Category Archives: Movies

Movies, Myself

Over and over

Christmas Eve last year promised to be a sedate affair. I was recuperating from my (nearly) month-long trip, and all I had on my mind was an evening of peace and quiet, alone with three cats in the house. But Bryan Lee O’Malley, he of Scott Pilgrim fame, tweeted about the movie Battle Royale being screened at the Silent Movie theater. That’s a quaint-looking location on Fairfax I remembered passing by and wondering about quite a few times on the way to Hollywood. Battle Royale being one of the few movies that fall in the viewed-5-times-and-above category for me, I was tempted. Despite having owned and seen multiple DVD versions – The Regular version, the Extended Director’s Cut and the Uncut Edition had all appeared in National Market, I had never seen it in a theater. Further investigation revealed that the film had never seen a theatrical release in the US, thanks to the Columbine incident occurring the  same year it released in Japan. So this screening would be the first official screening, based on a high definition conversion of the upcoming Blu-ray release by Anchor Bay. All of the above reasons were enough for me to drop my plans of lying back on my couch with a purring cat on my belly and sipping on metaphorical pennyroyal tea. Off I went.

Needless to say, I had an amazing time, and even met O’Malley at the popcorn stand.

Cheesy and show-off-y picture proof

The last time I saw Battle Royale was in 2007. None of my love for the movie had waned in five years, but there was a strange outsider-level objectivity that crept in this time. I never realized, for example, how annoyingly earnest the two lead characters were. Both Shuya and Noriko were too sugary, too good to be true. Maybe it was the Hunger Games experience from a few weeks ago that had supplanted my blind devotion to this movie. Or maybe it was the manga I read a few years ago, which made the characters of Mitsuko and Kiriyama so much more engaging than the one-note killing machines they turn out in the movie. I also found myself chuckling along at some of the over-the-top acting – Nobu’s death, the dramatic gestures some of the students make when they exit the classroom at the beginning, Kitano’s star-tinted turn.

I like re-watching movies with different people. Primarily because of the fresh perspective such a viewing brings. The odd little reactions you happen to notice in others at scenes that you reacted to differently. Or because you are focusing on a something other than the primary plot and pay more attention to the details that passed you by the first time. Maybe a snatch of a soundtrack, an in-joke that you did not get the first time. Something that resonates from an article you read about the movie, maybe.

But real life has been catching up. I did not watch too many films the past couple of months, barring the occasional Laemmle marathon and the quickies at the Rave theaters next door to my office. I cannot seem to sit down before the laptop/TV and watch anything at a stretch. Terabytes of old movie dumps have been “liberated” on random whims, because I know I will never get around to watching them.

Yesterday, I went and watched Lagaan – this time with a group of people of which I knew only one. We made a proper movie evening out of it, with bhelpuri, samosas and popcorn aplenty and a generous smattering of enthusiasm in the audience, most of whom had seen it already. It was my 20th viewing of Lagaan, my obsession with that movie having lasted through multiple cities, different levels of Aamir-Khan-reaction and Rahman-adulation, and a constant loathing of cricket. (And yes, I started keeping count after the 8th viewing) I enjoyed it thoroughly. It still makes me laugh at the right story and character moments. Paul Blackthorne as Captain Russell and Chris England as Yardley fill me with fanboy glee, and I am tempted to reread England’s book as soon as I can (it’s called From Balham to Bollywood, and it was a great read the first time).

There is a peculiar happiness also to noticing the same somewhat-bloopers – like Bhuvan saying Radha’s husband is Anay, instead of the correct Ayan, or the presence of two cricketers named Smith and Wesson in the English XI, especially the fact that Elizabeth dances with just the two of them at the ball.  Thanks to the DVD being an American release, the scenes with the British characters alone had English dialogues, instead of Amitabh Bachchan’s baritone explaining the proceedings. We did skip over the ‘O Paalanhare’ song, which to me is the nadir of the movie, an unnecessary face-palm of a sequence rendered even more painful by Lata Mangeshkar’s voice. [ref]Earlier musings on Lagaan here and here. [/ref]

I spent a total of 4 hours on the bus, both ways. But totally worth it.

A two-week-long retrospective of Studio Ghibli films begins this Thursday. They include fifteen classic Miyazaki and Takahata films being screened at the Egyptian theater in Hollywood and the Aero theater in Santa Monica. I have made up my mind to attend every one of them. Sure, I own all the DVDs, and have seen the films multiple times, but the joy of the rewatch compells me. Besides, I’ve heard enough shit from pal Jussi about how he saw them screened in theaters in Helsinki and it’s high time I get back at him.

The only ones not being screened are EarthSea, Ponyo, Arrietty and Grave of the Fireflies. I can understand the absence of the fourth film, but not the first three. Oh well.

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Movies, Weirdness

Rockstar as Speculative Fiction

Imagine Hum Aapke Hai Kaun never happened.

For those who came in late, this was the 1994 film that brought a decisive end to the Curse of the Eighties plaguing the Indian film industry. Hum Aapke Hai Kaun brought back family audiences into movie theaters, which had by then become seedy outlets for vapid, formulaic movies. A year later, there was Dilwaale Dulhaniya Le Jaayenge, which cemented the resurgence of the family film and convincingly continued the trend. Indian cinema found new life, Bollywood became cool, and two decades later, here we are, where movie theaters are now very posh outlets for vapid, formulaic movies.

In a world without HAHK, this wouldn’t happen. People would not venture out to watch DDLJ, KKHH, K3G and the rest, Bollywood would continue its spiral into bankruptcy thanks to video piracy. Within a few years, film-making in India would have truly entered the Dark Ages. Movie theaters would only show soft porn, catering to the lowest denominator ponying up prices for movie tickets. The only kind of films that would be financed specifically for Indian audiences in such theaters would be soft porn – with titles like, I dunno, Junglee Jawani.

Bombay would fade away. Not economically, no, but the degeneration of its film industry would create a shift in the currents that brought people this city. In that vacuum, it is but logical to assume that India’s political capital would also become its cultural capital, the power center of the next generation of creativity. Delhi is where Indian pop culture would realign itself.

What would flourish? Music, of course. In the absence of Bollywood’s all-encompassing genre-mashups, music – and musical tastes – would evolve. Western classical would find favor in the halls of institutions like St Stephens, where theater students would perform to Bolero-inspired compositions, and Indian classical musicians would find renewed relevance. In addition to attaining wealth and honor that’s their due, classical musicians would also become mentors and star-makers, the equivalent of the A&R divisions of music companies, the ones with the power to decide the Next Big Thing.

What kind of music, you ask? Private albums, with music drawn from various genres and sources. Out-of-work film music composers become ghost arrangers, on the look-out for the next face that can highlight their antiquated compositions and arrangements. Electronic music, no longer surfing on Bollywood’s ear-friendly adoption, would fail to find acceptance on Indian shores.

Oh, and rock and roll. The North-eastern influence in Delhi ensures a vibrant atmosphere in which college festivals feature rock as a major highlight. Indian rock music evolves beyond 80s hair-band tropes, especially after investors from Europe’s new cultural capital, Prague, ensure that quality is given precedence. Audiences all over the world begin to appreciate songs in alien languages, and Indian compositions are no longer just sources of memetic mirth.

Imagine a world like that, a world where Hard Rock Cafes actually plays Hard Rock, where audiences in Indian rock concerts sing along to missing phrases. Where every track and album release is not accompanied by a club mix. Where sexy backup dancers and garish music videos are not necessary to market musicians and their compositions. A world where the posters you see on the street do not have actors or cricketers, but musicians. Where young college-going kids aspire to be Jim Morrison, not Shah Rukh Khan.

It is in this alternate world that the story of Janardan “Jordan” Jakhar is set. It is in this world that ‘Rockstar‘ makes sense.

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Movies

It Happened At Midnight

I never really liked the Harry Potter movies as much as I thought I would. I thought the first two were slavishly faithful to the books, Azkaban lost the stiff upper lip and balanced darkness and whimsy perfectly (probably because director Alfonso Cuaron wasn’t …British enough), while movies 4 onwards were examples of teal-and-orange-itis that film students of the future will study as a syndrome brought about by effect-heavy film budgets in the first decade of the 21st century.

It was not great cinema, not at all. But down the line, the Harry Potter movies did something not quite that unusual – they replaced the pastel-flavored imagery of Mary-Grand Pre, the watercolors and inks of Thomas Taylor and Cliff Wright in my mind, in our minds. For better or worse, Warner Brothers helped create the definitive mental picture of the Hogwarts class of ’98 and assorted environments in the HPverse.  Daniel Radcliffe was Harry Potter, gritted teeth and all, likewise Ms Watson, Mr Grint, Mr Rickman – oh hell yeah! – all of them became living versions of a fictional world. They grew up in real (or nearly real) time,  gaining Adam’s apples, cleavage and outstanding degrees of coolness ( I refer to Neville Longbottom. As a t-shirt I saw recently put it – and rightfully so – ‘Neville would have done it in 4 books.’).

With the exception of the Deathly Hallows Pt 1, however, I paid the piper his due, making biennial trips to the theater, regular, IMAX, 3D, whatever the producers chose to throw at me. Not great cinema, but a ritual that marked the passing of time, if you will. Now Deathly Hallows – I wanted to watch Pt 1 the same time as the second part came out, because of my unfortunate propensity to maintain a sense of continuity in whatever I consume ( blame it on comics, yes. And that is also why I am avoiding Breaking Bad as it begins its fourth season. I intend to see it in one marathon sitting, as the season concludes. Wish me luck.) But a cross-Atlantic flight entertainment system whispered temptation to my sleep-addled brain, and I gave in.

Deathly Hallows Pt 2 marks the end of one of the longest sequential narratives in cinema. Possible the longest with the same cast, if you do not count the Zatoichi films of Shintaro Katsu. (Correct me if I am wrong, ok?) I queued up for the last three books in the series, in a different city every time, with filter coffee and sambhar memories associated with each. And tears. Oh yeah, the last book made me cry, and at a very different point than what you would expect. And that is why the movie itself meant so much. I wanted to celebrate the event, and I am glad I could, with friends. The original plan was to hit the theater opposite my office on Friday afternoon, with as many people as possible. But Carmageddon loomed large, and we decided to watch it at midnight instead. People were beginning to queue from lunchtime on Thursday, most of them young boys and girls dressed as wizards and witches, with wands and scars and a whole lot of joie de vivre. I was a little more practical, having made up my mind to reach the theater not later than 10:00 PM. A brief moment of panic when I saw that the queue was no more, then the realization that people had been allowed in and could pick their own seats. Two hours of agonizing patience, more laughter, people trickling in, tubs of popcorn, The Dark Knight Rises trailer, and finally, the film. Two hours of it-all-ends-ing for a journey that lasted ten years. Applause. Cheering. Happiness. All was well.

But Neville would have still done it in 4 books.

                   

    

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Movies, Myself

Which movie?

No, this is not a quiz question. This is actually pretty embarrassing, but I am kind of in need of some pop culture help here.

So there was this Scandinavian film that I saw a few years ago. I say ‘Scandinavian’ because, among other things, I do not remember which language it was. What I remember is the storyline – ‘normal’ girl has issues, her boyfriend gets arrested, and she needs to find a job. She gets one at the local comic-book shop, and meets a quirky bunch of people there. The rest of the story follows a somewhat-predictable pattern, where she slowly becomes friends with her weird, RPG-loving co-workers. She hangs out with them, and role-plays with them in the evenings – and this is the cool part, the in-game story (where everyone is a stock RPG character, a warrior, a thief and so on) and the actual, real-world story kind of happen in parallel. It gets more interesting when the girl’s asshole boyfriend escapes from prison and comes to find her.

I enjoyed the movie quite a bit. Sure, it was cheesy at times and the fantasy sequences were not multi-million SFX events, but it was fun and made me laugh, and hey, it was set in a comicbook store. What’s not to like?

Now the embarrassing part – this is a movie I’ve recommended to other people before, and when I was trying to recollect the name recently, my mind went completely, totally blank. I know that the name of the film was the name of the comic-book shop, but no, the actual name eludes me. It drove me completely nuts last week. And the worst thing is, forgetting the name of this movie is only a small fragment in the grand scheme of things. I have this sneaking suspicion that I am beginning to lose my memory, slowly. Like my neurons are beginning to realize that they cannot spark and retrieve information when I need them to. It shows in the oddest of instances – like when my boss was talking about River Tam from Serenity, and forgot the name of the actress, and I realized I had too. I knew that she had acted in Dollhouse and The Big Bang Theory, hell, I even knew which episode of TBBT she appeared in, but I. Could. Not. Remember. Her. Name. (Summer Glau. It came to me a few hours later) Then the other day, I could not remember the Cornelia Funke book that I hated, about the father and daughter who bring stories to life. I remembered the Funke book that was not part of this series (The Thief Lord) and I even remembered the other Funke book that I had not read (Dragon Rider), and probably never will because I did not like her writing anyway. I had to Google for the answer, which was Inkheart.

There are three conclusions I draw from this:

  • I am getting old. My brain cells realize this and are slowly committing harakiri. I like that mental image, actually. Billions and billions of microscopic katana in my head slicing through axons (axii?) in I-am-too-old-for-this-shit bursts.
  • I think I am all set to become an unreliable narrator. I have a valid excuse.
  • This space intentionally left blank. I forgot what I had to say. (See? SEE?)
Post-script: Somewhere in the middle of writing this post, the name of the movie just popped in my head. And it was the audible, life-affirming sort of pop, like when you suddenly swallow and the buzzing in your ear goes away and everything sounds so much clearer. It does not do anything about my feeling of losing-it-all, but whew. I know what the name is. Yes, that defeats the whole purpose of this post, but hey, what’s a nice redundant post between friends, huh?
As you were, folks. Keep calm and carry on.
Post post-script: The name of the film, for those of you interested, is Astrópía. It’s Icelandic. Here’s a link to the trailer. The US release of the film, according to IMDB is Dorks and Damsels. Pardon me while I vomit all over my keyboard.
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Movies

Two Films

I am not a Woody Allen guy at all, but Midnight in Paris is hardly a Woody Allen film.

Its a film for every person who’s ever been disillusioned with the present, and wondered how much better life would have been ‘back then’ – ‘then’ standing in for any time period in the past that strikes one’s fancy. For Gil Prenders, Hollywood screenwriter and self-proclaimed hack , the time to be in is the 1920’s. In Paris of the twenties, to be precise, where the likes of Hemingway, F Scott Fitzgerald and TS Eliot discussed poetry in bars and soirees; Picasso, Matisse and Dali were starting off on their careers, and Cole Porter serenaded the city of lights and the  colorful inhabitants in its nightclubs. Prenders, played by Owen Wilson, floats the idea of settling down in Paris for good. But his all-American fiancee Inez (Amy Adams) and her moneybag parents have different ideas. ‘Cheap is cheap’, sniggers his future mother-in-law at his choice of jewellery and his reluctance to spend upwards of 20 thousand dollars on a set of antique armchairs, while Inez chooses to go dancing with a bunch of friends rather than humor Gil and his fanciful romanticization of Paris. As Gil wanders through the streets of Paris, the clock strikes midnight, and …  stuff happens. Go watch.

Oh, and this is probably the only film where I’ve liked Owen Wilson as an actor. And the supporting case – Kathy Bates, Adrien Brody, Carla Bruni in a surprising cameo. If you like literature and film and the idea of walking in the rain in Paris, this movie is for you.

The opening sequence to the film is a beautiful piece by Sidney Bechet, that I’ve been listening in a loop since.

 

Incendies was Canada’s official entry to the Oscar this year, and it’s a darn shame that the film did not win. It’s definitely the most hard-hitting film I’ve seen since 2005 – no, I am not saying which one. Directed by Denis Villeneuve, based on a play (which apparently runs 4 hours), this film would have totally gone under my radar had I not seen the trailer at Laemmle while watching 13 Assassins a few weeks ago.

The premise is this – twin children, son and daughter. Their mother dies and leaves them individual letters in her will. The son has to deliver a letter to their brother(who they never knew existed), and the daughter has to deliver one to their father(who was presumed dead in a war). This takes both of them on a journey to their mother’s roots in the Middle-east, and a lot of revelations. The story is told in a brilliant non-linear style involving the mother’s life in the past interspersed with the siblings’ journey in the present, and all of it winds down to a terrific, searing climax. Unbelievably good.

 

The film begins with Radiohead’s ‘You and Whose Army’, originally used in Kingdom of Heaven.

Seriously, fuck Super 8, X-men and all that stuff playing in the theaters right now. They’ll play on cable TV later, and you could watch them even with ad-breaks. Go watch these two movies. One’s a downer, the other leaves with you a dazed smile. Both of them are awesome.

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