Open Tee Bioscope

Everything and everyone on this planet can be bracketed into two sub-species: the underrated and the overrated, depending on one's relative perception, going by the Pink Floyd sermon that "the sun is the same in a relative way". Be it sex or death, painters or pornstars. Well everything, except clichés. Clichés have more universal potency than scientific truths or cosmic occurrences. So, when when we say that our adolescent years were the best time of our lives, it's a cliché. It stays with us forever, and that's the magic and curse of adolescence. Because the adult life that follows can, and never will, match up, always ending up being a distant second. Open Tee Bioscope is a time portal that takes us back to our teenage years. We are the '90s kids. And we fucking owned the world. A marching band of memories crowd our heads, blowing trumpets of anecdotal sentimentality. Globalisation, even in its infancy, could not rob us of our silly and bold indulgences, naive dreams and cruel heartbreaks. The film triumphantly recreates a world that preceded Facebook and iPhones, a joyful ode to the '90s. But at the end of the day, it's a film and not skinny dipping/scuba diving lessons in the deep waters of nostalgia. It has to be judged on the parameters of cinematic aesthetics. The film has its heart in the right place but its head in all sorts of wrong places. The plotline is as thin as a cigarette rolling paper and as predictable as Congress' chances in the upcoming Delhi polls. Despite its honesty, it can be accused of recurrent dishonest attempts at emotional manipulation. The characterisation is plagued by mawkish caricatures. The editing is deeply flawed, with incoherent cuts' galore. And the banality of the finale. The overuse and abuse of slow-mo will give Bhaag Milkha Bhaag a run for its money. The acting from the young BFFs is worth mentioning, duly complemented by the strong supporting cast. But overall, the film left me disappointed. It's a decent watch nevertheless. Especially because it doesn't subscribe to the formulaic trappings of the new-age self-proclaimed avant-garde filmmakers. Where names are dropped like bombs and the mediocre are celebrated as genius.

Finding Fanny

Sexual intimacy with a new partner can be very intriguing, the anticipation as well as the indecisive hesitation on how to go about it. Whether to play your A-game right at the outset or to play the waiting game, to savour every moment like a playful tease and then go for the kill. In Finding Fanny, the motley crew of Naseer, Dimple, Deepika and Arjun can be bracketed as the slow starters. Much like wine and oral sex being acquired tastes, you eventually fall in love with these dotty, oddball characters. And then there's Pankaj Kapoor, turning it on from his very first appearance. He strips Dimple with his lustful eyes, and also partakes in the striptease - becoming Don Pedro and unbecoming himself. Quirky madcaps abound the cinematic milieu of Wes Anderson and Jean-Pierre Jeunet, but Homi Adajania's film falls short of weaving a story with these colourful characters. It's more of eccentricity for eccentricity's sake rather than eccentricity for art's sake. Too much quirk killed the story? At times, it becomes self-limiting with lots of mistimed gags and dispensable trivialities. Then again, the film's mojo lies in the acting adroitness of the ensemble cast. Dimple excels in her loudmouth windbag avatar - a pompous, self-obsessed widow with bloated ego and overbearing arrogance. Naseer fits the bill perfectly as a wobbly man-child, or to put it this way - a Prufrock caricature in Sukhen Das' shoes, on a mock-quest for his true love. Deepika scores high with her dazzling radiance, but her wardrobe scores a notch higher. Arjun is a revelation, and his unforced spontaneity comes as a welcome surprise. If I could bet on one person other than Robert Pattinson, with a katana sword pointed at my balls, who could NEVER act, it would be him. Pattinson too, unfortunately, came up with a stellar performance in The Rover this year. Thank god I don't take these bets, for the love of my precious balls. Finally, the two rockstars. Every frame of Anil Mehta's sumptuous cinematography is like a musical note or a brush-stroke. And the inimitable Pankaj Kapoor. A beast of an actor, whose theatrical grandiose turns him into an on-screen black hole, sucking up the light from all his luminous co-stars.

Highway

With Highway, Imtiaz Ali ventures into untraversed territory, interlacing dark social issues with unconventional romance. The film is an allegorical journey from abduction to liberation, more within than without, bereft of a viable destination, being incidentally self-exploratory and accidentally romantic. Mahabir, portrayed by Randeep Hooda, is an irredeemable brute who kidnaps Veera, essayed by Alia Bhatt, a cosseted heiress. Hooda, in his monolithic, monosyllabic, brooding avatar is also a crusader against the bourgeoisie class, and is determined to wage a class-war with Alia as his hostage. His unapologetic disgust towards the privileged breed is evident in this outburst - "Kutta hoon toh kutte jaisa marega [If I'm a dog, I'll die like a dog]." Slowly, the harrowing nightmare turns into a welcome escape as she transits from reluctant surrender to willing submission. Initially, her attraction is triggered by a curious enchantment with the exotic Other. Her whimsical naivety, carefree impulsiveness and spontaneous verbosity offer perfect foil to the unrelenting onslaught of Hooda's intimidating gloominess. "Ek goli se dono ki maut hoti hain - jispe chalti hain aur jo chalata hain [A bullet kills two - one who is shot at and the other who shoots it]" - these words qualify him as a 'spiritual barbarian', the phrase Alison uses to describe Jimmy Porter in Osborne's Look back in Anger. He has a deeply convoluted sense of morality - threatening to sell Alia at a whorehouse if the kidnapping plan doesn't work out, but the very next moment, smacks his friend, played by Saharsh Kumar Shukla, for making brazen sexual overtures to her. Hooda's emotional curve constantly intersects between the two axes of anger and pain. He opens up his opaque self to Alia only when she undergoes a purgation by completely disowning her class-loyalty. As they unravel the traumatic memories of their fractured childhood, he disintegrates himself emotionally, hesitatingly yet consciously, searching for redemption to exorcise his inner demons. He becomes her liberator and she becomes his redeemer. It's ironic that her self-realisation reaches a climactic peak in the Kashmir Valley, as she looks for a safe sanctuary for their doomed love in the forbidden territory. The dreamy bubble is soon busted and their meandering journey comes to the inevitable terminus. The chemistry between them has a meditative lyricism to it, which is amplified by Rahman's soul-stirring music, like an indispensable fellow-commuter on this highway of self-discovery. Anil Mehta's perceptive lens captures picturesque landscapes with undisturbed exquisiteness, and the changing topography resonates with the changing dynamics of their relationship. Alia falters with her enunciation and delivery, but her expressions are enviably flawless. Hooda is outstanding, bringing exceptional depth to his layered character. And, of course, the terrific Durgesh Kumar, undulating between awe and compassion for the victim, delivering one of the finest cameos in Hindi Cinema in recent years. Overall, Highway is just short of a Bollywood miracle. Only just.

Miss Lovely

Miss Lovely is an unqualified cinematic triumph. Ashim Ahluwalia's bleak and sordid tragic tale explores the squalid underbelly of Bombay's C-grade illicit exploitation industry. The audience's immersive encounter with the murky subculture of marginal misfits and notorious lowlifes gives fidelity to the grim ambience of the film as it weaves a tantalizing medley of pulp-horror and unsavoury soft porn. The sumptuous and lurid cinematography of Mohanan delves into the provocative territory of dark precincts, abandoned warehouses and labyrinthine spaces, succinctly capturing the nauseating sleaze-world of the late '80s with spectacular set designs, garish colours, retro fashion and in-vogue-disco. The tragedy unfolds like a thriller, set in motion by deceit and betrayal, propelled by unflinching violence endemic to the social milieu depicted in the film. Owing to the sluggish pace and deadpan humour in the first half, the emotionally unengaging and distant narrative style fails to gather momentum. But the second half is explosive, metamorphosing Nawazuddin's docile placidity into assertive grisliness, culminating in the climactic act of exhibitionist outburst and unhinged brutality against his devious brother. The pulsating electronic score with metallic clanking and rumbling resonance has a lazy, hypnotic feel to it, that amplifies the queasy unease of the spectators. Finally, Nawazuddin Siddiqui. His muted intensity reminds me so much of Mads Mikkelsen. The relationship between him and the camera is that of an artist and his muse, or an obsessive stalker and a vigilant stalkee. A visual symphony of minimalist seduction with his eyes and compelling addiction of his silence that consummates everything and everyone around him. Anil George holds his own with formidable display of controlled intensity, ranging from reprobate unscrupulousness to lecherous depravity.

Jai Ho

When Loverboy Khan outraces a Tata Safari riding a rickshaw or Perfectionist Khan delivers a baby with the help of Skype-tutorial and magic-catchphrase-stimulus 'all is well', no one seems to be in desperate need of IQ-viagra. But when Salman Khan growls like Sunny Deol, punches like Mike Tyson and even bites like Luis Suarez, everyone turns into a Logic-Nazi. Admittedly, Bhai's worst film till date is Suryavanshi. Jai Ho comes a close second. As Raja Sen has rightly pointed out, Salman is perhaps the most objectified man on screen, at times with more scrutinizing close-ups of his torso than that of Sunny Leone in the ManForce coffee flavoured condom ad. For aspiring writers, this film is a major boost-up in successfully validating how ridiculously easy the craft of screenwriting is. A four-five year old tells Daisy Shah, "Same pinch, we are both wearing a pink underwear." Following this embarrassing exposition, Salman's ten year old nephew starts the recurring trend of calling her 'Pinky'. What does she do to avenge her mortifying humiliation? She steals his black tee on her hot date with Salman in orange shades. Just wondering: how could a malnourished pre-puberty teenager's tee fit a woman in her mid-twenties with enviable vital stats? Despite Sohail Khan sleepdirecting the entire film with preposterous absurdity, he comes up with the most bizarre moment Bollywood has witnessed since the waterpump-uprooting scene in Gadar - Ek Prem Katha. Sunil Shetty drives a fucking Army Tank through the bustling roads of Mumbai; hell hath no fury like a machine gun-toting Shetty Saab atop a tank.

Jatishwar

Jatishwar is a teleportised tapestry of past and present, chronicling the lives of three Anthony-s: the Portuguese kobiyal from the annals of history, his reincarnated Bong avatar and a standard Petrarchan loverboy prototype. Despite few editing glitches, Srijit successfully maintains a a sense of symmetry and proportional coherence between the two separate time zones because of the uniquely balanced narrative structure. The performances are displeasurably inconsistent. Jishu, the contemporised Anthony Firingee, is a hapless Gujju in pursuit of a militantly highbrow Bongo-lolona, played by an unconvincing Swastika. Although Jishu is impeccably immaculate, she is insubstantially unimpressive in her snooty, uppity, pseudo-activist persona and the diametrically opposite demure Saudamini. Rahul and Riya are like the dispensable extras of an item number, and Miss. Sen's zombie-dialect doesn't help her cause. Abir, Jishu's faithful hanger-on along with Mamata Shankar, Swastika's candidly uncritical and doting mother, leave a healthy impression, not to mention the brief cameos of Kharaj and Ananya. The humour is at times juvenile and often, self-deprecatory, especially the scenes featuring Bong rockers, for example: Sidhu flipping through the pages of 'History of Rock Music' and Rupam giving tutorials on growling. The titillating seduction of Bangla-Kalchaar-Brigade forms the nucleus of the Srijit-canon. Evoking the 19th century Kobigaan era and the consequent stimulation of Bangaliyana reiterates his mastery on the art of emotive manipulation. Kabir Suman, the maverick musician, does a phenomenal job with soul-stirring lyrics and unerring notes. The interjectory, spon-feeding voice-over explaining tappa, tarja, kheur, etc almost sounds like Prantik Sohayika-aided oversimplification. The bibliographical references of books featuring Anthony Firingee also reflects a conceited self-advertisement of background research, as does the Spark Notes-expounding appraisal of para-neuro-psychology. The use of graphic novel iconography like speech balloons and hard-subbed texted introductions to the characters are innovative experiments. The frequent use of steadicams, flycams and hand-held cameras is nothing new, in fact, the practice being overused and abused over the last couple of years. Finally, Bumba Da. He is a misfit in the Christ-meets-Shanti Gopal attire with the dubbed voice of Srikanto Acharya. But as the balding incarate Version.02, Kushal Hazra, he is blemishless. Erratic with fits of delirium, constantly haunted by turbulent memories and grappling with reality in a desperate attempt to liberate himself from the captivity of his unobtrusively circumspect dual identity - Prosenjit delivers a stellar performance, reminiscent of his restrained acting prowess in understated roles, which includes films like Dosar and Sob Choritro Kalponik.

Sherlock - Season 3

Episode 01, The Empty Hearse is a disaster. Episode 02, The Sign of Three. The robot has been humanised. The superhero has been stripped of his cape. The sexy beast has been tamed. Bravo, Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. Brilliant use of self-deprecating humour without compromising on the inane badassery of Sherlock. "You are not a puzzle solver, you never have been. You are a drama queen." A little in-house joke, perhaps? Episode 03, The Last Vow has little doses of everything: romedy [the Twilight generation's hybridology for romance and comedy] punctuated with drama, further interspaced with bouts of melodrama, domestic hiccups and eventual reconciliation, startling blast-from-the-past exposition, psychic deductions, anecdotal childhood reminiscences, Jai-Veeru bromance, sanskari parivar, defiantly illogical and sensational back-from-the-dead theatrics. It was a crackerjack entertainer chockablocked with unabashed fanservice and umpteen OM(beep)G moments. All the episode needed were an item number and a khooni-darinda instead of a suave, intelligent adversary, and there you have it, a full-blown wholesome Bollywood experience. The human Sherlock takes a step back and allows Watson to be his equal, which the latter gladly obliges. Kyunki, Pyaar ke aage Yaar hain [with due apologies to Mountain Dew]. Finally, the unforeseen return of the Napolean of crime, a rather unsuspected leap from Sherlock's eerie imagination into the real world. An adorable limerick symphonist and the very next moment, an operatic attention-junkie. I'm not sure if I missed him but he sure did miss the spotlight. Wait till 2015 to find out how he could have possibly survived his suicide. Is he a time-traveler? Is he Jesus? Or is he an in-house resident of the Matrix Universe? Overall, it's safe to conclude that I was more Watson-ed than Sherlock-ed.