GRADUATES, BUT NOT WITH HONOURS

DIRECTED BY MATTHEW VAUGHN

STARRING: JAMES McAVOY, MICHAEL FASSBENDER, JENNIFER LAWRENCE, ROSE BYRNE, NICHOLAS HOULT, OLIVER PLATT, MATT CRAVEN with JANUARY JONES and KEVIN BACON

Matthew Vaughn is widely regarded to be a fresh new face to mainstream filmmaking, both figuratively and literally. He entered with the quirky action-flick in ‘Layer Cake’, took a smoldering diversion deep beyond the Wall in ‘Stardust’ and returned in form of his terribly misdirected ‘Kick Ass’. From the man who has dealt with three different genres in his only three films, we have a fourth. His versatility speaks for itself, his inventiveness – in lesser volumes. With that, I do not deny that he’s a remarkable director, he seems to be fine with just ‘good’. And ‘X-Men: First Class’, in all its promise, suffers exactly from its maker’s syndrome. A convincing back-story is all that it tries to be, and in that it succeeds. Which is a shame, because I felt it could have done a whole lot more.

You don’t need to have a fondness or a sort of reverse-nostalgia towards the future ‘X-Men’ to appreciate this ‘First Class’, but you need that to like it. I didn’t. Somehow, I still can’t get past the idea. Mutation is a necessary evil – necessary because it drops anchor on sustenance and development to facilitate it further. ‘Evil’ because it’s preposterous to the existing generation; it’s base-betrayal. We witness a race that considers itself as beyond even American liberalism, let alone the ‘all men are born equal’ communism that governs the Soviets. But there is a split – on the one hand we have the snake-charmer. On the other, we have the wildlife enthusiast. The admirer embraces his pet, even more when warned of its fangs. The film progresses to an antagonism of common threat. The rest is history.

What then, I ask, of destructive mutation? What of mutation that cannot even ask for equal rights? Would the entire spastic society of the world back me on this war for betterment? Is there an actual society? Would that even make sense in the first place? How much longer do we sustain this ‘no questions asked’ rule of commercial cinema that exists for no reason but to better itself?

It seems that we’re in the era of the prequel. George Lucas perpetrated it with his reestablishment of his ‘Star Wars’ spectacle – we fed on its maker’s still-enduring frivolity, lost in faith. Christopher Nolan then emerged, his reimagining of the Dark Knight a rare combination of ideology, inventiveness and solid screenwriting. ‘Batman Begins’ could be the best of hero-films on my list, I was amazed. We gear up for a ‘Spiderman’ kick start with Marc Webb (‘(500) Days of Summer’) at its helm. There’s a scare of even an ‘Indiana Jones’ prequel as the fifth installment. The world does not understand how easy it is on the writer’s part to work on existing characters; it’s a question of information against imagination. And if to succeed meant to dare, then Matthew Vaughn scores a lukewarm five against Nolan’s hard ten. What’s even worse is that he’s okay with it.

Still, I liked the film for its briskness despite signs of slack; for its eagerness to entertain for a pat on its head. I even liked its predictability for it let me say “I told you so!” But I hated its art-direction where I felt it was under-emphasized. As for the usual jab at the actors, I beg to differ. Sure each had a substantial acting performance under his/her belt (James McAvoy – 'Atonement'; Michael Fassbender – ‘Fish Tank’; Jennifer Lawrence – ‘Winter’s Bone’; Nicholas Hoult – ‘About a Boy’, ‘A Single Man’), but is that enough reason to not do this film? I don’t think so. What if their pasts were to be a revelation told in a Xavier-like premonition? Films as these are a part and parcel of every actor’s chronology, where it’s not as much about the performance as it’s about the energy of the same. Vaughn’s pack seems robust: They work, unquestionably.

But the same cannot be said in the case of the film. I questioned its necessity, but I found myself entertained. What can I say, it’s adequate! It definitely emulates both Bryan Singer and all his efforts, but let me maintain that it’s still faint praise that it calls for. And again, that’s all it seems to need.

'CUTE' THAT COMES AS A BAD EXCUSE

DIRECTED BY NICHOLAS JASENOVEC

STARRING: CHARLYNE YI, MICHAEL CERA, JAKE JOHNSON with DAVID KRUMHOLTZ, PAUL SCHEER, PAUL RUST, MARTIN STARR, DEMETRI MARTIN and SETH ROGEN

‘Paper Heart’ capitalizes on an existent rumour. Its lead actors were supposed to have dated at a point in their life and the film plays along with that notion, trying to rationalize the idea while simultaneously attempting to outrun it. Somehow, you know what to expect. The film unfolds in the perspective of Charlyne Yi as she attempts to vindicate and empower herself, walking around and interviewing people, bringing together this database of individual viewpoints. A consensus could have been her intention, but the film looks beyond – it’s more about the myriad revelations in an overall indifference on Yi’s part. In which way, the film serves as a metaphor for what it carries; it looks to inspire those emotions in the viewer which Yi wouldn’t and doesn’t fall for. It’s chauvinist, and in that it tries too hard.

Charlyne Yi (as a ‘fictionalized’ version of herself) does not understand ‘love’. Neither does she want to. She says she’s ‘content’ when asked, reminiscent of those school kids who don’t touch others’ food because they’ve got enough of their own that they trust better. She has a tinge of that haughtiness which she veils underneath a pair of thick-shelled glasses and an ever-enduring smile. She looks like one as well. Her interviews reflect upon her adamancy; it’s like ‘truth or dare’ where she’s up for both. Every perspective she gains an insight to is like the blow of a boxing coach who tries to penetrate his champion’s abdomen as the latter tries hard to resist in a self-inflicted susceptibility test. The film’s director is personified in Jake Johnson (who plays ‘Nick’) as the friend who tries to set her up with an up-and-coming love interest in Michael Cera (as a ‘fictionalized’ version of himself). Nick directs the documentary in the documentary, throwing nudges where he can only to learn his protégé has progressed further than he thinks she has. This is what they call a ‘mockumentary’.

The three of them are expressionless – they drone than talk. For Michael Cera, that’s his comfort zone; Jake Johnson snuggles in as well. Charlyne is loony, perhaps she tries to cover for her friends. What is disheartening is that these are vain efforts that suffer from a distinctive lack of heart. The documentary portions look enacted, the pauses seem forced to such extents that I felt elated whenever an interviewee managed shifty glances towards the camera. It looks like they’ve been done twice – once without recording, and the second with – including edits and rehearsals. The film deprives us of an organic feel, it looks like a second-time watch the first time around. Maybe that’s the idea behind a self-parody, but what’s the point, then?

This is the second film with Michael Cera that tries distinctively to emulate ‘Before Sunrise’. And while ‘Paper Heart’ packs a fair amount of poise and better direction than ‘Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist’, it has neither the charm nor the intricate detail in character and premise that Richard Linklater effortlessly packed into an overnight experience, of two people stringent to savour their drifts through limited time. Still, it does have the freshness of a ‘road movie’ hidden under a shroud of urban apathy to celebrity extents. It also serves its purpose as a response to the said allegations of the two of them as a couple, the film in itself being representative of the voyeurism that its stars have been subjected to. I hated its climax, though, with all its quirks – something in cheeky accordance to a feminist outlook adopted from first shot.

Nevertheless, ‘Paper Heart’ has a bunch of deeply romantic stories to offer that are well-sequenced as well. Except that it has its intonation going awry, which makes it look like a cynic’s take on romanticism as she tries to hide some of her own. But they’re only having a laugh about the whole thing, which makes it… I don’t know, irksome?

STUPID, RATHER

DIRECTED BY MARK S. WATERS

STARRING: LINDSEY LOHAN, RACHEL McADAMS, LIZZY CAPLAN, AMANDA SEYFRIED, LACEY CHABERT, JONATHAN BENNETT, DANIEL FRANZESE with TIM MEADOWS and TINA FEY

I’m waiting for a sensible writer to touch this concept, which in itself could be a futile wait for no ‘sensible’ writer would. Neither ‘Mean Girls’ nor its writer, comedienne Tina Fey needs to flatter itself/herself that the film comes anywhere close to substantiating its claims as much as trying to cash in on them. It’s something that’s more about what it supposedly is against than what it’s supposed to stand for in a dreadful compromise. Tina Fey, in the overcoat of Ms. Norbury, the Math Teacher calls herself a ‘pusher’ because she pushes people to do things – well, the writer Tina Fey rates up as one as well because she’s so keen on pushing us into liking this film, which is nothing more than a geek revenge on showgirl stardom that’s definitely not going to happen in the millennia to come.

We know that. Tina Fey knows that. Even her characters do. So what purpose does ‘Mean Girls’ serve?

Nothing. It made me remember an even more delusional, misdirected teen-creation by the name of ‘Thirteen’, about how all that urban girls get off on is shoplifting, drugs and parties that they’re too young for, with the film eventually ending up patronizing the very concept it intended to stand up against. ‘Havoc’ isn’t a bad example either. Call me sexist, but these sort of things need to get out of women-writers’ hands! I mean, with all due respect, all that Tina Fey manages to do in this film is tread a Samaritan path where everyone gets out (emotionally) unscathed? Maybe I’m missing the whole point about a ‘comedy’, where you laugh it off and let it go, but it’s one thing to blow up a ‘situation’ to the 'end of the world’. It’s another to pretend that everything’s fine in the end, especially when you’ve done the first thing as well. ‘Mean Girls’ does both. And in that, it’s as retarded as it tries not to be.

I stick to my theory that you simply can’t like a film in bits and pieces and grade it like it’s a ten-problem Math assignment. Neither are we grading on a relative basis, where the best attempt gets a full-score. Nevertheless, I did pick a few things intact out of the trash-can. Like I said, a schoolroom film is only as much about the kids as it’s about the adults, which, I believe, would be a welcome diversion from the otherwise distorted centre of attraction. It’s not a spotlight that shines on top of a Kid’s head. It’s an onus. Laurent Cantet captured the essence brilliantly in his Palme D’Or winning ‘Entre Les Murs’. We saw glimpses of an Afro-American high-school in ‘Half Nelson’. Even ‘Rocket Science’ managed to deliver a better picture of schoolroom bitterness, though it seldom strayed away from brain to brainlessness. Mainstream Hollywood would never learn.

The best scene in the film is when an unnamed girl goes to the podium in a moment of truth and asks why they (as in her peers) can’t get along with each other like in middle school, why she can’t bake a cake anymore that’s all rainbows and happiness. Her cameo is reduced to a feeble joke; perhaps Tina Fey has a little bit of ‘Plastic’ in her as well. Makes sense, for otherwise she wouldn’t have written such a ‘fugly’ film.

TIMID WITH ITS INTIMIDATION

DIRECTED BY TAYLOR HACKFORD

STARRING: KEANU REEVES, AL PACINO, CHARLIZE THERON, CONNIE NIELSEN, HEATHER MATARAZZO, JUDITH IVEY, CRAIG T. NELSON and JEFFREY JONES

‘the Devil’s Advocate’ fails to emerge as a convincing supernatural thriller with its contention to remain a meek psychological drama that ‘could have been better’. Despite incredible direction on the part of Taylor Hackford that makes it a fairly-engaging watch, it disappoints by failing to capitalize upon a premise that spells hostility. The Big City is ‘Hell’ in an almost Schopenhauer kind of pessimism, where the law is a playground for the Devil, his son and daughter. He’s fittingly named ‘John Milton’ (read ‘Paradise Lost’) after the poet, and is even more fittingly cast into a hardcore performance by Al Pacino who merely exploits his stereotype on wickedness. Michael Corleone could have been scarier, but Milton takes a pass at the mystery of silence. He talks too much - the typical 'bad guy' who monologues enough to buy time for the Hero.

Beneath the mysticism, the film is about a straight-edge Lawyer named Kevin Lomax (Keanu Reeves) who takes a twist letting himself into the hands of John Milton (Pacino), head of a big law-firm. It’s a battle of success versus honesty; of truth against lies. Every writer is quick to make truthfulness synonymous to defeat and success almost entirely hinging upon infidelity and vice, and a shirk of family, of value, of integrity. There's even a not-so-subtle hint at incest! Now, I do not brand the viewpoint wrong as much as I brand it usual, except that our metaphors are more literal. Our Devil lives on surface here and there’s nothing worse than to join hands with him is what is suggested, for he is someone who’d defy every single of ‘the Ten Commandments’ in a Catholic Universe. Of course, when we speak of the Devil, we mean the Anti-Christ. There's not much to rationalize beyond religion. It's like a biblical episode with emphasis on the adversary.

On the one hand, there’s a clean-sheet record of zero cases lost. On the other, there’s wife, possible child (or absence of it), mother and everything ethical. And ‘the Devil’s Advocate’ is not as much about the choice as much as it’s about atonement. It shows the side-effects in a prerogative sort of foresight which could stop one from taking the pill in the first place. In short, it gives the man a second chance with full insurance. I sighed.

The motifs are externalized. Mary Ann encounters a string of vividly horrifying sequences in her house and beyond; there’s a metaphor on changing appearances and hairdo. We have a gigantic flatscreen behind Milton’s desk that represents plot development in all its turbulence until it finally takes its shape. The truth serves to be ugly; heinous. The film could have been too, especially in those moments where it enjoys its cruelty and rejoices in it. But then it takes a childish turn of repentance and begs to be forgiven for blasphemy? We’re witnessing a crash of the ‘American Dream’, a fall without grace. The performances are inimitable – everyone does their part well. Charlize Theron as the agonized wife in Mary Ann is brilliant. Also resounding is Judith Ivey as the strictly-Catholic Alice Lomax, Kevin’s mother. There’s nothing under par about the film’s production as much as its concept. Keanu Reeves isn’t too bad either, with Al Pacino taking the whole lot of the film’s one-liners almost entirely written for the Devil to speak, for he’s the one that’s full of verse and never yet sweet.

Unfortunately, neither writer(s) nor director are as severe as Milton or Pacino, although they share his class. And ‘the Devil’s Advocate’, as a result, is a less-than-convincing Opera on screen that’s just about performances and art direction. It has the Devil’s eagerness in paternal stead, in an overall attempt to not get you converted; it charges hard and fast for a head-on clash, line after line in a last-breath effort only to hasten into retreat. It's silly.

(I should add, though, that I loved the last-minute jab at the Devil's next exploit with reference to fields of 'vanity', and victory attributed to compromise. Tongue-in-cheek!)

THE ULTIMATE INFILTRATION

DIRECTED BY JOHN WOO

STARRING: NICOLAS CAGE, JOHN TRAVOLTA, JOAN ALLEN, ALESSANDRO NIVOLA, GINA GERSHON, DOMINIQUE SWAIN, COLM FEORE, HARVE PRESNELL and NICK CASSAVETES

Writers Mike Werb and Michael Colleary would have penned this to be the most outrageous undercover operation ever constructed. I imagine them in the stone-faced craziness with which Doctors Walsh and Miller suggest it to the wide-eyed Sean Archer (John Travolta), who’d vaguely symbolize every producer in town – parties who could potentially have thwarted the very spawning of the action-entertainer in this ‘Face/Off’. We read the question on their lips for it is ours too: How would this work? This is a story that could fall flat on so many levels that you’d require a special surgical procedure to get it back up and running. But we are not to undermine the Doctors of Hollywood nor the prowess of ‘National Security’ in general. Neither are we to question the futility of a so-called ‘special operation’ where there is inevitable loss of personnel, particularly of the only ones who would seem to be aware (in the remotest sense of the word) that there’s been a switch.

‘Face/Off’ is a welcome deviation from usual Undercover ops. The two of them are taken off the razor’s edge and are rewarded with entropy. There’s a remarkable effort in transforming an inward-bound psychological thriller to an extravagant, almost completely superficial action flick where every moment of tension takes a gunshot to relieve itself. Sean Archer remarks at the very beginning on the ridiculousness of the whole thing. “You’re keeping him alive?” he remarks, in an effort to arrest plot development, only to be hushed up by the whole unit of cast and crew, including himself. There’s a swap of faces as well as a body-morph, although the latter is not mentioned but simply has to be. For Archer in form of Castor Troy (Nicolas Cage) means Eve (Joan Allen) asking him where he dropped all those pounds, while Sasha Hassler (Gina Gershon) would confront Troy on how he gained them. Character inconsistencies are better explainable – people change even if their faces don’t, but it’s not true vice-versa. We get to question neither for we know we’re watching John Woo.

Still, the film proves too far-fetched and illogical even in course of the established premise. There are two characters who share a level of personal contact with Troy and Archer beyond anyone else that can be excused. One is Pollux Troy (Alessandro Nivola), Castor Troy’s brother – “you’re not the only one that’s smart in the family” is what Castor remarks in Archer’s guise, implying upon a greater level of intelligence on the brother’s part. What part of this intelligence is that which stops him from sounding a red-alert when Archer intrudes upon the Troy household? Is that not just a convenient plot device to bring about the end of the only character who could destroy Archer’s (in Troy’s body) progress into the rest of the plot? And what about the other character in Mrs. Archer? Would a wife not know her husband from another man, having lived with him for about two decades? The sacrifice of the less-crucial Pollux could be seen as one for ‘the Greater Good’, but the second case is simply intolerable. Even more infuriating is the emotional hijack that writers and director try to take us on as a sort of transient between two bombs. While on the one hand there’s attempted visual poetry, on the other we have an undiluted, brute orchestra of shipwrecks and harbor-blowups. This, somehow, doesn’t tally.

Nevertheless, what would lift ‘Face/Off’ higher than the usual mindless entertainer is that it’s an actor’s dream – two people get to play two characters to give us four different versions in a competitive mutualism. Cage and Travolta might not be the best of choices in terms of acting talent, but they do just fine, bringing more to the table in form of their fame. And ‘Face/Off’, along with its director, would be remembered as the film about two actors trying to emulate each other in a concept that wants them to, in an inherent metaphor. Except that it could have gone a little easier with its cheap thrills and filled the voids with poise that has otherwise just been ‘suggested’.

ON ADAMANT PLOTS AND DISCOMFORTS HENCEFORTH

DIRECTED BY GRIFFIN DUNNE

STARRING: MATTHEW BRODERICK, MEG RYAN, KELLY PRESTON and TCHEKY KARYO

Sam (Matthew Broderick) loves Linda (Kelly Preston) and wants her back, for Linda is currently in a relationship with Anton (Tcheky Karyo) who serenades her like he once serenaded Maggie (Meg Ryan), who hates him now and seeks dire revenge. Sam meets Maggie and they become partners in Crime with different motives in similar direction – while Sam aims at destruction of the relationship, Maggie targets Anton and seeks his downfall. It’s a questionable plot, but it’s clear-cut with its intentions and we take a subtle guess upfront as to what’s going to happen in the end. There are no surprises.

The characters are established, but there’s absolutely no follow-up. Sam, we are told, is an astronomer and that he is for only as long as he sets up a telescope and projects the image on a wall. We witness voyeurism at an unforgivable high; it’s like ‘Rear Window’ got wilder with improv! Maggie, on the other hand, is a reckless ‘leather-jacket’ woman, adolescent with her impulses. Hers is the actual performance while Sam is pretty much Matthew Broderick with his quirks and goofs and bittersweet moments. The actors are conveniently exploited in this heinous (literally!) plot that attacks on the only person in the film with sense and a rationale – and brutally at that! Think of Tom Hansen getting back, slasher-style in a film titled ‘(the last 500) Days of Summer; B*tch’. No, I’m not exaggerating!

Once again, a clear reminder that romantic comedies are beyond earthly justice. The narrow-mindedness of the characters reflects in the plot like some crude sense of justification. And of course, we’re given the usual happy ending stuffed with references (it’s ‘Lassie’, in this case) in a brainwash effort to make one forget the past. But is it forgettable? Let me see – credit card scam, breaking-and-entering, a nearly-successful attempt at murder, sabotage, invasion of privacy? The list goes on. The lovebirds would have to correspond from their respective prisons if this film had a fair extrapolation.

But then that’s a bad ending in itself because ‘Addicted to Love’, clearly, is a bad film. Rotten, with a spray of perfume that fails to deceive.

DIRECTED BY JIM FIELD SMITH

STARRING: JAY BARUCHEL, ALICE EVE, KRYSTEN RITTER, T.J. MILLER, NATE TORRENCE, MIKE VOGEL, KIM SHAW, DEBRA JO RUPP, ADAM LeFEVRE, KYLE BORNHEIMER, HAYES McARTHUR and LINDSAY SLOANE

The quintessential ‘rags-courts-riches-but-not-without-second-thoughts’ love story, except the wealth is ‘hotness’ here. Ours is a gruesome ‘Aladdin’ paired with the petite princess Jasmine; ‘Beauty and the Beast’, as goes another suggestion. The initial viewpoint is that Molly McLeish (Alice Eve) can never be into Kirk Kettner (Jay Baruchel), which the film goes on (undeniably) to defy. Much like how Devon (Nate Torrence) remarks against Stainer’s (T.J. Miller) concept: If someone loves you, you’re a ‘ten’ in their eyes. We know we’re in for more than one revelation.

Again, it’s a cool concept that progresses steadily in a direction that made me sigh. The film, as a result, could never achieve the emotional depth it could have achieved, even for an R-rated, screwball comedy. The confrontation is too-little-too-late and right before the ‘airplane routine’ that too! This film fails to do what ‘Knocked-Up’ did to us in under ten minutes. It throws its fight to play ‘pretty’ instead.

But then, after a journey through enjoyable, even memorable comedy in overall insufficiency, ‘She’s Out of my League’ doesn’t do very well on its own scale of ten - simply because it's just about scales of ten! That's a clear five-point deduction for lack of heart. Plus one for the soundtrack. I'm not going to go any higher than six on ten - that's Stainer's score. Fitting, because the film almost entirely follows his perspective. 

AND 'THE BOY WHO LIVED'... ENDURES

DIRECTED BY DAVID YATES

STARRING: DANIEL RADCLIFFE, RUPERT GRINT, EMMA WATSON, MATTHEW LEWIS, TOM FELTON, RALPH FIENNES, HELENA BONHAM CARTER, ALAN RICKMAN, MAGGIE SMITH, MICHAEL GAMBON, ROBBIE COLTRANE, JASON ISAACS, JOHN HURT, CIARAN HINDS, KELLY MACDONALD, EMMA THOMPSON, DAVID THEWLIS with JIM BROADBENT and GARY OLDMAN

Contrary to the plight of criticism, I must say that it’s always the best of pleasures to lose out to a filmmaker in this business of second opinions. The critical eye thrives seeking closure, the critic – an eye-opener into a heart of joy. I’ve titled my review after the first ever chapter of the first ever book that Joanne-Kathleen Rowling penned, a strange little story about a strange little boy who could make things happen by just wanting them to; who could get anything he wanted in the world except for the comfort of love, for which he held his little hand out. And after fourteen long years with a billion-odd friends who liked to fancy themselves as strange as he was, the spectacle comes to an end in both parchment and moving picture. It’s time to step ahead and pride myself as one of his earliest friends, and one of ‘her’ bitterest enemies in the course of time, for I witnessed a woman transgress from a wild-eyed storyteller to a flatulent Federal reserve with an eye out for naught but the next big thing. But as I observed, time helps forget, if not entirely heal oneself. And I realized that I sat through 126 minutes of it.

Before we go haywire with happiness here (and I shall join in on the celebrations, of course!), let me punctuate. ‘Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – Part II’ serves to be as badly-acted as its three predecessors (I include ‘Part I’ in this list) and yet it’s the first that tries to do something about it. Director David Yates finally makes his mark! To popular observation, right from epics as ‘the Star Wars’ double-trilogy to ‘Indiana Jones’ and the more recent ‘Lord of the Rings’, franchises have always brought out their respective champions, flag-bearers in a mutualistic relationship. Peter Jackson helped shape ‘the Lord of the Rings’, the series shaped him back. It’s a similar case with Christopher Nolan and his brainchild ‘Batman Begins’; nothing too different with Sam Raimi and his ‘Spiderman’ either. ‘Harry Potter’, on the other hand, had changed hands almost as frequently as his Defence Against the Dark Arts teachers, thus giving one no concrete set of coordinates to sketch his growth. But in Yates, the film found refuge – the television director made his film debut with ‘the Order of the Phoenix’, a shaky dabble with an almost entirely new crew. In ‘the Half Blood Prince’, he signed his name, warm with the return of Steve Kloves. And warming up further with ‘the Deathly Hallows – Part I’, we reach halftime with the uproar still imminent. Until then, David Yates had but successfully painted his town black, an overtly-visual metaphor for the dark hours depicted. His vindication was yet to come.

With ‘Part Two’, the director serves to not just atone but takes a fair shot at victory. No one can make the magic trio (of Radcliffe, Grint and Watson) act – they’ve lived their roles, so it’s only wise to let them be. But Yates is not entirely convinced – for once, he takes our stands. For once, we see some ambition; for once, we see some close-up shots – how I jumped with joy! It had been torture to deal with the frigidity of physical expressions in sequences that simply refused to move. From mere talkie-slideshows, we have a screenplay. From scenes ushered by over-saturated plots, we have a fast-paced narrative that moves on its own. The writer and director found time in their hands and finally, how much they could do with it! I’m still opposed to the idea of the two-part split, a four-hour film could have worked well even if it would mean half the profits spelling ‘the Return of the King’. Not that the final addition begs to differ, though – I drew parallels in musical direction, in the intersperse of rush and quiet, in overpopulated battle sequences, and the fortress in itself was vaguely reminiscent of that of King Theoden. But then at least they’ve got their inspirations right!

Nevertheless, Alexandre Desplat emerges as hero of our story beating the visual effects and Matthew Lewis (as Neville Longbottom as a newfound daredevil) who come out a close-second. Steve Kloves drops anchor on a fine editing job (Mark Day) with tremendous backend support by the star cast comprising of actors who have worked their magic countless times before. Helena Bonham Carter (as Bellatrix Lestrange) thrills with an Emma Watson impression, Maggie Smith (as Minerva McGonagall) works some high-strung charm in a sea of novelty with every crest for a quirk. There still is an excess of characters, but there’s also a visible effort in trying to do justice to every single one of them, even if absolutely outrageous (Ciaran Hinds as Aberforth Dumbledore, for instance). Yet, the focus almost entirely (and rightfully) is upon ending the series in as nostalgic a way as possible. Ms. Rowling herself abounded with references to her previous books, not to mention borrowing a hefty amount of her yesteryear writing style. Steve Kloves does his share too as the film tries too hard to not let go of itself. The result is a memorable departure that’s better late than never.

‘Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – Part II’, in short, is a blast from the past with chunks of present and a sliver of future. It does not compete with legend in its conclusiveness, nor do I think it wants to. Perhaps a tad over-dramatized and violent more so, the effort still shows, of a bunch of people who have given it their all. A fair tribute to the series that had enthralled children and adults alike by its visual brilliance, narrative diversity and quite a bit of heart. More of one to the woman who was crazy enough to found a school for magic, run a train to it off a non-existent platform, conceptualizing things ranging from chocolate Frogs to enchantments bizarre, and most of all: to the unlikeliest of heroes in the bespectacled boy who shall forever serve to inspire short-sighted preteens and the faithful flock that grew up with him.

Here’s one for everyone for keeping the Faith. And another for David Yates and his cast and crew, for reviving it. Two Thumbs up.