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.

Dedh Ishqiya

When was the last time you saw Naseeruddin Shah being overshadowed by a co-actor? The few films that come to my mind are Aakrosh, Genesis, Chakra and Bazaar. Vijay Raaz has done it thrice. He stole Naseer's thunder in Monsoon Wedding and Barah Aana. And he does it again in this film. He is quite definitely the Steve Buscemi of Bollywood. The film marks the return of Vishal Bhardwaj, the music director, after four long years. When he teams up with Gulzar, you don't expect magic; you expect an exothermic chemical reaction. With two genius wordsmiths at play, there is bound to be catalytic lovemaking of poetry and music. The screenplay is outrageously waggish and deliciously quotable, overflowing with wit, humour and oblique overtones. The oldschool charm and vintage aura of Urdu shayaris and classical music extend gravitas to the first half of the film in the midst of comical buffoonery between the two male leads. Madhuri is, and looks, irresistible with her otherworldly charm and elegance. Huma is stupendous as the unpredictable schemer with lusty bouts of compelling sexuality. Arshad and Naseer revive their crackling chemistry from the prequel, playing the shameless cheeky crooks who always seem to get into trouble with rogues and gangsters. Interestingly, there is no method to their madness. The riotous entanglements and misadventures invariably make us root for these adorable miscreants.

Her

Time for every actor to take a backseat. Joaquin Phoenix is in the house. He is challenging himself in redefining the paradigms of method acting. After playing the erratic schizophrenic Freddie Quell in The Master, he delivers an extremely nuanced and layered performance in Her. Restrained and unflashy with a strong evocative eloquence, he is emotionally more demonstrative than an explosive Leo or a persuasive McConaughey in The Wolf of Wall Street and Dallas Buyers Club respectively. The film is a winner - a genre-bending sci-fi love story at the backdrop of machine age, a tender and heartbreaking account of a human lost in the claustrophobic space of the constantly encroaching virtual reality. This one towers over Ryan Gosling's Lars and the Real Girl because of the assured execution of its provocative concept. Scarlett Johansson, the enchantress with the voice, is both exhibitive and inhibitive, successfully bringing out the vulnerability of the lonely man's fragile self.

The Wolf of Wall Street

The Wolf of Wall Street is a hedonistic spectacle of money, sex and drugs. One of the weakest films of Scorsese's illustrious career, a highly entertaining black comedy that gets you a hard on but leaves you gasping on the home run. But Leonardo DiCaprio, that beautiful slimy motherfucker, explodes like a fucking nuclear bomb on the screen. As the infernal ringmaster of a lawless circus, he is an indefinable volatile kinetic force who revels in debased and depraved excesses with effortless sexiness. The two fiercely inspiring speeches often remind you of Satan in Paradise Lost, and for the Twilight/Twitter generation, DiCaprio is William Wallace meets Barack Obama in those two epic scenes. Jonah Hill, in the obnoxiously adorable supporting act, outdoes himself. In the brief cameo, Matthew McConaughey too dazzles like a shooting star.