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: Kranti Kanade’s “CRD” is the year’s most curious and frustrating work.

[May contain spoilers, many of them.]

A sack is held up. A man orders a group of fledgling actors to toss in their cellphones and keys. A moment later, another man walks in. He's the important fellow; he looks calm. The group is noticeably nervous. He singles out a woman from the group and stares hard at her breasts. The hopeful look on her face when she saw him fades and slowly gives way to insecurity. She's suddenly very aware of his gaze. He notices this and chides her. If she wants to be an actor, he says, she has got to get used to this. He adds that there will be men who will gaze at her the way he did and maybe masturbate at the thought of her later on. Insecurity over how a person looks at them is a trait of a bad actor – if they ever become one, that is.

It's one of the early scenes in Kranti Kanade's CRD. The language is coarse; the execution, fearless; and the ideas, boggling. It's rare and refreshing to see an Indian film rejecting the imply-but-do-not-show approach that many Indian filmmakers choose to take in order to make their film more consumable. Kanade is barely interested. His approach is more immersive, more tangible. The camera never leaves the actors, never observes them from a distance but through tight close-ups. We are very much there. It's a captivating experience, even when it becomes too surreal, too uncomfortable. For every single minute of its 108-minute runtime, CRD risks revolting the conservative viewer with its daring.

On a more personal note, I cherish such films unless they are daring for the sake of being daring. In recent years, India has nourished an ecosystem where independent cinema can thrive, and this has resulted in passionate filmmakers making passionate films on paltry budgets. But a more personal grouch is that some of these films are visibly eager to shock and be spoken about. It affects the experience, because it feels, to me, contrived. I like watching risks being taken, and there is no greater thrill when the filmmakers pull it off, but if these risks are simply to ensure the film will be spoken about later, I would not categorize it as great cinema.

CRD, thankfully, avoids this.

The teacher employs a number of tricks to get this group get in touch with their emotional side. He likes to break them down so that they can bring a raw and realized quality to the play. This involves talking about their most tragic experiences, discouraging them without mincing words (he tells a budding actress she’s so unattractive that the best role she might snag would be of a female cop), even fornicating with their mothers. This does not sit well with our protagonist, a newbie to this environment of the cutthroat inter-college theater competition prep and an accidental one at that. He actually wants to be a writer. But they have writers. They need actors. Ta-da.

Using the competition as a background, CRD examines the artistic process very closely and how it sometimes brings out the worst in people. It is a product of rigorous filmmaking, superb performances and at times incredible imagination. It is also quite a bit of fun. But, surprising for a film of such energy, it is an exhausting picture. Kanade, an FTII and UCLA alum, likes to pay his tributes. Which is why, I guess, CRD assumes the appearance of a film that tries to do a lot in such a short span of time. In places we are led to believe that it has almost decided to be a certain kind of film with a certain kind of appeal, but it surprises us by being something entirely different. In one scene it’s accessible, within our grasp, but in the next, it ends up being surreal, freeing itself from it.

These shifts in tone rarely come across as jarring. Because Kanade is a superior filmmaker, and CRD’s biggest pleasures stem from how it jumps from one exciting scene to the next, from one idea to the next. I would be lying if I said that these elements – well written independent scenes interspersed with brief animated sequences and often inscrutable ones – work together as one. They don’t. They can, and do, get frustrating. But how can one accuse a film of trying too hard when it rarely tosses in a dull image or idea? 

It is commendable for a film that experiments as much as CRD does with its narrative to not lose focus from its central characters. For the teacher, winning is everything, even if it means writing a manipulative play on patriotism, where two Indian soldiers try to coax information from a female Pakistani spy without harassing her physically because they are Indian, and playing the national anthem in the end to drive his point home. For the protagonist, opportunity is everything, even if it means stealing the limelight with, should we say, not entirely ethical means. Their character arcs are developed with great restraint. The teacher, though a formidable opponent, is moved by art. The protagonist, though sincere with a more idealistic perspective toward art, abuses it at one point. It’s an interesting point to explore, which CRD, in its final moments, does with quiet success.

Ultimately, the film we get is as brave as it is frustrating, as weird as it is exhilarating. I am not sure I will watch it a second time. I do not feel it is necessary, for I do not have a reason to. All I know is, I am not likely to forget it anytime soon, for reasons both good and bad.

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Handpicks: The 10 Best Films Of 2015 -- Vol. I

Still plenty of films left to watch.

2015, for me, was a year of debutants. Some of the most promising efforts I saw had first-time helmers behind the camera, and I have mentioned as many as four in the list below. And then, there were some definite bummers, big and small. Hou Hsiao-Hsien's The Assassin was a gorgeous wuxia tale whose editing pattern was frustrating and rendered it inscrutable; Paolo Sorrentino's English-language debut Youth had both grandeur and flair, but was somewhat lacking; Matteo Garrone's Tale of Tales was riveting and imaginative for the most part, but flat and tedious in places. I don't know what to say about Jia Zhangke's Mountains May Depart. One can't classify it as a misfire, surely, but the uneven, ambitious picture made promises but didn't live up to them. But some niggles aside, these were films that offered more than what an average fare at the cinema usually does.

To the list, then. But first the honorable mentions, in no real order: Paul Thomas Anderson's Junun, Hou Hsiao-Hsien's The Assassin, David Zellner's Kumiko, The Treasure Hunter, Matthew Heineman's Cartel Land, Jia Zhangke's Mountains May Depart, Roy Andersson's A Pigeon Sat On A Branch Reflecting On Existence, Myroslav Slaboshpytskiy's The Tribe, Ronit Elkabetz and Shlomi Elkabetz's Gett: The Trial of Viviane Amsalem, Veronica Franz's and Severin Fiala's Goodnight Mommy, Alex Garland's Ex Machina, Paolo Sorrentino's Youth and Matteo Garrone's Tale of Tales.

Of the films that I saw last year, my favorites are:

10. Amy (UK) and Sicario (US)

I couldn't choose between the two. While Asif Kapadia's Amy expertly culled and stitched together events and tidbits from her life to give us a three-dimensional portrait of her, so tangible that it felt like each one of us knew her personally, Denis Villeneuve's taut thriller that he describes -- and rightly so -- as a "dark poem" dealt directly in high-quality tension. The impeccable craftsmanship that went into packaging the two films made it impossible for me to take a call. And if the two films were indications of anything, it is that their respective directors can do no wrong.

9. The Lobster (Ireland/UK/Greece/France/Netherlands)

There is absolutely no doubt that Yorgos Lanthimos is able to handle black comedies, drier than usual as they are, better than his peers. In The Lobster he demonstrates this to great effect. It takes us back to his world where impassive cynics rule, people are sophisticated beasts and violence is acceptable and somewhat mundane when it is carried out with neither the drive nor deliberation with which it should be. But The Lobster has one major plus point: it has got heart and humor, which is most unlike Lanthimos for he rarely makes accessible films. That said, The Lobster is still an acquired taste. But with his most commercial outing yet, here is a master filmmaker who proves once again that he can handle a fatter budget and a broader story with the same finesse that he does his indies without compromising on his style.

8. Mustang (France/Turkey/Germany)

Deniz Gamze Erguven's fine first feature is an incredibly intimate and quietly haunting study of growing up in a conservative society. Bookended by two stirring sequences, both buffed to perfection, Mustang draws from Erguven's own childhood. She suffuses this tale with deep empathy, opting for a calmer approach to the story instead of grappling it bluntly. And that's a good thing, too. The result is a film undoubtedly more powerful as a drama than an angry social commentary. By the end, I was left to deal with a lump in my throat.

7. Güeros (Mexico)

Alonso Ruiz Palacios' debut throbs with the energy and creativity that could make it the best film of any given year. But here's the problem: it suffers from a special kind of disease that I call "Screw You, I'm Brash," a disease that has ailed many a filmmaker, especially debutants. Palacios doesn't concern himself with keeping his story taut, and one can't help but wonder whether it was deliberate. Güeros is meandering, supremely indulgent but consistently inventive and immersive. Political anger brewing in the backdrop of a story of three slackers out to find an aging rockstar whose album had given them something to live for shows a lot of promise from a debutant, and Palacios exhibits a knack for injecting life into every frame. What it did was it took me back nearly ten years ago when I watched Walter Salles' fantastic The Motorcycle Diaries for the first time, a film similarly trembling with youthful energy. Güeros is an excellent film by any standard, but the tragedy is, it could have secured a higher spot on this list but did not. And the answer to why not is the film itself.

6. Court (India)

Chaitanya Tamhane's debut was, for lack of a better word, surprising. It showed the conventional Indian movie-goer who is so used to seeing courts being a place for theatricality on-screen how insipid they really are, but that doesn't count as an achievement. The real achievement here is Tamhane's observational visual style that detached us from the characters emotionally, thereby allowing us time to soak in the tiny details. Court is not for everybody; alternatively frustrating and compelling, it encourages its viewers to ruminate on its characters and their lives instead of sniffing around for a plot. With the aesthetics of an European art house fare, Tamhane risked tricky waters to deliver a dryly humorous, keenly observed and challenging character study, and succeeded.

5. Spotlight (US)

Tom McCarthy's film, a sure-fire frontrunner at the Academy Awards in February, takes a delicate, important story and squeezes magic out of it. Never losing momentum or sight of probably thousands of significant details cramped in its vigorous two hours, Spotlight leaves one rapt, hanging on to each word spoken as the story unravels in grave whispers and phone calls. And we ascertain the breadth of the chilling story because McCarthy doesn't soil it with unnecessary melodrama but, much like his protagonists, tackles it with the urgency a story like this demands. And when it ends, one can't help but look up the entire case on the Internet if they aren't already watching the film again.

4. The Look Of Silence (Denmark/Finland/Indonesia/Norway/UK)

In 2011, Joshua Oppenheimer gave us a documentary on the Indonesian genocide that was unquestionably the most provocative of this generation with The Act of Killing. Bone-chilling, difficult to watch and sure to leave one dazed by the end, the documentary was one many wouldn't and didn't return to, me included. With The Look of Silence, the second part in the two-part documentary on the genocide, Oppenheimer delivers another gutting documentary on the extermination of many millions, this one less horrifying in comparison, less aggressive in its arguments but retains the potency of the first. And like The Act of Killing, he boldly turns us into hostages of our own imaginations. Masterful.

3. Killa (India)

There is one thing Avinash Arun's brilliant debut did for me, which is rare for a film at least in my opinion, to do so. No matter how many times I watch it, it always drowns me in my memories of a place I knew as a kid but have never known as an adult. It shows a place of the past that exists nowhere but in our memories and then makes us want to live in it. One could say that Killa plays the nostalgia card better than most movies released this year, and it is in how it engulfs you with its lush imagery and humble storytelling that makes it so remarkable a film.

2. Carol (US/UK)

One would have to purposefully scan Todd Haynes' new film many times over to find a fault with it. Carol, adapted from Patricia Highsmith's novel, The Price of Salt, is a rare specimen; there's nothing that should be any different. Haynes captures the blossoming romance between two women in cursory glances and unspoken stares with such sophistication that it hoists the film to another level altogether. Each composition is immaculate, each actor outdoes themselves. This is filmmaking of the highest order. Abdellatif Kechiche's poignant Blue Is The Warmest Colour broke new grounds in 2011. Carol is right up there giving it company.

1. Taxi (Iran)

Those who are acquainted with Jafar Panahi's fight against his artistic decay will surely acknowledge the devastating brilliance of his latest. Those who haven't, well, will find something to admire in this filmmaker's unwavering determination to keep going on a path choked with hurdles. Like 2011's This Is Not A Film and 2013's Closed Curtain, Taxi is more of an angry social commentary on the attempts to quash an artist's creative energy than a conventional feature film, but Panahi, with the restrictions imposed on his creativity, isn't painting on a small canvas anymore. This is an ambitious effort that skillfully captures the gravity of the problem that he faces while introducing us to the common faces in Tehran, where he is driving a taxi and picking up conversations with his passengers. And like his last two ventures, this one too underscores his frustration at his creativity being sealed off. In one particularly poignant scene, his niece wants to tell him what she has learnt about making "distributable" films. But he does not wish to listen beyond a couple of points. The moment's translation to the screen deserves not only our sympathies but also our outrage.

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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: Neeraj Ghaywan's ambitious "Masaan" marks the the arrival of a noteworthy wielder of the megaphone.

There are films that put on a riveting show of their unconventionality as soon as the clock starts ticking.

In the opening sequence of Neeraj Ghaywan's impressive debut, we see a girl watching porn, taking off to check into a seedy hotel with her boyfriend where their mating is interrupted by the arrival of a bunch of cops who threaten them with shame or worse, death. It is a captivating sequence that is executed with such sensitivity that it promises a whole lot of things promptly, some of which it meets by the end and some of which it doesn't. And the biggest promise it makes is to sidestep blatant exploitation, which in the hands of any other filmmaker would have been inevitable.

And that is how the strongly atmospheric Masaan elevates our expectations in a marvelously rendered opener. It sucks us into its miserable and enticing world, keeps us hooked as it tries to tell an ambitiously woven tale in modern-day Banaras and sagaciously balances themes of redemption and tragedy. There's a lot of plot here that needs telling, two different strands that have to meet at some point and Masaan's triumph is that those two interwoven tales do meet at the point of coherence.

This has been a year of debutants, a year in which Indian cinema finally came of age. The emerging indie movement had never been as visible as it has been this year, and Masaan really is the cherry on the cake. It won two awards, including the FIPRESCI Award earlier this year at the Cannes Film Festival, and the first thing that struck me when the film ended was how justified its achievements at Cannes were. This is mature, subtle and purposeful storytelling, something that one doesn't expect to see in a debut, and it only gets better as the film progresses. It cuts back and forth with clarity between those two stories, invades the consciences and minds of its characters till they are people we know and understand. The problem with telling two simultaneous stories is, everything can turn muddled in the blink of an eye. We may lose track of the story or simply grow disinterested in the characters. It is too big a risk to undertake, but Ghaywan goes for broke here. He understands his characters, their milieus and the world of which they are a part, and tells his story with great empathy. And I have always strongly believed in one thing: any director who has great empathy for his characters can do no wrong.

As we move on to another story, a really charming romance that bowls you over with its simplicity and spirit, we are made to take notice of the skill of the storytelling. On one hand, we have a story that kicks off gloomily and on the other hand, we have a delightful romance that thrives on optimism. And in the middle of all that, we have passages of poetry narrated by the characters that lends a certain lyricism to the film. Ghaywan's command over the tone is laudable, never bungling in spite of two stories with different flavors. Nitin Baid's editing makes sure the tone remains consistent and never distracting as the film switches between the stories in a determined pattern.

Apart from being a story about redemption and hope, Masaan also manages to be a story of loneliness and the unpredictability of life, with its people seeking closures that their lives are unwilling to give. Like I said, it is all ambition. There is much to soak in, much to pay attention to, much to tell. But Masaan does a great job of cramming great detailing -- right from the clothes the characters don to the way they speak, all reminiscent of the Banaras we know -- tonal shifts and many, many characters. Everything works quite well for the most part. And that's also owning to heartfelt performances from a largely talented cast.

Alas, it has a few flaws. Screenwriter Varun Grover's scrutiny of the different facets of city is beautifully incorporated into the story, thereby creating a place that is almost a character in itself, forgive the hackneyed line. And a long and booming round of applause for cinematographer Avinash Arun, who also debuted a couple of weeks ago with the miraculous Killa. The Banaras in Masaan exudes a tranquility and melancholy that helps a great deal in the telling of the stories. But the stories themselves are paced inconsistently and plotted a tad unconvincingly. In parts, the film is monotonous and predictable. And personally, I found a major plot point too far-fetched to believe. I was expecting it to be treated with a bit more realism.

But these admittedly minor flaws were forgiven when the whole film came together in a nifty tug at the end. What matters is, Masaan is unconventional in the best possible way. It is an earnest effort, an outstanding debut by any standard. Rarely has a story this sprawling been told with such clarity and confidence and maturity. For a film that promised so much, Masaan is memorable. And in all likelihood, one of the better Hindi films of the year.

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Handpicks : The Ten Best Films Of 2014.

To celebrate the Oscar nominations, allow me to catalog my favorite films of last year. It was a dandy year for films, and when it came down to listing ten hits, I was in a quandary. Truly, a memorable year for every kind of film, and it certainly got me excited about the new year. And a successful year for film can be gauged by how thrilled the audiences are for the next year at the end of it.

The following are my top picks. I still haven't seen Canadian enfant terrible Xavier Dolan's transgressive Mommy, Paul Thomas Anderson's eccentric stoner-comedy Inherent Vice, Ana Lily Amirpour's Iranian vampire-western A Girl Walks Home Alone At Night, Ava DuVernay's ignored Selma, Yann Demange's fraught thriller '71, the legendary Mike Leigh's new film Mr. Turner, J.C. Chandor's A Most Violent Year, Viktor Taus' Clownwise and Abderrahmane Sissako's acclaimed Timbuktu to name a couple.

The others, in order:

10.  Why Don't You Play In Hell? (Japan)

It's the kookiest party film of the year.

Sion Sono's impish ode to the cinema, Why Don't You Play In Hell? is kitschy indulgence. It's a spectacularly over-the-top venture that finds humor in the most unexpected places, is gleefully implausible and content in remaining mad as a hatter. Sometimes, only sometimes, inane films make vivifying cinematic experiences, and Sono's treat is a fine example of that. It works majorly because of its distinctive narrative--which is established using a several cinematic techniques, from long tracking shots to abrupt close-ups--and Sono's ability to infuse even the most tranquil sequences with pulsating energy. It's a wildly inventive, goofy albeit flawed excursion through the imagination of an artiste confident about his flair and passionate about his art. Any hunt for rationality will reap one only disappointment, however.

9.  Birdman or (The Unexpected Virtue Of Ignorance) (US)

Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu is such a braggart.

Birdman stands out as a mammoth technical achievement on every level; a caustic, claustrophobic satire on showbiz and vanity and loneliness that is wonderfully weird and arresting, though not always as absorbing, expertly orchestrated and fashioned like a supple one-take film that gives it a hypnotic aura. It's a heady blend of wow and wacky. But the problem, the only one, with Inarritu's film is, it's too conscious of its own greatness, conscious of what it's trying to achieve on a technical scale and that schtick sometimes impedes the narrative flow. In places, the effect seems painfully artificial, which is a major drawback for a film that tries hard to please.

But that's not to say that this way-out beauty isn't disarming; there are a few genuinely breathtaking sequences that tingled me, the most memorable being Michael Keaton's Riggan levitating and gliding through New York City insouciantly. Birdman isn't a perfect film--maybe an illusion of one--but its audacity deserves props.

8.  Blue Ruin/Whiplash (US)

The "indie-st" indie in recent memory and the euphoric wonder of the year.

While on one hand, Jeremy Saulnier delivered a bloodstained, sickening revenge fable was flamboyant, dispiriting and assured debut, reminiscent of Coen Brothers' Blood Simple, with great difficulty and on the other hand, Damien Chezelle served us a sort of musical-thriller with a bald monster tormenting a whippersnapper. And both worked better than anyone could have ever imagined. While Blue Ruin left me thoroughly shaken by its depiction of the barbarity people can resort to to exact vengeance, I found it hard not to holler for the invigorating high Whiplash gave me. Both films marked the arrival of two major auteurs in-the-making. Saulnier's deft use of bare imagery to heighten the bleakness of his tragedy and Chazelle's justified close-ups of sweaty faces and blood-sprinkled cymbals to underline the edginess of his semi-autobiographical story were wise calls indeed. And both films emphasized on the need to remain human even when circumstances are untoward.

Blue Ruin and Whiplash might be forgotten soon, much to my chagrin, but they trained the spotlight on independent cinema. If that was the objective, then they knocked it out of the ballpark.

7.  Ida (Poland)

Pawel Pawlikowski's curiously vivid, expressionistic film looks every bit like an awards season vanquisher, and it deserves to be one, too.

With gorgeously bleak, austere imagery, Ida explores the subtleties and vulnerabilities of the human mind and soul by scrutinizing two female protagonists affected by an old tragedy they prolonged unearthing for years. As is a cliche in the movies, whenever a character goes digging into their past, the repercussions they come up against aren't gratifying. The plot of such films is molded from what secrets these repercussions withhold. In Ida, the disclosures are dreadful, but the mystery here is more of the mind than of the revelations. It treads on a familiar path, but it does it with much deliberation and diligence than what we might have seen before. Pawlikowski's utterly apathetic to the suspenseful element of his story, thereby giving it no window to gut or unnerve or sermonize.

In my review of the film, here is what I wrote: "Can a weak rebellion against a life of illusion diminish the harsher versions of the truth?" Ida pitches this question, but the answer lies somewhere in the inscrutable silences at the end. The fact that one cannot fathom it is what makes this a haunting experience.

6.  Two Days, One Night (Belgium)

The only instance where I jumped with joy when the Oscar nominations were being announced was when Marion Cotillard's name was called out.

Cotillard--so fine in La Vie en Rose, so criminally underused in Hollywood--turns in a performance of towering warmth and feeling as a chronically depressed mother and wife fighting for her job and her pride that deserves more than just a measly Oscar. The new film by Belgium's Dardenne Brothers, Two Days, One Night packs a dramatic punch that cuts straight to the heart. There is a flicker of suspense, a whole lot of suppressed drama, a hint of light humor and an aura of familiarity. But at the core of this deeply empathetic film is Cotillard, whose radiating, nuanced performance conveys volumes of sadness and hopefulness for every second she is on-screen. Notice her triumphant stride, how her face lights up whenever she is happy, how dismally vulnerable everything is when she isn't. It's a measured performance, majestic in its humbleness. The same could be said of the film.

5.  Leviathan (Russia)

Andrey Zvyagintsev's compactly-written Leviathan is a thing of devastating beauty.

It's simultaneously imposing and harrowing, intimate and bleak, an angry and disillusioned critique of contemporary Russia. Zyyagintsev's scripting is flawless, exploring the helplessness and haplessness of a man fighting a losing battle to a corrupt mayor over an ancestral bit of land exhaustively, allowing his audience to hope for his characters but then, in a neat stroke, quashing whatever whit of optimism we had. What stands out in this masterwork is the frequently breathtaking composition of shots. Using landscapes and lighting to magnificent effect, the visual detailing augments the melancholic feel of the film. Though its pacing might be lethargic, the narrative thankfully never meanders. Leviathan may be a depiction of a specific country, but one can't escape the universality of its message.

4.  Boyhood (US)

The most successful gimmick of the year is predictably also the chief contender for the top prize.

Boyhood was Richard Linklater's passion project for eons, a film of overpowering ambition and affinity that placed it in the history books long before it even hit the theaters. I, for one, would definitely love to read a book that documents its journey from a spirited script to a cohesive film that had been in the making for a little over a decade, but I also believe that the curtains need to be pulled on Boyhood before it loses steam through dissections. Linklater is the new maven of coming-of-age films, and Boyhood, while not being his best, is an affectionate survey of pubescence. Inevitably, it's also Linklater's most personal film yet. And why shouldn't it be? It represents a picture of each and every one of us, a variation of who we are. And for the first time, Linklater has made a picture that is more about about us than about himself.

Many find Boyhood to be a slog, but for what it achieves on an emotional level and for its zeal, it certainly isn't a trivial experiment if it's a tedious one.

3.  Force Majeure (Sweden)

I find it hard to digest that this Swedish masterpiece didn't make the final five.

Ruben Ostlund's bitingly funny, acute melodrama about a family's predicament whilst on a skiing holiday is impossible to shake off. A man's failure as a father, husband and a man after a brief moment of cowardice is put under scrutiny and painstakingly analyzed in this psychodrama that is always on the brink of a dramatic eruption, but remains understated till fade-out. It compels its audience to reflect on themselves in a way that is surprisingly organic. Ostlund wisely uses ravishing, somber images of snow-capped mountains, commonplace sounds to fill the silences and a fancy color combination to add layers to his quietly uneasy film. The tonal shifts are delightful in their precision.

A marriage under duress might be a subject that a lot of films have tackled previously, but I cannot remember the last time I have been this enthralled to delve deeper into one.

2.  Goodbye To Language (France/Switzerland)

The new film by Jean-Luc Godard. Jean-Luc Godard. And it is truly avant-garde. I don't know how one reviews or rates one of the most bewitching experiments in film in recent years, but Goodbye To Language, I believe, is more about what the audience feels than what they interpret. Consisting of gorgeously abstract imagery, confounding editing calls, overlaying voiceovers and a quasi-fractured narrative, Godard's diffuse, crammed film is about how we communicate and express through verbal exchanges. It imbues its audience with a feeling of astonishment, of wonder, subjecting us to something so introspective, so unique yet so virtual that one viewing is not enough to exploit the sheer magic of its visuals and ideas. It urges us to cogitate on what it tries to convey through its opaque diegesis. 

The only problem is, I am not even as close to decrypting it in my second viewing as I was in my first, but Goodbye To Language offers us something that film rarely does: an opportunity to see a trailblazer playfully reinventing himself.

1.  The Grand Budapest Hotel (US)

Wes Anderson can never get it wrong, can he?

The auteur, now with eight feature films to his name, has mastered the genre he created with Bottle Rocket in 1996. The Grand Budapest Hotel is his most challenging work yet, and a sui generis experience that reminds us why we love movies in the first place. Like all Wes Anderson marvels, this endearingly quirky, supremely wistful and tremendously poignant fable-like film makes crack use of symmetry, color, locations and characters to create a lushly detailed, resplendent world that one might find hard to leave and forget. It's an act of pampering, but it's pampering we enjoy.

The Grand Budapest Hotel is the quintessential Anderson package, and a film I will keep returning to for years to come.

Handpicks : The Ten Best Hindi Films Of The Year.

I don't remember the last time I said this, but it was a great year for indie films. Last year's Ship Of Theseus, The Lunchbox and Shahid served as three promising pointers that independent cinema is slowly, but surely, finding a footing in an uncaring industry that is still averse to the idea of a brand of cinema rivaling commercial cinema. With a burst of indie films procuring limited commercial releases, one can only hope for this to persist.

While there were some definite surprises this year, I was dispirited to find that the film whose release I was looking forward to ever since I first heard about it had been pushed forward. Perhaps Kanu Behl's Titli, debuting to much brouhaha at Cannes in May, will be a global contender next year. In what one can only label a "Christmas miracle" in the truest sense of the phrase, Anurag Kashyap's dark, dire and dogged crime-drama Ugly, embroiled in a controversy for a long time, made sure we ended a most reassuring year on a cheery high.

Personally, I missed out on a few movies this year. Nisha Pahuja's The World Before Her, a documentary on two Indias seen through the eyes of two very different women, and Amit Masurkar slacker comedy, Sulemani Keeda, about two struggling writers waiting to break into Bollywood were some I regret missing out on.

Anyway, to the list. Here are my favorite films of the year, ranked in the descending order:

10.  Filmistaan (dir.: Nitin Kakkar) / Finding Fanny (dir.: Homi Adajania)

An indie and a surprise.

While Nitin Kakkar's heartwarming debut took us across the border to a land that is besotted with cinema as much as we are, Homi Adajania's bittersweet fantasy fable (with priceless, unusually imprecise Goan accents, take it from a Goan) ambled through some of Goa's most scenic locales. Both films were promoted as comedies, but they went beyond the confines of their genre to deliver a torrent of feeling to go with the occasional laughs. While they catered to the mainstream audiences, one cannot ignore their attempts to bend what "mainstream" means in contemporary Hindi cinema. Though flawed efforts also, Filmistaan and Finding Fanny were invigorating attempts at bring about a change from the usual mundane fares at the multiplexes. And they are on this list because they succeeded in doing so.

9.  PK (dir.: Rajkumar Hirani)

Oh, dear. What we expected, and what was served.

The experience of watching P.K. is like going to a great restaurant, ordering a chef's special but being made to settle for something inferior. It was easily Rajkumar Hirani's weakest film, but his most ambitious one. Some sequences carried his trademark flourish, but some came off as plain ineffectual. Some were brilliantly constructed and performed, but some were shockingly overblown. Still, for the robust arguments alone, P.K. deserved more than just a viewing. It begged rumination. Admittedly, it does channel Umesh Shukla's OMG: Oh My God!, but this one stands its ground proudly without fretting about the kind of response it provokes. I admire.

8.  Haider (dir.: Vishal Bharadwaj)

The Bard-Bharadwaj pairing seems to be an eternal romance.

Whenever the auteur fiddled with the Bard's works previously, he produced pure magic. While Haider is a respectable -- and likably impish -- film in itself, it's not as daunting a cinematic creation as Maqbool or Omkara, I'm afraid, albeit one that is painted on a grander canvas. A lethargically paced funeral should suffice as its description, but it's the setting where Haider excels. A frigid, frosty Kashmir serves as a battleground for imminent bloodshed, and the tension is piercing. And performances. Oh, the performances! The whole cast is magnificent, and that is such an understatement. But words fail me. I just wish Haider were a tauter film. Its greatness lay right there, but it was a bloated, shapeless lump that desperately needed knocking into shape.

7.  Ankhon Dekhi (dir.: Rajat Kapoor)

An engrossing parable that brought a spark into a world we have forgotten exists.

Ankhon Dekhi unfolds in a heartbreakingly nostalgic Delhi of sights and sounds that mysteriously vanished years ago. But Rajat Kapoor, armed with an immaculately-written script that breathes life into a decaying world, brought to us an affable "nutcase" whose story was more edifying than maddening. A broadly philosophical, whimsical film, Ankhon Dekhi is the journey of a travel agent-turned-ideologist who is someone we first laugh at, then get frustrated with but ultimately come to comprehend. And goddamn me if I didn't walk out of this film feeling as if this was the most progressive sermon I had ever sat through. It is Kapoor's best since 2008's Mithya, and his most personal.

6.  Ugly (dir.: Anurag Kashyap)

The aptest titled film of the year, folks.

In Anurag Kashyap's fraught world of slimeballs, everything is ugly. Guns are pulled, cheeks get smacked, profanities flow like mud, people get roughed up habitually. His depiction of the nastiness of human character is perturbing enough, but it is also endlessly fascinating. Ugly is an sample of what he can achieve with little indulgence and no flamboyance. An enthralling character study of a bunch of abhorrent, desperate characters trying to outwit each other for egomaniacal pleasures, it is a singularly distressing, alarming and murky tale of deceit and narcissism. And it leaves one spellbound. I was wowed.

5.  Dekh Tamasha Dekh (dir: Feroz Abbas Khan)

It's such a shame that a lot of people are still unaware of the finest horror film of the year.

Theatre veteran Feroz Abbas Khan's second feature film, Dekh Tamasha Dekh is a brilliant black comedy; a satire brimming with absurdist elements, horrific episodes and gut-wrenching truths. It showcases a part of the country tucked away in the badlands of Maharashtra, where communal tensions flare up at the slightest provocation, and the violence they lead to is met with frustrating nonchalance. It's a sour detail to digest, but it reeks of the truth. At times a tad too theatrical, Dekh Tamasha Dekh is simultaneously sickening and rollicking until the second-half kicks in, and it turns into a full-fledged spook story. Shafaat Khan's pithy dialogue and a cluster of wonderful performances (the finest of which is a cameo by old-timer Sudhir Pandey, and isn't he a beauty!) make this the year's bravest, most important film. And the scripting is absolutely spotless.

It's nothing less than a miracle that Dekh Tamasha Dekh, a film that could so easily have been a victim of livid controversies but only if it had grabbed more eyeballs, found a commercial release. It left me so enraged and yet so frightened because it was familiar. And when was the last time you walked out of a film frightened because it was familiar?

4.  Miss Lovely (dir.: Ashim Ahluwalia)

Oh, the irony of the title.

An exercise in indulgence, Ahluwalia's gorgeous and thickly atmospheric arthouse drama was a sleazy, searing, claustrophobic, melancholic and often bitterly funny odyssey through Bombay's porn industry of the '80s. Centered around the splintered relationship of two brothers, Miss Lovely was a tale of half-hearted promises, loneliness, brooding characters and their wretched thirst for fame and attention, all crafted into an elegant, poignant film. The sluggish pacing may bore some, frustrate many, but there is no denying that Ahluwalia's dedication to craft and research is astounding. This surely won't be the last time I dig a spot in my schedule for Miss Lovely, which also features a superlative Nawazuddin Siddiqui, if that particular bit interests you.

3.  Dedh Ishqiya (dir.: Abhishek Chaubey)

The cheek of the title is supremely delightful.

I felt that one would be hard pressed to make a sequel by matching the character and tone of the marvelously earthy Ishqiya, but I needn't have worried. Abhishek Chaubey's nearly flawless second film is a riot; a painfully wistful, boisterous and polished film in contrast to his exceedingly crude debut. I don't know if -- and such a case is rare -- it is an improvement to its predecessor, but Dedh Ishqiya is a sophisticated illusion of a long dead world of nawabs and begums, an illusion I would sure like to buy into. It retains some of the roguishness of Ishqiya that made it such a ravishing experience, but it's an affectionately made film clearly in love with itself. And in many ways, it is the perfect sequel.

2.  Queen (dir.: Vikas Bahl)

Only the most dreadfully dopey might find Queen annoying.

Vikas Bahl asserted that he didn't know how to "make a film" when he took charge of crafting the finest crowd-pleaser to come strutting in years, but I find his statement a bit paradoxical. Queen is a film of disarming confidence, fashioned carefully to win one over and it does in its first half-hour and spends the next hour-and-a-half fine-tuning the formula it has sprung from. Kangana Ranaut not only gives a nonpareil performance, the best of the year, but also the best of her career. She makes the film what it is. And she's also one of the folks responsible for the frisky dialogue. There is a thin line between mainstream and offbeat, and Queen toys with it. It's a film of such eternal allure and warmth, rooted so deep in Indian culture that the traditionalists and modernists can sit beside each other and enjoy it as much.

1.  Katiyabaaz (dir.: Deepti Kakkad & Fahad Mustafa)

Kanpur doesn't have electricity. This darkened battleground may have seen many a skirmish, but in the best Hindi film I have seen all year, there hasn't been one more dryly amusing.

But it has Loha Singh, a stocky "Robin Hood" who nimbly scales electric poles and fixes illegal wires to supply impromptu electricity to power-starved locals, who idolize the chap. It's an intensely fascinating subject. But Katiyabaaz, this ace mockumentary that blew my mind like no other Hindi film this year, isn't about this strange hero; it's about his even-steven face-off with Ritu Maheshwari, CEO of KESCO, an electrical power company battling debts. Maheshwari's adamant approach to rid the company of its debts leads her to go up against this locally loved superman. What ensues is a battle between anarchism and autocracy, a droll battle, a fuming battle, where no side wants to back off, that leaves one drained. Kakkad's and Mustafa's attention to trivial details of everyday life in Kanpur and their detached exploration of the subject only amplify the eventual effect it will have on you.

However, for a film that gives one the impression of it being a pacy thriller, Katiyabaaz is also a desperately sad picture. Loha Singh's domestic life is pitiful, but not to the extent of it being a drag. When required, Katiyabaaz has emotional depth by the dozen. This tragicomedy is a brilliantly balanced, no-frills outlook on Kanpur's power crisis that doesn't preach or teach. Only engages. After 2012's Supermen Of Malegaon and Celluloid Man, it is undoubtedly an indication of Indian documentaries finally coming of age.