Satyagraha

Satyagraha is a migraine-inducing, wholesome lump of shit. A preachy overdose of lousy dialogues straight out of the Aastha Channel morning sermons. The grand daddy of Bollywood is a strict disciplinarian who loathes three things in life: corporates, alcoholic beverages and corruption. Like father, like son. Gold medalist engineer working for the 'aam admi' of his district, like the doting son shares his daddy's abhorrence for corporate greed and consumerism, ends up saying [after a flyover designed by him collapses] - "Yeh kharab quality ka cement hain; maine toh kaha tha Ultratech Cement use karne ke liye!" Later we would see Daddy Ji's followers wearing Anna caps and Rupa Frontline vests, screaming out fancy slogans. Apart from a sluggish item number and a quirky 'Raghupati Raghava', there's also a ludicrous youth-anthem called 'Janta Rocks'. Seriously, Prasoon Joshi? Mr. Richie Rich-turned-activist donates his billions, a noble gesture indeed. Or maybe a new strain of untreated bipolar disorder? A TV scribe who has fans cutting across social milieu, from chaiwalas, corrupt cops to bigwig politicos and biz honchos, suddenly takes a month-long sabbatical to participate in the Janta-Revolution, braving the lathicharge and water-canons, yet managing to maintain her perfect make-up and blow-dried hair. Oh I forgot, she was [still is?] a newsperson. And finally, the crafty and fraudulent politician, with a strong affinity for theatrics and half-baked English idioms, apparently has more say in Cabinet decisions than the seemingly toothless CM. Just one more thing, Prakash Jha - since when does the main Opposition leader take part in Cabinet meetings? Overall verdict: race for the 2013 Best Film on National Integration just got tighter.

Tasher Desh

Tasher Desh is a psychotomimetic vision of Qaushiq Mukherjee's unapologetic experiment that goes beyond the professed acid trip. A madcap versifier, with almost fanatical obsession for the outré, conjures up compelling and bizarre images in a non-linear, dual narrative that slowly seduces the audience into a hypnotic psychedelic ride. The inertia of the chimeric first half explodes into a volatile kinetic force as we are introduced to the restless motley of Card soldiers in the fascist dystopo-neverland. The very Q-esque split-screen shots, hyperstylised edginess of hand-held camera movements, skip-edits and jump-cuts trigger the hallucinatory surreal eeriness of a grungy meta-reality. But everything goes downhill from then on. Our Mr. Infant Terrible suddenly turns into a glorified music video director haplessly resorting to deliberate abstractness as an escape route for his fizzling out self-indulgences. The sensory and visual striptease becomes clumsier in the amorous exchanges which reduces the prophesied sexual liberation into a libidinous exercise with an unsuspecting abrupt climax. Zany, techno-funk pagan Rabindrasangeet and Manu Dacosse's flamboyantly sumptuous cinematography are the two biggest gains from this discordant and floundering amorphous fantasy drama. And, a special mention for the subtitling which is impeccably apt and incredibly germane.

Chennai Express

A sadistic grandfather deliberately robs his adorable grandson of a normal, leave alone healthy, sex life. We get a sneak-peek into the damaged psyche of this horny 40 year old when he says: "I am not Angelina Jolie. I am a boy." Much to the surprise of an unsuspecting audience, he sets on a debauchery mission to Goa. However he ends up in a train with a South Indian babe and her rogue cousins. They compose limericks at the drop of a hat and even set them to the tunes of popular Hindi chartbusters. An extended Chitrahar without commercial breaks, and then he suddenly turns into an Aam Admi Party spokesperson, mouthing: "Don't underestimate the power of a common man." From a DDLJ tribute, the film transforms into an elopement drama at breakneck speed. Then one fine night, he manages to share a bed with her. As soon as his sex-starved mind does a high-5 with his Little Johnny, he encounters her split personality, a demonic rant-spouting possessed witch. And there goes his sex drive, kaboom. However he doesn't give up. Relentless in his pursuit, what follows are wild chases and epic badassery on display. He's beaten into a pulp, yet does a Karan Arjun-meets-Rocky Balboa act and beats the shit out of her gangstah dad's desi Hulks. So much for love. And sex. Moral of the story? Don't underestimate the libido of a common man.

Meghe Dhaka Tara

When one decides to make a film on the First Citizen of Indian Cinema, it is bound to polarise the audience. If you expected that a certain doctor-cum-film enthusiast-turned-director will demystify and defictionalise the man and his legend, dismantling all the cliches and myths surrounding him, you were living in a fool's paradise. Initially, to garner media-hype, he proudly proclaimed 'Meghe Dhaka Tara' to be a biopic, only to disassociate himself from his previous claims, stating that it's a fictional work 'inspired' by Ghatak's life. Why the sudden and desperate face-saver? The positives first. Spectacular set designs, excellent use of light and shadow, Soumik Halder's stunning camera work, Debojyoti Mishra's brilliant score. Although the first half is barely watchable, the second half gets better with breathtaking visual imagery of Partition-affected immigrants, converging confluence of various characters from Ghatak's films, and of course, the superlative performances of Ananya and Subhasish. Kamaleswar chooses a very convenient and escapist medium to depict the master auteur's life: that of dreams and hallucinations. It works as a perfect alibi to (mis)represent Ghatak's thoughtscape as envisioned by him. Ghatak, audaciously self-indulgent and non-conformist to the core, quite paradoxically finds himself trapped in the flawed vision of a director who conforms to all the possible parameters of a sensationalist crowd-pleaser, almost like a footnoted historical and personal narrative. I do feel sorry for Shaswata. He is such a gifted actor and does justice to his role in parts, but one can't blame him for the director's myopic perception of Ghatak, and his life and times. All the ingredients are present, albeit in haphazard and erratic proportions in an already half-baked recipe, like - Jung's 'mother archetype', his swaying beliefs between revisionist and radical politics, the deep pangs of Partition, etc. But look at the banality of certain misplaced grandiose excesses (all in the name of passionately adhering to Ghatak's penchant for melodrama) - Shaswata, who almost lives on and swears by hooch or 'cholai', indiscriminately delivers hyperbolic punchlines with expletives, reminiscent of the 'angry young man' prototype during the Emergency rather than the Red Book-quoting generation of the 70s; he carries Bongobala in his arms with shrieking, angst-filled outcries of 'Suorer Bachha!' evoking Dilip Kumar's 'Ae bhai, koi hain?' act from 'Mashaal'; or even the salivating Shaswata during the enactment of his play at the mental asylum and the just-about-clinching-and-then-relaxing-of-fists-moment during the shock therapy session akin to a car's clutch-and-gear functioning, etc. Amplified exaggeration with playing-to-the-gallery-moments' galore, just enough to earn accolades and thundering applause from a generation, living in a joyless dungeon of failed ambitions and shattered dreams, finally being able to relate to the tragic story of a 'mad genius' who was a 'failure' in his lifetime. But Ghatak is much beyond the platitudes of the stereotypical portrait of an underdog. No, his life cannot be trivialised into a tragedy inhibited by dejection, pain, self-destruction and failure. On the contrary, it is a celebration of hope, of unwavering human spirit, of survival, of joy and optimism - boundless and unrestrained.

Stoker

Stoker is the most twisted, subverted, outrageous adaptation of Hamlet (with juxtaposed elements of Macbeth as well) you'll ever see. The eeriness and perversity of the deeply menacing sinisterness, cocooned in a sensuous and provocative atmosphere of disquieting tension, brings out a more evolved phase of Park Chan Wook's filmmaking. The violence is more internal, stripped of the spectacular grandiosity, deliberately restrained to fit into the lyricism of the breathtakingly stylized imagery and visually stunning frames. Compelling fetishization of the psycho-sexual broodings makes the film a poetry of violence rather than a ritual of the obviousness of this genre.

Shobdo

Mixed emotions after watching Shobdo. The film had so much potential and promise - a sort of experimentation in an unexplored domain of Indian Cinema. Sadly enough, it ends up being an educational telefilm. Kaushik Ganguly plays it too safe; he does not go beyond the uniqueness of the story and push the boundaries of conventionality like other celebrated maverick filmmakers would have done. Technically, the film is near-flawless. The sound designer duo of Anirban Sengupta and Dipankar Chaki create an ambiance of surreal magic. Mainak Bhoumik's editing deserves a special mention too. The camera work of Sirsha Ray is spectacular in some scenes, especially the haunting dreamscape where Ritwik is confronted by Victor, which is so European in its treatment. The acting is a huge let-down. Victor Banerjee is completely wasted. Ritwik is quite impressive as long as he keeps his mouth shut, in fact his blank stares and maniacal intensity with the sound-props are his only redemptive qualities in the film. Raima Sen seems to be watching Ekta Kapoor serials too intently these days. Churni Ganguly can boast of being the only actor to outdo Nana Patekar when it comes to mannerisms. The dialogues are extremely amateurish and do not have that killer punch. The screenplay is static with the story progressing in a repetitive loop. And, the climax is so abrupt and out-of-sync, almost like a fake orgasm.

Kai Po Che

Kai Po Che is a winner all the way. Meticulously crafted, it's neither a spellbinding celluloid marvel nor a half-baked Bollywood potboiler. The story of friendship, heartbreak and redemption through a stormy ride of betrayal by fate and history transforms Chetan Bhagat's mediocre work into an honest and heartwarming crowd-pleaser. The three towering aspects of the film are - the casting, cinematography and music. Anay Goswami does a terrific job with the camera. Amit Trivedi, yet again, vindicates his position as the most consistent and bankable music director in the industry. If A.R.Rahman is the Sachin Tendulkar of Bollywood, Amit Trivedi surely is Michael Clarke. Sushant Singh Rajput delivers a stellar performance as Ishan who is mercurial and temperamental, infectiously warm and gullible, trapped in a bubble of naivety. Amit Sadh as Omi is a knockout too, bringing out the complex nuances of his character with a steady transformation from unwavering loyalty towards his friends to a gradual, stuttering descent into murkiness. But, Raj Kumar Yadav as Govind, eclipses his other two equally brilliant co-stars. Ambitious and miserly, hesitant and calculative, yet a quiet intensity amidst the incoherent traits of minimalism adds many shades to his character, and he plays out his role with mathematical precision, complementing and acting as a perfect foil to Ishan's volatility and Omi's vulnerability. With GoW, Nawazuddin Siddiqui has taken the elevator-route to capture the imagination of cinephiles and critics. LSD, Shaitan, Shahid and Kai Po Che - Raj Kumar Yadav prefers a ladder instead, taking slow and assured steps to the rightful place where he belongs.