Azhar: Review

Mohammad Azharuddin may or may not have sold out his team and country, but at least he was never boring. One cannot say the same for Azhar, Tony D’Souza’s inert biopic on the former Indian captain. The film focuses on everything that made Azhar controversial—the match-fixing allegations that got him banned from the sport, his leaving his first wife for actress Sangeeta Bijlani—and pays little attention to what made him memorable : the elegance of his batting, his cat-like fielding, the lazy nonchalance, the popped collar.

Considering Azharuddin reportedly allowed the film to be made only after he’d approved the script, it shouldn’t surprise anyone to learn that Azhar is completely convinced of its subject’s innocence. Rajat Arora’s screenplay jumps back and forth in time, showing Azhar (Emraan Hashmi) at various stages of his career, from his troika of centuries on debut to his first meeting with bookie MK Sharma (D’Souza is so enamored of this scene that he uses it twice). We also check in at regular intervals on the court case that eventually saw him cleared of fixing charges in 2012. The proceedings are comical, not because the defense attorney (Kunal Roy Kapur) is buffoonish, but because the arguments offered by the prosecuting lawyer (Lara Dutta) are so ridiculous they wouldn’t stand up in a food court, let alone a court of law.

Almost in spite of itself, the film does manage a moment or two of insight. Anyone who remembers Azhar’s cliché-ridden post-match interviews with fondness should at least crack a smile during the courtship scene between him and his first wife, Naureen (Prachi Desai), in which he’s shown as incapable of carrying on a conversation without slipping into cricket-ese. There’s also the scene in which the president of the cricket board offers the soft-spoken cricketer the Indian team captaincy and simultaneously hazes him, making him shout over a recording of a noisy crowd just to prove he can raise his voice when needed.

Scenes like these work because they riff on the Azhar we once knew. But the film isn’t interested in bringing him down to our level—it wants to raise him back to where he used to be. Even if Azhar wasn’t so sketchily written and the cricket scenes weren’t so tacky, this would be a tall order. The makers might have been better off trying to explain how he pulled off those impossible leg glances rather than how he took (but didn’t actually take) money to throw matches.

This review appeared in Mint.

Pelé: Birth of a Legend: Review

Let’s start with the obvious problem. A Pelé biopic after all these years—and it’s in English? The least that the film’s directors, Jeff and Michael Zimbalist, could have done was attempt a Slumdog Millionaire: 15 minutes in the characters’ mother tongue and English thereafter. But all anyone speaks—from little kids in the favelas to Swedish journalists—in Pelé: Birth of a Legend is English. Which is no surprise, given that the film is made with Hollywood money, for an audience that calls the sport soccer, not football.

The first scene shows the 10-year-old Pelé and his friends kicking a ball through the favela without allowing it to touch the ground, a style of practice that the Brazilian national team has made famous. It’s an energetic opening, played a little too broadly by the kids, but fun nevertheless. Things start getting impossibly broad, though, when Pelé is mocked by a rich boy whose home his mother works at, and later, destroys him and his teammates in a local game. Years later, the rich kid, José “Mazolla” Altafini, and Pelé both find themselves on the national team.

Pelé did come from grinding poverty so maybe, just maybe, his mother might have worked at Mazolla’s house. But there are smarter ways to tell a story without resorting to such simplistic antagonisms. It isn’t just what the film suggests but how it says it. To convince us that he changed the outlook of the Brazilian team (thus overhauling their entire game plan) just before the 1958 World Cup final, the film shows Pelé’s teammates, on his urging, recreating the opening sequence, this time kicking a ball through a Swedish hotel without letting it touch the ground. It’s ridiculous, and when the real Pelé turns up in the middle of it all, the genuflection is dispiriting.

The immense responsibility of portraying Pelé falls on Leonardo Lima Carvalho and Kevin de Paula, who play him at age 10, and from 13 through 17, respectively. Both actors have visible skills with the ball, even if they’re aided by an inordinate amount of slo-mo and visual trickery. Vincent D’Onofrio has walked a thin line between dramatic acting scenery-chewing and outrageous hamming in recent times; his turn as the Brazilian national coach is notable for the accent he sports, which is less intelligible than the speech of any of the Brazilian actors in the movie. A.R. Rahman’s score is flashy and fairly unremarkable; the same can be said for Matthew Libatique’s cinematography. All in all, the sort of hagiographic biopic one expects when the person being profiled is the executive producer.

This review appeared in Mint.

Captain America: Civil War: Review

In the past six weeks, we’ve seen two releases in which it’s proposed that superheroes be brought under government control, which in turn sparks off conflict between two heavyweights. The first was Batman v Superman: Dawn Of Justice, which even the less rabid fanboys admitted was terrible. The other is Captain America: Civil War, which is very impressive—for a comic book movie. Qualities that one would take for granted in any other genre—economy of expression, plot dynamics, occasional moments of insight or beauty—are overvalued when it comes to superhero films. Already, one can hear the hosannas ring out, calling Civil War a watershed moment for the genre.

To an extent, they might be right. The third film in the Captain America series is well-paced, reasonably well-written, patient enough to set up a story strand instead of forcing it, and—despite all the colliding storylines—admirably coherent. To manage all these things in a multi-superhero movie is some sort of achievement (the overloaded Avengers: Age Of Ultron and the grimy Batman v Superman showed different ways to mess that up). Civil War builds on the atmosphere of paranoia and mistrust of authority developed in Captain America: The Winter Soldier, but is self-aware enough to bring in sparkier players whom Cap, the eternal straight man, can play off of.

After a brief flashback involving a Hydra-controlled Bucky Barnes (Sebastian Stan) who is up to no good, the film gets under way with a ripping sequence that—possibly because it involves a stake-out in a crowded marketplace in Lagos—has the feel of a Daniel Craig Bond film. Captain America (Chris Evans), Black Widow (Scarlett Johansson), Falcon (Anthony Mackie) and Wanda Maximoff (Elizabeth Olsen) prevent the theft of a biological weapon, but also inadvertently cause loss of life and property. This leads to government authorities introducing an Act which will bring superheroes under UN supervision and prevent them from acting unilaterally. Iron Man (Robert Downey Jr) is for it, as is War Machine (Don Cheadle). But Cap’s faith in the government has been shaken by the events of The Winter Soldier, and he refuses to sign. Soon, he’s on the run and Iron Man is the one tasked with bringing him back.

Once battle lines have been drawn, the film begins its most pleasurable stretch as the two Avengers start recruiting superheroes from various Marvel franchises for their respective teams. Black Widow and War Machine join Iron Man, who makes a trip to the home of a teenager named Peter Parker (Tom Holland). Cap, meanwhile, adds Hawkeye (Jeremy Renner), Ant-Man (Paul Rudd), Falcon and Maximoff to his side. There’s a new hero as well: Black Panther, played with welcome gravitas by the talented Chadwick Boseman. And there’s Barnes, the Winter Soldier, who is Team Cap when he isn’t snapping into Hydra assassin mode.

The twin recruitment drives culminate in a delightful extended battle that outclasses the crowded sequences in Age Of Ultron in both imagination and humour. For 20 minutes, directors Joe and Anthony Russo throw a series of wouldn’t-it-be-cool superhero stand-off scenarios at us: Iron Man fending off Ant-Man, Spider-Man shooting webs at Captain America (regretfully—he’s a fan), Black Panther trying to rip Barnes from limb to limb. Even though very little is at stake here—there’s no way Marvel’s allowing one of its heroes to kill another—the sequence left me with a sensation I wouldn’t normally associate with tent-pole releases or superhero films: one of buoyancy.

After the dust settles, the film returns to a more sober consideration of the ideological divide and where that leaves the Avengers. There’s a running subplot about a terrorist (played by Daniel Brühl) messing with Barnes’ head, but that’s just a way to bring Cap and Iron Man together and let them have a knock-down-drag-out fight. It’s interesting to see a summer blockbuster deliver its big set piece in the middle and end on an ambiguous, unsettled note. With a succession of movies starring jester superheroes—the Guardians crew, Ant-Man, Deadpool—in the last two years, Marvel seemed in danger of becoming a little too in on the joke. With Civil War, it seems to have found its balance.

Sairat: Keeping it real

(Wrote this for the Lounge website a couple of days after Sairat released. A close reading of the film, so there are spoilers.)

In an interview with The Hindu, Nagraj Manjule spoke about the linguistic subtleties of the word “sairat”—Marathi for all-consuming passion or obsession, and the name of his new film. “The word can have both positive and negative connotations,” he said. “For you, it might imply freedom of thought, liberation and progressive ideas but to another person, it could mean sheer wildness and recklessness.”

Though Manjule’s films are built on progressive ideas, recklessness tends to have the upper hand in them. His first feature, 2013’s Fandry, was about a lower-caste boy infatuated with an upper-caste girl who goes to his school. In one wrenching scene, the boy and his family chase after a pig as the villagers gather around and make fun of them. The film ends with a stone hurled at the camera, the consequences of which are unspecified, but almost certainly dire. The warning was there for all to see: Manjule was unafraid of following his stories through to their logical, unhappy conclusion and hurling these conclusions at us, the audience.

Though Sairat is also about a lower-caste college-goer, Parshya, in love with an upper-caste girl, Archie, its initial stretch bears little resemblance to Manjule’s first film. Our first glimpse of Parshya—mid-leap, staring sideways at the camera, as if itching to break the fourth wall—encourages the idea that this is a commercial film, with all its attendant suspensions of disbelief, and not a bare bones indie like Fandry. Had Sairat ended with Parshya and Archie on the run, having escaped her politician father’s goons, it would have been a fairly standard, if uncommonly charming, film about how young love overcomes all obstacles. The first hour and a half is close to wish fulfilment—gutsy heroine, sweet-natured hero, selfless friends and enemies who can be outrun and outwitted.

But when Sairat returns after the break, it’s a very different film. If the earlier half was about the impracticality of passion, the latter half reminds us that for love to survive in the real world, practical considerations are of the utmost importance. In Mani Ratnam’s Alaipayuthey, remade in Hindi as Saathiya, viewers were shown what happens when the excitement of new love is replaced by the real business of making a life together. Manjule’s film is even blunter, turning a commercial musical comedy, swooping camera movements and all, into a kitchen sink drama. Ajay-Atul’s buoyant music is replaced by silences that weigh heavy on the characters, and on us. Archie, so decisive in the village, becomes withdrawn, and the hitherto unsure Parshya takes charge. The film begins to ask questions we don’t want answers to, like whether Archie, who’s used to a comfortable life, will stick it out with her husband in a slum. There’s a huge fight, and though it’s eventually resolved, Parshya comes close to hanging himself. As the contrite lovers embraced, I noticed the very deliberate framing of the scene, with the noose hanging down beside them. It felt like a warning.

Looming in the back of my mind as I watched Sairat were memories of Ek Duuje Ke Liye and LSD: Love, Sex Aur Dhoka, part of a small group of films that remind us how, nine times out of 10, tradition will snuff out free love in this country. I was also reminded of Michael Haneke’s unremittingly bleak Funny Games. Though Sairat may seem miles away from the cold brutality of that film, both derive their sting from the way they play with audience expectations—raising hopes, dashing them, then raising them again. After Parshya’s near-suicide, Manjule compresses the couple’s next few years into a montage. He finds work in an auto service shop, the factory she works at promotes her, they have a child together, and life seems impossibly happy. Impossibly.

Parshya and Archie’s toddler walks in on his unsteady bare feet and finds his parents lying on the floor, exhausted but happy. They hug him and say, you’re going to meet your grandfather. A couple of weeks later, they’re in Archie’s home in the village. Father and daughter have made up, and son-in-law has been accepted as part of the family. There’s a quick song, then end credits. And the audience gets up, says, phew, that was a close one, he almost killed himself.

This is the ending we’d want. But we know it isn’t the right one. There’s something wishful about a headline that reads “Eloping lovers welcomed back by parents”. “Inter-caste couple hacked to death by family” is far more realistic. What is truly shocking isn’t the way Sairat ends, but the idea that a film like Sairat could end this way. All those songs and dances, the bravado and hope, is revealed to be an elaborate smokescreen, a way to reel audiences in, to lull them into complacency. Then, just like that, Manjule snaps his fingers and says, wake up.

Filmish: A Graphic Journey Through Film

One of the notable innovations in recent film criticism has been the advent of the video essay. You’ll see hundreds of examples online: short to mid-length films that seek to solve cinematic problems or throw light on a particular area of the film. The simple fact that actual film clips can be used, freeze-framed, magnified and layered with narration makes this a remarkably viewer-friendly form of criticism, as evinced by the popularity of essayists such as Kevin B. Lee or Tony Zhou.

Edward Ross’ Filmish: A Graphic Journey Through Film brings the spirit of the video essay to print. There are seven chapters—“The Eye”; “The Body”; “Sets And Architecture”; “Time”; “Voice And Language”; “Power And Ideology”; “Technology And Technophobia”—but each is further divided into explorations of specific themes, usually a page or two long. The chapter on time, for instance, begins with a discussion on editing, then goes on to consider films that appear to unfold in real time (High Noon, Cleo From 5 To 7) and others whose narratives play elaborate time games (Happy End, Memento). The next two pages are dedicated to the time-travel genre, before it closes with films in which time and memory and personal history are fused and often confused (Hiroshima Mon Amour, Waltz With Bashir, The Mirror).

While it wouldn’t be impossible for a skilled critic to cover similar ground in a written essay, the graphic medium is ideally suited for a series of quick, concise arguments (as is the video essay). That Ross can, in the space of a few panels, jump genres and eras and bring together films as disparate as The Terminator and La Jetée as part of the same overarching argument is what makes Filmish so provocative and enjoyable. It would make a great companion piece to Mark Cousins’ 15-part The Story Of Film: An Odyssey, or Slavoj Žižek’s The Pervert’s Guide To Cinema and The Pervert’s Guide To Ideology, documentaries which delight in confounding conventional thinking about cinema.

Some readers might wonder why a fair number of Ross’ illustrations bear only a passing resemblance to their filmic counterparts; the Will Smith drawn on page 41 looks more like Eminem. I would argue that an exact likeness is beside the point and that Ross’ illustrations are occasionally stunning but largely functional—at the service of his arguments, which is where the primary interest of the book lies. What did bother me somewhat, though, is Ross’ tendency to pepper each page with quotes by critics, academics and cultural theorists. It could be that Ross, not being a film critic himself, feels like he must use other critics’ arguments to bolster his own very entertaining theories, which is understandable, but the exact citations could nevertheless have been relegated to the endnotes.

Ross works as an illustrator, writer and comic artist in Edinburgh. Filmish is his first graphic novel, and though it’s autobiographical only in a couple of places, he does utilize a cartoon version of himself—with square spectacles and hints of scruff on his face—as narrator, much like Scott McCloud did in Understanding Comics. That 1993 graphic novel is now seen as a key work of comic book criticism. Whether Filmish attains comparable cult status remains to be seen, but it will certainly light, or further stoke, the fires of cinephilia in the minds of those who read it.

This review appeared in Mint Lounge.

Baaghi: Review

When Baaghi’s trailers arrived in March, everyone was surprised to note similarities between it and the 2012 Indonesian film The Raid: Redemption. After all, Indian action cinema is known for its striking originality and, in those rare cases where inspiration is found elsewhere, its scrupulousness in acknowledging sources. So what if both films involve a high-rise with trained killers on every floor and a martial arts expert fighting his way up? The Raid was a distillation of brutal movement and impact. Baaghi has songs and dances and a love story. Entirely different.

In the end, the surprise isn’t how blatantly The Raid is copied, but the surprising effectiveness of those scenes. They only make up around 20 minutes of a 150-minute film and while they cannot match the sustained ferocity of Gareth Evans’ sequences, they have a respect for spatial geography and a tendency to show blows and kicks delivered (rather than cutting at the moment of impact), which is rare for Indian action cinema. Tiger Shroff is competent at best as a lover, a comic and a dramatic actor, but he’s quite a sight when he’s fighting onscreen. The scenes with him kicking and punching his way to the top of the building are gritty fun despite being completely derivative. But to see these, you have to sit through the rest of the film, which is hardly fair.

In short, then: rebellious Ronny (Shroff) and film actor Siya (Shraddha Kapoor) meet on a train bound for Kerala. They banter (not very intelligently) and begin to fall in love. He joins a kalaripayattu academy run by Guruswamy (Shaurya Bhardwaj), whose son, Raghav (Sudheer Babu), also falls for Siya. No sooner has Ronny become a martial arts pro than Raghav kidnaps Siya and whisks her off to Bangkok (director Sabbir Khan has said that his inspiration was the Ramayana, not The Raid). Two hours later, having endured Kapoor’s aren’t-I-just-precious routine, Babu’s very good impression of a block of wood with a smirk painted on it and a mute child who isn’t mute enough, we reach the high-rise.

It’s a quick jog to the end from there on, and the best stretch of the film. It’s nice to see an Indian film sling a few convincing action scenes together, yet it’s also depressing to think that we’d probably never have been able to work out such sequences if there hadn’t been a ready template. But then, that’s what we do best: imitate a superior product and package it as rebellion.

This review appeared in Mint.

The Huntsman: Winter’s War: Review

Mirror, mirror on the wall, is this the most unlikely sequel of all? When Snow White And The Huntsman ended, according to the fairy tale, with the titular princess safe and the Evil Queen Ravenna dead, it didn’t seem that another film was on anyone’s mind. But $396 million at the box office is enough to send even the most stoic studio executives back to the drawing board. Which is probably why we now have Cedric Nicolas-Troyan’s The Huntsman: Winter’s War, with Ravenna (Charlize Theron) alive and up to no good in the first scene.

The Huntsman begins its story several years before the events of the first film. We learn that Ravenna had a younger sister, Freya (Emily Blunt), who was in love with a duke and had a child who was burnt alive by him (if you aren’t even a little suspicious about his motives, your credulity levels are exactly where the studios want them to be). Distraught, Freya turns the duke into a pillar of ice, then heads off north, pillaging, establishing a vast, frozen kingdom and training young children she’s orphaned to be emotionally comatose warriors. Her two best fighters are Eric (Chris Hemsworth, reprising his role from the earlier film) and Sara (Jessica Chastain), who fall in love. After Freya literally drives a wall between them, Eric escapes, believing Sara to be dead.

She isn’t. Why would anyone believe that an actor with close-to-top billing in a big-budget film would be dead 30 minutes in? The rest of The Huntsman is a series of waits: for Sara to make a reappearance, for her to believe that Eric didn’t leave her there to die, for the two of them to rekindle their romance and, with the help of a quartet of dwarves, take on Freya, who only has a huge army and magical powers. There’s a nice cameo that lifts the film in the last 20 minutes, but the sheer predictability that informs every scene—every line, really—is mind-numbing.

Surprisingly, the one redeeming feature in the film is the CGI work, which is imaginative and beautiful in a way that CGI rarely is. I didn’t feel anything for the wacko pairing of Hemsworth and Chastain, or for Rob Brydon and Nick Frost’s mugging as the dwarves, or Blunt’s icy depression, but found myself quite enamoured of the miniature disappearing elves, the sparkling columns of ice, the polar bear-tiger that Freya rides and the mirror taking a molten, familiar shape. But a few inspired moments can’t keep The Huntsman from seeming like the unwanted sequel to a film no one thought of very highly in the first place.

This review appeared in Mint.