Review : Imtiaz Ali's "Highway" is charming codswallop.

You know there's something terribly wrong when the abductee starts finding her abductor cute.

Oh, no! Oh, yes.

Welcome, Stockholm syndrome, to a barbaric, bucolic and beautiful India you never knew. It's an oddly effective subject to build a plot around, and who better to do it than Imtiaz Ali? The curly-haired filmmaker serves ravishing road-trips with oodles of romance, a hint of zing and a whole lot of originality. It's a done deal, boss. He gets straight into it : we have a damsel-in-distress bride-to-be who is whisked away by brutal baboons right from under her sissy fiance's nose.

Oh, dear. We sympathize. And her ordeal has just begun.

The twenty-something girl is an adventurous flake. She cries, weeps and adjusts quietly, fends off possible abusers and any kind of human contact. She tries to run, but returns fairly quickly. The kidnappers are astounded, and so are we. It's the beginning of a very promising fairytale.

Imitiaz Ali is arguably one of the finest filmmakers in the Hindi film industry. His ideas are habitually avant-garde that impress and depress in equal measure. But his love for the road remains rare. Watch any film of his, any film, and you'll find that he has sneaked in a sub-plot involving a journey on the long, desolate stretches of the road wherein he can freely indulge in his obsession. And when you have a virtuoso cinematographer by your side, surveying the badlands with his camera, why not join him?

The first part of Highway is some of Ali's darkest work yet. It's a deeply personal film, one that he ached to make all along but had to back out because of its experimental nature. And he had shown us flashes of how grim his ideas can get in the loathsome Rockstar, where Nargis Fakhri tried to masquerade stand-up comedy as acting. My trust in Ali faded slightly after Rockstar, having somewhat liked his previous efforts. Highway, well, makes it worse.

The girl is chatty, friendly and a nudnik. We like her when she makes demands of her own. The kidnappers remain astounded. This gives the director ample space to infuse the tense setting with a few quick laughs and he does so beautifully. The leader of this gang grimaces and barks at the carefree angel, like he's noticed a person like this for the first time. Maybe he has. Funny, hasn't he ever seen Jab We Met, Ali's most successful film to date? Because the girl he has abducted is an extension of the lead character of that film. Just saying.

The girl, we find out, has a filthy rich daddy. Well, doesn't every character who is kidnapped in a Hindi film? Anyway, the desperadoes know they're in big trouble. They run without any real plan. We follow them. We keep following them till the lights come on and the credits roll.

Wait - what? Where is the damn plot?

Uh, it isn't there.

So, so, so what was the point of the film? Yeah, that's a head-scratcher. Because the industry rarely doles out great road films - and here's the finger to those who say Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara is a great road film - so surely a director would think twice before scuppering it?  Nope, not in this case. The first half of the film had me on my feet, applauding its newfangled take on the orthodox road movies and buffing it with a fresh coat of inventiveness. Ali makes no mistake. He creates tender and often funny moments between the two leads, charms us with his quirky, peppy banter and his neatly-written characters.

Alia Bhatt, who vastly underplayed her cliched character in her debut, shines as Veera Tripathy, the pathetic lass. Since Ali has confessed to filming the movie without a proper script, Bhatt had a lot of room to make her character memorable, and she has done it. She has done it. In an unexpected scene, Veera tells her unsuspecting abductor a disturbing tale of incest she underwent at the hands of her uncle and the horrors that unfold in her house she doesn't want to go back to. It's a doozy. I shit you not, the whole theater went utterly silent during that one scene. It's a quiet sign of triumph, compadres.

Randeep Hooda is an underrated actor. The thespian, who made his debut a decade ago, is up to snuff as Mahabir Bhati, the pitiless abductor. Though he's overpowered by the young girl's obvious allure, and spends most of the time grimacing and sulking, it's uplifting to watch how he warms up to his abductee.

The second half is Ali concurring to the audience's tastes. Seriously, what went wrong there, chum? Dear, dear. You really don't need to show a hint of romance between a pair unlikely to fall in love. Because then, some people, like me, find it hard to keep their eyes open. Yawn. They smile. Yawn. They joke. Yawn. Look, they build a home together! Yawn. She screams. Ho-hum. The end. Huh?

But there are flashes of brilliance that show us what kind of a film this could have been. Like the scene in which Veera makes one of her kidnappers buy her a CD consisting of English songs and dances to it with him in the middle of the Kashmiri terrains. Or like a scene in which her appreciation of a tumbledown house invites mild sarcasm when her kidnapper asks her why she's so fascinated with the ruins. There are little moments like these which make it impossible to dislike the film. Sigh.

Oh, gee. I didn't realize this is fast turning into an ambivalent review. Damn!

Alright, I didn't like it. Why the nitpicking review, you ask? Because I'm not too fond of movies that do disservice to their lead actors and thwack me on the face because I expected too much from them.

Essay: The Hoffman in Capote and the Capote in Hoffman.

The first time I saw the actor in Philip Seymour Hoffman was when I watched Scent Of A Woman, where he was overshadowed by a crotchety Al Pacino who ho-ah'ed his way to a long overdue Oscar win. Hoffman, that laid-back little rich git he played with that bowl haircut, caught my attention. With a perpetually amused face and a complacent grin slapped across it, Hoffman made a likable boor. And I liked the way he said Chas. I mean, you could almost hear the smile in that syllable. For the next two weeks, I imitated him by calling everyone Chas.

The death of Philip Seymour Hoffman last week dejected me greatly and, like other fans of his work, I ached to write a tribute to the great actor who brought the art back into acting. Hoffman was my favorite actor, make no mistake, and I had to endure the aggravation caused by the smug "Who is he?" whenever somebody asked me who my favorite actor was. Well, I don't write a lot of tributes but I wanted to write one in his memory. That's who he was. And while the other homages poured in, I got lost in the crowd. Then, I did something that I found to be truly worthwhile - I watched Capote, The Master and Almost Famous. All in a day. 

What started out as a tribute to him turned into a treat for me.

Hoffman's voice was fascinating. Deep and rumbling, it made me think of dark tunnels and ravines I'd never seen. And his laughter was booming, he laughed from the heart. Even his fake, practiced laugh was an amused one. It's an odd combination for someone who played Truman Capote, whose voice was more like a squeak and who laughed coldly, mechanically. I never knew Capote, I'd never read his books nor seen his interviews with the exception of the Frost one. And the first thing I noticed in Bennett Miller's masterful debut was how the deep turned into the squeak. With an evident lisp.

Watching Capote three days ago, I was hit by a sudden pang of awe. And this wasn't the first time I was watching the film. This experience felt different. Because this time, I was fully aware of the fact that the actor who was reveling in the mannerisms of Capote on the screen won't act again.

Hoffman sneaked into his character like he was walking around in it all his life. Capote was a larger-than-life person, a unapologetic sucker for attention and praise, and a dismal friend. He walked like Capote, with a snobbish strut and a deadpan face. He sat like Capote, drank like Capote, laughed like Capote. He became Capote, and I suspect even the great author didn't understand himself as well as Hoffman understood him.

There is a remarkable sequence which somehow leaves me lost for words every single time I watch it. Rack your brains - it's the sequence where the character of Perry Smith uses the word exacerbate to describe something, and then proceeds to explain what it means. To which the character of Capote frigidly replies, "There's not a word, or a sentence or a concept that you can illuminate for me." Watch Hoffman in that scene. Watch him closely. It's plain diabolical, like the punch you've been waiting all along. I watch that scene again and again because it's genius the way it was effectuated. In a single, cold squeak, the movie turned into a great one for me.

We'll never see Hoffman act again. He was a great, great actor.

He was cool by being uncool in Almost Famous. The guy gave a damn lecture on coolness in the movie. I mean, how cool is that?

He was rightfully called Master in The Master. A title I conferred on him a long time ago. The others caught up only last year.

He made me do something I thought wasn't possible - take sides against Meryl Streep in Doubt. I mean, how many times do you take sides against Meryl Streep, tell me?

Goodbye, Chas. You were found gold, you were the Master, you were the Capote we all wanted to know and you were goddamn cool.

Handpicks : My Top Twenty-Five Hindi Films Of All Time.

I've been working on this list for a very, very long time.

For two decades, I've been amusing myself with the quirks and minor wonders of Hindi films, their exaggerated, impassioned imitations of the world we live in and their attempts to make believable drivel that is fascinating and enervating to watch.

It's not an easy task, this. I've combed through thousands of Hindi movies I've watched, re-watched, half-watched and almost-watched to handpick twenty-five films that made twenty-five days of my life worth reminiscing about.

I have made the list in the alphabetical order because that has made my job much easier.

And, as we all know, in this country with any list comes a share of undeserved obloquy. So, let me warn you that I haven't included Sholay or Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge on my list. Nor Lagaan or Rang De Basanti.

Alright, have your heart-attack.

• Aakrosh (1980)

Savoir faire, they call it. This is what this film is.

Biting, relentless, earthy and crucially untamed, Govind Nihalani's excellent debut hits you right between the eyes. You won't get it out of your head. No fucking way.

• Abhimaan (1973)

In a scene in Hrishikesh Mukherjee's Abhimaan, Amitabh Bachchan's character signs an affectionate autograph for a doting fan. And the next moment, the book is snatched out of this hand by the same fan and handed to Jaya Bahaduri, who plays his sylvan wife-turned-superstar.

The reason I mention this sequence is because in a single expression - jealous and enraged, silent and brooding - that caresses his face, Bachchan shows us why the big B in Big B should stand for brilliant instead. And that adjective pretty much describes the whole film.

• Anand (1971)

There isn't anybody who hasn't watched Anand. And there shouldn't be.

• Andaz Apna Apna (1993)

It's really difficult to write a script whose every line is a quotable quote.

This farce is really a bunch of gags pretending to be a film, but it is so incredibly funny that its wit remains nonpareil to this day. I've watched it forty times. You?

• Ardh Satya (1983)

Ah, the magic of depravity is a subject I'll never get tired of. The same could be said of Ardh Satya.

It's eerily familiar, fantastically engaging and altogether brilliant. Salman Khan should learn a thing or two from this, really.

• Bandini (1963)

Bimal Roy was a master of realism, and his phantasmagorical final feature is nothing less. 

• Chashme Buddoor (1981)

Friends are manifest assholes.

And it's such a joy when Sai Paranjpye decides to let us know what she has observed about them. Bask in her observations like there is no tomorrow. Like the Chamko Washing Powder, this film shines too.

• Deewar (1975)

Three things : a mother, a tattoo and Amitabh Bachchan. These three make Deewar Deewar, if you know what I mean.

• Do Bigha Zameen (1952)

Those who crib and crib about our films not being as good as Iranian virtuoso Majid Majidi's, watch this small masterpiece. And keep your eyes wide open.

• Ek Doctor Ki Maut (1987)

This chilling portrait of a defeated man trying to be taken seriously haunted me for a long time. Tapan Sinha's little-knownchef d'oeuvre yanks you in its world and then ferociously guts you. Try escaping it. 

• Guide (1965)

It still plays at Cannes every year in the Classics section, you know.
Not Dev Anand's best, not Goldie's best, but still a fantastic piece of cinema. R.K. Narayan wasn't too pleased with this wily adaptation of his book though. Amen.

• Ijaazat (1987)

An old-fashioned love triangle except that's it's pretty a la mode. Gulzar's best film, hands down, heads up. Oh, la, la! 

• Jaane Bhi Do Yaaron (1983)

A pertinent film even today, Kundan Shah's whimsical black-comedy used to be my favorite film as a kid. A decade and a half later, it still is. You'll never enjoy anything more than watching this loony mob take a collective potshot at the Mahabharata. 

• Kalyug (1981)

When a troop of the finest actors of the '80's go apeshit on the big screen in a modern rendition of the Mahabharata, what you get is a blistering thriller about a dysfunctional Indian business family indulging in greed. Go dig.

• Masoom (1983)

While Deewar schooled us on the importance of having a Maa, Shekhar Kapur's masterful debut does the same with a bit more diplomacy. 

• Mirch Masala (1987)

Like the red-hot chili it glorifies, this film burns and stings. It's salvation, done old-school.

• Mother India (1957)

Famously lost the Oscar by a single vote in 1957, this classic, with its maddening power and uncouth vigor, brought a whole industry to its feet. I didn't have the guts to watch it for the second time.

• Mughal E Azam (1960)

Forbidden love sounds much better in Urdu.
I'd kill for a copy of its coruscating script. Oh, and Madhubala looks drop-dead gorgeous. Pure artistry.

• Parinda (1989)

A little-known gem today, Parinda brought us Nana Patekar touching a whole new level of wacko. It's a furiously alive piece of cinema that stuns you to your core. You won't walk out of it unaffected.

• Pyaasa (1957)

"I'm not that Vijay," he goes in one scene, the defining Guru Dutt moment. While the crowd in the movie goes bananas, I went bananas for a different reason altogether. It's a masterwork, no less.

• Saaransh (1984)

Anupam Kher, twenty-nine at the time, played a seventy-something man and gave a masterclass in character acting. What it does it say to you? For me, it sure found a place on this list. 

• Satya (1999)

Ram Gopal Varma became a figure I revered after I watched this film. What went wrong after that, eh, Ramu?
Wanna know a secret? For the longest time, I considered Satya as the greatest Hindi film ever made. Alright, judge me all you want. Go on.

• Shatranj Ke Khilari (1977)

Isn't it ironic that the master directs only one Hindi film in his three-decade filmmaking career and that turns out to be one of the finest Hindi films ever made? That, my friends, is called perspective. 

• Sparsh (1980)

This is Sai Paranjpye, Naseeruddin Shah and Shabana Azmi at the very peak of their powers.
If anyone tries to remake this classic, I'll go after that damn coot with everything I've got. And I'm going to nail that damn coot, I kid you not.

• Teesri Manzil (1966)

The cult film of all cult films, this one is a nail-chewer buffed to sleek perfection. Watch, learn and watch again.

Review : Steve McQueen's "12 Years A Slave" is an act of great filmmaking.

I first made my acquaintance with McQueen's cinema when I watched his breathtaking arthouse debut, Hunger, which reinstated my faith in the power of cinema. McQueen's films basically put paintings on celluloid - they amaze you with their dazzling imagery, and then make you dwell on the philosophical elements of a man's lusts. And because of my infatuation with independent cinema, McQueen's films are regular features on my Friday Midnight playlist.

He followed up Hunger with Shame, a shocking drama on sex-addiction, a film I've seen only in flashes. It impressed me a great deal to see a dogged filmmaker put a brash subject on the big-screen and then squeeze art out of it. And I judge from the lumps of Shame I've seen when I say that it's a remarkable piece of cinema. And grueling to sit through.

The good news is that 12 Years A Slave is a great film, and McQueen still manages to awe.

The bad news is that it's sadly - and surprisingly - not his best film yet.

And I so wanted it to be. Based on the extraordinary true story of Solomon Northup, a violinist and free black man living in Saratoga, who is drugged, kidnapped and sold into slavery whilst on a music tour. McQueen's sweeping epic grabs you hard, messes with your mind and leaves you rattled. It's a dandy addition to the list of films on American slavery, though I'm not quite sure if it's the best.

While I was watching Hunger, and I was watching it with those nettlesome subtitles because I'm bad at discerning heavily-accented English, it took me twenty minutes to figure that I had forgotten to put the subtitles on. Because, for twenty minutes, no one in the film said a goddamn word. Silence spoke louder in Hunger, a film whose twenty-five minute gabby sequence saved it from being a silent film. But 12 Years A Slave is different, and this is a film whose script is conspicuously verbose.

And brisk. Two minutes in, and Solomon is with his family. Ten minutes into the film, and Solomon has already been kidnapped and chained. To tell you the truth, I wasn't expecting this film to be this pacy, for McQueen is a filmmaker who bids his time to get the mood right. And right there, I understood that this isn't the regular McQueen film I was hoping it would be. This was different, this felt different. This wasn't the artist McQueen at work, this was his storyteller side. A side of him that was trying to break the mold of an indie filmmaker taking on the moneyed side of the industry.

Alright, let's see how that pans out.

It doesn't take long for us to sink our teeth into the film's melancholic aura. There's a quietly horrifying sequence early on in which a chained Northup is flogged with a bat till it breaks and then is lashed with a belt because he refuses to be called a slave. And with each lashing, the life out of Northup's face momentarily drains out. It's an inhumane sequence that shows us the beauty of being humane.

And what follows next in Northup's life is twelve arduous years of unspeakable horrors. Going from slave owner to slave owner, Northup is subjected to barbaric treatment, from being confined in a dark room to throwing bodies into the sea. He takes it all in, not saying a word. In a scene, when a fellow slave talks about survival, Northup retorts, "I don't want to survive. I want to live." Words that quelled me. Words that'll quell anybody.

For a good part of two hours, 12 Years A Slave absorbed and appalled me. I wanted to soak up much of the brilliant filmmaking on display, but I didn't know whether to keep my eyes open or closed. Sadism as a subject makes for a compelling viewing, but there's a downside to it too. I didn't want to miss out on anything, but there's so much skill packed into it that I had to compromise. So, I chose to watch the filmmaking rather than the film. There's a difference, you know. But I didn't miss out. This is a film about people acquitting themselves against other people.

Northup's second master, Edwin Epps, is the epitome of evilness. A closeted monster revealing shards of humanity through acts of forced kindness, Michael Fassbender, the volcanic, magnificent Michael Fassbender, stuns you. Epps fears God and sin, and he tries to conduct himself as a likable loony who punishes and whips only when provoked. Epps is at war with himself, with his neglected wife who is jealous of a female slave, Patsey, the sole object of his affections. Epps, overtly protective of Patsey, abuses his wife who calls him a wuss on numerous occasions for his sexual infatuation with a slave. Lupita Nyong'o, a newbie who plays Patsey, is phenomenal. In a year of great acting debuts, this one surely ranks as one of the finest. Just watch the young 'un in a perturbing sequence in which she begs Northup to drown her because she can't take the abuse anymore. It's acting of rare craft, and Nyong'o makes no mistake. Good job, girl!

Till the very end, 12 Years A Slave remains consistently engaging. It's flawlessly crafted, marvelously acted, breathtakingly shot and aptly scored, a genuinely perfect film on paper. But I was left a tad underwhelmed because I had set my expectations sky high. Or maybe because I'm not used to watching a Steve McQueen film that doesn't surprise the dark side in me. The artistry is all there, but there isn't any fanged surprise awaiting that'll stagger you. Maybe that's a downer, maybe it isn't. Depends, really, on what kind of a viewer you are.

In the lead role, Chiwetel Ejiofor reveals great depths as an actor, handing in the finest performance of his career. Northup is an object of hope and humanity, and Ejiofor talks more with his sunken eyes than he does with his mouth. It's a performance that left me bereft of words. Sarah Paulson excels as the jealous wife, a monster, no less, but a much more humane one. About the performances of Nyong'o and Fassbender, I can only say one thing - give them the damn Oscars. Give them all the damn Oscars.

There's a handful of quick cameos, but what cameos they are! Paul Giamatti, Benedict Cumberbatch and Brad Pitt - the producer and the ultimate good guy in a movie about bad guys, how ironic! - make a nifty lot. And when Hollywood doesn't get a punching bag, what do they do? They bring in Paul Dano. I really wish they'd stop doing that, and appreciate the lad for the explosively talented youngster that he is.

12 Years A Slave isn't the best film on American slavery - and I do hope you haven't forgotten Amistad - but it's a significant film that ranks among last year's best. This is my also prediction as the potential winner of the Academy Award for Best Picture this year, I kid you not.