As I Lay Dying

Just like two of my favourite films this year, the terrifyingly beautiful Stoker and spiritually violent Only God Forgives, James Franco's eighth directorial venture, As I Lay Dying, has garnered mostly negative reviews from the critics. Franco manages to transcend the self-constraining question of 'unfilmability' of the obliquely splintered novel by Faulkner. He uses diverse cinematic techniques, like split-screen and face-on camera address to portray the multi-voiced narratives and fragmented monologues of the characters. The overuse of split-screen is not distracting or jarring, rather it effectively highlights the eerie ambiance of the brooding tragedy, the isolation of characters connected by blood, sense of loss and desire for rebellion, and the constant role reversal of identities. However, he fails to stimulate the comedic undercurrents of the novel in the otherwise fairly admirable effort at adapting one of the most difficult 20th century novels.

Mishawr Rahasya

Mishawr Rawhoshyo is an extravagant manifestation of the much hyped terminology, 'bhinno dharar Bangla Cinema'. Born out of a mediocre director's mediocre vision of a misplaced sense of tribute to Sunil Babu, it's an epic misadventure of epic proportions. Prosenjit's desperate attempts to salvage some positives for this dreadful film is floundered by the clumsy narrative, shoddy editing, deafening background score and miserably inadequate punchlines, bordering on juvenile humour and moralising pedantry. Aryan as the wise-ass History Channel addict, Santu, is a terrible miscast. He mumbles, rumbles, fumbles and tumbles with agonising unease. Just as SRK's grandad cockblocks him in Chennai Express, Kakababu lipblocks his nephew's anticipated liplock. dustu Santu and misti Rini's dustu-misti prem is extraneously pointless but not as annoying as the product placements in the film, ranging from achaar to pain balms. Don't miss Santu's London-lettered Union Jack t-shirt as he breezes past a radical AISA poster at JNU. Neel and Swastika appear as disposable and utterly dispensable vestigial organs throughout the film. Rajit Kapoor, one of the finest actors back in the 90s, is reduced to a babbling, redundantly unmenacing caricature of a lamebrain dolt. Indraneil, despite his enraged snarls and growls, remains exasperatingly stone-faced expressionless. The VFX in certain scenes are strongly reminiscent of Chandrakanta and Alif Laila, and the slow-mo face-off between Joyraj and Bumba Da is so painfully superslow that, for a moment, it gives the impression of a video cassette stuck in a VCR. A tour-de-farce with alarming Orientalist stereotyping and potentially dangerous historical concoction.

Phoring

Phoring is the best Bengali film I have watched this year. Yes, detractors will try and unnecessarily intellectualise the demerits of the film. There are minor hiccups, especially the propensity towards emotional manipulation towards the end, but I choose to ignore them. The refreshing honesty of the film with its non-cerebral simplicity makes inroads into your heart, yet at the same time, explores certain complex themes with a nuanced candor. A gawky young adult caught between the two intersecting, permeable realms of the 'age of innocence' and 'age of experience' embarks on a journey from depersonalisation to self-realisation. The flight-graph of Phoring or the metaphorical dragonfly is beautifully narrated by the director through the prism of spiritual secularisation, starting with his naive conversations with God which finally culminates in the final act of dismissive arrogance where he denounces and disowns 'his' God.

Bakita Byaktigoto

Bakita Byaktigoto (Rest is Personal) is standout film because of its endearing and lucid simplicity. Most of the new-age Bengali films these days overuse and abuse the term surreal. However, Bakita Byaktigoto is rooted very much in the real, wrapped in a fairy tale bubble, with its fascinating docu-narrative blurring the boundaries between fantasy and reality. Riwtik, the lead protagonist, on an incredible quest for a seemingly intangible pursuit of love, steers the story on his able shoulders with a remarkable sense of economy in effortless acting and infectious honesty. Amit Saha and Aparajita Ghosh Das also play out their roles with astounding competence. Sumptuous camera-work, bearing the director's stamp of innate effective minimalism, and the score by Anindya Sundar Chakraborty, transiting from earthy notes to modern sound, are also worth mentioning. A laudable, stellar debut feature by Pradipta Bhattacharyya.

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.