Review: Sriram Raghavan’s “Andhadhun” is the best Hindi film of the year.

[Might contain spoilers, many of them.]

Sriram Raghavan’s obsession with tributes would make a good drinking game someday. His films are littered with them; he reads James Hadley Chase, Raymond Chandler, and Cornell Woolrich; he watches John-Pierre Melville, Alfred Hitchcock, and Vijay Anand. Every master gets a hat-tip, a reference. Johnny Gaddaar, his spectacular thriller from 2007, seemed to have sprung out of the pages of a great Hadley Chase novel. In Andhadhun, these inspirations coalesce to form something that’s utterly new and compelling. There’s a murder at the heart of it, as is usually the case, but the film isn’t about the murder, or who committed it; rather, it’s about the paranoia it triggers, and how it eventually forces those involved in it to get in touch with their rotten side, right or wrong be damned. It’s about people eager to silence each other, but even more eager to listen to each other if it involves a get-rich-quick scheme. And it asks, above all, a rather interesting question: What are you prepared to do to save yourself?

Indeed, good thrillers often hinge on a surprise or two, while great ones decide against it. Great thrillers, I find, are never about their bag of surprises. They are always about their characters. Raghavan excels at writing both. In a staggering scene in Johnny Gaddaar, a young man picks up a gun and pumps bullets into his unsuspecting boss quite suddenly, killing him. This isn’t played merely for shock value; there’s logic dictating his actions. He’s been pushed into a corner. He’s scared and helpless. It’s his only way out. But, would he pick up the gun lying in front of him and kill his unarmed master? Would he dare? He does. And when he does, it makes us gasp. It’s likely the most revealing detail about this character, something that rather skillfully influences not just our view of him but also what we can eventually expect of the film.

In Andhadhun, a young pianist pretending to be blind is a silent, almost idiotic witness to a murder. We don’t see the actual murder; we see a body and a pool of blood next to it. Two people – one of whom is the victim’s wife, the other her lover – dispose of it as he plays a somber tune, pretending to not have seen any of it. (This is, in a way, reminiscent of Chaplin’s dark comedies, particularly Monsieur Verdoux; a tribute, maybe?) When she lamely tries to cover it up, he goes along with it. The sequence plays for about seven minutes, seven glorious minutes, and it tells us all we need to know about the two central characters. Both sides are lying to each other: he about his blindness, she about being innocent. But little things also tell us about who they are when the masks they wear slip off. He’s smart enough to play dumb. She weeps silently when the body is finally taken care of. A lot of things are hinted at, and some are left unsaid. Neither of them knows what the other’s intentions are. It’s an amusing conundrum. He knows for sure she’s lying. But what does he do with the truth? She suspects he's lying. But what does she do about it?

Like in his previous thrillers, Raghavan puts his characters in precarious situations, adds a layer of intrigue, and then invites us to watch what happens. In Andhadhun, exuberantly written and performed sequences lead us down a cold and damp rabbit hole. The pacing is relentless; we have barely finished relishing one sequence, one marvelous surprise, when the film moves on to a better one. Sample for a bit that terrific sequence featuring a sly police officer arriving at the protagonist’s house and nosing about, waiting for his mask to slip off. The timing of this sequence is especially interesting: it comes right after two dramatic reveals which we are still trying to wrap our heads around. It’s pure cinema, and Raghavan orchestrates the hell out of it. But the same question prods us again: If the mask does slip off, what would happen? We know what the characters are capable of, but they never react in the way we expect them to. It’s the excitement of finding out that fuels the experience of watching this film, of knowing that, in one way or another, it’ll find a way to surprise us. It’s a tightrope walk for any filmmaker, and Raghavan more than rises up to the challenge.

In the second half, however, the film’s momentum does dip. The film, as we know it, is taken from the hands of these wonderfully mad characters and placed into the hands of those we barely know. It’s a risky move, not to mention how puzzling it is, the consequences of which could very well prove disastrous. For one, a substantial amount of screen time would have to be dedicated to develop this new bunch of characters and arrive at an acceptable answer to why we should be watching them instead. (This also explains the strange void at the beginning of the second half. But it mercifully doesn't last long.) Imagination is still very much at the forefront of things, but less patient viewers may disagree. Speaking for myself, I can’t say I was too happy with this change, but I was intrigued nonetheless.

What distinguishes Sriram Raghavan’s films from other Hindi (or even Indian) thrillers is his idea of what constitutes a great thriller. His thrillers seldom revolve around the ‘who’ or the ‘why’. We know why his characters do what they do, and so we aren’t really sure what to expect when things don’t go according to plan. In Andhadhun, we know who committed the murder and why they did it. He also lets us know who might go next. It’s out in the open. And yet Andhadhun manages to catch us off guard frequently, without making a big deal of it. He never draws our attention to how clever he has been nor seems eager to shock. His plots evolve organically, his character arcs develop beautifully, and his twists are deftly done. It’s consistently intelligent filmmaking.

It is not customary for an Indian thriller to place a red herring near the end. I find that in most Indian thrillers the last few minutes before the end credits roll are devoted to connecting the dots, sometimes several times over. Flashbacks are usually employed to do the job of achieving complete coherence, or something close to it. It’s a lazy, lazy move. Andhadhun subverts this cunningly; yet another example of how well the makers have structured it and how satisfying the experience is as a result. I have seen it twice and I saw two different films: the first with an ending that was agreeable, and the second with one that was astonishing. It really depends on how we see it.

Andhadhun might be the finest Hindi film to be released this year. It might just be the year’s funniest as well, and definitely the year’s most irreverent. With an ingenious plot, insightful bits of detail that are woven into the proceedings most scrupulously, and a clump of excellent performances, Raghavan has cemented his reputation of being Hindi cinema’s thriller pundit. I just wish this means he gets to script every movie death henceforth.

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Review: Meghna Gulzar’s “Raazi” is an accomplished drama but a middling thriller.

[Might contain spoilers.]

Meghna Gulzar’s Raazi, an adapatation of Harinder S Sikka's novel Calling Sehmat, contains a lot of flashbacks. In fact, the entire story it tells is told through a flashback. And there are different, smaller kinds. The plot traverses over significant little details, and later, just as one detail is about to propel the story forward, we get a sort of visual nudge: Do we remember this? If not, the film has us covered. We see it again, an unwelcome assistant to help us connect the dots. Then there’s a more annoying type, a device Hindi cinema uses so often so carelessly. I like to call it the ‘So This Happened’ flashback. The story is about to arrive at a conclusion, but are the makers really interested in keeping things so predictable? Before the climax that promises a dramatic jolt or two, the story dissolves into an abrupt flashback, marring the narrative flow, where a different set of events are introduced, thereby altering how the climax will play out. Suddenly, we are watching a different movie, a different story, a different set of characters. Is such a sacrifice really necessary simply to inject a little more dramatic momentum in the proceedings?

Thankfully, none of the flashbacks in Raazi alter the story in such a way. Yet, their very presence is a major distraction. In Gulzar’s previous film, Talvar, a terrific police-procedural that took a sensational case of double-murder and explored three possible sets of events that could have culminated in them, the flashback was used rather effectively. What we got was a complex but lucidly told thriller that did not resort to visual nudges, and one that struck loyally to the path it had chosen for itself. In Raazi, the frequency at which – and also the reason why – the flashback is used prods us to ask: Does it serve the narrative as it should?

As a sucker for espionage thrillers, I find nothing to be of greater pleasure than soaking in the details. Something that I find enjoyable about them is the complexity of its story and characters; I like to remember the little things, then marvel when they are referenced later. This persuades me that I am in good hands. And this little part is a test of how good of a reader I am as much as it is of the writer whose hands I am in. Am I able to remember the crucial details? Are they able to write it with the right amount of finesse?

The problem with Raazi is – and this might be its most important – that does not do a good job of convincing us that, as its audience, it trusts us. The narrative isn’t complex enough; it is simply too clear. It’s unwilling to go to a place where it might risk alienating us, which is only a way of saying that it seldom takes any risks, big or small. Everything is accessible. We know what each character is thinking at any given point. If we don’t, the characters helpfully apprise us of it. And this, unfortunately, results in the storytelling coming off as a little too simplistic. The proper precautions were taken, but where should the line have been drawn?

That said, there is no shortage of skill in Raazi. It explores a subject that Indian filmmakers often tend to ignore, or feel uncompelled to explore to its fullest potential: The emotional toll of betrayal. With patriotism being the chief selling point of recent Hindi espionage thrillers, it is Gulzar’s creative decision to put people before country that makes Raazi a splendid drama, if not as good a thriller. There is talk of loyalty to one’s country, but when Sehmat, our protagonist, triggers a series of events that push her against a hard wall, we don’t see her as a patriot; instead, we get a young woman who has been put in extraordinary circumstances, circumstances beyond her control or understanding. And when she breaks down, we still see her as that woman. Gulzar and co-screenwriter Bhavani Iyer’s thoughtful interpretation of Sehmat makes Raazi a rich drama, one that is romantic and handsome and sly and emotional, but can also turn icy when it wants to.

What also works in favour of the film is Gulzar’s eye for detail. I was especially smitten with the lovely little touches that are hard to catch but add so much to the characters. When Sehmat marries, her husband pulls a screen to separate their beds every night till she is comfortable being alone with him. It’s a gesture to show how much he cares for her. And this is never drawn attention to. He understands that she, being a new bride, would need privacy, that this would be the only place where she might find it. It’s been a while since affection has been this understated in Hindi cinema. There are no song-and-dance sequences nor are there overly dramatic declarations. Gulzar presses her actors to emote through their eyes, through little gestures, and it just about works. There is no attempt at turning the film into a romantic drama, but it makes us invest in Sehmat’s dilemma just a bit more in the film’s climax.

Raazi has a lot in common with Alfred Hitchcock’s masterful Notorious, in which a woman becomes a spy at the behest of a government agent and is asked to infiltrate a group of Nazis, one of whom she marries. One of Notorious’ key strengths, other than the fact that it stars the gorgeous Ingrid Bergman, is that at no point in that film did I feel that the casualties of the protagonist’s actions would be limited to people alone. Innocence and, indeed, love are always the first casualties of betrayal. Raazi could have accomplished something close to that. It’s unfortunate that it ends up settling for something less.

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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: Meghna Gulzar's "Talvar" is one of the best Hindi films of the year.

There are several things Avirook Sen's chilling non-fiction book on the Noida double-murder case, Aarushi, did right, but three it did splendidly. One, it managed to commendably reconstruct the events that led to the murder and provide a shade of clarity in a case muddled with "facts," genuine and manipulated Two, it served as an expose of the Indian media's ballooning appetite for sensationalism. And three, it slowly but with a great surge of anger revealed how a botched-up investigation has led to a possible miscarriage of justice.

While flipping through the provocative, extensive and superbly written piece a month ago, I found myself getting more and more engrossed in the web of the details of the horrific crime. I visualized how the house looks, pieced together the minute bits of the puzzle and read into the records of the people on the case until I had a good idea of who, what and when. And the first thing I felt while watching Talvar was not shock nor disgust; it was a strong sense of deja vu.

For those who haven't read the book, Meghna Gulzar's Talvar will be riveting to the hilt; it's a cold docudrama of the crime and its aftermath that gets so much right factually (here, I need to point out that I'm assuming Sen's book is the most factually accurate account of the crime) that one can't help but marvel at the research put into it. But for those who have read the book, it is a satisfying trip to see on-screen that tiny film that played in our heads as we read the book.

Talvar digs its claws into the pulp of facts right away. Faithfully reconstructing the events that led to the discovery of the body of the murdered girl, we see the cops nonchalantly stroll into the crime scene, monotonously burning through their usual questions as the grieving parents come to grips with what has just happened. The following day, a second body is discovered. In between the simple formalities, a vital piece of evidence that could have led to the identity of the murderer is turned a blind eye to by a paan-chewing officer who couldn't care less. It is this terrifying illusion of living in a lawless land Talvar introduces us to that makes it so effective a thriller.

The story, or the many versions of it, unfolds in three different scenarios where three motives are discussed. Akira Kurosawa's classic Rashomon used this strategy to unforgettable effect to unveil how humans readily put the truth at stake to save their dignity. While Talvar is not as neutral as it would like to have been, one must hand it to Vishal Bharawaj who recognized the parallels between that and the real-life outcome of the Noida double murder case, using it to chew over every possible motive but weaving it into the script in such a way that it doesn't hamper the narrative flow. And like Rashomon, it deals with how the truth is willingly put in peril for something as petty as self-importance. Or maybe, as Talvar reminds us, it is not so petty.

Vishal Bharadwaj's tremendous script allows room for little outside of hard facts. It takes stabs at the media's tendency to sensationalize details before they are clarified, how evidence is extracted from a contaminated crime without anyone batting an eyelid and how truth is fashioned from it. But with Bharadwaj, we know it's not going to be as simple as I make it sound. A splash of dark humor, typically sharp dialogue and detailing that helps shape the characters and a nod -- always that nod! -- to his influences (loved the occasional references to Ijaazat; that's where he got the title from for Kaminey, too, I feel) makes it an unmistakable Bharadwaj vehicle.

There's no doubt that this, along with Shoojit Sircar's Piku, is the best-acted Hindi film of the year. A few unnecessary sequences aside, this is top-notch stuff that, unlike other Hindi films based on true events, does not lapse into preachiness and sentimentality. And somewhere near the end, a lethally funny scene dares us to laugh as the morbid details of the crime are discussed and dismissed. We do laugh because it amuses us how an investigation has been fouled up. But what are we laughing at, really? Two people have been incarcerated for life for a crime they might have not committed. We haven't heard about the three other suspects in a long time. It is hardly worth chuckling about.


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Review: Joel Edgerton's "The Gift" offers satisfying drama but is strangely unmemorable.

There is something uneasy about The Gift. Right from the moment it begins, there is a cautionary touch to it, urging us to keep our eyes glued to the characters while it milks the stock scares of its genre. And this unease doesn't let go till the movie is done.

When you are watching a suspenseful film wherein you realize after a while that the director is and has always been miles ahead of you, you know you shouldn't trust what you see or hear. But the only way to truly relish the rest of it is to let it hoodwink you. And so, just for the sake of mere amusement, you let it unfold without luxuriating in guesswork. Personally, when I discover that the film I'm watching has matured into a full-blown mystery, where how much I end up enjoying it hinges on the last twist, I give up trying to one-up the director. But there are people who absolutely cannot accept defeat in this case. I suppose those are the ones who would really delve into the wicked fun that The Gift offers.

In the first few scenes, we get the impression that this is just another addition to the "stalker harasses a happy couple" type of films that brags of some genuine spookfests like Fatal Attraction and Cape Fear, but this is just a brilliant trick to throw us off. Yes, we get a happy couple whose lives are thrown into a tizzy by a seemingly friendly but obsessive stalker intent on invading their private lives for emotional attachment. Yes, we get the usual restless moments when he shows up unannounced, the usual tense details where something goes missing or incongruous sounds are heard. Dead one thing, displaced another thing, paranoid expressions and impassive glares. You name it. There is nothing that isn't squeezed for thrills; cheap, indeed, but effectual. And two proper jump scares thrown into the mix liven things up. In the first half, The Gift manages to stay loyal to the trappings of its genre. Joel Edgerton, who writes, directs and acts in this one, gives us a clear-cut picture of who the bad guy is and who the good guys are. What he doesn't do, however, is shed light on the intentions of his baddie. But why?

Every act of misdeed has a reason behind it. And in incompetent films involving stalkers as the primary villains, this reason is usually attributed to "well, those were wackos so they are capable of anything." Great films sketch backgrounds for them. This character sketch eventually becomes the difference between a hollow thriller and an intelligent one.

Thankfully, The Gift falls into the latter category. When I was expecting the story to burst into violence at any moment, I was treated to nervous chuckles. When the film veered dangerously close to becoming a savage drama involving a man with a disfigured childhood, Edgerton pulled the rug from under my feet and handled it with casual restraint. It's baffling to experience something as erratic as this, but it is satisfying, also.

The second-half keeps blowing off the steam the film gathered in the first gradually, allowing its dramatic ambitions to seep in what was until that moment a mean psychological thriller. Past revelations are made known and characters suddenly have backgrounds, uncommon for what we thought was just another cleverly done low-budget thriller. This disparity between the tones of the two halves is what makes The Gift is a great visceral experience. It forces you to put yourself in the shoes of the characters and question yourself.

Unfortunately, the film also manages to become insipid in a few places. The supporting cast doesn't have much to do except stress on the urgency of the increasingly volatile behavior of the baddie.

The final revelation, although dramatic, packs enough punch to make the film a satisfyingly sullen escapade. Edgerton's direction is sharp, constantly surprising us by reconstructing our impressions of the characters. Because a lot of elements work in tandem in his favor, The Gift manages to elevate itself above other thrillers in the same genre.


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Review : In Hany Abu-Assad's masterwork "Omar", sycophantic sniping takes a whole new meaning.

When was the last time a film started and ended with the livid sound of a gunshot? This one does. And the incongruity of this is that the guy who gets fired upon in the sunny beginning is the one who fires the one at the gloomy end. The ones who fire upon him first get fired upon ultimately, and I don't preach. See the analogy? Yeah, 'course you do. The reason I mention this nimble analogy is because this is where Omar eventually arrives. No, this is not the usual point A to point B film, but the plot goes places before it finally arrives at its stunning finale. All of this while leaving you breathless in its wake.

Oh, euphoria has never been more addictive.

Palestinian filmmaker Hany Abu-Assad weaves a rattling, intricate and often deeply rooted story of friendship, love, loyalty and betrayal in the deafening sound of artillery. Omar, straight up, no sugar, is one of the best films of last year, a film that has a handful of ulterior ideas that are delicately divulged to keep you on your toes. And I like movies that do not let me settle in. There's always something happening, every moment is crucial to be watched and no time is permitted for you to mull over what's going on. Omar makes you its slave, dances you like a puppet on the snap of its fingers and you have to friggin' dance. Hey, I was gleefully doing it.

For someone like me, whose weekly griping about the lack of intelligent thrillers agitates a lot of people, Omar is a godsend. Look, I know squat about the Palestinian conflict, and what I do know is what I read in the newspapers, and yet I still managed to figure out the good guys and the bad guys, at least in this movie. And Abu-Assad serves up a patriot act that I'll not forget anytime soon.

It's not a film where you have to take sides, no. Which means that it's not an overtly patriotic film, though Abu-Assad doesn't let a moment pass without making his unsung patriotism and the plight of the Palestinians crystal clear. But it's a film about what happens when you do takes sides in a conflict. It's a different thing.

Among many other things, Omar reflects the madness and beauty of pubescence. A young freedom-fighter, Omar, scales the spray-painted separation wall to get to the other side and meet his girlfriend, Nadja, the sister of his childhood friend, Tarek, an agitator, and their friend, the idler, Amjad. After receiving revolutionary training in guns, the trio take it upon themselves to kill an Israeli soldier out of animosity. The gunning down of the soldier in cold-blood is promptly acted upon, and they're picked up, savagely tortured and kept in isolation. The usually quiet Omar is tricked into confessing, and given a choice : give them Tarek to incriminate, and he can walk away, clean. It's like Sophie's choice, to give up his childhood friend or be implicated for the gunshot he did not fire.

The minute Omar begins living two lives, you begin seeing things with a little clarity. For eons, we were shown repeatedly that solicitude can soften even the hardest of hearts, but not here, not this time. This is not a world where solicitude works, this is the real world. Omar doesn't beg or plead, he stands silently as he's given instructions, threatened and instructed. He doesn't even retaliate. He doesn't do what you think he'd do, doesn't say what you think he'd say.

This is a good thing, you know. Unpredictability is often a film-director's biggest strength. It's only that Abu-Assad makes a show of it.

More than once, Omar threatens to lapse into needless melodrama, but thankfully stays put. It even has a love-triangle to give it a bit of an emotional whirl, and it's handle gently, like a side-story should be. The tautness of the script is never imperiled. Damn, now I think of it, a lot about this film is rare in terms of quality.

So, yeah. If you want a film to compliment your intelligence and shame your imagination, Omar is your ticket to fantasy-land. You go and watch it, while I dig up this Abu-Assad guy's works.

Review: Paul Greengrass' "Captain Phillips" is a marvelous film.

I became a fan of Paul Greengrass in the spring of '09 when I watched his harrowing depiction of the last hours of Airlines Flight United 93, one of the flights hijacked in the 9/11 terrorist plot, which crashed near Shanksville, Pennsylvania when the passengers stirred up a surprising rebellion in the airborne flight. I had sworn a secret oath to myself back then that I'll watch every single movie Greengrass ever makes, because it had rocked my world and given me the creeps that had me staying up all night. For days and days, I was scared stiff by the sounds of screaming and images of hands reaching for the yoke. I went on to rank United 93 as my favorite film of the '00's.

The funny thing is, the movie was good until the last thirty minutes kicked in. And then, I was made to chew my own words that had initially doubted its prowess. I wrote a small treatise on the film, as a tribute, you know, and I'll add an extract from it. To quote myself :

"To tell you the truth, for most of its runtime I thought United 93 was spellbinding but not good enough to be ranked as one of the decade's finest, you know. That was until I saw the amount of filmmaking and emotions that Greengrass packed into the last half-hour, the thirty minutes of pure bliss that we are promised and denied so often. And I'm not lying when I'm saying that the last half-hour changed me as a person. Really. A piece of cinema so perfect that it's shattering. I couldn't remember the last time I had watched a film that had moved me so much. And when I finished it, I knew that United 93 wasn't just good, wasn't an experience to be had just once. It was different, a movie that knows what it wants from a director who knows what cinema is."

That was the first thing that made United 93 stand out. In the movies we get to see, the last thirty minutes are a real bummer. Some lazy filmmaking bogs down the whole film, as if the director doesn't care enough how it finishes as long as he's dolled up the rest of the film. It's a slow traipse to the end, after which you're left, disillusioned, because you know the film has squandered its potential. And how the words 'could have been so much more' aggravate!

See, Greengrass is a filmmaker who knows the importance of those thirty minutes. His style of filmmaking is perceptible. He builds his plot tenaciously, layers it thickly with emotion and dramatic tension and lets all hell break loose in the end. Scrap off the top and you'll find a textured plot underneath, neatly done and ready to be utilized for the knockout punch. Captain Phillips is no different.

Being an ardent admirer of United 93, you might have already guessed how excited I was for yet another hijack-drama from Greengrass. I was positively stoked. But, you know, the problem was that the movie did not drizzle me with its magic right away. There's a long build-up involved to get the film going, give it its wheels, which details diligently how Captain Richard Phillips treats its crew. He's methodical, unerring and flinty. His crew envies and scorns him, but never doubts him. It's a well-etched character but it did not require the lengthy prologue.

And then, there's someone else who admires Phillips. Abduwali Muse, a young Somali pirate, winds up a crew of his own and strays into the Somali Basin to carry out a hijack. He works for a boss, who needs money, and Muse gets his hands dirty. He's determined, and even when it's a question of life or death, he stays put on his principles. He hijacks Phillips' ship after repeated attempts, and belittles Phillips' offer of thirty grand and a ship back to Somalia. I'm not a beggar, he tells Phillips, and holding the captain hostage, demands a shocking ten million. You've got to admire the courage of the young lad. He's not dangerous, he's even likable to some degree but he's like a ticking bomb that could go off any second. And go off it does.

For more than an hour, we see Phillips' attempts to convince the pirates to end everything peacefully, and to let everybody live in exchange for the thirty grand. The pacing is languid, but the film stays consistently engaging. Maybe the unpredictability of its guileful antagonist helps in keeping the tension palpable. Muse is diffident in his actions, he often turns to Phillips' advice when the Navy SEALS circle the ship, much to his comrades' chagrin.

Greengrass directs with equanimity, the air of a man who knows what he has and what he can do with what he has. He takes his time to set the tone of the film, establish his characters so well that we begin to understand them. We can predict their actions, their words, their thoughts. It's not a slip-up, that's genuinely great filmmaking. I could almost feel the dearth of oxygen when the film entered the thriller mode. Greengrass makes his characters tangible, keeps the plot rife with violent tension. And when the characters splutter dialogues, they vent some of the tension out with them. It's the kind of movie where the dialogues make a difference because they allow you a quick peek into the minds of the characters we have come to know. Shrewd.

But in the film's final thirty minutes, your breathing will grow increasingly ragged. Because knowing Greengrass and knowing what he can achieve with his films' denouements, I stopped trying to predict what's about to unfold. Well, the film was entirely predictable, seeing that it has been adapted from Captain Richard Phillips' autobiography, so it's not a give-away that we know how it'll end, is it? But how it gets there is something that made me stand up and applaud. One of the most unapologetically exciting action sequences I've seen in the recent cluster of films, the final showdown is nothing short of riveting. Skillfully executed, well crafted, acted and scored to perfection, the final moments live up to the kind of film Captain Phillips promised it would be.

It's easy to find fantastic performances from each and every member of the cast in a Paul Greengrass film. And it's not a surprise that Greengrass manages to coax Hanks to give his best performance in years. I've been trying to find a word that effectively describes Hanks in Captain Phillips but every single adjective downplays his performance. I'll settle with brilliant but it's not even close, you know. Barkhad Abdi, a young newbie who plays Abdawali Muse, is equally captivating. Mr. Abdi, I'm your fan already.

The rest of the cast are efficacious in keeping a real sense of urgency at all times, ably backed by a tightly-wound, nifty script from Billy Ray, who relies heavily on words to keep the pace as brisk as possible.

Captain Phillips is a marvelous film that definitely ranks as one of the year's finest. A bit indulgent in places and a tad slow for a thriller, but technically sound and terrifically shot by virtuoso cinematographer Barry Ackroyd, it's a vitriolic drama that smothers you with its power but, in its final moments, leaves you moved. Keep a oxygen tank handy.

Review: Alfonso Cuaron's "Gravity" : Bingo, Houston!

You might have been hearing murmurs that Mexican virtuoso Alfonso Cuaron's Gravity begs to be watched on the IMAX 3D screen, which, incidentally, is also a place where no one can hear you scream. Or gasp. And I'd regret this to the day I'll be on my way to the grave that I missed watching it there, screaming and gasping, like the folks who did do well to go there.

I'll divulge a little secret of mine : I had already read the plot way before the movie even hit the Indian screens. And if you haven't done something this asinine already, don't do it. Because Cuaron ever so cheekily steamrolls your puny imagination and crafts an experience that will be talked about for years. Because I sat there, those fat 3D glasses resting on my crooked nasal bridge, tub of popcorn lay forgotten, iced soft-drink gone runny, and I watched the beauty of quixotic cinema that we seldom get to see.

How irrelevant it seemed to be buying a tub of popcorn when the lady behind the counter paid me a look like I was nuts. And she was right. Gravity doesn't much value your popcorn. But you're in for one hell of a ride when Cuaron explores the vast tract of space with an eye out for detail. Gravity is scary because it's believable and brilliant because it's scary. It's the sort of thing that 3D was invented for in the first place. You get periodic mind-baffling visuals, mystical imagery used sparsely and dialogue that's rigged with tension.

Gravity opens with one of the most beautiful long-takes I've ever seen. A fifteen-minute sequence set against a backdrop of Earth as seen from space, cinematographer Emmanuel Lubezki's fluid camera captures the beauty and terror of being up there with no human contact and many miles above the solid ground with effective urgency. And then, after the three astronauts are informed about a catastrophe yet to befall them, they're hit from the oncoming shards of debris. Dr. Ryan Stone, a medical engineer on her maiden voyage, gets entangled and bullets out into the dark space.

Her only hope is Matt Kowalski, a veteran astronaut who comes with a swagger and is also the second survivor of the calamity. As the two stranded astronauts are left howling in space and left to improvise a way out with zilch contact with anyone except each other, you, sitting in that goddamn seat in a theater with a soothing drink by your side, realize like a bolt of lightening that you are about to be taken for one hell of a jaunt.

I'll be honest with you. I rarely watch space movies because they are all bonbon for the eyes, not so much for the intellect. My favorite space movie is Ron Howard's trivialized Apollo 13, which is Gravity minus the hypnotic visuals. While Apollo 13 was too crowded, Gravity is too deserted. Dr. Stone is the only character we get to see, the only character who should be seen, yeah. That tickles the tension and creates a sense of hysteria. Cuaron, who last worked on the stunning dystopian-thriller Children Of Men in 2006, assembles a yet another tightly-wound movie with Gravity. Nothing's added for effect, there's nothing here that's extraneous to the plot. It's a desolate place up there and, as Cuaron shows, there's nothing we can do other than panic.

Gravity delights in its scrupulous detailing. There's a million-dollar shot of a screw lodging out and spinning towards us, which an alert Kowalski grabs. The details are so carefully daubed that they're impossible to notice. Yet they are there in all their glory. Keep your eyes open. They'll be anyway, I guarantee you.

I have only one thing to say about the cinematography, which is easily the best feature of the film : please don't spurn Lubezki at the Academy Awards this year. In one scene, the camera slowly pans in on Stone's face, penetrates her helmet to get her POV of the view and then pops out again. All in one fucking take. Can you believe that? I had to blink to believe what I just saw, if it wasn't an act of some dark sorcery, I don't know what it was. All I could do is mouth a soft, "Wow!" and try to remember it the next time I'd see this movie. I won't forget that, that's not a niggle.

Sandra Bullock, who has been a kind of a nagging presence in most of her movies, is all Oscar stuff. She's utterly believable in a role, which is her meatiest yet, and I was awed to see her carry the whole film so deftly all the way. Dr. Stone is a character easy to empathize with and yet also gallant and inspiring.

George Clooney is terrific in a surprisingly minor role of Matt Kowalski. Clooney, I thought, would be the one riding the mantle but he's reduced to a supporting role. It was strangely wonderful to see him passing on the reins to Bullock, knowing full well what's the movie about and who should be stealing the limelight. It's the most significant sacrifice in a movie that's as much about survival as it is about sacrifice.

Since Gravity is a space movie, there will be comparisons between it and Stanley Kubrick's mystifying 2001: A Space Odyssey. 2001: A Space Odyssey milked an existential-realism theme whereas Cuaron's is more of a survival thriller. I don't think one should necessarily be the better of the two, since they have a crack at two very different theories but Gravity should be proudly placed beside it.

The best movies out there are the ones that make you go, "Whoa, that's something I'm not capable of creating." That thought hassled me for over two hours when I watched Gravity. Those of you who peed their pants watching Avatar in a 3D theatre and went bonkers over it should check it out sometime. Avatar looks wimpish beside it. Gravity is an astounding cinematic achievement that smashes every 3D movie to hit the screens to a bloody pulp.