RIGHT UPPERCUT WITH GENTLE BLUE EYES

 

DIRECTED BY SHAWN LEVY 

STARRING: HUGH JACKMAN, DAKOTA GOYO, EVANGELINE LILY, ANTHONY MACKIE, OLGA FONDA, KARL YUNE with KEVIN DURAND, JAMES REBHORN and HOPE DAVIS 

The closest association ‘Real Steel’ might have with the Oscars is that both happen to take place in the same country. That, or it might’ve been nominated for a couple of technical awards – like sound mixing or editing or special effects, because the film is a fairly good audio-visual achievement. In the event of my Oscar-lead-up, I should probably have picked up a ‘Best Film’ nominee from the past that I hadn’t discussed – like ‘War Horse’ or ‘Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close’ – or even bothered watching. 

The last film I took up to analyze – David O. Russell’s ‘the Silver Linings Playbook’ (scroll down for review or click here) – found myself at an all-time low on the review-scale. I found out what was going wrong. This year, I find, has had very little to inspire. Every year, I try to catch up on the ‘best films’ made with one desire – to come across something that can truly represent this generation, this era, this paradigm to completion, and not merely on a technological scale. 

‘Life of Pi’ was supposed to be that movie. It didn’t work for me. ‘Argo’ would be Hollywood's pride, mixing the studio-picture with American consciousness. Tarantino hasn’t ever attempted to dissociate himself from the film world and represent humanity on the whole. ‘Lincoln’, again, sounds like a mix of both – of classic Hollywood storytelling and American values. I would not go to the lengths of calling these films jingoistic, but you get what I’m saying, right? 

There’s a whole lot of absentees. Ramin Bahrani – without whom it’s been a painful three years – needs to come back. So do Ryan Fleck and Anna Boden. It’s too soon to expect Thomas McCarthy, after ‘Win Win’ the year before last – delightful; one of the year’s best, easily. Alexander Payne has a film coming soon, set in his hometown. It’s the second time I’ve referred to him on a review, in two days. Not good. 

I’ve always loved cinema. I hate to sound distinguishing, but for someone who loves film, I haven’t been content. I think the creative world can do better. There’s a lot of films I haven’t watched. There’s a lot of films I don’t even have access to. Given that, maybe I’m selling it short. But that’s only because I don’t have the luxury of patience. It’s been a year since I’ve had a film experience that’s made me truly belong. The last time I had that was when I watched Marc Webb’s ‘the Amazing Spider-Man’ – a story of youth, mortality and crazy romance. In a world where superhero movies have bitter, morbid love stories, it was a kiss of life exchanged between young guns firing at the same time. 

Contrast that with a film that kept saying “life’s hard enough as it is,” ‘the Silver Linings Playbook’ made it harder. I struggle with down-to-earth fiction. I think it takes a tall story to really bring one down to the ground. That, or life itself. I think it’s a thin line – I’m actually debating it inside my head. What Woody Allen could do with ‘Midnight in Paris’, he didn’t do with ‘Manhattan.’ 

Okay, that's not quite true. It's out of order as well. I can’t discuss filmmaking trends with Allen as an example, even if he has shown changes with time (at his own pace). 

The point of contention is this. On the one hand, a slight stretch of imagination in a film that promises reality seems unforgivable. On the other, we have those that never attempt to come close to the ground and yet find a way to appeal to the deepest of your senses. 

‘Real Steel’ is one such film. It’s set in a future that looks like the past. Culture gets accentuated – human beings get more rustic as robots resemble them to the best of their ability. Charlie Kenton (Hugh Jackman) manages one that’s as untrustworthy as he is – it takes a good, solid beating, he can’t patch it up anymore. He moves on. One more to the dirty pile. Son Max Kenton (Dakota Goyo) arrives, bringing with him this ancient-looking, puny specimen that shows some traits they hadn’t seen in robots before – the ability to obey and understand, the latter kept a secret throughout the film, part of a punch-line. 

He calls the robot ‘Atom.’ It looks nice and friendly. If it had lips, it would smile. Max shares a bond with it that’s neither made to sound too special, nor left unstated. He brings it to Charlie, a washed-out boxer from the golden era, made in Hollywood. Deep in debt and no robot to spare, Charlie is pretty much ‘anything goes.’ He goes with Atom, teaching him boxing in something that’s, interestingly, called the ‘shadow mode.’ It means the robot would imitate anything that he does, where what it does is mere shadow. 

I spoke about jingoism, right? Well, the bad guy here is a bot called Zeus that has Darth Vader written all over it – in a film that’s all about father and son, it could’ve well been Atom’s dad, for all you know. Zeus is of Japanese design – made by this man called Tak Mashido (Karl Yune) – and is managed by a Russian tycoon called Farra Lemkova (Olga Fonda), two people who might as well have been talking exhibits in a display of stereotypes. There’s a cowboy who calls a black man (Anthony Mackie) ‘homey’ who calls him ‘partner’ in return. They bond over a hundred grand the partner wouldn’t cough up. 

Alright, one too many challengers in one too many big fights over the years. Agreed. ‘Real Steel’ almost faithfully (deliberately?) follows ‘Rocky’ with its plotline. ‘Rocky’ was the everyday man’s struggle for recognition. ‘Real Steel’ is a man’s search for himself, there being no surprise in the place where he finds himself again. The robot has twinkling blue eyes that seem to invite you into its depths. So does the boy. It’s not the first time that Shawn Levy has handled something like this – he directed ‘Night at the Museum’ and its sequel, both of which stick to the theme of man discovering himself in something seemingly inanimate. “I just want you to fight for me,” says Max, in the scene just before the last act. Larry Daley (Ben Stiller) didn’t need to be told this. Neither does Charlie, but then Max has the bigger mouth. 

There are places where ‘Real Steel’ exasperates you with its faith in Hollywood clichés. But it has an undercurrent that’s fairly consistent. What can’t win a fist-fight beats you with a show of heart, in the manner of saying too much as opposed to never saying what needs to be said. 

To Mr. Levy and the ‘Real Steel’ camp, technology is about holograms and fancy screens where the wires don’t show. Atom is an old-timer even in that respect. He steams up like a bad radiator, his wires spark and his eyes flicker as he staggers like he’s disorientated – at one point, the commentator actually uses that word, with quite a bit of ‘almost-human’ references thrown in as well. Somehow, you wish it was a little under-played a little. Like ‘Cinderella Man’ maybe. Jim Braddock (Russell Crowe) would make a fair Charlie, give or take a few pounds. And I’m most definitely not comparing boxing styles here. 

‘Real Steel’ is ‘Rocky’ with Adrian replaced by a brat to make it more about men than before. Where, among a bunch of beasts and bureaucrats, man triumphs. Well, almost triumphs, with scope for betterment – betterment that means getting together, holding close to those who matter as Hollywood defines them, in a world that won’t go beyond the boxing ring. It’s a sturdy-but-modest piece of furniture with a load of varnish it could’ve done without. And it passes woodshop, with honours.

The film played on TV when I desperately thought I needed a break from this year’s monotony and the overflowing list of films I’m yet to watch. It’s the tall film I thought I needed to bring me back to ground level. Having sparred with robots, I should – hopefully – be able to deal with humans better now.

SAY IT AGAIN, DIANNE

DIRECTED BY CAMERON CROWE

STARRING: JOHN CUSACK, IONE SKYE, JOHN MAHONEY, LILI TAYLOR, CHYNNA PHILIPS, AMY BROOKS, POLLY PLATT, JEREMY PIVEN with BEBE NEUWIRTH and PHILIP BAKER HALL

Dianne Court (Ione Skye) is the nervous valedictorian whose speech doesn’t connect with a single person from school. Lloyd Doddler (John Cusack) doesn’t want it to. He’s a sweet variation of the jock who’d score ten on ten on the vulnerability scale. In him, there’s much to love and little to comprehend – he’s the guy who’d ask you what you’d want for your birthday as much as he’s capable of springing a surprise on his own. And he can manage a full party at that, given the amount of people in his influence circle – one he plays ‘keymaster’ to.

‘Say Anything’ has a plot that I don’t even need to discuss. You'd see why. Dianne has won a fellowship to England, Lloyd doesn’t even know what he’s going to do the coming Summer. Dianne has a friend in her Father (John Mahoney), Lloyd has a big sister (Joan Cusack) to whom he plays older brother at times. And younger brother at other times. He finds close friends in DC (Amy Brooks) and Corey (Lili Taylor) while Dianne has muses at best. His is a world that she is yet to explore. Hers is one he wouldn’t if not for her. Let me quote some lines in support of that:

"I don’t know, I’ve thought about this quite a bit, Sir. And I don’t think there’s really much that’s waiting out there for me. I don’t want to sell anything, buy anything or process anything as a career. I don’t want to sell anything bought or processed, I wouldn’t buy anything sold or processed, or process anything sold, bought or... processed. And I wouldn’t want to repair anything sold, bought or processed, as a career, I don’t want to do that. My Father’s in the army and he wants me to join, but eh... I can’t do that. What I’m going to do then is... kickboxing. Which is a new sport, but I think it’s got a good future."

Cameron Crowe is the best 80s filmmaker of the 90s. And the new millennium as well. Right down to his latest in ‘We Bought a Zoo’ (that I happened to watch/review a few days back), an unusual choice of film that he romanticized in his own way. He’s the epitome of extra-optimism characteristic of one who grew up with Springsteen and Rock-n-Roll; he ‘sticks.’ Enough to get you inspired; enough to get you wanting not to be. Either way, he’d trigger a response.

I’m reverse-processing the Crowe line of heroes here. ‘We Bought a Zoo’ had a really natural Matt Damon, complete with testy smile and the twinkle in his eye as the romantic, which he contrasted with a passable portrayal of the helpless Dad who didn’t know what to do to help his Son, only capable of holding on to him, hoping he’d cling. ‘Elizabethtown’ had Orlando Bloom in a surprising revelation of potential as the Crowe-romantic, which I think he followed up decently well in his segment with Christina Ricci in ‘New York, I Love you.’ ‘Jerry Maguire’ and ‘Vanilla Sky’ had Hollywood’s own jerk/loser in Tom Cruise (remember ‘Cocktail’?), while in ‘Almost Famous,’ he split man and boy to two different beings (Billy Crudup and Patrick Fugit), switching bodies every now and then.

‘Say Anything’ has John Cusack. I think he’s one of the most endearing of Hollywood heroes. Anyone who’s watched ‘Bullets over Broadway’ would side with me here. Like how someone who’s watched ‘Midnight in Paris’ would side with me on Owen Wilson as well, whom I’ve liked ever since Wes Anderson’s ‘Bottle Rocket’ (1996). These are really personal filmmakers we're talking about. Allen, Crowe; Alexander Payne. You can’t get any more personal than a Woody Allen protagonist does. Payne, I think, would come second best, where Crowe is ambition rather than depiction as such. Cusack would eventually go on to work his charm yet again with the inimitably sugar-coated ‘Serendipity’ that had Nick Drake as well to add to its worth.

Anyway, since this is a recollection (self-proclaimed) and not an actual ‘review’, let me quote another line.

“Are you here because you want someone or you want me? (pause) Well, you know what? Forget it. (goes ahead and kisses)”

Ione Skye is beautiful. Standout beautiful, I mean. In the sense that I wouldn’t want to watch another film of hers to foil the impression she’s made with this one. It’s a rare delight when actor and character mesh so well that you’re in a trance enough to not see their individual fibres. Like Julie Delpy in ‘Before Sunrise.’ Felicity Jones in ‘Like Crazy.’ Emily Watson in ‘Punch-Drunk Love,’ even though more abstract and less-emphasized. All these people substantiate a really pretty woman with character and intellect or simple street-smartness which, in essence, amounts to the same thing. And Skye, as Dianne, we find, is exactly what Corey and DC concur about her – that she’s “a Brain, trapped in the body of a game-show host.”

I don’t mean to patronize when I say this, or maybe I do mean to, but ‘Say Anything’ sets the romance standard. Contemporary urban cinema-wise, I mean. It has all the ingredients, where what’s best is that Crowe made the ingredients and he's made them with wild-eyed honesty and utmost care. I’d like to move for induction of the Crowe standard into the list of the seven basic plots in Film Theory as an upgrade of the 'Romeo and Juliet' routine. Who’s with me on this?

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.

A BULLET TRAIN!

DIRECTED BY: DAVID GORDON GREEN

STARRING: SETH ROGEN, JAMES FRANCO, DANNY McBRIDE, KEVIN CORRIGAN, CRAIG ROBINSON, GARY COLE, ROSIE PEREZ, AMBER HEARD with BILL HADER and KEN JEONG

David Gordon Green’s ‘Pineapple Express’ is the perfect Seth Rogen script. Rogen is the kind of guy who’d run a gag and then laugh with you. Or grimace. Or plainly just puke. Contrast this with his next action comedy (that he wrote), Michel Gondry’s ‘the Green Hornet’, which had him play uncomfortably single-faced and stuck to character. ‘Pineapple Express’, on the other hand, is entropic. It gives its unshapely hero a lot of space in his own comfort zone that the jokes are more natural and their timing sweet. He’s so disgraceful that it’s hilarious; and with James Franco’s consistent support act, Dale Denton and Saul Silver accomplish something that Reid and Kato never quite did. They click.

Dale Denton (Seth Rogen) is a sort of delivery boy, except it’s justice he serves. He’s so messed up he’s found a legal way to take others down with him. He’d attend your seminar to make sure he gives you your parking ticket, he’d wait your table to give you harassment charges. If you were a farmer, he’d probably show up as Foghorn Leghorn. His girlfriend (Amber Heard) isn’t out of high school yet, his best friend’s a drug dealer who turns ‘civil’ when high, and he himself smokes more joints in a day than he has in his body, which in turn you’d never know because he’s fat. Fat, lazy, always ‘under influence’ which probably constitutes his rationale. He has more funny lines than a good stand-up act, he’s careful work that’s let loose. Saul Silver (James Franco) on the other hand can never smoke less than a particular amount that keeps him in character. He’s not allowed the erraticism of Denton; he throws fights, never rises in arms and is at his calmest best in the eve of crisis. He’s like the great master Oogway, but even less coherent. His wisdom is inertia, his aggression accidental. In fact, it’s so rare that it almost entirely never happens.

These two are as disenchanting as duos can get. They play idiots to each other’s intelligence, eventually coming out smart in the end. And on top. The adventure ends in conversation where they talk about it, Danny McBride joining in as Red, our Third Musketeer for all intents and purposes. They blast a hideout in their own way and settle down on the fact that Oprah can grow on people. Red’s taken seven bullets to one side, Denton’s lost most of an ear and Silver looks like he doesn’t know what hit him. Sarcasm smells stronger than weed, and admirably so.

I couldn’t help but think this was an Apatow answer to ‘Starsky and Hutch’, in the line of drug-busting comedies of the 70s and the 80s in Film and Television. Cops, convertibles, car-chases; love interests have nothing more to do than kiss and cause problems (lest you count kick and scream, as in the case of Carol Brazier on Ted Jones’ team), henchmen hurt each other as opposed to who they’re really supposed to kill, no happy ending is sought-after because things fall in place on their own. That’s what the Asians are for. Seth Rogen (with due respect to buddy and co-writer Evan Goldberg as well) has a comic timing which empowers the viewer in the sense that there’s no dilemma on when you’ve got to take him seriously – you don’t have to, because he never wants you to. After all, he’s the only reason ‘the Green Hornet’ was actually watchable. If Todd Phillips banked his film on the lethargy of a haul of actors including the ever-dependable Vince Vaughn, David Gordon Green has Rogen, with backup performances (the usual Craig Robinson, and even Gary Cole who has his moments). In that, we find, he’s got all that he needs.

‘Pineapple Express’ opens in a discreet, post-Prohibition setup involving Bill Hader where the forces first deem Marijuana illegal. The entire rest of the film drives the idea that it doesn’t matter anyway. It’s fast and fluent, and perpetually high on the bar-chart of fun. It’s relentlessly funny, and it never stops. Not for a moment. And if ever you think you missed something, it's actually got a recap!

But then again, you wouldn't.

THE RING, THE STING AND THE ICONIC STEPS

DIRECTED BY JOHN G. AVILDSEN

STARRING: SYLVESTER STALLONE, TALIA SHIRE, BURT YOUNG, BURGESS MEREDITH, CARL WEATHERS, THAYER DAVID and JOE SPINNELL

It’s hard not to like Rocky Balboa. Anthony Gazzo (Joe Spinnell) would agree with me in spite of the fact that his star henchman hands a fair share of pardon votes without consent or consultation. And in that, he fails to be a good debt-collector, while his debt-collecting activities makes Coach Mickey (Burgess Meredith) scorn his talent in boxing. He punches dents on his opponent to make up for his lack of grace in a sort of counter-balance of abilities. He’s modeled on Rocky Marciano in a Chuck Wepner plot, both of which are duly notified – he worships one and quotes the other regarding his duel with the legendary Muhammed Ali, who in turn is personified in Heavyweight champion Apollo Creed (Carl Weathers). It’s astonishing how much consistency in detail that Sylvester Stallone manages to empower the film with, all balanced on the very broad shoulders of his majestic performance.

Stallone the actor and Stallone the writer never try to emulate each other. The writer knows exactly what the actor is capable of doing, while the actor has an impeccable idea on what the writer wishes to channelize through him. Of course, this would be the case with any other writer-actor, right from the inimitable Chaplin through the likes of Woody Allen, down to George Clooney (in ‘Good Night and Good Luck’) and even Seth Rogen (in ‘Superbad’). But Stallone, we see self-satisfaction - he doesn't try too hard. It’s a casual, yet adequate performance in a script where there are no surprises. The emphasis is neither on conceptual intricacies nor in portrayal of the down-on-luck Boxer who corks his anger inside a Samaritan bottle that cracks but just once. Instead, all focus has been directed in making ‘Rocky’ the most stylish film that Hollywood has ever seen, where every sequence would render itself memorable, some even to fever pitch. And it accomplishes that rather royally, without as much as a whiff of anything deliberately provocative. We have a Gangster, but not a gun. We have a charming woman in Adrian (Talia Shire) and there’s Rocky’s relationship with her, without shedding a single garment that her introversion wouldn’t allow. And we have sport – deep, passionate sport – without cheap thrills or a manipulated ending.

In short, ‘Rocky’ does what his cinematic peers from the past, present and future have done, except he does it effortlessly, being full aware of both capabilities and requirements. His strength isn’t showcased, his perseverance flickers, but his sincerity never changes course. He’s human, and he’s got game.

Sports films usually tend to explore the sportsman’s psyche through the game he plays and the way he plays it. Stallone was one of the very first to distinctively focus on his activities off the field to explain his behavior when on the field; to justify his rationale. ‘Rocky Balboa’, the last installment, finessed this to overwhelming proportions. In ‘Rocky’, we catch a glimpse. Stallone captures his suburban grit as well as the lack of it in a package of such boyish charm that his Rocky endears beyond mention. The effect is made even more pronounced by a simplistic background score that keeps its faith (and brilliantly so!) to the single track in ‘Gonna Fly Now’ composed by Bill Conti. And to top it all, there’s a certain rawness in in the film’s friendly locales, which complements Stallone’s down-to-earth rendition, thus making us feel like we’re a part of the town. We root more for the kindhearted bum from the neighbourhood than a representative of anything heroic about cinema and its protagonists. The effect is uncanny.

But ‘Rocky’ is anything but realistic. It’s an exaggerated drama saturated with heroic moments in simple premise. It’s not cinematic, but it’s well-directed. It’s a pure, honest-to-the-core entertainer that banks its success entirely on how endearing its characters turn out to be. And in that, it’s a ten on ten.

ON HOW TO TURN 'LOVEABLE' TO 'LACKLUSTER'

DIRECTED BY TAYLOR HACKFORD

STARRING: RICHARD GERE, DEBRA WINGER, LOUIS GOSSETT Jr., DAVID KEITH, LISA BLOUNT, LISA EILBACHER, TONY PLANA, HAROLD SYLVESTER, DAVID CARUSO and ROBERT LOGGIA

‘An Officer and a Gentleman’ is a badly-acted film that has an impressive premise otherwise. Think about it. It’s about a man who tries to hide his insecurity behind ambition that which in itself he’s not too sure of. A Will Hunting minus the genius ends up with the dead-faced Richard Gere (as Zack Mayo) who has nothing to show but the twinkle in his eye, part of his boyish charm. A fear of guilt and clarity against commitment, his tortuous army-camp experience (pilot training, in this case) finds a bright spot in the time he spends with Paula Pokrifki (Debra Winger), a working class woman who plays the stereotypical anti-stereotype as far as quirks go. It’s a romance in intimacy, alongside which a friend and fellow peer in Sid Worley (David Keith) hits it off with Lynette, who’s Paula’s friend. Music speaks louder than love scenes as the two couples devour each other, the first confrontations of reality turning out unconvincing. It’s a hiccup and nothing more.

We’re tying two worlds together here – on the one hand, there’s the battle of life in a frontal metaphor – the training camp under the Devil (Louis Gossett Jr. as Sergeant Emil Foley). On the other, we recline into a sensual affair. Zack has had a bad past, changing hands from a gullible mother who died waiting for the man who’d never get back, to the Dad he’d never ever want to be. Paula’s mother has had a similar past as Zack’s, except she’s found solace in the paper mills and in a man who wouldn’t leave. The two of them find theirs in this similarity, in what I thought was the only genuinely romantic scene in the film which scores two-on-two in both conception and performance. They both evolve with each other, Zack particularly more so because she’s ice to his wounds. To Paula, on the other hand, he’s a sign of hope, of emotions the both of them would be much better without. The rest of the film (whose premise begins pretty much only after halftime) is about accomplishing fulfillment of this fantasy romance.

Zack distrusts Paula fearing emotional blackmail in the prospective future, something that the viewer knows she’s incapable of. Lynette is, though, but Sid resorts to trust her blindly in the course of things. A comedy of errors of right conviction against the wrong person in which, surely, only one could/would be made to work, at most. There’s no marks to guess which one that would be.

Taylor Hackford is incredible with his dramatic poise in scene setup, but he does a really bad job with a really bad bunch of actors. Richard Gere is larger-than-life. He looks convincing with shoulders squared and a puffed-up chest as he runs his hand through his mop of hair like a starlet on the rise. We wonder what he’s doing in an army camp. He’s flamboyant, he’s fit, but he’s incapable of getting across a single emotion. Nor does he try. Debra Winger is loveable as Paula, the wild-eyed, hoarse-voiced brunette who could light many a hall with her presence. She works the magic in a whirlwind of intimacy, but her bitterness in later parts is but a voiceover from a disconnected universe. Same as Lisa Blount as Lynette, a character of startling practicality who’s reduced to a bitch by a premise that’s hostile to anything real. The ‘Femme Fatale’ is insult to injury, as much as David Keith’s situational puppy-dog. The sequences are fairly sensitized, but the actors have none – which works only in the case of Sergeant Foley because that’s what he’s supposed to be. His borderline smiles and the post-rescue frenzy are saving graces to a shipwreck of performances where everyone’s decided to abandon ship.

I didn’t hate watching ‘An Officer and a Gentleman’. I was disappointed. This is supposed to be a stylized film that ends at an inimitable high in rainbow vividness. And yet the scenes lacked any sort of real impact – they served no purpose but to advance the plot, which in turn was all about its sequences in a cyclic sort of let-down. I shall remember this film forever as one that I wished to be excited about, both before and after, and as one that adamantly refused to give me the pleasure of having enjoyed it.

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’.

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.

AN INSIGHT INTO A WRITER'S MIND

DIRECTED BY PAUL THOMAS ANDERSON

STARRING: PHILIP BAKER HALL, JOHN C. REILLY, GWYNETH PALTROW, ROBERT RIDGELY, MELORA WALTERS, with PHILIP SEYMOUR HOFFMAN and SAMUEL L. JACKSON

I write this film review a tad predisposed to Paul Thomas Anderson, who I’m familiar with from his subsequent works. I’ve watched ‘Punch Drunk Love’ twice because I couldn’t get enough of its charm in one single time, and I ran through a quarter of the menacing ‘There will be Blood’ when I realized I was watching a man who I ought to watch from his very beginning for there was a pattern that was distinctly visible in his works – he writes his signature on every film he builds and curiously, the signature happens to be exactly that! With Paul Thomas Anderson, we witness a film develop perhaps exactly the way he built it, brick-by-brick, with his characters introduced in a vaguely chronological order in a progressive narrative structure that seldom takes a kink in time. There’s poise in his fluidity and there’s elegance, of course, wherefore we’re treated to an enthralling film that’s an experience in perspective.

In ‘Hard Eight’, we’re introduced to John Finnegan (John C. Reilly) right through the eyes of the veteran Sydney Brown (Philip Baker Hall) who insists on mentoring him on his way through Vegas after the young man had supposedly lost all his money trying to get some to arrange for his mother’s funeral. The genuineness of cause is not the reason behind philanthropy on the old man’s part – you know for sure that he’s not just Samaritan, but you wouldn’t care to ask. Not for an explanation, not for sensibility’s sake. You find yourself in John’s shoes in his conditional obedience, only to throw your caution to the winds just like him in course of time, for you become aware of the fact that you’re in good hands. That this, for once, is a man to whom you can entrust the whole of your seriousness, and sit back and watch things as they unfold when he thinks they ought to.

I love how Anderson picks his characters. We find that it’s not as much about individual complexities as opposed to an effective functioning of the whole, which, as we observe again, is more or less in the hands of a central, more empowered character who defines the past, present and, if possible, the future course of the film. In short, our story has a hero – one who accessorizes every other character and coaxes the plot into the course where it’s headed, watching everyone’s back while saving his own. Philip Baker Hall plays this personification of the writer-director on screen in an essay that doesn’t require as much effort as consistency. He’s the Harry Block of this deconstruction, except it’s a construct in his case where he gets to smart at the monument in the end, the blood on his cuff-link being lone evidence of the process. The rest are contextual stereotypes inclusive of the fleeting nemesis in Jimmy (Samuel L. Jackson), set-pieces in both Sydney’s and Anderson’s management.

With his distinctively long, continuous shots, gradually ascending background score and a screenplay that serves well to differentiate action from inaction transgressing with time, Anderson (curiously) reminds me of the then-yet-to-come Christopher Nolan, a filmmaker who defines his game and then tries to get ahead of it. Except in Anderson, we witness a hefty amount of focus and poise dedicated to a crafty rendition of a modest, down-to-earth script that doesn’t try too hard. He takes his game inning by inning, inciting neither anticipation of things to come, nor surprise when we’re past his share of revelations. And ‘Hard Eight’, needless to say, is an effortless tread on the fine line of perfect contentment on the shoulders of one who would emerge to be one of the steadiest of walkers on the tightrope called ‘conception’.

HOW TO PAINT A PRETTY PICTURE

DIRECTED BY CHRIS SANDERS and DEAN DeBLOIS

WITH THE VOICES OF JAY BARUCHEL, GERARD BUTLER, CRAIG FERGUSON, AMERICA FERRERA, CHRISTOPHER MINTZ-PLASSE, JONAH HILL, T.J. MILLER, DAVID TENNANT and KRISTEN WIIG

In a fair follow-up to the phenomenal success of ‘Kung Fu Panda’, Dreamworks Studios goes ahead with a second exploit on a tale set in exotic land – if it was a sublime parody-cum-tribute of the martial-arts mainstay in the Orient with ‘Kung Fu Panda’, ‘How to Train your Dragon’ is a feature on almost the same lines, except it’s Vikings instead. And dragons, as opposed to creatures from the Chinese Zodiac, hammers and axes instead of bare hands. It is an adaptation, as we learn, from a nine-part set of children’s picture books by a pair of filmmakers who were previously involved in the Disney production ‘Lilo and Stitch’ – something that points at the fact that they know their ‘terms of endearment’ pretty well on a bond between two outcasts in a mutual find.

Vikings slay dragons. They don’t eat them, it’s the quintessential hostility of man towards the beast, something that started with survival and matured to a thing of pride. And in this near-barbarian sect where men are rated upon their heftiness as much as their dragon-slaying ability is our hero Hiccup (Jay Baruchel) of diminutive stature and hence characteristically named, the son of the chief of tribe called Stoick the Vast (Gerard Butler) and a potential insult to the same - think Mumble from ‘Happy Feet’ with a hundred more times of occupational hazard as much as peer pressure. There’s not much less of the latter either, what with the love-interest being more potent, not to mention a show-off, a nerd and a not-too-game-changing pair of fraternal twins in an All-American bunch of Celtic descent? Perhaps it’s excusable, perhaps they’re growing up on Viking versions of ‘Ugly Betty’ and Judd Apatow; perhaps that explains the choice of voice actors in a curious toss-in of a cast. The kind of thing that’s headed to a global Box Office listing but with Oscar shots: like a ‘Eurotrip’ with a head and a heart.

Set aside my concerns on why Ms. Ferrera voices the daring Blonde, why Christopher Mintz-Plasse does a fat bookworm, and why on earth Jonah Hill gets to be the pretentious schoolyard bully, ‘How to Train your Dragon’ has stuff enough to pull one’s mind away from trifles, in strong resemblance to its Dreamworks predecessor, particularly with a soundtrack that does half its work – John Powell is quite the find as far as animated ventures are concerned, he succeeds in fusing two worlds together in his background score that turns out to be twice as enticing an experience. To add to it, of course, is the studio’s penchant for fancy sketches, cuddly characters and scenic brilliance. The Night Fury, for instance, is one of the most endearing animated characters I’ve watched in quite a while – he speaks with his eyes, laughs in delight and flies with such aerodynamic precision that it’s a joy to watch him go. But he’s piloted, he’s not on his own – it’s an accident, but not without its share of insights. And the result is a bond, something that ends in a way where there’s no ‘one’ without the ‘other’. Like ‘Seabiscuit’ with a longer shot and permanent damage.

‘How to Train your Dragon’ tells us the story of how Vikings ended up with Dragons from being opposed to them, the tale of how man found utility away from ‘striking first’. It is an insight into a concept, the introduction to ‘Berk’ in a sort of set-up for more to come. Perhaps there’s a heavier sequel, perhaps this is the most they could do, but it’s enough. Enough to inspire faith in an audience who would have loved it anyway; enough to provide some ‘time well-spent’ with nothing too swash-buckling, ironically.

THE BIRTH OF SUBSEQUENT 'USUAL'

DIRECTED BY BRYAN SINGER

STARRING: GABRIEL BYRNE, KEVIN SPACEY, STEPHEN BALDWIN, KEVIN POLLAK, BENICIO DEL TORO, CHAZZ PALMINTERI, GIANCARLO ESPOSITO, SUZY AMIS, PETE POSTELTHWAITE and PETER GREENE

Trust me when I tell you there’s not much to like about ‘the Usual Suspects’, even though you could rise up in arms against me for saying that. The reason is simple, the easiest way out on a breakup – “it’s me, not Mr. McQuarrie” (Christopher McQuarrie, who plays ‘Verbal’ Kint here, having conceived something like this from head to crippled feet). I watched the film ten years too late, after the Nolan-and-Nolan invention ‘Memento’ (2000), which came out as a shock and not just a surprise, for it happened to be watertight. Absurd, definitely. Outrageous too, perhaps. But watertight. Watching ‘the Usual Suspects’ was like watching the Kid grow up when you’ve seen the Man – a disappointment that stemmed from belief that I already knew too much.

So in this painful state of mind where I can’t laud the conceptual originality citing subsequent overuse, I found the scrambled screenplay do nothing to rouse an excitement that was never there. I predicted a Deuce, if not the blatant Double-Bluff that I wished the writer would never throw my way – it’s lame and narrow and terribly one-sided of him to have done that. But then again, it had measure; efforts visible all over the place to float their boat that ultimately left it in a position where there were at least no gaping holes. The occasional bubble-burst was in excessively dramatic acting performances, like the Agent at the Scene of Crime (played by Giancarlo Esposito, who does nothing but pose and smoke) and not to mention our centerfold in form of Kevin Spacey, the mouthpiece of the writer’s ‘genius’ who’s only too obvious in being so – the very Devil that’s supposed to go ‘poof’ seems to have an Invisibility Cloak that’s faulty.

And then there are the clichés thrown in that are characteristic of the era that found the emergence of such names as Quentin Tarantino – the group of Five dominoes, each falling down in succession to facilitate a fair running time of almost a couple of hours, the prospect of a ‘Rat’ with doubts strewn around, the crime(s), the misleaders and yes, the Deuce. Tarantino made sure to shoot his version right in the belly in his off-comical ‘Reservoir Dogs’ (1992) – and Bryan Singer’s brought him back for regressive revival, post-recovery. And then there’s the one woman in the picture to bring in some soft moments between the blasts in a gangster’s effort to induce emotion. The Italian agent, the accessorized character with such reduced screen-space that he ought to be a cameo. I could just go on listing them all till I hit 50, like Mr. Marquez’s list. Or perhaps not, but that’s another story.

Nevertheless, ‘the Usual Suspects’ definitely had its thrills, but not ones beyond comprehension. Where I thought it failed for me is in the fact that it failed to impress – I mean, I don’t boast that I saw right through it, I tried not to. It still had a fairly-gripping narrative going on, even if redundant at times. It still had its share of punch-lines and turning points, even if I felt I had grown past them all and I saw what would once have been a really good film, which means I saw its sparkle not its shine. It’s kind of too far behind for that.