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)

(Not For Reproduction)

Reminiscence: Martin Scorsese's "Mean Streets" and "Taxi Driver" : The Choice Puts Me In A Pickle.

In 1973, a year after Francis Ford Coppola changed the game for gangster movies by making Brando place the head of Khartoum on Jack Woltz's kingsize bed, Scorsese was gearing up for his would-be breakthrough film. Mean Streets was certainly iconic in its perusal of street crime and its attempts to mould a gangster movie with words and not guns. Scorsese knew crime, you see; he was brought up in Little Italy, a place in New York City where, as he disclosed in the making of the film, a whole bar would tussle over nothing at all. Maybe if you said something in jest or you didn't get a drink on time, tempers flared up and every single guy in the bar would brawl until one capitulated. He fashioned these observations into Mean Streets, which starred a young Harvey Keitel and an even younger Robert De Niro.

Harvey Keitel in Mean Streets.

I watched Mean Streets a couple of years ago when I was sixteen or maybe seventeen. It remained incised in my mind ever since because I couldn't believe a modernistic movie like that was made in a time when family films were walking away with the Oscars. 'Course, Mean Streets was spurned at the Oscars because it was too small a movie, too low-budgeted. I mean, you won't want a layman winning an Oscar, would you? Well, as they found out in the next four decades, Scorsese wasn't just another filmmaker. Anyway, I loved the movie. The coarsish script was talky, layered with dense jargon and the execution was masterful. That was pretty unexpected since I was under the daffy impression that we were dealing with a supposed amateur here. Keitel nailed his role, kept the urgency at the apex with his terse exchanges with De Niro and walked away with a coolheaded performance. Skookum!

But De Niro was the revelation here. He was. Even in his salad days, he could put together a textured performance that showed sparks of promise of a future luminary. His was a more controlled performance, a character that he was seemingly familiar with and he played him accordingly. In his four decades as an actor, I'd probably single this one out as the most neglected. Second comes the one in Ronin.

So, I was watching Taxi Driver the other day on television, a rare instance when the channel operators choose a movie sagaciously and another one of my most cherished movies, I wondered why was Mean Streets the movie with the shit end of the stick. Yes, Taxi Driver was a landmark film for obvious reasons, maybe the most audacious of all movies, but it came four years after the ravishing Mean Streets which ushered in the heavily eye-browed master filmmaker in the first place. Taxi Driver was a gorgeous piece of cinema, I won't dispute that, but it couldn't match Mean Streets in terms of style. Mean Streets was a ballad, an ode to the movies that young Scorsese saw as a boy. The soundtrack, a stockpile of old American classics, complemented the images smoothly. And it did what it did with such finesse that you're captivated from the moment it begins. 

Conversely, Taxi Driver was more of a character study. A demented man falters in his romantic life and he avenges this humiliation on the world that he sees as merciless. He meets loonies like him who fuel the rage inside him. And, in the end, it all comes forth. He goes bananas all over New York City. Scorsese isn't new to characters who work like a ticking bomb about to go off. He strayed in those waters later with Raging Bull, Cape Fear and even Goodfellas up to a certain point. But Taxi Driver was his most fearless coup, a 'man against the world' story that gave an insight into the mind of a wacko. In those times, movies like that were hard to come by. No wonder legendary film critic Roger Ebert instantly affirmed it as one of the greatest he had ever seen. Hell, here I am, all of twenty, four decades later and it's one of the best movies I've ever seen.

Robert De Niro in Taxi Driver.

But when it comes to judging between the two, I'm iffy. Sure, go on, point your stubby little finger at Taxi Driver and chide me for not seeing the obvious choice. But when I think about it, and I mean really think about it, I ask myself - what would Scorsese have done if he had got a healthier budget on Mean Streets? What would that movie have been like? Hey, to all you twits who doubt it, remember - Scorsese made Goodfellas on a bigger budget so I wouldn't necessarily maul the idea. He can work both ways, you know. He made After Hours on a scant one and The Departed two decades later on a pricey one.

So, I'm trying to gauge what I want to say. It's a known fact that Scorsese has made a landmark movie in every decade he has worked in, like Jack Nicholson who is the other bigwig of the honor. But a lot of folks believe that Taxi Driver should walk away with the glory. I'm going for Mean Streets. I treasure those films that can whip up a ravishing experience on modest production and Mean Streets fits the bill perfectly. It gave us a gangster movie with minimal violence and a lot of smarts. A generation later, on a better production, crime movies don't match the panache of it.

Mean Streets is as close as you'll ever come to knowing a gangster in New York City and still be aware that it's just a movie. That's genius, you know.

Review: Quentin Tarantino's "Reservoir Dogs" : These Dogs Bark More Than They Bite.

Back in 1992, before Pulp Fiction created the furor it created, Quentin was digging a crime movie, which is a given considering he's Quentin, about a bunch of guys who have divided views on tipping and Like A Virgin, the song by Madonna. And then, they're put through a diamond heist which goes horribly wrong, which leaves one of them with a lesion, one of them trying to save him, one of them doubting all the things that he can doubt and one of them cutting off the ear of a cop who happened to be a spectator.

Reservoir Dogs had acquired a cult status of the height independent filmmakers can only dream of acquiring. A talky film about a botched heist, we're being thrown into a whirlwind of details about the heist, the people involved and what happened. Here's the thing : we don't actually see it happening. So, we've got to take their word for it. What I don't get is how Quentin arranged the financing needed for this. Made at only a million and a half, the budget may look exiguous but this is a unique film that's an amalgam of an experiment and a commercial project. You may enjoy the incredibly funny discussion on tipping early on in the film, the crackling one-liners but the schizophrenic violence may pose as a problem for you folks. I mean, you really won't savor watching some poor sod's ear being chopped off using a straight razor while having your lunch, would you? Thought so.

So, the shocked men go apeshit after returning to their rendezvous point, an abandoned warehouse. Mr. Pink, the cocky one who doubts stuff, he's the one scared shitless. He's trying to figure out without any luck what just happened. Mr. White, the expert, is trying to save his friend, Mr. Orange, who's been shot in the belly. Mr. Orange's about to die, he's lost a lot of blood and he's losing more every minute. Mr. Pink's all over the place, he's getting on everyone's nerves. Both he and Mr. White degrade the suave Mr. Blonde, who landed them in the soup in the first place. Mr. Blonde was the one who started shooting people and nearly shot them both in an attempt to ward off the cops that were swarming the place.

The script, penned by Tarantino, takes its own time to build the characters and supervise the setup. There's a liberal amount of profanity the coarse jargon is laced with. That's not to say the dialogue is not amusing. Tarantino, the master of great dialogue, delivers a substantial amount of quotable quotes beside the witty one-liners. But he falters when he creates his characters, whom we're supposed to sympathize with, as unfeeling and austere. Which makes it difficult to invest in them, hence the story which runs purely on its characters. Steve Buscemi's Mr. Pink is one evolved character whom I enjoyed watching going nuts on-screen but I'm afraid I can't say the same about Harvey Keitel's or Michael Madsen's characters.

Michael Madsen's Mr. Blonde is a mirthless loony who shoots innocent civilians and captures a cop, Marvin Nash. Later on, before Joe and Eddie, the father-son bad guys who hired the Loony Toons, arrive, he proudly shows off his catch to Mr. Pink and Mr. White, who proceed to coax out some information to a pressing problem they might have : is there an undercover cop in the unit? Mr. Pink suspects there might be, Mr. White agrees and Mr. Blonde just wants to have fun. He's not as interested in finding out as he is in torturing the poor fiend. He cuts off the ear of Nash before being shot.

Here's where I stop with the plot because here's where it gets real interesting. We have a bunch of dorks trying to figure out what happened, trying to keep things cordial but are still suspicious of one another. They drool on each other, commiserate but they would not hesitate to pull the trigger if need be.

I liked Reservoir Dogs. I liked the dialogue, I liked the idea, I liked the ritzy approach. But, what I found really surprising was, I didn't love the movie. Yeah, if you ask me if I enjoyed it, I'd probably say yes. If you ask me if I'd want to watch it again, I'd probably say no. Two contrasting thoughts in essence but they make sense to me.

Look, I liked how it started off. The opening sequence establishes the characters with wonderful finesse, allowing us a glimpse into their thoughts, their way of things. I loved how it was structured, you know. Editor Sally Menke was arguably one of the finest, most influential film editors of her time. But it's harrowing when you find out at some point of time that the director isn't very sold to the idea of making the movie about its characters. He's got a plot he wants to work with. Some of the characters are unevolved, under-written but their thoughts aren't. When we want to know more about the character, we're being told of what he makes of the things that transpired. Sad, sad.

But I'll cut Tarantino some slack. Maybe it's because I'm sitting in my living room in 2013, watching it on television so I have no idea how it was like to sit in a theatre in 1992, watching the hoodlums go cuckoo on the big screen. Time blunts the impact, yeah.

Reservoir Dogs may be the greatest independent film of all-time, because it's a marvelous product to achieve from such a scant budget. But, in terms of storytelling, it promises a lot but not a lot of it sticks. Still, it can be worth your time if you enjoy a piece of cinema that's unique and ornate in its construction.

Review: Ritesh Batra's "The Lunchbox" salvages a bumbling industry.

Once in a while comes a movie that leaves you lost for words and impels you into thinking a great deal about where cinema can take you. And seldom do we give that sort of recognition to a Hindi movie. Until someone, and I'm talking about Batra here, changes the general conception of Hindi cinema and delivers a grand little film about life and its aggravations. I'm here to disclose - alright, jabber - about a little gem that made me want to hop into the screen, into the story with its characters and have a talk with them. Batra's The Lunchbox is not only the best Hindi film in about a decade or so but also one of the best romance-dramas in a while to make its way to the big screen.

We often see the city of Mumbai being delineated as an unostentatious character but rare is a movie that actually exploits that attribute. That's precisely where The Lunchbox grasped my attention. Batra works up a script with a minimalist plot to serve as our guide through the city's beguiling streets and creates characters that are so tangible that you'd mistake them for being actual people. There is one dotard, Saajan Fernandes, who is retiring from his job of thirty-five years next month. Fernandes is a frigid recluse who likes to do things his way. He lives alone, his wife's been dead for a long time and the neighborhood kids aren't taking a liking to him. Not that he minds that one bit. He's been living the same life for a long time, it seems, since his daily schedule doesn't change much. Always the same train, always the same seat and always the one cigarette he allows himself after he gets back home from work.

Ila is a glum housewife who isn't enjoying her life either. A mother of a young daughter, she finds solace in cooking new dishes to send to her husband, who is at work, for lunch. She has devised a sagacious way of communication with her elder neighbor, who lives upstairs and with whom she exchanges recipes and stories.

Aslam Shaikh is an ebullient and talkative young trainee who is up for Fernandes' job when he retires. Shaikh wants Fernandes to train him, build him into a workhorse, but Fernandes is reluctant, unrelenting.

One day, Ila decides to try out a new recipe. She whips up a palatable meal for her spouse but the tiffin ends up on the desk of Fernandes. The dabbawallahs - tiffin carriers - of Mumbai are infamous for never getting a delivery wrong. This a story of what happens when they do. Fernandes is dumbfounded to find his lunch so tasty. Ila is stunned to find the tiffin empty. Both realize something is amiss. On the insistence of her neighbor, Ila decides to write a letter to Fernandes and thank him for doing justice to her dishes. Fernandes replies, a cold, bruising letter, but Ila writes back. A strange bond develops between them when they talk about their personal lives and what are their views on anything that fancies them. They advise each other, sympathize with each other and occasionally share a joke or two. It's an escapade neither of them wants to give up. Until the time they decide to meet up.

The Lunchbox is a rare piece of cinema that revels in the most inimitable detailing. Crafted with great elegance and dexterity, Batra creates a movie that at once disarms us with its honesty and then amazes us with its simplicity. The characters don't indulge in anything out of the ordinary, like we'd expect them to, and instead scour their routines to find something that'd delight them. Like in a scene where Fernandes buys a street-side painting because he's fascinated by the work put in by its artist. Or when he learns and marvels at how carefully Shaikh cuts his vegetables and with great skill. These are little things, you see, little things that make someone's day. We aren't following the lives of some influential people. These characters are like us, they are us. They're thrifty. They do what we do, say what we say. It's a careful perusal of the city and the people that live here. It's also a vey affectionate obeisance to them and to the dabbawallahs, who are integral to the film.

My favorite sequence of the movie was the talk after Shaikh's wedding. Shaikh and Fernandes have a conversation and Shaikh cheekily confesses to have travelled without a ticket the first time they travelled together. He fears what Fernandes may think of him. He doesn't want to lie anymore to the one person who he is comfortable being with. The scene is rather mellow but it's written, directed and performed adeptly. Phenomenal!

Irrfan Khan, who plays Fernandes, is on some sort of a mission here. He's flawless. I can't describe his performance any better. I'm trying to find a word to describe just how brilliant his performance really is but my vocabulary shames me. It's his personal best. Fernandes is someone whom we've known all our lives, someone who happens to be in every train, every bus we travel in. Khan does a remarkable job of playing him that way. In one scene, after he's pleased with his day's work, he writes to Ila saying that he treated himself to a taxi ride home. I chuckled at that small moment when a small sentence said something really profound. And, at that moment, I realized that I often do the same thing and so do most of the people in the city. That's his triumph, you see. He succeeds and how!

Nawazuddin Siddiqui is incredible as Shaikh. Shaikh often doubles up as a comic relief but Siddiqui manages to be charming and immensely genial with his antics. He has plenty of room for extemporization and he manages to make Shaikh as warm as the romance between Fernandes and Ila. You won't believe it's the same guy who played a murderous druggie in the Gangs Of Wasseypur saga.

Nimrat Kaur makes her debut with this film but it seems like we've known her for a long time. Ila's conflicted and undervalued. She's a bungled distraction for her husband. Kaur manages to give an enchanting performance that never lets up. Like her exchanges with her brash neighbor, her performance is often insightful and always delightful.

The Lunchbox should've been sent to the Oscars as India's official entry for the Best Foreign-Language Film award but it couldn't make it. Which is a shame, because it would've been the best chance any Indian film ever had in the span of five decades. Still, it is the best Hindi film in a long, long time and it would be felonious to spurn it.

If you haven't already watched this small masterwork of a debutant, please do so. And if you do go for it, I'd advise you to go on an empty stomach. Because The Lunchbox glorifies the hot tiffin and the women who make it, and it's impossible that you'd walk out of it unsmiling. Dig into this nummy concoction.

Bon appetit!

Essay: The "Before" Trilogy : Is it under-appreciated?

I'm not a big sucker for romantic movies, especially if they involve a lot of drama. Comedy? Fine, I'll sit through it without grumbling even if the jokes don't get to me. You know why? Because my perception of romantic movies has been bludgeoned over the years. I've noticed that movies often delight me boundlessly by their observations, not by their creations. And what do you get to see in a romantic movie? What? You get a boy and a girl, you get forbidden love and you get a happy ending. And, if the director's got enough balls, he opts for a tragic denouement. That's the hackneyed romance that makers often dye and coat and puff right in your eyes. Smug, ain't it?

One day, I got wind of this movie called Before Sunrise, which was what you'd usually call a movie with a minimalist plot. I could probably describe the story to you in a line but what the movie really was can't be. I checked out the trailer, a really promising one, and I decided to grab a seat and watch it. To be honest, I hadn't even heard of Richard Linklater back then though I really dug up his works after I saw Before Sunrise.

Before Sunrise was the ancient yarn of a boy who meets a girl. On a train. Going to Vienna. He's American. She's French. They talk. That's the story.

This probably sounds dumb in your head, doesn't it? And yet, here I am, talking about it like its hot canard. Yeah, go ahead, call me a loony, but the magic of Before Sunrise does not lie in what you see but it lies in what you hear. Richard Linklater, like some dark wizard that he is, takes an absurdly simple story, twists and turns it into a living, breathing firecracker of a film that's at once fluffy and honest. Before Sunrise isn't all fluff, no sir, but it's a movie that braves to put forward some thoughts that you'd rather not think aloud, especially not in front of others, but Jesse and Celine speak them aloud for us. They're still kids but they are kids who understand what life is, what feelings are. They know it, they have experienced it, they are experiencing it. And we follow them during the time their thoughts animate on-screen as they stroll on the beautiful streets of Vienna, which doubles up as a comfort character. Never since Roman Polanski's masterful Chinatown has a movie had me gaping for every word of the conversations. They sound extemporized, like Linklater thought it'd be cool to throw in a boy and a girl in Vienna and film what they talk about. They go places, yeah, they meet people and they see some of the city. They're divided in their opinions, honest in their answers and casual in their behavior. There's romantic tension between them and it's handled sensitively. It's found gold this, because I haven't seen a romance movie quite like it.

Until I saw its sequel Before Sunset.

Thank God for small mercies, I got a chance to watch Before Sunset right after I completed Before Sunrise. Because I pity those poor sods who had to wait nine whole, long, agonizing years to hear them talk again. Jesse and Celine grew on me, their thoughts arrested my fascination like no other characters' ever have. I met them again, this time in Paris. Yeah, life went on for them but their notions hadn't matured yet. That part is still ripe, much to my delight. It was like meeting old friends you hadn't met in a long time and now you can't wait to hear their side of what went on for them after their last meting with you. Jesse was now a successful writer doing a book-tour. His first book was about a girl he had met whilst on a train and the one night he spent with her in Vienna. And the girl finds him in Paris nine years later. He's married, she's not. He's tranquil, she's not. They're still kids in their own way, like in a scene where Celine jokingly shows him the finger when he contradicts her conception on a subject. He has eighty minutes till a flight out of there. She invites him for a coffee, he agrees. All good, all excited. But seriously, we get eighty fucking minutes? If you have seen Before Sunrise, you'd know that eighty minutes is scant. Way too scant.

Ah, but it's still eighty minutes of pure bliss! Linklater outdoes himself yet again, creating a romance like no other. One may argue that Before Sunset is no romance. True, it's not, it's more like a rendezvous in Paris. Attraction is mostly absent this time around, sadly, though I had not expected one. One again we're an audience to a witty, allusive and strikingly intelligent talk about life and other things. Eighty minutes later, Jesse and Celine are a tease. Linklater joshes us by fading out at the precise moment when things get critical. The anguish, the fucking anguish!

Fortunately for me, nine years later, they're going to meet again. Some have already met them halfway across the globe but I haven't. Before Midnight is going to be the final chapter in the trilogy. It's an accomplished piece of work, no less, squashed from a one-line idea. It's takes a special talent to make three engaging, astute movies having the same characters talking more or less about the same things but being perky and waggish every single time you bump into them. If we're lucky - and I really hope we are - Linklater will find time to make a small movie on them again. Maybe how they spend a Sunday?

One of the many things that unexpectedly pops up in my mind when I talk about the Before trilogy is - why hasn't it been nominated for an Academy Award yet? I mean, yeah, it has, but nominating Before Sunset for the Academy Award For Best Adapted Screenplay is more like a given, you know, a certainty. Why has it been shivved for Best Picture or Best Director? It's good enough for either one, don't you think? I may be barking because I'm a major fan of the trilogy but when I change perspectives, trade my place for a regular movie-going guy, I don't contradict myself. It deserves appreciation, more than just a single nomination. Now, I don't mean to be biased but when I look at the biggest trilogy of all-time, Peter Jackson's Lord Of The Rings, I find that Linklater's Before deserves a place right beside it. It may not be a trilogy of a similar scale and grandiose but it does achieve what it sets out to, like Jackson's. It delivers to us an utterly magnificent piece of cinema that engages us and derides our courage, our imagination. And that's something very hard to come by.

I do hope that Before Midnight will be that film which breaks the malediction. If it does, I wouldn't say that one part of the trilogy has won. I'd say it won the Oscar that it wholly deserved for eighteen years.



 

Essay: Howard Beale's Premonition Has Come True. Beware!

One of the most striking images from the movies of the '70s is that of Howard Beale going nuts in front of sixty million viewers.

So, yeah, I'm talking about Network. That beautiful, beautiful film Sidney Lumet crafted way back in 1976 from a deliciously candid script by Paddy Chayefsky that did most of the talking and using a bunch of actors that defined what acting was all about. Yes, that film. Now those of you who remember Network know which scene I'm wanting to talk about. One of the greatest scenes in the history of cinema, made sublime by a brilliant actor and a peerless screenwriter. And when Beale mouths off the magical words from the pen of Chayefsky, what revels is a sequence, a premonition really, that confounds us with its reasoning and its veracity.

Ironic though it is, it was also the first scene of the movie I had seen. I was skipping through the channels on television and I saw this great-looking movie on one of them. And before I could even find out the name of the film, Peter Finch howled why he was mad as hell. And it left me lost for words, because the writing was so powerful, yet so simple. Chayefsky's vocabulary was a marvel, as is evident from the number of quotable quotes the film contains.

No, I'm not here to elucidate Beale's breakdown. What I'm trying to do is comprehend the consequences the speech had on me as I look out of the window and see what Beale meant. We're living in a world that doesn't care about anything, that doesn't want to make this a better place. I often think : what must have Chayefsky thought when he created Howard Beale? Was Beale a gawk? Or was he always as deranged as we see in the movie? In one scene later on in the film, a newscaster labels Beale as a mad prophet. Well, one thing's for sure - the mad prophet says the most insightful things one could think of.

There's a lot to Network other than Peter Finch who plays Beale. But, you know, as an adherent of the movie, I always look forward to his scenes. There's a wonderful speech by Beale later on in the movie, and it's such a kick to see him ravage and rant. It's a fearless performance, one of the best and one of the most significant ones in history. He says he ran out of bullshit on live-television when he's fired from his job, a line's that as funny as it is true.

Over the years, people have bitched about the film being too self-assertive, too aware of its ambitions but its Finch who gives Network its pneuma. Funny how the great Sidney Lumet makes a synecdoche count in his movies. Beale is the soul of Network, Sonny Wortzik was Dog Day Afternoon's.

What stayed with me after my first viewing was the last line of the movie, the line which brought Chayefsky his Oscar and my favorite line from the movie, after Beale is shot dead on live-television  - 'This was the story of Howard Beale, the first known instance of a man who was killed because he had lousy ratings.' Is this what we'll eventually become? It's creepy to even think that we're heading in that direction. And that, my friends, is Chayefsky and Beale's victory, then and there.

Reminiscence: William Friedkin's "The Exorcist" : It Still Delivers The Creeps.

I saw it forty years after it first released. And it's still the scariest movie I've ever seen.

That's the magic of The Exorcist. It never fails to deliver the goods. Never, ever. Even if you watch it for the third or the thirtieth time, it's still spooky. And it's not a lame excuse for an exercise in laughable scares which most horror movies are striving on, as of now.

Now, while I was snooping around for a little titbit on the movie, I came across a few interesting facts. For one, I was intrigued on knowing the theaters in America provided barf bags for any nutjob who dared to watch it in the theater. Really, how many theaters care for you that much? And for a film that shamelessly fucked with my sleep for two days straight, I was gratified to know that the crew didn't have an easy time making it. There were a number of weird incidents while filming, and a priest was called a few times to bless the set. Hey, I'm not saying that that didn't spook me further. Believe me or not, it scared the bejesus of out me more than the possessed girl did.

I know Friedkin because he made The French Connection, a movie I'm ready to watch ten times incessantly, but to see him turn a jeepers-creepers script into a compelling psychological-horror movie was meritorious. The Exorcist isn't your regular horror film. In fact, it's not a horror film at all. There are no ghosts. And a horror movie is not a horror movie if it doesn't have a ghost, right? I don't believe that, no. But that's something I learnt from the fans of the genre, which I'm not, so I'll take their word for it. And I admit, I'm not a big sucker for horror movies. The only other horror movies I've watched and liked are The Omen, for its absurdity, and The Silence Of The Lambs, for its sheer power. The Exorcist is different, it's a strange amalgam of both, you know. It's an absurd piece of cinema but ridiculously powerful in its own way. And it's made with spectacular skill and finesse.

So, what have you got? You've got a possessed girl, a demonic spirit in her and refusing to budge, she's got an atheist for a mother, a disturbed priest who has recently lost his mother and you've got winning special effects. That's The Exorcist in a nutshell. I watched it in a darkened room to encourage the impact but I needn't have bothered. It's like a pizza, you see, in an eldritch way - no matter what's in it, it'll still be delicious and you'll still end up enjoying it.

Of course, The Exorcist, being a Hollywood baby at the time, inspired a few sequels. And it was a stupid, stupid decision to tamper with a masterpiece. Some dumb sod must've thought, "Let's milk the plot more and earn some money while we're at it!". Now, for the record, I haven't seen The Exorcist II or The Exorcist III simply because I haven't dared to. Anyway, the legend goes that the first part was jinxed in more than one way.

Linda Blair, twelve years-old at the time of its release, is incredible in the role of the possessed Regan. I mention her because I did not expect a juvenile to pull off what she has pulled off. It's a brave performance, an honest performance and one that feeds The Exorcist till its end. Take Blair out of it and it's just a movie with some people and a bunch of old film tricks.

The Exorcist is a different kind of horror movie, minus the screams and loud bangs, but it's got enough guts and creeps to give you the chills for a long time after. It's a beautifully-made classic, a rarity in its genre.

Pleasant nightmares!