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: Nishikant Kamat's "Drishyam" is a loyal remake, but leaves much unexplored.

When I was reading Keigo Higashino's The Devotion Of Suspect X, I could see why this book intrigued countless filmmakers. With only a handful of characters, each of whom is relevant to the story in some way, and a meticulous plot packed with sly twists, it needed skill and a strong structure to be as effective in its adaptation. It was the perfect test of someone's filmmaking talent. And although it made great use of its setting of urban Tokyo, it was thematically universal. The story was versatile in the sense that it could just as easily have been set in any other city around the world and still have retained the essence of the original backdrop.

Indian filmmaker Jeetu Joseph recognized this trait. In 2013, he made Drishyam, a film that has been incorrectly designated as an adaptation of The Devotion Of Suspect X. It is no adaptation. The skin of the story is identical, yes, but Drishyam was a potboiler with a very "Indian" backdrop. It had the novel's craftiness replaced by light melodrama and its bright sleuths and criminals replaced by brutish cops and a weepy family. And yet, Drishyam was exceedingly clever and engrossing when it got busy unravelling. While The Devotion Of Suspect X plunged into the pulp of its story right away, Drishyam took far too long to establish its characters. But because of its ingeniousness, it lead to no less than four remakes in four languages.

Nishikant Kamat's Hindi remake is utterly faithful to the Malayalam original, so much so that the dialogues are direct translations, but somehow this one is afflicted by some of the old problems and some new ones. But the Hindi-language remake is also a specimen of how the presence of a great actor can hinder the film from being nothing but a hollow remake.

It is not for the first time that a Hindi film has misrepresented the scenic landscapes and antiquated cities of Goa, take it from someone who has his roots there. Like many recent films starring Ajay Devgn, the Goa in Drishyam bears a striking resemblance to some lush getaways not far from Mumbai. This fallacy is particularly interesting, because Higashino used the Tokyo setting in his novel to add layers to the story while Kamat does nothing of that sort. There is no indication that we are really in Goa except for the characters' continual references to Goan cities and the fact that the local restaurant (named "Martin's Corner," no less; you might find a restaurant called that on every turn in Goa) sells seafood. Those are not enough details to authenticate the pastoral Goan setting.

As mentioned before, this film is a loyal remake. Like the original, it takes its own sweet time, almost the whole of the first-half, to construct the characters, show them living a happy life before tossing in an incident that would crumble their world. It is the quintessential underdog story; a man is protecting his family from the ire of a top cop whose son is missing. Needless to say, a cat-and-mouse game ensues and things get deliciously twisty.

But post the intermission, Drishyam turns into a different film altogether. Long gone are the happy days and long gone are the happy faces. Each face in the film is marked by anxiety, which heightens the tension, undoubtedly. The pacing is brisk and the unravelling, meticulous and controlled, is superbly handled. It is almost surprising to see the second-half bolting toward an explosive showdown in contrast to the first-half tootling along like a carefree child toward nothingness. This change is so effective, in fact, that one probably won't notice the relentlessly cheesy dialogue or the cardboard characters when such delightful deftness is on display.

The only slight improvement in Kamat's Drishyam is, of course, Tabu's inclusion in the cast. The "top cop" character in the original wasn't as menacing or purposeful as Tabu makes it seem here, and her cold stares makes it difficult to predict the imminent turn of events. Casting Ajay Devgn opposite her as the desperate father may not have been the brightest of casting calls, but he is appropriately earnest. Though, I felt his brawny persona, a result of playing so many beefy characters for too long and hamming it up for all those entertainers, does affect an honest performance from him in a way.

But Drishyam's biggest goof is that far too much goes unexplored. Avinash Arun, who breathtakingly shot the recent Masaan and the terrific Killa (also directed) earlier this year, is curbed from doing much with his camera. The consequence? The picturesque locales remain a part of the landscape and we don't get regular eyefuls of them. The characters have suppressed emotion and angst and desperation, but nothing comes to the fore. The only emotion that comes to the fore is what drives the plot in that context, not what makes the characters human.

Eventually, skill and craft get Drishyam past the finish line. It needs to be said that it is nearly an hour too long. But in hindsight, one can't shake off the feeling that it could have been so much more. Still, this is a solidly entertaining potboiler.


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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 Best Films Of 2015, Till Now.

Before listing some of my favorite films of 2015, I'd like to mention a 300-minute miniseries whose first half gave me the impression that it is quite something, and might be the movie of the year. Bruno Dumont's Li'l Quinquin is absurd, whimsical and riveting, using wry humor to tell a grim story deftly. Although I have only seen the first two parts of it (it is a four-part miniseries), I feel it will turn out to be an experience to cherish. 

As is evidenced in this list, films playing at the Cannes Film Festival each year constitute my watchlist.

Some of my other favorite films of the year are, in no particular order:

• Amy (UK)

Asif Kapadia's incredible and empathetic documentary on Amy Winehouse's rise and eventual death paints an astonishingly multidimensional picture of her. Constructing her life from the moment she stepped into the world of music to her untimely and tragic death, it digs so deeply into the thoughts and milieu of vulnerable and troubled star, we feel like we had known her all her life at the end of it. Kapadia's achievement here is that he keeps himself completely detached and pieces together her life using home videos, interviews from her friends and family and her songs like a skilled analyst. And the extent of the research he and his team have done is breathtaking, to say the least. Masterfully packaged and always profound, it darts toward a devastating conclusion we all know, but when it gets there, we wish it didn't. Brilliant.

• Killa (known as The Fort internationally; India)

I watched Avinash Arun's Killa twice in the theater, and both times I was bit by the nostalgia bug. A quiet, subtle and reflective film, it is beautifully told coming-of-age story that is as honest as it is humorous. There are no eye-catching gimmicks here, no fancy tricks. It's a tale told with simplicity and insight, and makes for a rather uplifting experience. It needs to be experienced. As of this moment, this is the best film I have seen all year.

• Timbuktu (France/Mauritania)

There have been only a few films that have truthfully depicted life under militant rule. Afghani filmmaker Siddik Barmaq's shattering Osama is one such film. But Abderrahmane Sissako's Timbuktu, a film that was nominated for the Oscar earlier this year and that premiered in competition at Cannes last year, also deserves to be a part of that category. A discerning and sensitive piece of cinema, it cogently illustrates how the populace of Timbuktu fight for -- and always lose -- their basic human rights against the jihadists who have invaded their land and lives. What distinguishes Sissako's film here from other similar films is the approach to the story and its setting he adopts. Scenes of stoning and lashing are handled with great tactfulness, unnerving us with only a few brief flashes instead of a lengthy sequence that would have been grisly and exploitative. And it is this tact that finally makes Timbuktu an unforgettable experience.

• Gett: The Trial Of Vivane Amsalem (Israel)

Thanks to Surya Vasisht, who reminded me about a film that made quite a splash in the festivals it played at last year. A divorce drama that isn't quite in the league of Aghar Farhadi's A Separation, probably the most haunting and intricate divorce drama in recent memory, Ronit and Shlomi Elkabetz's Gett: The Trial Of Vivane Amsalem offers a lot of finely-layered drama. A peek into the five-year ordeal of a woman who wants to divorce her husband but is a victim of his stubbornness and her own persona, it crucially chooses not to take sides by opting for an objective approach. With no "good guy/bad guy" angle, it only becomes more engaging as we don't know whom to root for, with both characters being equally flawed and equally human. The only put-offs are two scenes of hamminess that splotch an otherwise powerful and subdued film.

• Court (India)

A metaphorical and intellectually rich character study, Chaitanya Tamhane's Court does two things well: it gives us a supremely accurate depiction of the drab Indian lower courts and the people that crowd them and marks the arrival of a major talent. When I first watched it in a nearly empty theater, I grew frustrated with the lack of dramatic momentum. But when it ended, I was silenced; it is astounding how many layers the film has and how flawlessly it manages to convey what it wants to. Although marketed as a "courtroom drama," it isn't one at all; in fact, I don't think it falls into a particular genre. Pessimistic about the country's judicial system, it delivers a harsh but vivid picture of how we, at the end of day, still are casualties of it, and how it might never be resolved. But the treatment is assured and aloof, which is a clever move to make us direct observers without ever making us invest emotionally. If that isn't unique, I don't know what is.

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With that out of the way, let us turn our attention to the films that might make a splash later this year. Here are some of my most anticipated films of the year:

• Son of Saul (Hungary)

Probably my most anticipated film of the year and surely the most talked-about film at this year's Cannes Film Festival, Laszlo Nemes' grungy Holocaust-thriller seems like a winner from the outset. Designated to be a devastating but compelling experience, I can hardly wait.

• The Lobster (Ireland/UK/Greece/France/Netherlands)

Greek filmmaker Yorgos Lanthimos' deadpan Dogtooth was a stunning near-masterpiece that was overlooked and despised because of its disturbing subject matter. A science-fiction romantic-comedy that looks kooky and alluring -- and I would expect nothing less from Lanthimos -- The Lobster would surely be a film to watch out for. It's an added bonus that the film won the Jury Prize at Cannes earlier this year.

• White God (Hungary)

The outlandish trailer of Kornel Mundruczo's film had me under its spell. I don't know what to make of it. But it looks simply gorgeous. 

• The Tribe (Ukraine)

A contemporary silent film by Myroslav Slaboshpytskiy in Ukrainian Sign Language with no subtitles according to Wikipedia, it's a plucky and supposedly shocking experiment that will have a great payoff if it executed to perfection. And the least we can do is give it a shot.

• Titli (India)

I have been waiting for Kanu Behl's unflinching and bleak take on urban violence and patriarchy ever since it premiered in the Un Certain Regard category at the Cannes Film Festival in 2014. Those who have seen it have heaped praises on it. It has been announced recently that the film that has already released in France is going to get a commercial release in its home country in October. The wait goes on.

• Our Little Sister (Japan)

I simply cannot resist anything by Hirokazu Koreeda. With 2004's masterful Nobody Knows and 2013's thoughtful and moving Like Father, Like Son, he makes some of the most emotionally complex and balanced dramas in contemporary cinema. Need I stress on how restless I'm to watch his latest?

• Dheepan (France)

There are people who love Jacques Audiard and then there are those who think he's overrated. Personally, I think Audiard is a terrific storyteller. His strength is that he absorbs us into the world he creates in his films by keeping his characters relatable and tells his story with great compassion. Dheepan, his new thriller and controversial Palme D'Or winner at this year's Cannes Film Festival, might not have anything original to say but I expect to see a palpable story and great craftsmanship on display.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Review: SS Rajamouli's "Baahubali: The Beginning" is noteworthy for its sheer vision and magnitude, but sticks to conventional storytelling.

I don't have much of an inclination toward epics. Nor do I possess a lot of knowledge of Telugu cinema.

For me, even when they are handsomely mounted, epics need to involve a great deal of subtlety to work. Mughal-E-Azam is one such film, a timeless doomed romance that hinged on subtlety to ensure that the intricate battle of egos vibrates with real emotion. I simply can't sit through a film featuring large quantities of people sword-fighting in enormous battlefields. It is exhausting and delivers little to nothing emotionally or intellectually. But when you are in the hands of a master storyteller who knows his material front and back, top to bottom, and who doesn't make any attempt to manipulate his audience into believing his film goes deeper than what it shows, who can guess how enriching the experience will eventually be?

That's one thing I really admire about SS Rajamouli. There is honesty in his filmmaking. Without involving pretentiousness, he tells a story as it is without using gimmicks or fancy-schmancy technical tricks to blow dust into our eyes and compel us to overlook his flaws. With his last offering, the terrific and wildly imaginative Eega, he reaffirmed himself as one of the country's most original filmmakers.

And there is no filmmaker I would have wanted to see helm an alarmingly budgeted fantasy-epic than one who knows how to use CGI to propel the narrative, not create the illusion of an inventive film. The first part of a two-part saga, Baahubali: The Beginning is largely predictable and theatrical, but grand, sweeping, brilliantly conceived and extremely well-told.

It is a safe risk. Right from the opening scene, it is quite apparent that the story will make use of countless threads of other fantasy films serving as templates, therefore plot twists will be mostly out of the picture. Even the characters are stock. Evoking Hindu mythological stories purposefully, the setting is not unfamiliar: a kingdom ruled by a tyrannical and typically virile king and an innocent but dogged savior who is the rightful heir to the throne but is -- foreseeably -- unaware of that detail. The establishment of the environments the characters populate is done meticulously. Personally, I would expect nothing less from a filmmaker of Rajamouli's caliber, someone who firmly roots his characters in the story and utilizes them to layer his narrative. At the end of the first-half, we know exactly who is thinking what and where their place is in this congested saga.

As mentioned before, there is nothing here that we haven't seen and recognize, but the lack of subtlety is often frustrating. Not that the film requires it, but we are often reminded of its lack when the actors emote loudly for added dramatic effect.

Post intermission, the film dissolves into a prolonged flashback. And for once, this is a prudent move. Baahubali: The Beginning is one of those rare films whose second-half outshines the first by miles. The focus is shifted to only three characters and the relationship they share, therefore shrinking the world in the film and giving us more space to savor.

Which brings me to the all-essential, exhaustive and extensive war sequence that is the defining moment in the half and the film in general. Usually, war sequences of colossal proportions in film have action shown from multiple point-of-views, muddling it and rendering it ineffective. The idea, I guess, is to give it an epic feel by showcasing the bloodshed through the eyes of different characters to stress on the magnitude of it. In Baahubali: The Beginning, the war sequence is a watershed and it is evident from the way Rajamouli and his editor Kotagiri Venkateswara Rao handle its execution. Skillfully cutting between the viewpoints of three characters amidst thousands, it is a truly majestic sequence that makes great use of creativity and CGI. I can go as far to say that I haven't come across a more inspired war sequence at least in Indian epics. I can only imagine the mountainous task of directing over two thousand extras for that single sequence that Rajamouli confronted, and eventually came through laudably.

Alas, Baahubali: The Beginning is not without a couple of serious shortcomings. Short on plot twists also, what acts as a deterrent more often are the flat CGI effects in a few places. Although the world the story is set in is fantastical, the effects (most notably the sequence wherein a bull is tamed by the antagonist using his bear hands, pun intended) do not awe like they are supposed to. Instead, they come off as tacky. And thanks to the Censor Board's new shenanigans, we are supposed to live with a watermark in the lower left side of the screen that reads "CGI." Apparently, the disclaimer about animals not being harmed in the making of this film didn't suffice; mutilating a visually stunning epic is the way to do it.

Baahubali: The Beginning ultimately sets the tone for the conclusive second part like a prequel should, but I wish it were more understated and novel. It is groundbreaking, yes, and a film we need to applaud for its sheer magnitude and vision and courage, but those who seek something exceptional beside its technical accomplishments will most likely be disappointed. It sticks to conventional storytelling. It holds the power to spellbind but not the power to surprise.

Review: Avinash Arun's "Killa" is a mesmerizing examination of childhood.

It is fast turning into a year of debutants. 

So far, we have had Chaitanya Tamhane's Court and M. Manikandan's Kaaka Muttai that have left indelible impressions, that have given us plenty reasons to whoop, that have left us feeling exceedingly optimistic for the future of Indian cinema. That's a good enough reason to celebrate.

But there is one film, one sensational film, that stands out among these gems, the vanquisher. Avinash Arun's profound and intricately constructed debut, Killa, is the film of the year. And I'm not talking about Indian cinema specifically when I proclaim that.

I have always believed that the most difficult of all stories to tell involve deciphering children and their emotions, how their minds function, how they survey the world we live in. It's a complex subject to explore that is often incorrigibly simplified, but when done right, I find that there is no greater joy than looking at the world through the eyes of children. Arun's Killa does exactly what one would look for in a film about children: it presents children as they are. Emotionally complex, eternally buoyant and frequently misunderstood. No falsities, no oversimplification. Only sensitivity. 

It's a quiet, almost meditative and painfully poignant reflection on childhood, the earthshaking distress we feel when we are estranged from our friends, how venting our unhappiness on the world becomes our only source of solace in these times, not realizing that the world already has heaps of problems to deal with in the first place. The balance it manages to strike between humor and poignancy is superlative. Rarely has a debutant demonstrated such tactfulness. It's generously scattered with moments so charming, so impossibly funny -- one of the factors that contributed to the humor is how truthful the shenanigans the kids pull off are -- that I could not resist grinning. It's almost as if we needed reminding that to enjoy a film, it needs to speak to us by telling us something about ourselves, not through disposable gimmicks. 

While Arun takes his time building his world in affectionate detail in the first-half, subtly establishing his characters and the relationships they share, it's in the second-half that the film turns into something more than what initially met the eye. Strained relationships are skillfully and unhurriedly examined in wordless scenes, through mournful glances and furtive smiles, and a boy finally comes of age. In an empathetically crafted sequence, he realizes the worth of having a mother from the unlikeliest of people. A world in which he was a misfit, a home in which he felt isolated become a part of his identity and he gradually comes to accept them as his own. It is in the capturing of this exquisite moment that Arun won my salute. It's a passing moment that is difficult to spot, for it is ever so discreet, but its overpoweringly wistful effect is felt somewhere near the end. It's the kind of moment that turns great films into enduring masterworks.

It only helps that Killa is one gorgeously shot film. The lush hills, mud paths, rusty bridges and blue seas are characters in themselves, being as much parts of the protagonists' lives as the landscapes, contributing a great deal to the film's moody atmosphere. I doffed my hat to Arun's spirited camerawork that engages us swiftly into the small but devotedly composed world. The performances, from even the smallest actors in the briefest roles, are brilliantly multilayered, and the young lot does wonders. They carry the whole film on their shoulders and make it look like a cakewalk. Parth Bhalerao, perhaps the most recognizable actor from the young lot, is particularly miraculous. His brusque Bandya is a character of warmth and goofiness, but he manages to imbue him with a sadness that is hard to describe.

Killa, eventually, is a heartbreaking film. A hushed montage of the people and places we have come to know and care for plays in the final few minutes, and ends with a moment of great hope. In a film that is full of heart, it is the heart it aims at till fade-out. 

It hardly needs pointing out that it is the film to outclass this year.

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