Handpicks: The 10 Best Films of 2015 -- Vol. II

I watched some wonderful films released last year in the last three months, and I have tried to include those that were a touch better than the good ones in this list. I still haven't seen some. And since April is upon us already, it might be too late to release another version. But if I may say so, please do not miss Jacques Audiard's Dheepan, Pablo Larrain's The Club, Pablo Trapero's The Clan, Anna Muylaert's The Second Mother and Stéphane Lafleur's Tu Dors Nicole. The buzz surrounding these films is pretty strong and they would make for compelling viewings. I can hardly wait to watch them.

I have divided this post into two sections. So, let's start with:

The Ones That Didn't Work:

(+) Victoria (Germany)

To say Sebastian Schipper's Victoria is impressively made would be an understatement, a mighty big one. The 138-minute crime-drama is shot in a single take with a committed bunch of actors who do a great job. And the camerawork is worth a mention, too. But here is the thing about one-take films: They drag. Things are left undercooked. Editing injects life into a film. For almost an hour, Victoria is tedious. It does get going soon, turning into a fabulous crime-thriller from a heavy-handed drama, but there isn't enough here to redeem some of its drawbacks. The emotional payoffs are abundant. Perhaps scissoring it would have made it a better film.

(+) The Revenant (US)

Alejandro G. Iñárritu's The Revenant is the kind of film that is conceived with the misconception that it will be unquestionably great if it ever gets made. In its 156 gruesome minutes, it does a lot to draw our attention to the fact that it nearly did not get made. And the idea that one should heap praises on it because they got to watch this gory spectacle is an idea that drives it. But The Revenant is a massive, massive disappointment. To be fair, it is a technical marvel that boasts of determined performances from the cast and jaw-dropping imagery (lensed to perfection as usual by Emmanuel Lubezski), but it does little to tell a good story. Repetitive, overstretched till it almost snaps and somewhat mundane, The Revenant tries hard to be as great a film as it thinks it is but never gets there. (Thank God for the 'bear attack' sequence to give me my money's worth.)

(+) Marshland (Spain)

Women get murdered in a small rural town and two homicide detectives who don't quite get along are sent to investigate the case. Does it ring a bell? If you have seen the fine first season of True Detective, chances are that you have seen flashes of Alberto Rodriguez's Marshland in it. Its moody atmosphere and fabulous cinematography are not enough to shake off the the sinking feeling that we have sat through all of it before. There are a handful of intriguing moments, of course, but it never manages to surpass or even rival the skill of its American counterpart. (If you haven't seen the first season of True Detective, this is well worth checking out.)

(+) A Wolf at the Door (Brazil)

Had it been done well, really well, A Wolf at the Door would have been riveting. It is riveting, to be fair, but when it gets to its stunning conclusion it is already a bit of a mess. An intricate narrative employed to tell the tale of a child getting kidnapped is not a good idea because the central plot thread might get lost in the shuffle. And that does happen here. Still, A Wolf at the Door gathers steam near the end and finishes on a high. But the devastating final blow we expected from it misses its mark. And that is disappointing.

Now that I have got that out of the way, here are:

The Ones That Did Work:

(+) Son of Saul (Hungary)

László Nemes' stunning debut is the closest thing to a modern classic I have seen recently, and also the best film of 2015.

(+) Phoenix (Germany)

An elegantly crafted film that drips with atmosphere and mood and offers affecting drama, Christian Petzold's Phoenix is an unusual revenge tale that concerns itself more with an individual slowly coming to terms with a betrayal than how that individual exacts her vengeance. With impeccable performances and a strong narrative structure, Phoenix is never less than masterful. And, of course, the fade-out moment is worthy of a salute.

(+) Theeb (Jordan/UAE/Qatar/UK)

What can be said of one of the finer directorial debuts of last year? Naji Abu Nowar's Oscar-nominated Theeb was always going to be a dark horse, but a rather magnificent dark horse it was. A deliberately paced small-scale epic, Theeb was absorbing and informative, vicariously transporting us to the unforgiving deserts of Jordan while allowing us a rare peek into the Bedouin way of life. Although Norwar had very little to work with here, he managed to produce an earnest, nearly flawless film that we are likely not going to forget anytime soon. That is more than what some directors do on fatter budgets, better production values and with popular faces steering the film.

(+) 45 Years (UK)

Andrew Haigh's delicate meditation on marriage and the fragility of it is explored through the eyes of an aging couple whose relationship is about to fall apart when the past comes knocking. Bolstered by two of last year's most searing performances by Charlotte Rampling and Tom Courtenay, the sharply observed 45 Years beckons us to put ourselves in the shoes of its protagonists, and when we do it forces us to confront certain truths about us. For a small film, what it achieves is sure remarkable.

(+) The Hateful Eight (US)

Twice I have seen this film. And twice I have enjoyed the heck out of it. It is disgusting, yes. Indulgent, also. Maybe even unjustifiably lengthy and verbose. Furthermore, I have been told by some that they think it is among Quentin Tarantino's weaker efforts. To some extent, all of this is true. But The Hateful Eight, with all its drawbacks, is a grand vision, confidently conceived, and it is hard to dispute that fact although one could argue that it doesn't entirely earn that label. Tarantino's gift of creating characters that stay in our memories and giving them lines to say that we hear ourselves saying someday is on full display here, and he makes us envy it. With the legendary Ennio Morricone giving it the sound it needs, The Hateful Eight is a worthy addition to Tarantino's handsome oeuvre.

(+) Steve Jobs (US)

There is no other word to describe Danny Boyle's latest offering: electrifying. The Aaron Sorkin-scripted three-act Steve Jobs may well be a fictitious re-enactment of three of the creative genius' biggest moments, but it is fashioned like a giddily exciting thriller that is more about people trying to win at conversation than people trying to put generation-defining ideas into effect. On any other day with any other script writer we might prefer to watch people create and not talk. But Sorkin's superb writing, coupled with Boyle's sure-handed direction, bears the skill to create vivid characters and bring them to life.

(+) Bridge of Spies (US)

By the mid-2000s, Steven Spielberg had noticeably lost some of the sheen that made him one of the most regarded filmmakers in modern cinema. But that doesn't matter now. Bridge of Spies, while not being among his best and not even being close to being one of his best, is still a damn fine film. It has, among other things, like Mark Rylance's marvelous turn that towers over a veteran actor like Tom Hanks, Spielberg's undying optimism and the usual sentimental punch of a Spielberg venture. Which is surprising, since his last great film was Munich in 2005 and that was Spielberg at his most cynical. Bridge of Spies tramples on safe grounds, but delivers an oddly effective combination of suspense and sentimentality.

(+) Black Coal, Thin Ice (China)

One of the pleasures of watching a suspense film is discovering that we are actually in the hands of a clever storyteller who wants to keep springing surprises, and we surrender instead of trying to outwit them. In this case, the lasting impact of Diao Yinan's slow-burning suspense thriller about two detectives trying to solve an old murder case might have been a bit diluted owing to the romantic angle at its centre that takes up a substantial chunk of the movie's runtime. But it does not negate the sharpness with which this film is plotted. A film that, like any worthy mystery film, keeps throwing us off the rails about its real intentions. Does it want to be a sibling of Memories of Murder, also a detective film but one that expertly blends dark humor, tragedy and suspense? Does it want to be a melancholic romance? We can't say. But by the end, Black Coal, Thin Ice does more than what we expect from it: it convinces us that it was both.

(+) Room (Canada/Ireland/UK)

One of my biggest reservations before I walked into Room was whether director Lenny Abrahamson was the right person to helm or not. It wasn't unfounded, though. Abrahamson had last made Frank, a quirky tragicomedy about a group of wannabe musicians, and was perhaps an unorthodox choice for a seemingly claustrophobic nail-biter. But I need not have worried. Room is an extremely well-acted and efficient drama that cleverly sidesteps the trappings of its genre to deliver an emotional mother-son story under the guise of a thriller. But it is Jacob Tremblay (all of just nine, how extraordinary!) and Brie Larson who, by delivering sensational performances, elevate this indie from the sea of ones like it and make the experience unforgettable.

(+) Our Little Sister (Japan)

(Full disclosure: I'm a huge admirer of Hirokazu Kore-eda's cinema. So, I might sound a bit biased here.) In comparison to 2011's I Wish and 2013's Like Father, Like Son, his last two films, Kore-eda's new film pales, and that might be its only problem. But on its own, Our Little Sister is exactly the kind of gently moving, empathetic and optimistic film we have come to expect from the master filmmaker. Here, he explores with his usual flair and keenness the relationship people share when thrown in the most curious of circumstances, something brought about by fate. And it is the hope he injects into it once again that makes it so likable a film. Ultimately, though, Our Little Sister might be a tad ineffectual for it leaves things a little unexplored. But Kore-eda's touch is unmistakable. And that touch is quite something.

(+) Creed (US)

2013's Fruitvale Station introduced us to two remarkable talents in director Ryan Coogler and actor Michael B. Jordan. Creed does its bit to assure us that they weren't flukes. Resurrecting the Rocky series with style, energy and passion, Creed is a brilliantly made tale of loss and hope that packs a hefty emotional punch. What else, it sure is wonderful to see Sylvester Stallone reprising the role that made him a star, and a star he remains. While he imbues Creed with heart, it is the team of Jordan and Coogler who retain some of the original Rocky's energy and turn this comeback into both a respectful tribute and a standalone jewel.

(+) What We Do In The Shadows (New Zealand/US)

This was a really risky proposition. With the number of vampire movies being attempted every year, it would be truly challenging to find something offbeat in terms of style and, more importantly, substance. But Taika Waititi and Jemaine Clement's bromance What We Do In The Shadows is a goofy and inventive mockumentary that is better than most vampire movies I have seen, and one that is reminiscent of Monty Python and the Holy Grail. (Although it doesn't quite touch the level of genius of the latter.) Ultimately, the film does overstay its welcome by a small margin, but it provides enough good-humored chuckles to be worth our time.

(+) Alleluia (Belgium/France)

Fabrice Du Welz's Alleluia is a feverish exercise in evil. It is easy to become repulsed by it, and it just as easy to get sucked into it. It is a wild, weird romance, full of passion and intensity and obsession, and it is told with unflinching determination. Loosely based on the true story of the Lonely Hearts Killers who achieved considerable notoriety in the late '40s, Alleluia is barely watchable but makes for a compelling viewing. Not for the faint of heart, though.

The Second Version:

The second version of my list of the best films of 2015, as it looks now:

1. Son of Saul (Hungary)
2. Taxi (Iran)
3. Carol (US)
4. Killa (India)
5. The Look of Silence (Denmark/Finland/Indonesia/Norway/UK)
6. Phoenix (Germany)
7. Spotlight (US)
8. Court (India)
9. Güeros (Mexico)
10. Mustang (France/Turkey/Germany) and Theeb (Jordan/UAE/Qatar/UK)

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Essay: Decoding the subtleties of Kanu Behl's "Titli."

Two weeks ago, Kanu Behl's Titli was unanimously hailed as one of the better Hindi films of the year upon release. It was not an exaggerated claim, as I found later, thanks to its meticulous structure and carefully written characters that I found worth raving about. 

Before I begin, I should attribute a large chunk of this naive essay to my friend, Ashwini Dabadge. She noticed an important metaphor that I missed, and she told me about it during a rather illuminating discussion I had with her after we both watched the film. 

There are several tiny throwaway details, little flourishes, that stayed with me many days after I watched Kanu Behl's debut. Many reviewers of the film have pointed out Behl's seemingly weird obsession with personal hygiene. A recurring detail where some or the other member of the vulnerable family of violent carjackers is brushing his teeth and clearing his throat noisily -- something of a morning ritual in the family -- hardly seems like a detail a filmmaker would want his audience to watch repeatedly. It's simply unpleasant. Unless that filmmaker is trying to indicate something through it. 

Behl introduces us to this incorrigibly evil male family that engages in small but brutal crimes to earn a living. And he tries to acquaint us with his characters by taking us through their routines, emphatically stressing on how they begin their day. Through the film, three of the four members of the family are seen brushing their teeth vigorously (I don't recollect seeing the character of middle brother, Bawla, doing the same), making nauseating noises throughout. 

As I soon discovered, this detail signifies how the family is trying to rid themselves of their inner evil but always fail to do so. As the character of Bawla only lends a helping hand in the crimes, never being a perpetrator himself, he is not seen doing the same. He is merely a slave of his volatile elder brother, which doesn't entirely redeem him of his sins but makes him a sorry figure. But because we see the characters of Vikram and Titli channelling their inner monsters through their immoral acts, we see Behl's careful placement of these sequences after they partake in something unlawful or unethical. The character of Daddy gets a brief "brushing" scene, too, for not trying to reform his eldest son, choosing to be a silent spectator instead. In Behl's eyes, that makes him as much a criminal, if not more, than his son. The confrontation between Titli and the patriarch near the end is actually Behl's speaking through a fictitious character, I feel.

This theory also applies to the scene where Titli throws up before taking the high road. I believe it alludes to him ridding himself of the evil he had kept bottled inside for so long. As soon as he is done vomiting, we suddenly see him in a new light. We see him as a better, stronger person.

Although this is not a metaphor, the middle brother's strongly implied homosexuality lends itself wonderfully to the intriguing bunch of characters. This detail is implied through brief scenes scattered throughout the film and is kept restrained, bringing a nice subtlety to the character of Bawla. It also demonstrates how thoughtfully Behl and co-writer Sharat Katariya have fleshed out the characters.

Yet another metaphor I observed which was pretty discreet was the house this dysfunctional family lived in. A crumbling, perpetually messy house might be an indication of the crumbling, messy lives of the gents who live in it. And that we never see the characters clean or redo the house and the fact that they don't even seem bothered by it might hint at them being criminals beyond reformation. In one sequence, we get a quick glimpse into the wardrobe of Neelu. It is a tidy one. This bit, I feel, suggests that she is the only upright member of the family.

There are many more such trivial details crammed in the film that might be symbolic. Starting with that framed picture of their forefather, a detail that shows up in many a sequence and which I tried to but couldn't quite understand the relevance of. Maybe another viewing might shed light on that. Or maybe, as I discovered mulling over it in the last two weeks, not knowing what it signifies makes the film all the more fascinating. Maybe like Titli himself, we don't really know whether we want to know. Well.

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Review: Kanu Behl's savage "Titli" is noteworthy but remains stubbornly short of greatness.

Kanu Behl's Titli isn't an easy film to review. It has sequences and ideas that flirt with greatness, a promising premise complete with a stock of great performances from an exemplary cast, and yet somehow it never quite comes together in a way indelible films often do. Behl's character study takes a grim peek into the household of a small, closely-knit, predominantly male Delhi family who moonlight as small-time criminals while the youngest member nurtures dreams of running away. However, in analyzing the dynamics of this volatile family, the film loses sight of its half-done plot that unravels amidst bursts of brutality.

There are a lot of things to admire from the outset. What needs to be applauded foremost is how precisely Behl has managed to capture the bubbling anger that lads from an urban Delhi locality harbor at all times. Borrowing bits from his own upbringing, Behl's vivid representation of how a sullen lower middle-class male family deal with everyday violence and their own enigmatic selves is refreshingly real, giving us an hopeless clan of wife-beaters whose dark past is revealed in sharply written exchanges. And there are little touches that are a stroke of genius; the old patriarch that grunts and garbles and dances impassively in a glum wedding procession; the middle brother's homosexuality is kept ambiguous, adding to the film's many layers; the protagonist dons fake t-shirts of classy brands.

Such fastidiousness speaks volumes about Behl's forte: he knows the city, his characters and the jargon they choose to speak in inside out, and how the city molds his characters. In a Delhi trudging towards development, a joyless place where a car salesman is bashed to near-death with a hammer in broad daylight and the perpetrators get away with it, not granting the poor guy any empathy before dumping his body near a desolate stretch of highway, lives Behl's titular protagonist whose life isn't any better. This, perhaps, signifies the lives of his own characters: bleak, perpetually stuck in the "developing" phase but without any hope of ever being completely "developed."

Titli has these moments, these references in handfuls. We aren't introduced to the characters or the world they inhabit in a straightforward manner. We observe them as they go about living their miserable lives, confronting their piling problems with exhaustion and fury. We sympathize with the impassive Titli's plight until he ill-treats his new bride, a strong-willed young woman who doesn't take domination lying down. (In her debut, Shivani Raghuvanshi is a revelation.) In a hazy sequence of uncomfortable moans and stubborn, silent opposition to his advances, she refuses to consummate her marriage. That's how her character is introduced to us. The sequence is barely two minutes long but we still learn all we need to know about her. And in a later sequence where a bizarre deal is cut in the eerie locality in the middle of the night, she handles a difficult sequence -- once again, brilliantly written and performed -- with grace and deftness. And it is the kind of grace and deftness we don't usually expect from newcomers.

But there is a more urgent problem plaguing this otherwise fine film. The sequences, each crafted elegantly, work individually but not quite as a whole. The plot seems rather simplistic for this complex bunch of people with no firm sense of right and wrong. There simply isn't enough of it. Behl crucially chooses to place them in scenarios of which we can predict the outcome instead of placing them in ones where we might get to see a different side of theirs that is not all black and grey. And when wonderfully fleshed out characters are left scrambling with little plot to work with, it adds up to a frustrating cinematic experience. The thread that ties up the tightly written individual scenes, alas, is too thin to bear the weight of the ideas this film boasts of.

As a character study on a personal level, Titli is probably the most evocative one in recent memory. A film where we see, empathize with and eventually come to care for a bunch of despicable characters is rare, and it is a film that still leaves us with a little hope. Still, there is such a thing as too much unconventionality. Titli makes our acquaintance us people and situations we might have not seen in Hindi cinema before -- at least not in the last decade or two -- but it is a film whose freshness is bogged down by its inability to remain entirely convincing. Still, for Ranvir Shorey's marvelous turn as the belligerent eldest brother and for the amount of potential Behl shows in his debut, this might be worth a second or even third viewing.

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Review: Matteo Garrone's "Tale Of Tales" is an enthralling celebration of the grisly.

In one of the early scenes of Matteo Garrone's new spellbinder, a man battles a sea monster for its heart. Literally. The scene plays out in pure cinematic fashion in the fogginess of the sea, with the monster snoozing while the man readies himself with a spear. In one swift stab, the monster that looks like a colossal pale lizard is impaled and it thrashes around, trying to come to terms with this sudden attack and in the process, the man takes a hit from its scaled tail. Later, its still-beating heart is pulled out and cooked, and a princess feasts on it.

It's a dreadfully ugly but weirdly comical sight. The opening twenty minutes serve as a perfect introduction to the many oddities attached with Tale Of Tales, a horror-fantasy fable conceived with great impishness. Meshing three parables set in a fanciful kingdom, each with its own set of quirks, Garrone's film is grotesque, strangely moving and often witty, maintaining that balance with vigor for most of its runtime. An adaptation of a collection of tales by Neapolitan poet and courtier Giambatissta Basile, it is the kind of film whose tendency to turn to the bizarre lends it an unpredictability. This could be an advantage or disadvantage, because once you are sucked into its world, it captures you. Expecting the usual fare from it becomes a foolish want. We are at the mercy of a storyteller who may or may not know the weight of the risk they just undertook. They need to shoulder our expectations, then, and show us something remarkable or risk a disappointed audience.

But in the case of Tale Of Tales, the risk pays off.

And that could be attributed to the fact that Garrone is a clever filmmaker. He is in complete command of the tone of the film, the pace at which his world unravels and the twists that show up at regular intervals. It is not a sprawling period piece that one would expect from a plot, or several, that involve kings and queens and princesses and princes. With only a handful of characters and moody shots of deserted alleys and tiny kingdoms, the film has a quaint touch to it, evoking images of yore that we had only seen in our imaginations through vivid fairytales. Vanished is the realism and stark storytelling of Garrone's masterful Gomorrah.

I wonder: when was the last time a film bragged about sequences where a sea monster was eliminated, a flea was nourished until it became an intimidating beast by an eccentric king, an ogre was not so likable anymore (sorry, Shrek), a lustful king was conned by a bunch of hags and a woman was flayed in accordance to her request? In the same film, too. That's quite, quite mad, to have everything stuffed in a single film, but Tale Of Tales walks its own wonderful path littered with the choicest peculiarities. And nowhere does it seem excessive. Beneath the blanket of macabre humor and inexplicable emotion, each tale is narrated with imagination and deftness, bringing to the table a sweeping cinematic experience with an unmissable philosophical undercurrent.

The parables cross-cut between one another fluidly. Gomorrah is an excellent example wherein he navigated between several parallel strands so skillfully that, for the duration of the film, we knew exactly what was going on with whom. Here, we have less characters to keep track of, which gives Garrone more space for character development. And, indeed, by the end, each character has weaved their spells over us.

However, even with numerous factors tipping the scales in favor of greatness, Tale Of Tales is flawed. Some twists are either foreseeable or simply feeble, not adding enough spice to the proceedings for their inclusion to be justified. But for the most part the film is busy plying us with rich, vibrant storytelling for it to be a foil.

Tale Of Tales is not for everyone, but it is a great way to introduce adults to the joys of, um, adult fairytales, if you will. Of course, with "adult" comes with a large dollop of morbidness and a bright red sign instructing children to keep away.


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Review: Asif Kapadia's astonishing "Amy" is documentary filmmaking at its riveting best.

We all know Amy Winehouse. That husky voice complementing that jazzy music so perfectly, it flings us in fantasy-land.

But we don't quite know the girl Asif Kapadia shows us in Amy, a devastating account of the rise and eventual untimely death of the songbird for whom fame and frenzy became too much to handle. But here's the thing: this isn't just another account of her life. We know how it is going to end. But how we get there is where the real essence of Amy lies.

What catches your attention right away is how Kapadia treats the material. A teenaged and sassy Winehouse carols the birthday song with her friends, carols for a group of people who are going to turn her into the Amy Winehouse we knew through newspapers, and there is a naiveness about her that simply cannot be overlooked. Swiftly, we recognize her as one of us, one of those commonplace folk who do commonplace things. And it is a particularly impressive move because of the impact it has on us; just like that, we are watching closely. Although I do understand why Kapadia decided to start with this particular clip, for this is a clip filmed way before fame touched her and therefore it gives us a glimpse into the ordinariness of a girl for whom life was about to catch off-guard, I wanted to know how she was professionally. But I needn't have worried. Kapadia takes good care of our queries.

After establishing her milieu neatly, we move on to how she fared in the competitive environment. We hear the voices of her manager, her album producers, best pals, then-boyfriend, documenting her life at every moment and every turn till she became the Amy Winehouse we know. The footage intercuts between her personal and professional lives, and we see how one Amy slowly but surely turned into two different Amys, and it's ruffling.

The story of Amy Winehouse's affair with fame unfolds chronologically, and each sequence gives us an inkling of the extent of the intimidating research Kapadia and his team have put into it. It is like a jigsaw puzzle; he knows where the pieces go, but the way he manages to coerce her associates and family to divulge everything they know about her and assemble the details together into a coherent whole is truly laudable. I say the research is intimidating because even though we might know where the story is heading, what path it follows to its conclusion, we are still under the illusion that we are watching a person we never knew through a microscope. The use of her euphonic music is ingenious; in parts, Kapadia uses her songs to describe phases in her life, and for once we don't listen to them as songs. We find a whole world of meaning behind those lyrics, and begin to comprehend the person who wrote them.

Ultimately, Amy is devastating. It is not easy to mature with someone for over two hours and feel like we have known them our whole life, and then see their descent into eternal silence. Kapadia makes sure we get to mingle with not only the star but also the woman behind it. And one of Amy's -- and Kapadia's -- smaller successes is that we see a woman whom we can relate to in the early parts, and then observe her slowly alienating as we get to know her better. By the end, we are not even sure we knew the same person we wanted to know when we first saw her. And the discovery is shattering.

Review: Damian Szifron's "Wild Tales" is a rollicking ride into lunacy.

After my initial viewing of Damian Szifron's Wild Tales two months ago, I was left -- scarily -- in a particularly malevolent mood. Having never taken a liking to anthology films, this was a charming surprise even for someone who prefers feature films to shorts. With six shorts, six perfectly dark, hilarious, impressively immoral and utterly deranged shorts, Szifron demonstrates his aptitude for handling atmosphere and suspense and tonal shifts. And with each viewing, Wild Tales becomes a deeper, more exhaustive examination of what happens when ordinary mortals are driven to the extremities of desperation. 

With the brand of black comedy that the very Irish McDonagh sibling duo, Martin and John Michael, have made their forte (with four films, namely In Bruges, Seven Psychopaths, The Guard and Calvary, between them), Szifron churns out six immaculately balanced and wildly inventive satirical short films with a common theme of vengeance. Bravely cynical about the future of Argentina, it portrays upright people trying to break free of tyranny and oppression by taking to violence as a way to vent their frustrations. There is no escape; this is gorge of pessimism and we are made to take the plunge. There is the inescapability of the symbolic spurt of brutal violence, but it is almost poetic in its impact. And, in a mad way, it adds to the film's persistent comical undertone.

Much has been discussed about volatile opening short film that sets the mood of the film, that makes the rest of the shorts look slightly pale in comparison. Personally, I wouldn't be surprised if it gains a cult status, and I wouldn't mind if it does either. It is so ambitious, so deliciously savage that it's hard not to be a little breathless after it ends. And dazzled. Reproducing its flavor in the subsequent shorts, Szifron imbues his film with great verve that never dampens. Till the scathing last shot, till the last person snaps, the film remains feisty with a subtly seditious edge. Truly, a piece of cinema as polished, as smart and as assured as this is as scarce as a comet. 

The only problem -- as is the problem with many anthology films -- with Wild Tales is, not all shorts work as well. "The Rats" and "The Proposal" might be brief endeavors that would be terrific as independent shorts, but here they do not blend in as well owing to the patent lack of diabolical twists. With the other films bursting with revelations by the dozen, these two follow a disappointingly predictable trajectory. But to Szifron's credit, none of the ventures can be classified as bad or even mediocre. But, alas, the picture overall looks a shade distorted. 

Wild Tales is one of my favorite films of last year, and a film that ousted Sion Sono's brilliant Why Don't You Play In Hell? as the most fun I had had at the movies in a long, long time. Relish it in whichever way you see fit, but the universality and the tragedy of its message cannot be eluded.

Review : Anurag Kashyap's "Ugly" is a dazzling nightmare.

Ugly is a fantastic ordeal, a gripping police procedural furled in a haze of soiled consciences, sardonic dialogue and obnoxious characters, and one of the best films of the year.

There's also something rather odd about this Mumbai opus, but I can't finger what exactly. Perhaps, it's this: it's the most un-Kashyap film the auteur has made in his directorial career spanning a little over a decade. There is little indulgence, hardly any bloodletting and, for once, his flamboyant style of filmmaking is covert. With his typically despicable, irascible troop of characters for whom domestic violence and violence of the mind is a way of living, Kashyap weaves a hellish character study around the disappearance of a little girl, but he doesn't focus as much on the "disappearance" as he does on its repercussions.

Ugly is a story that underlines the depths that humanity can sink to when it is propped up against a bare wall. It is aimed to appall, to agonize, smeared by the grime of a menacing Mumbai, a city that no one knows how to capture on a camera better than Kashyap. In the bleak byways of the city (splendidly shot by Greek cinematographer, Nikolai Andritsakis), the story unfolds in a stream of aimless and helpless exchanges and blame games, occasionally coupled with helpings of black humor and a plethora of cusses. It's exactly the kind of film one would expect from Kashyap, and he knows this which is why he doesn't make it like he usually does, and that's where Ugly stands out. It wallows you in a world that Kashyap has familiarized his devotees with, and yet manages to be a seemingly novel take on the internal and eternal ugliness of a human mind.

The complications the disappearance leads to are unforeseen. As her panicky father and his friend go the the police station to lodge a formal complaint, the blase cop is captivated by the wonders of modern technology. It's slightly ruffling to see someone supposed to bail us out of trouble being fascinated by something so trivial in a time of bother, but this agitating sequence is beautifully effectuated by sharp, street-smart dialogue and diligently controlled performances that make it scarily amusing. Ugly bursts with such details frequently, allowing the vexations of its characters to flow freely until they get to you.

The girl's father, a struggling actor, is someone we sympathize with until, in a shrewdly placed flashback, we find out about his dark side, which cripples our sympathy for him in a flicker. His friend -- an ungodly believer, a detail of screaming irony -- too has a nasty side to his unusually calm demeanor. The girl's alcoholic, suicidal mother, divorced from her first husband, has cornered herself in a monotonous marriage with a tough cop, who hates her first husband, the struggler, with a vengeance. While the mother uses her second husband to shield herself from the piling frustrations of her first, her deprived brother tries to involve himself to earn himself a quick penny. They all have odious consciences that are masked by their concern for the vanished girl, but Ugly is an exploration of the moral monsters lurking inside them. A dark, depressing and dreary exploration that gets increasingly flustering with each passing moment, finally reaching a point where you feel as utterly impotent as the characters do. That's where I realized how good a film -- no, how great a film -- Ugly is.

The performances are sublime. Each character is vitalized wonderfully by the actors portraying them, and each emotion is articulated by finer nuances. The screenplay is structured expertly, each twist spaced out well, each character fleshed out brilliantly. The dialogue is so sharp, it could cut glass. While it was used in Kashyap's previous effort, Gangs Of Wasseypur, to simply add color to a grey world, it is used here to spectacular effect to propel the story forward. This is some of Kashyap's sharpest writing to date.

When Ugly culminates, one realizes that it actually was a deceivingly simple story all along and was intended to be a lesson in morality. And as a character study, it's a marvelous success. It unnerves, it engages and in its closing moments, it revolts. It leaves one a lot wiser and a little insecure, just as it is meant to. Sniff around for a seamless plot, however, and it will disappoint you.

Ugly is in the same vein as Kashyap's Paanch and Black Friday, and it is in that genre where he towers over his peers. Its abrupt commercial release, the last of the year, may have brightened our Christmases, but it certainly hasn't made them rosier. Many will leave the theater loathing it for its guts. And that reaffirms why Anurag Kashyap is one of our most treasured talents.

Review: Nicolas Winding Refn's "Only God Forgives" : It's A Monster And It's Alive!

So, I finally watched the movie I had been waiting for all year. And there's a good chance that you might've not even heard of it. It's called Only God Forgives, a gloriously angry movie about loyalty, morality and, uh, mothers. And before you hawk and hurl a million questions at me, I'd have to state that it was booed loudly by the audience at its Cannes premiere. And that's where I start hunting for a different kind of cinema. Because the legend goes that any movie, any movie, that gets catcalled at Cannes turns out to be a pretty good cinematic experience.

But that wasn't where I first heard of it, no siree. The first trailer, released two months before its Cannes premiere, had me psyched. And after that, I wasn't left with much choice. This is the medical condition which doctors term as getting Refn'ed. And while watching a Nicolas Winding Refn film, you've got to anticipate when to keep your eyes open and when to keep 'em closed. Because if you don't, well, you'll see some poor sod getting his eyes gouged out at some point in the movie.

So, Only God Forgives kicks off with an English gangster, Billy (Tom Burke), whetting his fetish for violence and murder and brutally slaughtering an underage prostitute. And one cop, Lt. Chang, gets the wind of the crime and arrives at the crime scene. Now, Chang (played by Thai actor Vithaya Pansringarm) ain't your usual cop. He's sadistic and he has his own way of doing things. He's dangerous, he's eerie, he's The Angel Of Vengeance. He's earned that sobriquet, by the way. How, you come to know in his first scene. Calm, composed and resolved, he calls the father of the murdered girl and tells him to do whatever he wishes with Billy. He has a cup of tea while the livid father obviously butchers Billy to death - and I'm skimming over the hyperboles here - and then cuts off the father's hand in an act of morality. Whoo, that's way too much violence for the first thirty minutes.

Julian (Ryan Gosling) hears of it and lets the father go. Julian's a quieter version of his dead brother. Angry, silent, cold and calculating, he talks when he wants to talks and listens when he wants to listen. Yep, he's the Driver from Drive, a film in which Refn gave us a David vs Goliath in modern day Los Angeles. He's vying for something bigger here, something that hasn't been attempted before, unless, of course, by Quentin Tarantino.

So, Julian's a weird guy. He slams a whisky glass in the face of an innocent customer in a nightclub, breaks his thighbone and beats the crap out of him. Why? Because he's angry, he's misunderstood and he's fucking weird, that's why. He's obsessed with Chang, the God, and he can't do anything. Not against Chang anyway. His mother, Crystal (the excellent Kristin Scott Thomas), arrives to see her first son's body. She's incensed to find out that Julian's doesn't want to avenge his brother's death and even more so when she finds out that the guy who's actually behind it fearlessly walks the streets of Bangkok. She's a woman with a mission, a foul-mouthed, seething godmother who decides to take care of it. She ridicules her son, his girlfriend Mai (Rhatha Phongam), whose name she pronounces as May, calls her names, cum-Dumpster being one of them, and jeers at her son for being a wimp. She goes after the ruthless Chang, who wants a reason to keep the streets clean, but when it's in the hands of Crystal, it's personal.

Refn encompasses his movies with a certain mood that's evident throughout. Vivid, esoteric, nightmarish, Only God Forgives uses the dark well. Cinematographer Larry Smith, a Kubrick colleague, knows his way around the camera. Tastefully shot and visually striking, there's a lot of eye-candy here. Bangkok has never been as sinister nor as exciting. It's a living, breathing character, no less.

After my viewing of Only God Forgives, I tried to decipher the reason why people didn't accept it. Maybe because it was pretentious, trying to be an art film and trying to fashion violence like poetry, but that just didn't seem right. It's artsy, alright, but I can't classify it as as art film. It's high on the beautifully ethnic score by Cliff Martinez, a rousing winner, but no, still not an art film. Maybe it was because the whole idea was abstract, the dialogue idiosyncratic and the characters were, uh, characters.

Contrary to all notions you might have, I loved the movie. I found it to be an incredible experience, a little disturbing perhaps but fantastically crafted with an eye for style. It's not as good as Drive but it's still a damn good movie. I loved the brawl sequence with Martinez's Wanna Fight playing over, how it ended with yet another classy song You're My Dream, how diabolical the movie is and how engaging it ends up being. It's intensely fascinating, really.

Only God Forgives may not be the best movie of the year but it's certainly one of the ballsiest. Pure guts and skill make this an experience to be had, a movie that's so radically different from a filmmaker who wants to be unusual. It's utterly absurd and yet it makes a lot of sense. Watch it, sit through it and make your day.