ‘the Last Kiss’ would have busted a further insubstantial Zach Braff. But titling it '50 First Dates' serves to be an unfair blemish to serious conception. Perhaps we could have gone even lesser on Sandlerification, but then that’s another story: A 51st date, perhaps.

A HELL OF A LAST DANCE

DIRECTED BY SYLVESTER STALLONE

STARRING: SYLVESTER STALLONE, BURT YOUNG, ANTONIO CARVER, MILO VENTIMIGLIA, GERALDINE HUGHES, TONY BURTON and TALIA SHIRE

“Ain’t nothing’s over till it’s over.” Sylvester Stallone couldn’t have said more about the film than by just making it. And ‘Rocky Balboa’ could be no clearer than the fight it carries that it’s no last gasp for breath. A striking metaphor, a sweet parallel with the veteran’s distinctively obvious, real-life angst that he’s got enough of the fight in him for one last shot – and that he’s not going to let it be a tease or a soporific recollection, but a full-blooded blow. The stage is set, and the result - obvious; but that doesn't mean one shouldn't take strike, does it?

There really is not much to talk about this film, there’s barely anything new but it’s all in good faith. It’s a return for those who grew up in those suburbs, who ran up the steps with the campaigner and celebrated his leap at the Town Hall. It’s a jab in the gut, maybe even a low-blow for us youngsters who contrive this belief that a shot is only as good as we take it to be – to a generation that’s almost completely lost it in the only genuine human instinct that is to retaliate; to respond to stimulus. It’s a lesson learned, not one forgotten, for no one’s teaching it anymore. And he sensed the void, this man who once taught it, and he’s back not to up the game but to show us how it’s really played.

A sincere exposition of the man behind the man, not to mention the man himself. Rocky Balboa plays the hand he’s got – one of lead, with a solid arm to back it up with. And so does Sylvester Stallone.

But I thought the fight needed more emphasis, it was more or less the whole film. It’s technically both the bang as well as the silence before it, I thought we could have used more detail without touching the time. That’s like ten sets of three with a few minutes in between, and give a few, take a few, I thought we were looking at a half-hour in the bag for sure. Speaking of which, in the forecasted power-game, lasting all ten rounds made me a little too skeptical. We know the horse saves its whinnies for a hard drop-kick, but I couldn’t see it to the finish line, especially since we know it’s not just a horse but a carriage now. And no, I’m definitely not criticizing the victory, which is but the man’s symbolic representation that he’s at ease with those around him and that he was merely grabbing an opportunity that was given to him in the first place, with all respect that he happened to command. Something explained in the pat-on-the-back he gives his competitor in the end, a nice little thumbs-up to carry on with the good work, a ‘thanks for your time’ and a sigh of relief that clearly says “That’s it, I’m done.”

So yeah, that’s it. I’d have liked a shorter, sensible fight, a longer run, a relapse of ‘the Eye of the Tiger’ and he didn’t even jump up the steps this time! Well, maybe that’s a shame, but the film isn’t. Rocky Balboa stands tall amidst the ruins he left himself in, a sculpture at his best but definitely not of body-art. He’s 217 pounds of ‘solid’.