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A Commoner in Cannes

I have been going to film festivals here and there over the past few years. Devouring movies in jam-packed schedules – three a day on average, eight my highest – while cramming in dark halls with droves of people, scavenging on cheap fast food, sleeping on questionable beds, and almost always falling ill after is a charm to me. It makes me feel like I am giving my passion for film its rightful due. The golden trio of Venice, Berlin and Cannes has always been the end goal; the latter a pipe dream as it has never really been open to the public. So far, my only options of getting in Cannes had been either making a damn fine movie or sleeping with someone in the industry… until they announced a special programme this year catering to young film buffs. All I had to do was (1) be between 18 and 28 (2) write a motivation letter, and I got selected to spend three days at the festival with a surprisingly good access. 

First day went by in a blur. As I was walking from the station to my accommodation, I saw the lead actor from Dheepan sipping his coffee on a terrace. I was left a nervous wreck trying to hold a conversation with him, and it had only been five minutes since reaching Cannes. Rest of the day, I walked along the Croisette in a bid to learn the ropes of the festival. Some things were easy to grasp: The ‘Village International’ with pavilions from different countries is a great spot to grab free drinks and snacks. The ‘Marché du Film’ has so much junk that one would hope not see the light of day. The ‘Palais’, the main venue with all the screens, has free coffee. Then there was the ‘Plage’ with beach screenings that are open to the public. I spent my first night there watching Grease. John Travolta was present, clad in a tight denim jacket. A forty-something lady sitting next to me went nuts.

Learning how to attend the most of the screenings, on the other hand, took me as long as the festival lasted. The accreditation I received allowed me to go to every screening – except the ones in Lumière, which require an invitation. But what with the infamous caste system in queueing to my disadvantage, the only way I could get in a screening was if I had been at least two hours prior. Every time I missed getting in, I beat myself up with a dose of shoulda-woulda-coulda. (I should not have taken that long route, scenic as it was. I would have made it if not for that stop at the sandwich place.) I would later learn that the best way is not to be picky about the movies, get in and out of the same screen, and give up on three meals a day plus eight hours of sleep. I had a friend who would leave the house at 7am, get back at 2am the next day and load up on a whole day’s worth pasta. Rinse and repeat.

I ended up watching six of the movies in competition. I loved Burning, hated Capharnaüm, and slept through Three Faces. My favorite cinema moment of this festival was in Dogman, a fantastic small movie portraying a dog-loving man in a dog-eat-dog world. The titular dog-groomer Marcello (a star-making performance from Marcello Fonte) brings his wounded friend/bully Simone to his mother looking for aid. The mother, on discovering that her son is still doing cocaine, throws a tantrum and rips open the bag scattering all the cocaine. Simone pulls her into a bear hug, seemingly showing remorse. As the camera slowly zooms out, we see that this hug is just so that Marcello can scour the cocaine off the floor behind her back. This was tragicomedy at its finest.

I was lucky enough to get Lumière invites twice. While the first was from a chance encounter with a kind, slightly tipsy woman that had an extra ticket, the second involved a three hour wait at the last minute access line. The dress code is strict for the gala screenings; I ended up renting a tuxedo. Walking on the red carpet, half-blinded by the camera lights was a lifetime high for me. Another high was spotting the celebrities. Cate Blanchett was as gorgeous as she ought to be. Kristen Stewart looked comfortable in her flats. Sting and Shaggy seemed cocky and trash. Thierry Frémaux French-pff’d at my friend for standing in his way. My kindest encounter was with a National Award-winning film critic from India who offered to ferry me goodies from Chennai (go figure!). 

As I am home now, reminiscing, I ask myself: Did I make the most of this incredible opportunity? Probably not! I wish I had seen more movies. I wish I rose to the occasion, made some contacts in the industry, and maybe even pitched some scripts-in-progress. But I am grateful. I am grateful for the wonderful people that I met, with whom I could discuss the movies of both Nuri Bilge Ceylan and Ron Howard in same detail. I am grateful for the great cinema that I got to watch. I am grateful for such a close peek at the film industry; watching its cogs turn was equal parts frustrating and fascinating. Something something, it’s Tinseltown!

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American Honey

2016, Andrea Arnold

The female gaze in the movies always interests me. In my very short tryst with the French New Wave, I noticed how differently the standard-issue themes of the wave - existentialism (that sometimes flirts with nihilism), awareness of the problem of reality, and an unsettling penchant for despair are handled between the movies of the men and those of Agnes Varda. Not that the aesthetic becomes more nuanced or sensitive with the women, but it... just enters a terrain where the sensibilities are of a different kind.

Fish Tank by Andrea Arnold is one classic example: the camera lingers little longer than necessary, the blocks give room for coy glances and hesitant touches, the cuts hurry when the protagonist errs, the sex is more of the passionate variety, and sometimes the shots stare into the void or at the dust accumulating on a window sill. Arnold lets you soak in the lyrical beauty of the mundane. I started following her oeuvre religiously after that, small as it is.

American Honey is nothing short. The canvas becomes huge compared to her other movies (from an apartment building in Red Road, a ghetto in Fish Tank, to the roads of a whole country here), but the portrait remains intimate. Following the journey of a young woman (breakout performance from Sasha Lane, aptly named Star in the movie) wanting to taste freedom, we take car trips through central America listening to hip hop with the boys and Rihanna with the girls, we meet her friends, their pets, her lovers, their insecurities, we ponder the economic divide in a capitalist country, we see a reflection of her past, we learn that she can not swim. I didn't care much for the half-baked love story, would rather have known more about the eclectic group of characters that surround her. But then, we are following the story of this woman who is not very willing to invest in others yet, she seems like she is just discovering the world - the child-like wonder at the insects and the animals is fitting imagery. When she finally plunges into the waters, it is almost as if you can taste the freedom too.

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Anjali Mudra

Hey, cute guy from the yoga class! I first saw you when I was in Ardha Chandrasana – Half Moon Pose. Framed inside the expansive triangle formed by the limbs of the lissome girl in front of me was you. Your face. Your dainty curls. My delight. You were late that day. You were in your gingham pants, which I would later come to realize is the only pair I have seen you in. Did you know that the word ‘gingham’ comes from Malay? Sure you did. You look sophisticated, college-educated even.

‘In Anjali Mudra,’ our teacher always says, ‘the knuckles at the bottoms of the fingers shall not touch. Create space between the palms and fingers of the two hands, resembling a flower, yet to open.’ It warms the nooks of my insides, that visual metaphor, especially on that day when I laid my mat next to yours. As we flexed and buckled through the routine, I happened to have brushed against your left arm and left knee, respectively during Virabahadarshana – Warrior Pose I, and Mayurasana – Peacock Pose. I was blushing throughout, like a shy convent boy on Ritalin.

We nod at each other nowadays. After twelve successive Wednesday evening classes, we have become acquaintances now. You even let me borrow your spare purple mat last week when I complained  that mine gets too slippery in Adho Mukha Svansana – Downward-Facing Dog Pose, which brings me to the point: I contracted a fungal infection in my feet now. Tinea pedis – in common terms, athlete’s foot. My bare feet never touched another public surface, I am almost sure it’s yours. It would have been okay if it were Chlamydia, or even Gonorrhea, that would have necessitated a contact of a pleasurable kind between us. But, no, it had to be this common-place infection. So trite. Anyway wash your feet regularly. And keep them dry. Namaste.

[iniyavanelumalai-blog]

Leiden Film Festival: Day 2

Snowden: This very long, ham fist of a movie from ol' man Oliver Stone offers nothing inspiring despite an effective lead performance. Ironically, the original documentary Citizen Four is more intense and thrilling than this so-called dramatization.

Sing Street: I haven't had this much fun in a long time at the cinema. I laughed heartily, sang along with the peppy songs (what fun are they!), cared for the characters like I knew them, welled up at... the wonderful, wonderful ending - this little Irish film reminds us what the movies are made for. This warms your heart, like that last sip of tea on a cold winter day with just the right amount of honey.

Burn Your Maps: This filmmaker had a very unique plot, a great cast (Jacob Tremblay is impeccable again) and above all, a sweet sweet setting, but the end product made me feel frustrated at how better it could have been. He has his heart in the right place, just needs a little bit of homework.

[iniyavanelumalai-blog]

Leiden Film Festival 2016: Day 1

Certain Women: The leading ladies with their remarkable acting calibre shine in this meditative low-key drama. Lily Gladstone and Kristen Stewart especially are so good I could bawl for days watching them ride a horse together.

Swiss Army Man: The eccentricities and whimsies are all A-fun. The film struggles though when it tries to take itself seriously. The very effectively-used soundtrack is a delight.

Arrival: I remember audibly gasping at the slow-burn reveal while reading the original short story. It's only a testament to the fine filmmaking capabilities of Villeneuve that I get to have that wonderful 'oh shit, everything is piecing together' feeling again. This is a keeper, an instant sci-fi classic joining the likes of Contact and Interstellar - in fact, more cerebral and cohesive than the crop.

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Beautiful Strangers

Some of them have acne scars. Red, purple and fairly scattered in interesting patterns. Fiddling with discarded cigarette butts, they make playful noises. They sometimes have names.  Muffled, them, when you lean close to hear. Their beer glasses are usually half-empty, Half-full when the music starts. Stories they tell usually feature a red-scarved salmon, highly-functional Oriental acrobats and a bobby pin, in no order. They don't usually sign their books for you. Write poems on the insides of your palms, they do. They always carry fresh, ripe tomatoes in their bags. Cheese melting in the fringes, the sandwiches they eat are divine. Hiding under the blankets, they sneeze and burp. Sometimes, they walk with you, take pictures with you, teach you waltz, kiss you. As the birds chirp and the songs cease, they all disappear under their thick hooded sweaters.

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உன் நிழல்களில் என் விடை

என் பால்கனியிலிருந்து தினமும் உன்னையும் உன் நிழல்களையும் பார்த்துக்கொண்டுதான் இருக்கிறேன். அதிகாலை பால் வாங்க வரும் உன் நிழலில் கண்விழிப்பேன் அன்றைய முதல் சிகரெட்டின் புகையில், அவ்வளவு சிறப்பாய் தெரியாவிடினும் இனிதாய் தொடங்கும் என் நாள்.

உனக்குப்பின் பள்ளிக்குச் செல்லும் உன் காலை நிழலையும், காலடியில் தொலைந்து தவழ்கிற உன் மதிய உணவுவேளை நிழலையும் விடுமுறைகளில் தவறத்தான் விடுகிறேன். இன்ஜினியரிங் அக்கா டியுஷனுக்கு செல்லும் உன் அந்தி மாலை நிழல் வாரத்துக்கு இருமுறை தான்.

தையல் கிளாஸ் முடிந்து வரும் உன் முன் இரவு நிழல் எனக்கு மிக விருப்பம். உன் அன்றைய கலர் கலர் படைப்புகள், அந்த தாவணிக்கு ஒத்த வளையல்கள், உன் தம்பியின் அரைக்கால் சட்டை என அனைத்தும் நீளமாய் கருமையாய் என் ஆறிப்போன மாலைக்காப்பியை அழகூட்டும்.

இவ்வாறு ஏழு மாதங்கள் கடந்து போக, ஒரு ஞாயிற்றுக்கிழமை குளியலில் விடை கிடைத்தது. நிழலின் நீளம் cotθ*வைச் சார்ந்தது.

 *θ = சூரியனுக்கும் தொடுவானத்துக்கும் இடைப்பட்டகோண

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தொலைந்தவை

தலையணையின் அடிப்பக்க சுகத்தில், தொலைந்துதான் போகின்றன: அணைக்க மறந்த ஐ-பாடில் எஞ்சிய பாடல்கள், சில ஈஸ்ட்மென் கலர் கனவுகள், மற்றும் உன் அரைகுறை முத்தங்கள்.

[iniyavanelumalai-blog]

By the side of the canals, I sat and wrote

       As I lay back against the chequered back-rest of one very decrepit bench amidst my grocery shopping in the city centrum, I am heavily reminded of the same day a month back. After all the last-minute shopping and visiting far-off relatives as a part of I-am-going-abroad-you-can-give-me-some-farewell-present--if-you-would agenda, the moment that I had been dreading for long had finally arrived. I was bidding goodbye to everything that constituted me over the past twenty years, but for a few frayed paperback novels, some photographs and good old memories that were travelling with me.  

   My life over the past had been a simple retelling of what one can call the life of a quintessential small town Indian lad. I did not get to be in a happening party every other Friday night; Not every lane that I come across can easily pass off as a potential shooting spot for an extravagant song video; I did not have to indulge in some exciting culinary experiments, neither was I a part of an uber cool mix of people. You can tear off a random page of my journal and paste it in any other Indian middle-class guy's - you would notice not a difference. Nevertheless, after doing all those mundane necessities of the day, I had a place to go back to. A place with no dirty dishes, with no tables clouded in mounting assignments, with no stale feeling of loneliness but with a largess of warmth and comfort.  

   The moment of parting my home was fleeting. Clouded by a disturbing mix of emotions, I was taking a leap of faith - on my choice, on my ability, on a few mails from the international office, on that big flight hovering right above the land that had been my crutch throughout my life. The flight journey, the meet and greet and my first few days here are still a set of hazy memories to me. Loads of marginally insensible questions were marring my conscience: did I really take that decision that led me here? has it been a part of the plan? did I just realise my dream? do I want to go back to the warmth that I can see through those short-lived Skype calls? The problem was that my answer was yes to all of the questions. 

   It took a few days, a survival cafe and lots of warm smiles from those tall strangers for me to realise that this is just what I wanted all the time. Living in a box, paying my own bills, cooking expeditions, exacting assignments, grocery shopping - all of those suddenly stopped being intimidating. I started feeling myself after all those days of numbness. I got back to doing things that I used to do.     I feed the pigeons with left-over french-fries; I stop and have a look at those white tiles on the road with some incomprehensible dutch verses; I hunt for some interesting pebbles underneath my box; I give thumbs-up to the cars that wait for me to cross; I listen to amazing lectures; I take pictures; I sit at those benches by the canal banks and write; I walk along the winds; I smile.

   A month! And I am already falling in love.

[iniyavanelumalai-blog]

Some Stories, Better Untold

Opens the unsolicited zipper, its rugged teeth giving away. Belching, arrives a steam engine with the tail of a pipette rear. A school of frayed leopards, limbs intertwined, jet out. Along hops the wayward friend, a riduculously grissled bear. Greeting the open fins of uniformly red-scarved salmons, the party commences, all seated on the ridges of an inflated bean. Together they watch the biege hint of a pretzel popping out of the zipper Salivating tongues, could they drench the swarm of mini muffins underneath. 

Pretzel nearly out, heavily detailed and inviting 'Ts too late, did the party realize they were dollying away Should they leave, the pretzel gets orphaned Or worse, they could already hear the evil penguin. Helpless, they drift away. Lost and desolate, weeps the pretzel. A while into the dark deep silence With the flapping of penguin growing frighteningly louder, poor pretzel makes it mind. Wiping away its tear-trails, it jumps off the zipper into the bright red valley. 

*scowls* Clouds aint one sensible lot in story-telling, Are they?

PS: Thank you, Cinnamon Corn Pops :)

[iniyavanelumalai-blog]

நெடியதொரு ரயில் பயணத்தில் கொஞ்சம் சிவப்பு

எதேச்சையாய் எதிரில் அமர்கிறாள். கையிலிருந்த கம்யூனிசப் பக்கங்கள் கண்டபடி பறக்க, முயன்று நிறுத்திய பக்கத்தில் தொடர்ச்சி இல்லை. பரவாயில்லை. புத்தகத்தை தூக்கிப்பிடித்தலின் உபயம்: கைக்கும் புத்தகமுனைக்கும் அமைந்த ஐசாசெலஸ் முக்கோணத்தில் அவள் முகம் அம்சம்

சும்மாயிருக்க மாட்டேனென்கிறாள் அடிக்கடி கண் சிமிட்டுகிறாள் காதோர முடி சரிசெய்வதாய் பாவிக்கிறாள் இடது கை நடுவிரல் நகம்கடிக்கிறாள் புளித்த பாப்கார்னில் முகம் சுளிக்கிறாள் கீழ் படுக்கைக்கு சண்டை பிடிக்கிறாள் கடைசியாய் பையிலிருந்து ஏதோ எடுக்கிறாள் கூம்பை மெல்ல அழுத்தி சீட்டோரத்தில் புள்ளி வைத்து அழிக்கிறாள் அட,மருதாணி!

ரயிலின் வேகத்தில் கோடுகள் நிதானமாய் வரையப்படுகின்றன வட்டங்கள் அவ்வளவு சிறப்பாய் வரவில்லை உள்ளங்கை ஓரத்தில் நான் விழைந்த சூரியகாந்தி பூ கூடவே குத்துமதிப்பாய் ஒரு இலையும்.

சற்று தொலைவில் கைவைத்து அழகு பார்க்கிறாள். ஏதோ தோன்றியவளாய், ஆட்காட்டி விரலுக்கும் நடு விரலுக்குமிடை வழியாக பூக்கொடி பின்னங்கைக்கு பயணிக்கிறது. என் முகத்தில் கேள்வி பதில் சொல்கிறாள்-அரபியன் ஸ்டைல்.

தொடர்கிறாள் இனம் தெரியாத நான் அறியாத உருவங்கள். உதட்டோரத்தில் ஆயிரம் அபிநயங்கள் வேறு. விளக்கம் சொல்வதாய் இல்லை அவள். கைக்கடிகாரத்தின் சற்று அருகே முடிகிறது களேபரம்.

அடுத்து கை உலர்த்தும் படலம்:ஜன்னலோரத்தஞ்சம் சற்று நேரத்தில் சிவந்துவிடும் அவள் கையும் புதிதாய் அனுமானிக்கப்பட்ட காதலின் அடித்தளமும்

[iniyavanelumalai-blog]

An Eastward Beach

With the dirty froth caressing my sole, Livid crabs making volatile sand patterns Shards of broken shells embedded in, The breeze still and hot, My shadow is drenched as the wave comes Dry, on the other hand am I, on a sunny evening. I feel sick of the sand in my shoes I smell the stench of the sea I dread the walk back to land The sea disgusts me.

When young, it folded into a cascade on the other side Would I venture to witness,  It fooled me. When drunk, it folded upward into the sky Would I venture to witness, It fooled me. True, I have forgotten, Sea has its own lies. May be next time, I will be careful.

[iniyavanelumalai-blog]

இது செல்லாது

அவசரமாய் சாத்தப்பட்டவைகளுள் விடுபட்ட பின் ஜன்னல் கிழித்தும் கடித்தும் உரிக்கப்பட்ட என் ஜீன்ஸ், உன் கீழ் உதடு அலமாரிக்குள் நீ பதுக்கி வைத்த சுழிபிள்ளையார் படம் அயர்ந்த மடிக்கணினியின் திரை காக்க தோன்றும் கடலும் கடல் சார்ந்த இடங்களும் சிதறிய என் சட்டையின் நான்காம் பொத்தான் நீ முடிக்க நான் தொடங்கிய வார்த்தைகள், சிணுங்கல்கள் உடைந்த பூச்சாடி வெளிறிய தேநீர் அந்த திரைப்பட பாடல் வியர்வை முன் கவிதை பின் மூச்சு - இவை எவையும் பொருப்பேற்பதாய் இல்லை. வெட்கித் தலை குனிகிறது செல்லாத ஆணுறை!

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Laws of Reflection do not stand in the way

       Certainly, not in that of Matthew Libatique (Cinematographer, Requiem for a dream, Iron Man, Pi)! His recent Black Swan comes up amazingly with a great deal of excellent shots involving the most perfidious of all, mirrors! To quote, in one scene at the atelier, Nina’s (a stunning Natalie Portman) reflection continues pirouetting after she has actually stopped dancing in front of the mirror. Another scene has one of her multiple reflections scratching her back while the actual ‘she’ is watching it with both her hands remaining still. And so goes the list of many such graceful mirror shots through the course of the movie. Even though the shots were used subtly to underline the mirroring motif of the basic storyline, they stand out being one of those rare works that employ some unintelligible concepts of film-making.

   Well, this is written in view of enunciating such baffling concepts of making shots with mirrors in the frame. Avoiding camera’s reflection in the mirror has been a strenuous task to a cinematographer and still remains so. A little bit of eighth grade physics and a lot of common-sense can fetch you the perfect shot on screen. Here are a few options that have been tried and tested:

Angle of incidence is equal to the angle of reflection. As simple as it sounds, the camera can be placed at an angle so that the reflection is evaded. This technique can be used when you want a shot of the subject over his shoulder or from his side. But for straight-from-behind shots, even though zooming on the subject from the same ‘safe’ angle helps a little, complete 90 degree shot is inconceivable Corollary: For a shot that requires the subject to look at his own reflection (On screen, you see both the subject and his reflection – not a point-of-view shot, the case of which will be explained later), the camera is placed at 45 degrees from the mirror’s surface and the subject stands at -45 degrees. The subject looks into the lens, not his reflection. Physics takes care of the rest.

For a shot that requires the subject to look at his own reflection in ‘point-of-view’ (On screen, you see what the subject is looking at, in this case, his own reflection), just shoot the subject with a mirror frame boxing him. How silly!  

For a straight-from-behind shot, one kindergarten solution is ‘hide the camera inside a coat stand’ (Generally, any space where the lighting is absent). In other words, shoot from the shadows. You can also make one of the subjects in frame hiding the camera’s reflection.

Use a mirror double. Shoot the reflection of the actual shot in entirety from another mirror placed at a slant angle (90 degrees can cause multiple reflections, remember Inception!). And flip the shot in post-production. But using another mirror can affect lighting conditions adversely; If there were only one light source originally, the use of the second mirror doubles it eventually lighting the subject around 360 degrees. (The consequences can be worse. Imagine all the actors blazing incandescent! Oh no no, forgive that poor little genius PC Shreeram in his 80's works: Agni Natchathiram, Thiruda Thiruda, Meera, Geethanjali). 

In all these cases, the camera cannot move across the shot horizontally as the reflection will appear eventually when you get out of your ‘safe’ zone. Following options help in that case:

In Terminator 2, the scene where Sarah and Termy are in front of a mirror has the camera moving across. How on earth? Linda Hamilton (who played Sarah) had a twin sister who acted as the reflection. But finding a twin is as simple as that, no?  

Film the actual scene with a green screen in place of where the mirror is to be. Film the ‘reflection’ (usual filming except that the characters and props will be shot at as they would look like in the reflection) separately. Then overlay the second shot onto the green screen. This is nothing but that ‘chroma key’ technique generally used in special effects.

Albeit these options can make life easier for a simple mirror-shot, the more complex the shot is conceived, further you go away from these options.

PS: One can witness such brilliant shots involving mirrors in various movies viz., Being John Malkovich, Contact, The Matrix, Amelie, Vaaranam Ayiram, The Truman Show, Lady in the Lake, Inception, Raavan, etc.

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Review: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - Part 1

       A clarification at first, this is written with the spirit of appreciating the movie-making behind the product that is here, rather than scaling it against its source for the latter could demean to comparing a progeny with its mother, a chip with its block - call it whatever, it ain't fair. As the previous installment finishes with a sacrificing death setting the trigger right, what should follow is a goose-provoking, inspiring episode that gives a fitting finale. 

   His only ray of hope that always appears in the climax scenes to clarify the untied knots and unraveled secrets is no more. The only vestige left of the ray is a flicker that constantly nags him to take up the task it has left behind. He knows the flicker could not suffice for the menacing struggle. Yet he has to finish it off for this seventeen-year old needs some extended comfort. Given the initial conditions, what would a script table cogitate over? The path can neither be exciting, nor spectacular that would give room for bombarding the viewer with rich graphics and superbly choreographed action sequences. So, the natural inclination is to stick to realism and cut off all the frills that would dilute the very spine of the story.    What results is a product so perfect and polished, with movie-making at its best. The story, as it has to reflect the entangled multitude of emotions behind the characters, could not be mono-layered. David Yates has got it right in what is intended to be delivered. He greatly comprehended the story and presented in a way that never underestimates the viewer's intelligence quotient. Lot of humorous scenes go on unexplained; reasoning is left to the viewer. Add to this, his British heart lends authenticity to the movie that would not have been possible with any other director. His appropriate use of silence periods that speak volumes, hand-held shots, blackouts is amazingly woven into the script.    He does not even try to light up the screen; rather maintains the temperament from scene one throughout. In the scene where Harry dances to cheer up an estranged Hermione, the intended element is not the play-it-down but the depth of his characters' emotional intelligence. With a brilliant cast ensemble, he could clearly underplay the drama - 'subtle' is the word. Talking of the cast, Radcliffe excels who could even get right the nuances of seasoned acting. While Watson is at her usual best, Grint could save his name this time thanks to a meaty scene for him in the forest.    An excellent background score is an enabling supplement. Bar a little bit of mundane shots, camera work is no less a crutch (Miss you, Bruno Delbonnel!) In the multiple repeated shots of Harry-Hermione-Ron's camp tents at different locales that he employs to delineate the scramble they are in, I could not stop myself thinking of Raavan (or Vikramadithya Motwane's Udaan?) which employed the emotions the setting of the story would evoke in viewer's minds. The tool used to narrate the tale of the three brothers is outstanding, a first in cinema deriving excessively genuine emotions from stick cartoons. Wonder whose idea is that!    And thus starts a year wait for an orgasmic three-hour.

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F.R.I.E.N.D.S

   The pilot episode of FRIENDS, a NBC sit-com based on the lives of six friends living in Manhattan is a coveted affair with the prestigious token of Thursday 8:30pm slot. It reads ‘Friends’ in a funky font with the backdrop of a couch before a mundane water-spout. Six average looking folks in their late twenties start pouring in on the sofa. And the names roll out in alphabetical order - Jennifer Aniston, Courtney Cox, Lisa Kudrow , Matt Le Blanc, Matthew Perry and David Schwimmer. To go by a reiterated cliché, little did America know that they were witnessing a marvel. A marvel? What would you call a figment of fecund creativity that is perfected to every inch by the best ensemble of artists finally giving us a product with which we do not know how much more of it do we want? A marvel indeed!

   A politically correct piece of writing on a TV show should start with the spine of it – the script that is greater than the sum of its parts. But when a part exceeded the whole, politics has to sidestep. Yes, it’s the cast that spells sheer magic here. They are the norms, the mirror and the statistical average of the whole human race:

Chandler Bing – It started with his telephone –in – there story in the Pilot episode; ran through the most raucous moments of the series; culminated in the last line of the series ”Coffee?”, “Where?”; never wavered, gained new facets to say actuarially. The famous humorous defense mechanism, as he calls it. His lines may show the superficiality of sarcasm but little insight reveals a humungous brain manipulating to push envelopes in the world of rational comedy, a genre where even Chaplin could not further the milieu. This “perfection” (again a Binglical allusion, The One with the Blackout, Season 1) needed a Matthew Perry to make it the most lovable character in the series.

Related Literature: And there it goes, Joincidence is Coincidence with a C, Handle is my middle name, the hypnosis tape, Miss Chanandler Bong, live in a box, Elizabeth HornSwaggle, sharks, engagement picture and the Baram Pum, Pish!

Phoebe Buffay – A character that wrings excellence and deep understanding from the actor, as the whole cast agreed in an Oprah show on Phoebe being the most difficult role to essay; Lisa Kudrow is no short. Wonderfully weird, she epitomizes a sketch that has been drawn meticulously on the yellow line between us and her.

RL: Princess Consuela BananaHamack, Thanksgiving 1915, the name that sounds closer to ‘Phone’, Blursula and smelly cat.

Monica Geller – An ordinary sketch made extra-ordinary by Cox. Her obsessive compulsive disorder, high maintenance, and being relationships-guru could have made the character less likeable. But the strings were in Cox’s hands resulting in spontaneity of the character and that of the show, for that matter. Her scenes with Chandler exemplify a neat mature romance, rarely witnessed on screen.

RL: I know!

Rachel Green – Spoilt. As the unwritten axiom goes, rich and spoilt characters make for a cute little fave. So is Rachel. Aniston’s unbelievable histrionics and her winning personality could make every mother crave for the daughter they never had. Be it the face she keeps when she was rejected for a job in the phone (The One with the Poker, Season 1) or the restrained joy she keeps to herself when she divulges to her friends that she is leaving for Paris (The One with Princess Consuela, Season 10) – she is one of those complete actresses this world has seen.

RL: Magic beans, soap opera, sales, apothecary and Gunther!

Ross Geller – Dr. Ross Geller with the show’s finest performer David is a ten on ten. A tenuous vulnerable psyche and a penchant for correct grammar and stress on syllables are not mere elements of an attempted caricature but the frills to an overall brilliant sketch.

RL: Sad men’s club, 18 pages – front and back, Red sweater, Tan and PhD.

Joey Tribbiani – A surprisingly under-developed character with a heavy reliance on brain-dead stud routine. Even the attempt to give him more heart in Season 8 did not work well as it did with the other characters. May be, that is what is intended to be. Incomplete to be complete. No offence on Matt LeBlanc who does a commendable job, given the case.

RL: How you doin’?, seven inch feet, pizza and sandwiches.

   The list goes: Gunther, Janice, Estelle, Mike, Ursula, Richard and guest stars with the most memorable being Pitt’s, Roberts’, Witherspoon’s and Penn’s. Pages and pages, you could never let go the series and its cast.

   The flavor and the feel every episode brings to you stay in you forever even making you burst with a loud guffaw at inappropriate times. The moments happen so near to you that you forget you are in an altogether another world a television screen away. The characters want you to reach out to them. The series makes you uncomfortable, in a good way. Monica’s purple walls, Rosita – Chanoey’s chair, the balcony, Foozeball table, Chandler’s half door, Stevie – the TV, Eleven sets of Monica’s towels, Phoebe’s dollhouse, Ross’s dinosaur knickknacks, the white dog, Estelle’s cigar stand, Refrigerator magnets, the secret cabinet, Central Perk – ha!

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Review: Raavanan

       Someone believes in highly unconventional ideologies. Yet he likes to fool around and tax his own ideology by risking the most strenous task in Cinema. The task: Adopt the most dramatic story in the world and depict it in the most undramatic way. Others have to put aside all their premonitions about the outcome, for the task is in the hands of a master.    Bombarding us with a brilliant work of cinematography and a soundtrack that manipulates our minds with sheer genius, Mani Ratnam could have thought his job would be done. But he did not; and the buck stops where? For sure, there is a buck. Certainly not at Ratnam's table.    The whole movie essentially,excellently, is a cross-section; no head, no tail to it. Time Zero takes off getting straight to the point and Time Two hours and Odd-th minute lands straight at the point. He does not want to waste time and energy in adding all the gimmicks and frills to the story. No sugar-coating: he moved on. May be, Gautham Vasudev Menon needs to master this path for moving on to loftier ideas and mature thoughts rather than floundering in the honey and dew of surreality. The scene where Veera (Vikram clear and confident of what he is delivering; the role could have been made plaguey easily by any other actor) could not cry out aloud for her sister's death is a stroke that cries 'Master' aloud. In another scene where Veera prizes a description of Dev from Ragini, he scores again. It is this small bit of creativity that could only come out of a mind that observes and manouvers human minds, that makes the movies with him an experience.    Aishwarya Rai as Ragini excels. Her dubbed voice, the air she carries around her and her histrionics bring a character so alive on screen after a long time when the sketch stood out sans a gender label. Prithviraj is seriously insufficient, but given (or lack thereof) the script, no one could have given more justice.    Now talking about the buck, it stops long back hundreds of years ago, when someone was inscribing the tale of Ram, Sita and Raavan in old pallid pages. The story so infelicitous to be in the hands of a filmmaker who believes in portraying his characters as sapient humans; to exemplify, there would never be a character in a Ratnam's film that suspects his wife rather cherishing her after she comes back from a bondage and would never let her go on her own when she feels she has to. Pure drama. Feels inappropriate in his film. It is his character sketches that we love. So cute; so human.    He could have thrown a large chunk out of the story and proceeded with his own idea of a Ram or a Raavan. But his adamant mind wanted to risk; wanted to stick to the original. He gave us a pure unadulterated product, with which we do not know what to do.   For the first time, the director in him outsmarted the writer. But, I need that good old doppelganger back. I need that simple Kannathil Muthamittal, that simple Mouna Raagam, that simple Anjali, that simple Iruvar, that simple Ratnam film which would raise a lump in my throat every time I watch it. Because I am simple; my mind is. I would not contain the experience of Raavanan in an integer; nor lean it against a scale of standards. Like a Scorsese, like a Tarantino, like a Malick, he deserves a world of his own where I would place this movie between 'Thalapathy' and 'Bombay'. Average. Mature. Pure.