HORSE-POWER GETS A MILEAGE BOOST

DIRECTED BY NICHOLAS WINDING REFN 

STARRING: RYAN GOSLING, CAREY MULLIGAN, OSCAR ISAAC, CHRISTINA HENDRICKS, RON PERLMAN with BRYAN CRANSTON and ALBERT BROOKS 

To comment on whether or not ‘Drive’ (directed by Nicolas Winding Refn) succeeds depends on what one thinks it aspires to be. I thought it was intended to be a dark, tight action drama reminiscent of procedures from the pre-CGI era, where people blew up cars when they wanted to blow up cars. There are very few directors in present day (I shall conveniently exclude veterans who still stick to practices from ‘good old times’) that one can ascribe this ambition to. And in that, Danish Director Nicolas Winding Refn (the ‘Pusher’ trilogy) marks himself on a list that has Ben Affleck (‘Gone Baby Gone’, ‘the Town’) and Christopher Nolan (‘Insomnia’, ‘Batman Begins’) as champions of a mechanical revolution as opposed to its virtual counterpart. There’s supposedly an exciting debut in this line called ‘Bellflower’ (directed by Evan Glodell) that I’m yet to watch. That, I presume, would be all of the sane action that Hollywood would have to offer this season.

So the most that one can accuse ‘Drive’ is of lack of the same in its storyline, not exemplifying characters and interactions. I never wanted it to. Neither is that the only reason I’m not disappointed. The film does not parade on violence, augment the rawness of its action to atrophic amounts, or cash-in on the selling potential of its acting talent. It walks a fine line, sometimes it jogs. There isn’t a moment when it’s uncomfortable doing that, it never falters. And that’s as exciting as the film can get, which I thought was fine. It’s a simple film that sticks to basics. It works. 

Like all action films that want their context established, ‘Drive’ begins with a prototype – a sample. A man, unnamed (Ryan Gosling, credited as ‘Driver’ for convenience) is on a negotiation as tart as his job. He drives. In the ten-minute sequence before the opening credits, Refn tries to establish his Driver as opposed to anyone else’s. He isn’t one of the Paul Walker types to get from place A to place B taking the least amount of time in an adrenalin rush. He’s organic, he evolves. Driving, for Refn (and screenwriter Hossein Amini) is driving slow as well, driving cautiously, stopping when required and taking the right turns at the right time. Skill here is information and improvisation. John Woo might incorporate motor-boats and helicopters into our hero’s skillset, but that’s another story. Our Driver isn’t a daredevil. He’s poise in impulse, topped by the slouchy, hands-in-pocket sort of attitude characteristic of Gosling. He’s stylized, but not made an icon.

If the film is only as good as the story you write the Driver into, then it’s passable at best. Hossein Amini’s ('Jude', 'the Four Feathers') screenplay is backed by a romantic affection, a certain fondness juxtaposed upon the Driver’s steadiness of mind in the eve of crises. That’s his direction and it’s a little unconvincing, I’m not going to lie. It’s too much in convenience where things fall in place and apart with mechanized ease and order. It’s straight, sequential and undisrupted. Too much so.

So ‘Drive’, with the stronghold of Mr. Refn, has a less-than-convincing turn of events. And Christina Hendricks. I presume we still have belief in directorial ability to augment an actor’s performance. Ben Affleck empowered that belief by making Blake Lively act in ‘the Town’. Ms. Hendricks is comparatively repulsive. She’s like a big, sloppy blot on Film-Reel – she’s got too much to carry with too little grace, and I mean that literally as well. Carey Mulligan, on the other hand, is as charming as Rebecca Hall was. Please note I’m only comparing the impact and not drawing an analogy. It’s vital to have an endearing, almost completely innocent character in a premise as this and Mulligan, who served as the Emotional Quotient in Oliver Stone’s ‘Wall Street: Money never Sleeps’, fits the bill. Also, of course, there’s a cute little romance with shades of respectability between her Irene and the Driver. Veterans Bryan Cranston, Albert Brooks and Ron Perlman are convincing stereotypes. Oscar Isaac, as Standard Gabriele, has little to do but looks smart in sunglasses. That’s as much credit as I can give him.

I’m aware I’ve talked about two contrasting angles of looking at the film. But I think it doesn’t deserve to be seen through unassuming eyes – it doesn’t deserve to be hated as much as it’s liked. There are films that you like despite loathsome aspects. There are those you like after ignoring them, which is actually warranted. ‘Drive’ is one such. It’s good that it’s simple, bad that it’s overly so. And it has Ryan Gosling in another game-changing performance. He’s solid, he towers. He fits the Driver’s clothes and they look good on him as well. But then he punches like a girl and looks a little too soft when he smiles. Still, I’ll go easy on him. He’s one of the good ones, you know? Probably the only one these days.

SWEETLY CRAZY, CURIOUSLY STUPID, LOVEABLE

DIRECTED BY GLENN FICARRA and JOHN REQUA 

STARRING: STEVE CARELL, JULIANNE MOORE, RYAN GOSLING, EMMA STONE, ANALEIGH TIPTON, JONAH BOBO, JOEY KING, LIZA LAPIRA with KEVIN BACON and MARISA TOMEI

A Couple are having dinner together in a restaurant that’s like a do-it-yourself foot massage parlour. The two in focus are pretty still, though, you sense a casual, almost lethargic bit of tension between them. The air is then let out as the Woman (Julianne Moore) throws the D-word, much to the man’s (Steve Carell) surprise. You don’t know if he was expecting it, but it’s shown that he doesn’t take it too well. In the meantime, at their place, a 17-year-old Baby Sitter (Analeigh Tipton) walks into the room of the 13-year-old Robbie (Jonah Bobo) under her watch, only to watch him ‘doing something’ not too flattering that he assures he’s doing thinking about her. But that’s not before you’re shown that the Sitter harbours some pretty heady emotions for the man of the house. Elsewhere, two friends Hannah (Emma Stone) and Liz (Liza Lapira), the former asserting on the sexiness of talk show host Conan O’Brien, the latter ‘ew’ing at it, are approached by a leather-shoed line-dropper (Ryan Gosling) who goes for Hannah than the typical girl in Liz. To her, he’s just another ‘tomcat’ that she’d prefer to go home without. To him, she’s perhaps a Tiger-Moth to his Butterfly collection. 

With that, I have introduced you to the ninth minute and possibly the whole premise of Glenn Ficarra’s and John Requa’s ‘Crazy, Stupid, Love’ (punctuated like that, with understandable deliberation). When was the last time that you watched a film that completely dropped all pretence and proceeded to show what exactly it was going to be about? (“We’re going to make your wife rue the day she decided to give up on you”) Only Paul Thomas Anderson would have taken longer, but second-time filmmakers Ficarra and Requa (‘I Love You, Philip Morris’) have no intention to survive on mystery; not when they have the acting potential to live it out for them. So before you know character names, before you’re familiar with who’s who in what way, you know what’s going on with them. With the individuals. From one person to another. I personally think that’s pretty great. 

But the Weavers just can’t divorce each other from their lives. Remember the Fosters from ‘Date Night’? Well, this film could very well be a sequel of sorts where the goofy couple decide to give separation an actual shot just for kicks – an attempt at the impossible, only to learn later on. While the man talks about his wife to women out of his demographic, Emily watches ‘Twilight’ and takes to self-help books. Reconciliation could be thought as ‘just around the bend’, but the road is elastic, and it stretches and turns through the course of the film, through people and things and buddies and brawls before it ultimately gets there. Or somewhere close. 

It’s incredible how easy it is for Steve Carell to play the kind-hearted screw-up that one can never hate, that even someone as sweet as Julianne Moore’s Emily comes off as comparatively harsher. What is a bit of a bummer is that it’s never unexpected. We’ve watched him from ‘the 40-year old Virgin’, through ‘Dan in Real Life’ to the recent ‘Date Night’ and even ‘Dinner for Schmucks’. In ‘Crazy, Stupid, Love’, he just doesn’t disappoint. But Ryan Gosling is one who actually does. I mean, granted that his role as Jacob Palmer had shades of immense likeability, and granted that after ‘Blue Valentine’ (and the upcoming ‘Drive’) an actor is legally allowed to cool it down, I still had moments that I couldn’t stomach. A couple of things both said and done. Too ‘usual’. Emma Stone likewise. She’s so becoming a stereotype for the mature young girl that I wish she’d do something really stupid to get out of that mould. Probably feature in the next ‘Twilight’ as a replacement for Anna Kendrick, who’s wanted back in the real world real bad. Marisa Tomei is all-weather, Kevin Bacon (as the notorious David Lindhagen) not too much so, but they do their job with a fair amount of dignity or lack of the same. The pleasant surprise here is Analeigh Tipton, who plays the baby-sitter Jessica, torn between Boy and Man. To quote a friend, “For someone from America’s Next Top Model, not bad!” There is no way that Joey King (as Molly Weaver, the youngest) could have been given more weightage that I wished she had better not been cast, having carried the weight of ‘Ramona and Beezus’ on her shoulders earlier. Or dragged it along in a suitcase with a broken wheel. It just doesn’t make sense to give her a come-and-go anymore. 

And so we’re down to the title. What’s ‘Crazy’ is how the film had to depend on a bunch of A-list stars (including Jonah Bobo and even Liza Lapira to a fair extent) to convey an concept that’s likeable by itself. What I felt was ‘Stupid’ was the casting of Joey King, which brings us to the last part. The ‘Love’. The film has loads, tons and tons of it. No one, excepting Robbie, says ‘I love you’, but you’re sure everyone thinks it. I did. You will. It’s crazy. It might even be stupid. But it’s heartwarming.

I'M SORRY, BUT WHAT ARE YOU AGAIN?

DIRECTED BY JODIE FOSTER 

STARRING: MEL GIBSON, JODIE FOSTER, ANTON YELCHIN, RILEY THOMAS and JENNIFER LAWRENCE

Jodie Foster gets us to call a full-grown man ‘the Beaver’. It's a woman's wish come true. He’s not just any man, he’s her husband and does a Cockney accent. It’s not thinly-veiled, it’s not suggestive. It’s in your face that you’d barely miss it. It’s in an introduction excessively reminiscent of Alexander Payne’s ‘About Schmidt’ (2002) that we are let into this contextually obvious truth – that he’s not called that for no reason, for he is one. I hope you know what I’m talking about, for if you don’t I’d suggest a look-up in the ‘Urban Dictionary’ – you might uncover some interesting details there, details that could help you encapsulate this disenchanting, stone-washed plain-clothe of a film in the palm of your hand. Not that you’d need that, of course. 

There was a time when films literally had to slog to get their premises in. It wasn’t a time too long ago. I’m talking about the Nancy Oliver written ‘Lars and the Real Girl’, which had new-age Cinema’s all-weather man Ryan Gosling talk to a ‘real doll’ to beat his introversion and people found it scandalous. Walter Black (Mel Gibson), here, talks to a Beaver. Of all the nerve, right? Karin and Gus Lindstrom had had a whole lot of explaining to do to the whole of their town before they could legitimize the brother’s condition. Mr. Black gets a shrink-card that he wrote by himself. He’s the CEO of a Toy Manufacturing Firm (he inherits the company from his father and is not qualified for it, self-confessedly) and he finds a Glove-Puppet shaped like a Beaver (the ‘woodchuck’ and not the other one) in the small amount of trash he throws. He’s not a ventriloquist, he just can’t be. His accent's probably the peak point on his CV, so we’re into this job-compromise where he’d speak through the Beaver, but he’d move his lips too. His youngest son Henry is the blonde child who's got nothing to do but play 'cute'. I was struck by how easily he believes in the Beaver, especially when his Dad does such a bad job being one. The wife, Meredith (Jodie Foster) is ‘no questions asked’ before a 'Spiderman' sort of Catch-22, the older son Porter (Anton Yelchin) is quickest with the ‘F’ question. In moments, I felt like asking him one as well. 

Porter has a little life on his own – it’s sort of a back story though for the film is obviously about Big Mr. Black and his Beaver. The lad ghost-writes for people, a process that gets him more than enough of an allowance, as well as the advances of the otherwise-impossible Norah (Jennifer Lawrence), valedictorian and pristine cheerleader who wants him to write her graduation speech, something she’s tried 400-odd times without success. The only thing that’d be harder is tying her shoelaces, but no – she’s got a 4.0 GPA, she’d probably even tie the Escher’s knot if you ask her to. But she can’t write her graduation speech, and that’s because that’s the only thing that Porter can. Convenient? He’s the Beaver’s son, remember?

I’ll tell you again why I referred to ‘Lars and the Real Girl’ in contrast to this film. It’s one that actually tried to nurture its premise to development. ‘the Beaver’ is Foster-bred at best. It’s justified, not felt. I’m surprised at how cinema has taken this less-than-favourable stance towards sincerity these days, what with efforts everywhere else. The casting in this film, for instance. Mel Gibson, who's just had to stiffen a wee bit more to fit his role like the puppet on his hand. Jodie Foster who’s played Clarice Starling like, a million years ago. Anton Yelchin, this studio kid in Hollywood that’s in every second teenage film that pokes its head out. Jennifer Lawrence, dear Jennifer Lawrence who was a said disappointment having face-lifted her ‘Winter’s Bone’ with X-Woman Mystique. Wait till you watch her in this film. 

This is a film where I was surprised that the people who made it and were in it could take it seriously. I couldn’t. Somewhere along the drawing board, someone drew a Beaver on the Glove-Puppet and someone liked it. Possibly Ms. Foster herself. And I had to watch the film to know it was a bad idea.

A-PLUS, MORE LIKE

DIRECTED BY WILL GLUCK 

STARRING: EMMA STONE, PENN BADGLEY, ALY MICHALKA, AMANDA BYNES, PATRICIA CLARKSON, STANLEY TUCCI, THOMAS HADEN CHURCH, LISA KUDROW, DAN BYRD and MALCOLM McDOWELL 

Will Gluck’s ‘Easy A’ is what girl-centred high school comedies like ‘Mean Girls’ weren’t, but should have been. In fact, I had indicated in my review of the Tina-Fey-written film about my yearning to see what a man had to say about typical high school stardom and the opportunity cost for attainment of the same. Bert V. Royal’s script got closer to giving me that experience than any other adamantly-defiant, anti-stereotype of a teen chick flick (read ‘Juno’) could ever have dreamt of. It’s a wild combination, where it’s both ‘in-your-face’ as well as emotionally disturbing, and has an ability to get effortlessly close to your heart. The key factor here is the relatively unknown Emma Stone (‘Superbad’, ‘Zombieland’), who turns top contributor by giving the film what no other teen film has even attempted – a convincing central performance, where the actress is actually as mature as the role demands her to be. A snug fit, Stone joins a list of young actresses that currently only has Ellen Page (‘Juno’, ‘Hard Candy’), and a possible Amanda Seyfried (‘Chloe’, ‘Boogie Woogie’). She actually takes it a notch higher, considering that she never tries to outdo herself in a performance that’s like the ‘Erin Brockovich’ of girl comedies. That’s right. Erin Brockovich. Someone should quote me on this. 

‘How much would you give up to get popular in school’ has been THE recurrent theme in high school flicks through the ages. ‘Easy A’ and its protagonist, the cocky and flat-chested Olive Penderghast (Emma Stone) give us a picture on how much one would gain with the absence of the same. For in her school (‘public school’ as Principal Gibbons firmly enunciates in his British accent), fame is synonymous with notoriety. People wouldn’t care if someone bagged a Science award or scored the Olympics – actually, people (in this school) wouldn’t really get that far – but you’d make it to text-message headlines if you hung your panties on the doorknob at a party with people watching through the keyhole from outside. Of course, you’d also have to have a gay friend you wanted to help with his reputation on the inside. You know this thought that says ‘for all we know, they could have just bounced on the bed and banged on the walls and not really had sex’? Well, that never strikes them. The place is so crude, the atmosphere  perverted. Negative attention is the only attention, and it’s part of any sane rationale to steer clear. Olive, in real life, would have had to confess to the Principal and move out of town, but here she fights it. Or rather, she goes with the flow until it gets excruciatingly difficult. Or maybe she was just waiting for the faintest glimmer of hope and takes the next train out when she finds some. After all, she needs her ‘80s ending and she needs it bad. We’re ultimately given one, with stereo-speakers on a lawn-mover.  It's good.

But you know what the best part about ‘Easy A’ is? There is no Prom routine. Can you imagine? Every film set in a high school ever since ‘high school’ was covered in film has had a stupid Prom as part of its package. Or a Homecoming dance. Whatever they call it. I was so tired of this thing that’s so jaded it’s even unfair to call it a cliché that I was almost in ecstasy when the film ended outside of a music-filled atmosphere where everyone miraculously knows their moves. Kind of makes this film like ‘Cruel Intentions’ minus the ‘cruel’ part. And it’s not a journal either (Do they even write those things anymore?). It’s a webcast, which Olive tricks the school into watching, thinking they’re going to get something slightly more than an ‘encore’. It’s her confession that’s the screenplay, the Indian being the first to get disappointed that that’s all there is to it. Obviously. Like, duh! 

The film has a strong supporting cast in the parents and teachers that finds itself outrun citing irrelevance. High School, after all, is like the Vegas of pre-Legal age. Olive’s parents (Stanley Tucci and Patricia Clarkson) give her the entropy to both mess herself up as well as clean up after. On the one hand, it sounds convincing. But to trust is one thing, to choose to remain ignorant is another. Thomas Haden Church as Mr. Griffith, the only person in school Olive respects, shows a sliver of Jack from ‘Sideways’ that I made the mistake of expecting more. Lisa Kudrow, strangely, fits as the promiscuous Mrs. Griffith. But the worst would be Malcolm McDowell as Principal Gibbons. There’s nothing graceful about his come-and-go role, I couldn’t imagine why he even accepted it in the first place. Nevertheless it's an insignificant worry, for everything in this film contributes to Olive sorting things out by herself in a sort of self-help way. Even the advances of ‘Woodchuck Todd’ (Penn Badgley) are just a reassurance. 

It’s an out-and-out Emma Stone show, this transformation of rags to rockstar. And it’s delightful because she is. Not to take credit off her Olive, though – solidly real to her fictional environment. She's so exciting that she made me wish. Girls like her are so rare: They’re yet to be invented.

TO PARIS, WITH LOVE

DIRECTED BY WOODY ALLEN 

STARRING: OWEN WILSON, RACHEL McADAMS, KURT FULLER, MIMI KENNEDY, MICHAEL SHEEN, NINA ARIANDA, ALISON PILL, COREY STOLL, KATHY BATES, CARLA BRUNI, LEA SEYDOUX, GAD ELMALEH with ADRIEN BRODY and MARION COTILLARD 

‘Midnight in Paris’ opens with snapshots of the city that looks to shy away from its own romance. Woody Allen’s nostalgia shop thus cranks open, the sequence being his dry remark not just on the city but of present day in itself. It’s also strenuously long, and in that it tests the viewer on his fondness towards the metropolis that its writer so rejoices in. Three years after, Woody Allen arrives with a follow-up to his sexually, metaphorically aggressive ‘Vicky Cristina Barcelona’. Only this time, we find it’s even more about the city than just the things that happen in it; we find it’s more about the author than just his concept. We gear up, we’re excited. It’s an autobiography of a fantasy in a trip that goes farther back than his memory lane, delving in dreams on alleys and cabs and jazz bars and dark little corners of sweet little nothings. 

Gil Pender (Owen Wilson) is Woody Allen dyed blonde after a possible corrective eye-surgery. He's also taller, more coherent and less of an outrage, though he looks a little too worse for wear. Minutes into character, we find how convenient it is to have cast the seasoned comedian in Wilson, who both cheekily matches Allen’s usual peccadillos as well as establishes his own prowess in playing the quintessential overgrown adolescent. His performance is clear-cut and fulfilling, maybe a tad too reminiscent, but it’s all good – it adds to the strength of a plot somehow reinforces itself with every little detail it provides. We have the Allen (in his more recent films) stereotype in Inez (Rachel McAdams), of a woman who likes her fiancé but not enough to stick to him. We have the disapproving parents, the art confrontation and an emasculating counterpart in Paul Bates (Michael Sheen) all too soon. In Sheen, we have yet another actor who seems to have mastered the Allen School of acting and dialogue delivery, a consequence of which we find ourselves struck by a cascade of performances that are only too faithful to the eccentric master. Kathy Bates is her usual, domineering self, Marion Cotillard as Ariadne, the woman of Gil's dreams, proves to be a true Diva of this generation. Allen has always loved the enemy enough to create crushing opponents to shower unrequited love upon, right from his decisive 'Annie Hall'. His Ariadne helps Gil find his way back to a reality away from dreams, a character detail that strongly coheres with Cotillard's portrayal of Mal in Christopher Nolan's 'Inception'. The name Ariadne rings a bell as well, although it was another character that was named so. Too much of a coincidence?

On the one hand, we have the dowdy, lost-for-life soul-searcher in Gil, our hero. On the other, there’s the man with the touch of gold in Paul. Allen’s women have never required reason to depart, while it usually takes him the entire length of his films to deem as futile his efforts on finding one. It’s strange how it’s both sad as well as incredibly delightful to watch the man retract to his once-wide-eyed longing for both closeness as well as closure. In his silence is a cry for help, his contentment a fantasy. And who can lend a stronger hand to lift to clarity than the prosaic representation of strength in agony of Hemingway (Corey Stoll) himself? 

“All cowardice comes from not loving, or not loving well, which in essence is the same thing.” The quote pertains to the film as well. I loved it. I’m loving it. I will love it more, but not just to deem myself brave. When did we last see Woody Allen fall in love? Was it when he drowned in the emotional seductiveness of Dianne Wiest’s Holly in ‘Hannah and her Sisters’? Or when he coveted the unattainable Halley Reed in ‘Crimes and Misdemeanors’? ‘Deconstructing Harry’ had him deconstruct plausibility of emotions in an effort at catharsis that he largely accomplished. ‘Everyone says I Love you’ was an even obvious satire and he followed it up with comedies and mysteries and this and that. In that hierarchy, ‘Midnight in Paris’ is a lost-fantasy; a reinvention. It’s a diary found in the attic of his middle-aged residence that’s but full of dreams and recollections of things that he wished had happened to him. It’s a treasure chest that opens to every viewer irrespectively, and offers as reward their very own needs. 

Some people chisel, some people sculpt. Woody Allen just seems to have touched the city of Paris with a touch of life. He walks in the rain without an umbrella and paints the town in his shade with the water that drains off him. The quirky little man has a taller, blonde and stranger version in a delightful misrepresentation with the effect unhindered. And the two of them set out, stretching their feet, singing a song of their own called ‘to Paris, with Love’. With that, they have her bowled over. Much like me, much like you too.

A WISH DENIED FOR A BODY SWAP

DIRECTED BY DAVID DOBKIN

STARRING: JASON BATEMAN, RYAN REYNOLDS, LESLIE MANN, OLIVIA WILDE, SYDNEY ROUVIERE, MIRCEA MONROE and ALAN ARKIN

How can a film hold close to a throwaway premise as this? David Dobkin’s (‘Clay Pigeons’, ‘Wedding Crashers’) latest offering ‘the Change-Up’ is written by Jon Lucas and Scott Moore, the duo behind the vehemently anti-social ‘the Hangover’. If the two had us hooked by well-timed wit and a sprig of inventiveness in an otherwise cacophonous storyline, they atone for every good moment rendered in the predecessor with a distinctive, engorged anti-thesis in ‘the Change-Up’. Similarities fail to evoke nostalgia, familiarity goes beyond contempt to instigate a higher measure of repulsion and a shout out loud of “can it possibly get worse?” only to find oneself lost for words and comprehensively outlasted.

The writers are relentless with their efforts to gross-out the viewer, it could have helped if they weren’t as visible. Where’s the joke when you figure it’s shit on your spoon at about a half a mile away with an hour of caution in between? The worst this film could do to me is make sure I watched till the end with nothing promising, nothing new, nothing even remotely close to rating it watchable. We saw shades of characters being demeaned without reason in Dobkin’s ‘Wedding Crashers’, but the film still survived on the shoulders of actors who were mature enough to keep the plot interesting along with their own reputations. Both Ryan Reynolds and Jason Bateman here behave like they don’t have any. They’re like actors on vacation, roleplaying every second, swearing like it’s a contest. The interchange of roles is supposed to be an actor’s dream, but here it’s just a bunch of cons. I tried to rationalize casting choices for Dave Lockwood and Mitch Planko at different stages of the film. Perhaps Bateman suits the emotional realizations while Reynolds does better with the climactic kiss, but I wasn’t entirely convinced with my pet theory – I couldn’t get beyond the fact that this was yet another casting stereotype. Leslie Mann plays her usual version of a wife with a bit of a hike on unwarranted toplessness. And as is the case with any other body-swap film, her Jamie is completely oblivious to the same. But at least the writers had sense enough to make fun of it than leave yet another detail on top of a hard-to-digest pile.

‘the Change-Up’ is stupid enough to not be questioned, but too outrageous to be ignored. It’s like a montage of all infamous sequences (and by that I do not mean ‘dubiously famous’) from ‘the Hangover’, but aggravated to cruel extents. An accidental bang of door gets as vile as repetitive self-infliction, exhibitionism gets a disgraceful new high with the tiger replaced by a packed-to-burst shopping mall and profanity is home-schooled in a carefully-nurtured environment of violence. One could be relieved that it’s rated ‘R’, but it would only deprive the film of its actual audience – a world that knows nothing but ‘hoes’, ‘shows’ and ‘preggos’.

A good R-rated comedy keeps it clean, a bad one tries not to and fails. It’s the crappy ones that belittle the entire idea of adult humour to a capsule of sickness that only preteens can swallow. ‘the Change-Up’ is a kind of a bad comedy in crappy attire, where the outside stinks of juvenile excess while the inside rots of emptiness. Insincerity such as this should either not be made or should be made fun of. To venture otherwise is simply futile.

MORE LIKE 'HOPSKOTCH' WITH ONE-LEGGED SUFFICIENCY

DIRECTED BY VENKAT PRABHU

STARRING: AJITH KUMAR, ARJUN, VAIBHAV, MAHAT RAGHAVENDRA, ASHWIN KAKUMANU, PREMJI AMARAN, TRISHA KRISHNAN, ANJALI, ARAVIND AKASH, JAYAPRAKASH with LAKSHMI RAI and ANDREA JEREMIAH

Can anyone take Venkat Prabhu seriously? Why does he even try? If being completely unoriginal and mundane is considered an achievement, then Cloud Nine movies’ ‘Mankatha’ is top of the game. I thought he hit rock-bottom in misdirection with ‘Saroja’ – ‘Goa’ was a sort of delightful reinvention in the sense that it was so nonsensical that it was actually fun. With ‘Mankatha’, Prabhu defies everything that’s good about him and he does it presentably well. The heist sequence in ‘Goa’ raised eyebrows up until they had cheek enough to turn it to a farce. ‘Mankatha’ isn’t. Saying it with a straight face doesn’t make it serious; neither does it help raise laughs. We find bad screenwriting on top of juvenile conception in a hilarious outfit that doesn’t even have the basic inventiveness to laugh at itself. Sad to say, ‘Mankatha’ is Venkat Prabhu out of form on a hunt for money.

How much can a film play against its own strengths? ‘Mankatha’ fails miserably as an ensemble film that doesn’t even try to justify its casting choices. Anjali as Suchitra Sumanth and Aravind Akash as Faizal come on extremes of an acting spectrum ranging from ‘unnecessary’ to ‘plain stupid’. Premji Amaran is as close in erroneousness with neither the comic timing nor the tongue-in-cheek humour that empowered his Saamikannu in ‘Goa’. We start to think that his importance is more because he’s the director’s brother than the fact that he’s the last person in the world for any role that demands the slightest of sensibility. He’s like a square peg in an octagonal hole where fits but miserably. Trisha Krishnan gets the wrong song sequence, her presence unjustified, while Andrea Jeremiah is like a stage-hand who gets a chance because they’re an actor short. The rest are tolerable, though Vaibhav gives the impression of being overused and repetitively so. Vijay Vasanth and Ajay Kumar make inconsequential cameos and we miss Jai among the lot – it would have been interesting to see where he fits. Probably a Hindi-speaking Police-Officer sidekick?

How the traitors get hold of the cash is not explained – a clear sign that this film is not to be rationalized. With a whole load of shenanigans and sleaze as an excuse for style, we have everything that can possibly bring a film down on levels of intelligence. But we’re not overdosed, we’re left conscious to see its flaws. The film is more of a hole than a roof where it’s absurd to want it to hold water. It’s a lost case that tries to not be so, and in that it fails. Its twists are guessable on a second-by-second basis, the action sequences are so overwrought you’d think it was better to watch machines collide in ‘Transformers: the Dark of the Moon’, and even the music score doesn’t help. Yuvan Shankar Raja ought to know that his main theme isn’t multi-purpose, it doesn’t make sense to use it everywhere. There are times when it clicks, helping with heroism, but on others it’s excessive. It’s disappointing to see a game-changing musician like Yuvan sticking to the rules of this one for a lacklustre score that’s all over the place. So much for musical direction! The chase sequences employ some hectic African beats in the style of a Paul Greengrass film (like ‘the Bourne Ultimatum’ or ‘Green Zone’) but have neither the camerawork nor the editing finesse to pull the effect off. Be it the green-coloured blood spurts or the close-range monologues, ‘Mankatha’ fails dismally at every effort where it tries to live up to a Hollywood counterpart. It’s tiresome with its relentlessness to be unoriginal that I wished it would just stop trying so hard to be. Really.

Ajith Kumar (in his 50th Film) is overexposed but manages fine. The character does not promise what the actor can’t provide, so we find sufficiency. It would have been better to add a little more dimension and screen-presence to the other stalwart in Arjun, making their face-off more excitable perhaps. But still, they’re only what they are: good patches on a bad film. Blots, nevertheless.