THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO: MOVIE REVIEW

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Cast:Daniel Craig, Rooney Mara, Christopher Plummer, Stellan SkarsgÃ¥rd, JoelyRichardson, Steven Berkoff, Robin Wright, Yorick van Wageningen Director:David FincherRuntime:158 min. Verdict:A case could be made that this is Mr. Fincher’s most ambitious film. Genre:Thriller, Drama
(Note: If you haven’t seen the Swedish film,or haven’t read the books, there might be some spoilers here. In fact, thereare. So yeah, be warned. I would suggest watching the film and maybe thenreturning.)
                It’s only right that Mr. Fincherstages the narrative’s most significant moment around a door, subtly hinting atthe dynamics at play here in The GirlWith The Dragon Tattoo. I am essentially a monkey when it comes to using anyediting software, not that I have ventured beyond Windows Moviemaker, and Iwould be much obliged if someone were to make something of a video review thatconcentrates around the doors here. Or the windows and the panes. Or the walls.Maybe even the tables. Or maybe all of them. I have a hunch that little videomight very well capture the essence of Mr. Fincher’s film. There is someremarkable leverage drawn from these spatial dividers almost tempting me to gofor my usual framegrab-play. Michel Blomkvist (Mr. Craig) knocks on LisbethSalander’s door (Ms. Mara), and the little girl is startled. She cautiously,and maybe even nervously, opens it, just a wee bit, and Michel, in a display ofa behavior that is at once both paternal (patronizing) and masculine(self-righteous), pulls the door open wide and walks in. Little Lisbeth, whohas had to put up with men invading her space (every which way), is startledand jumps back. For a movie that has been adapted from a book that was titled The Men Who Hate Women (a little harsh,I’ve to say), this pivotal moment, where the multiple narratives join eachother, just about says everything. I’m not sure if my categorization ofMichel’s behavior is bang on, but dear reader, I hope you get the drift. Andhe’s the “clean” guy.                 Now, that’s a point for later.What draws our attention upfront is the amount of action that is staged arounddoors and windows, with characters walking in and walking out or resting on thejambs, or using the separation as a means of protecting their privacy. Michelwalks out of a building only to walk into a horde of reporters, walks away fromthem, walks into a café only to find the news channel flashing his legalproblems, and he walks out, and walks into his office only to find all the newsreporters staring at him. We think this guy’s privacy is more or less screwed,and just about the time Michel expresses his desire to go home and crawl underthe duvet for a week the film quite amusingly intercuts to Dirch Frodeexamining a file containing a detailed background check on Michel done byLisbeth Salander (Ms. Mara), who, in her turn, knows a whole lot more thanwhat’s inside the report. I mean, like bank statements and sexual inclinations.So yeah, the invasion of Michel’s privacy is complete, and barely nine minutesinto the narrative Mr. Fincher quite neatly sets up not merely the dominanttheme but what would be the dominant technique to help read it. And he usesthis moment, through Lisbeth’s coiled body (there’s some intercutting here aswell, between her walk to the office and the conference room waiting for her),and through orienting the composition around her and allowing her the privilegeto sketch her own private space, to establishher and her privacy, which I guess is pretty wicked. I mean, people sitting acrosslong tables protecting themselves over the corpse of another man’s privacy doesmake you chuckle, no?                 Mr. Fincher does have a lot onhis plate to narrate, and it pays to be precise and economic drawing upon somany elements – textual, sub-textual, and extra-textual – and depositing themlayer by layer making a film so immense I still have no idea how to structuremy piece here. I’m like an ant chewing the bark of a tree, or something to thateffect. So what I would do is continue in this direction, maybe for a paragraphor two, who knows maybe even more, and see if it can lead me inside. Michel,running away from his legal problems in Stockholm,finds some sort of reprieve in the case of an old man’s murdered granddaughter.The old man is Henrik Vanger (Mr. Plummer), and the granddaughter was Harriet(Ms. Moa Garpendal), and in one brilliant crosscut that also serves as Sovietmontage, Mr. Fincher links Lisbeth leaving and closing the door behind andHarriet sitting under the sun who turns and looks at us, linking not merely thetwo little girls but probably the past and the present. I suspect, the latterlinkage finds a lot more weight in Mr. Stieg Larsson’s novels (I haven’t readthem), considering he was so concerned about Right Wing extremism in Swedishsociety. As for Mr. Fincher, he takes these concerns as a given, and builds hisfilm upon them. Now back to Harriet and Lisbeth, and look at them below andtell me they don’t resemble, especially with their missing eyebrows.
                  We shall come back to thislink-up later, but for now, let us stick with Michel. He accepts Henrik’sproposal to look into the mystery and try and solve it, but not before Henrikpromising him to give some sort of smoking gun on billionaire Hans-ErikWennerström (Mr. Ulf Friberg), the guy who has caused his recent legalmisfortunes. Michel takes some time away from his magazine, leaving it and itseditor-in-chief Erika Berger (Ms. Robin Wright) to fight Wennerström alone, anda certain tension is created here. Not merely the gender thing – Erika andMichel are extra-marital lovers – but the nagging thought that the present isbeing ignored to salivate over the past, and it assumes its full form duringthe film’s bleakest hour – while Lisbeth is being brutally raped by her legalguardian provided by the state, we cut to Michel mulling over the informationabout Harriet and listening to an iPod. I mean, yeah I know, what I’m sayingprobably doesn’t make much sense, but the tension here is more of a moralargument, a theoretical/ cinematic exercise that primarily causes uneasinessbecause of this narrative world, a world where crosscuts (agent of irony) arepossible, and where the very same crosscutting provides us the necessary comfortthat Lisbeth is on her way to save him when Michel is the one hanging by hisneck trying to make the most of his final breaths. And maybe, just maybe, afleeting shot of the cat wanting to get inside and escape from the chillingcold, and Michel too busy in the past to let it in, is some sort of argument inmy favor. Never mind.                  But then, that’s by no means theonly thing happening during that moment. For the first time within the film,the accessibility of technology tosolve a problem comes to the fore. Up until then Michel is just anotherhelpless agent in Mr. Fincher’s canon, like Mills or Somerset or Toschi or Mulanax or Graysmith,rummaging through diaries and police files, running around chewing the endlessbark while having only the faintest of ideas, much like me. And once again, andcontrary to the Swedish film where Lisbeth’s revenge on her rapist mostlyserves the purpose of, well, contextual gratification, Mr. Fincher causes analmost glorious crosscut from Lisbeth’s tattoo on her guardian, to Michel meetinghis daughter Pernilla (Ms. Josefin Asplund), and in a way tell us and Michel aboutthe nature of the mystery that’s being dealt with here. And also, somewherebehind, hints at an uncomfortable thought, linking the two little girls –Pernilla and Lisbeth – that makes the sex between Michel and Lisbeth that muchweirder. As opposed to the adolescent nature of the Swedish film, where Ms.Noomi Rapace’s was something of a superwoman, Mr. Fincher and Ms. Mara renderthe character a tender coconut, a vulnerable little creature in the disguise ofa punk, sort of like the grown-up version of Mathilda (Leon). And in case I haven’t yet made it obvious, there’s a flavorof duality in the proceedings – Lisbeth and Michel, Lisbeth and Harriet,Lisbeth and Pernilla, Martin and Gottfried, Martin and Lisbeth’s father, thepast and the present. And then, the most important of all – the exteriorand the interior, spaces which are no way limited to the four walls. Henriktakes Michel out in the chilling snow and gives him a lowdown on who liveswhere on the island, which mostly contains meaningless information butprimarily serves to highlight how almost all of the characters within the filmare essentially alone. Peering through with those doors and windows, and mostimportantly crosscutting with the aid of the exterior shots of the variousresidential places here (causing a smooth transition and lending some seriousthematic weight) , Mr. Fincher almost sort of defines his characters throughtheir places, and the size and nature of their “private chambers”. Wemeet Henrik Vanger, and in spite of his huge mansion, the old man belongs tothat dark room where those flowers hang, and he lets Michel in.
Wemeet Inspector Morell, and Mr. Fincher takes great care in choreographing theconversation so as to frame him in his private space when he describes apoliceman’s obsession with a “missing-girl case” (another example ofself-righteous behavior in a patriarchal society?). 
Wemeet the cops, and they lead Lisbeth into separate rooms to give the detailedinformation she seeks.  
  Wemeet Anita in her office, although we’re never let inside her home. In a way,even her exterior is guarded.
Andthe woman in the picture, who pulls the honeymoon album from a separate room.
Yeah, enough with these frame-grab shenanigans.The thing is, there’s Lisbeth, and there’s Henrik, and there’re all thosefamily members living alone behind those stonewalls, protecting their lives,much like us. Right from Harald (who, late in the film, leads Michel into hisroom) to Cecilia to Inspector Morell to Gunnar to Anita to the cat. Everybodyin here seems to have their own private chambers, and that these people allowus access is a reflection of both the humanity at the heart of the film and itspolitical stance. In return, Mr. Fincher not once crosses the boundary, alwaysrespecting the person’s private space (his cinema is probably the opposite ofvoyeurism). There’s Martin with his glass walls, the obvious plot decoy, whosupports the presence of the protagonist/detective the most, who has a homeseemingly built out of glass as if he has nothing to hide, but which is builtlike an intricate maze having no apparent orientation (especially when Michelsneaks into it), and whose chilly interiors bring to mind Patrick Bateman’sabode, and whose private chamber situated “vertically” rather thanhorizontally, is not a cliché but a symbolic device, suggestive of whatever thenovel’s title wanted to convey. That soft sound of the wind, during the dinnerconversation with Martin and his lover, and the little confusion of its sourceis a lovely little touch, both as a piece of clue and as an indication of thearchitecture.   Which brings us to the issue of the big lurid(supposedly) scene, and the absolute invasion of Lisbeth’s private space.Trevor Link, in a rather wonderful essay here, interpretsthe film as salvation of digital cinema, a stance I might want to argueagainst, considering that digital cinema itself involves making meaning out ofmeaningless binaries, which in turn makes it the savior. But Trevor’s argumentsure does contain some weight in a Fincher film, considering he passes montageas packets of data, which together create the implied meaning. Especially in The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, whereLisbeth wanting to track down possible victims from the police files comesacross this information. You might want to read the where-clause of the SQLquery above (‘rape’, ‘decapitation’ etc.), and the report column of the resultset.   Itis from this flat meaninglessness that the film hopes to escape from, a film wherethe damning evidence is the most primary weapon, and here, in the InformationAge, digital technology sort of becomes the Deus Ex Machina. She walks (hacks)into Bjurman’s private chamber wanting to implicate him using digital means,not anticipating the ensuing behavior at all. Lisbeth thus becomes the film’sprincipal agent (she would later help in incriminating the film’s othervillains as well), the central symbolic figure representing both technology andinnocence within the film, and her rape doesn’t merely serve as a cue forwhat’s to come, but also as symbolic of the actions committed by its sexualpredators. Allow me to explain. Mr. Fincher, curiously, follows (not immediately)the rape scene with a sequence of Erika in Michel’s cottage, walking into thebedroom while he’s sitting over the sofa mulling over the Vangers’ decision toinvest in his troubled magazine, and she calls him to bed, her silhouette in his room. Now look, how the film both sets up the film’sprimary dramatic thread as manifested by this space, and plays with it. Here’sLisbeth and Michel on their opening night (of the investigation) together.  And here’sthem later on, Lisbeth practically forcing herself upon him, and Michel in turngrabbing the opportunity with at least his left hand. Here’s a man who is in anextra-marital affair that has wrecked his marriage, and is now enjoying thissupposed one-night stand after a tryst with danger, much like James Bond (famouslydescribed as a sexist misogynist dinosaur).What’s happening here? Is Mr. Fincher merelyreplicating the gender-blah from the novel/Swedish-film? Not really. On thecontrary, throughout the film he is establishing Lisbeth’s child-like innocencein an increasingly grey-ish world. When her first guardian Holger Palmgrensuffers a stroke and is hospitalized, she sits outside like a faithful dog. Heranorexic withdrawn body language suggests she is perennially on the defensive,and Michel’s apparent “cleanliness” is a virtue she is easily attracted towardsand falls for. His presence causes her to hope, look forward to Christmas, andmaybe even smile and open up a little bit. He, in his turn, exhibits the sortof behavior described in the opening paragraph, explicitly conveyed in a momentwhere he runs his arm around Lisbeth to access the keyboard. She mistakes hisone-night stand for perennial love, and when the film’s final moment finds herlittle hope blown to pieces, it is a heartbreaking loss of innocence. In manyways, Lisbeth’s equation with Michel represents what Stephen Meyers’ with MikeMorris was misunderstood to be. Oh yeah, I believe Michel and Mikeare riding the same boat, although Michel is merely gray – a probable victim ofhis gender and not actively unscrupulous.                       So yeah, as opposed to general descriptions of Mr. Fincher’s film beingimpassive, or even lurid, it is extremely sensitive and tender, and respectful.In this day and age of Wikileaks and News International Phone Hacking scandaland DSK, it identifies with Lisbeth Salander, salvaging her character from thejuvenile blandness of the Swedish film and making her vulnerability so palpablewe know her better than anybody within the film. And as she rides awaydisappearing into the city, we cannot help but wonder about the wildernesssurrounding the film, the wilderness with which Mr. Fincher opens thenarrative, the geographical expanse where a girl can be maimed and buried, andwhere Lisbeth can throw her wig without worrying about somebody finding it. Isthat a reference to the vast expanse of information which Toschi and Graysmithlost themselves in? The wilderness of the past surrounding the present? Sometimes William Faulkner's "The past is never dead, it's not even past" feels so true. TheBible might be scanned and made an e-Book, or the photos could be scanned andzoomed in to extract the last pixel, but then there still remains a hell of alot to our world that lives beyond 1s and 0s. 

ROCKSTAR: MOVIE REVIEW

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Cast:Ranbir Kapoor, Nargis Fakhri, Aditi Rao Hyadri, Piyush Mishra, Kumud Mishra Director:Imtiaz AliRuntime:158 min. Verdict:Thoroughly frustrating. Mostly silly. But with some awesome moments.  Genre:Romance, Drama
(Note: When it comes toverses, my comprehension skills attain sub-zero levels. I don’t get them atall, and often during a film when I do happen to merely understand what theline is that has been sung, it is a personal eureka moment. So huge parts ofthis film captured in the songs might have completely escaped m   e, and if so, any help/correction would bemuch appreciated.)
                Mr. Ali’s Rockstar continues with the trend of our “serious/meaningful”cinema rationalizing a film song. It was 18 years ago when Hum Aapke Hai Kaun strung together 14 songs in a narrative andearned the tag of a marriage video. I mean, a lot has happened with the filmsong since then, but mostly it has been a reluctance to dilute the tone of afilm and “break” into a song-and-dance number, and wanting to find more andmore ways of including songs without having to stage them, or ways in whichthey are an organic output of the narrative and not a detour. Mr. Ali’s conceithere is including just as many songs as Mr. Barjatya’s film without any of theresulting artifice or breakdown of tone, and although only one of them is consciouslydealing with Music the insights gained are probably just about the same.                Let us consider here any randomHindi film, and the manner in which the songs echo the narrative. Say, Mr.Inder Kumar’s Dil, and how the songs– from the foot-tappers Khambe JaisiKhadi Hai and Dum Dama Dum to themellowed down considerably slower and romantic Mujhe Neend Na Aaye to the almost wailing O Priya Priya. I mean, one could pick up any film reliant on songs,like say Phool Aur Kaante, and seethis very obvious and basic method of film narration. In those films, we neverwondered, and we still don’t wonder how those guys could sing and dance, andalso we do not mind if the same actor is voiced by different singers. I mean,Mr. Shahrukh Khan had both Mr. Kumar Sanu and Mr. Vinod Rathod for him in Baazigar, while the latter lent hisvoice Mr. Siddharth Ray. It’s horses for courses, and we don’t even botherabout these trivialities, and I don’t think we’re supposed to either. I mean,it is one of the very basic tenets of movie-illusion. In Rockstar, the end credits (and this is a first time for me) statequite explicitly that Jordan’svocals have been supplied by Mr. Mohit Chauhan. So yeah, there you go, that is sometonal austerity for you, and not that I don’t appreciate it. Who knows, maybe adecade or so down the lane we might have actors voicing themselves. The question here, though, is to understand whatMr. Ali’s Rockstar does with thisausterity? I mean, the late K.V. Mahadevan had Mr. S.P. Balasubramaniam to singall the compositions in Mr. K. Viswanath’s Sankarabharanam,and that was a film that actively dealtwith its art-form (music). One understands the need. Does Mr. Ali’s film dealwith musical expression in any significant way that movies haven’t for the past50 or so years, either implicitly (Dil)or explicitly (say, Karz)? Is Jordan arockstar because of the film, or is his talent a mere rationalization of allthe songs, and even, in some case, some sort of narrative device? Right afterJordan (Mr. Kapoor) reaches Pragueand meets Heer (Ms. Fakhri) and finds peace making a return in his life, hewalks up to a bunch of street musicians. It seems to be building into then theonly moment, in a film about a popular artist, which is only about the artist and his art. And nothing else. Oh yeah, artdoesn’t spring out of vacuum, sure, but this is not about the output. It isabout the lure, the magic, of what is it about an art-form that inspires anartist to choose it as his mode of expression. Jordan is entranced by the sheerjoy of whatever it is they’re playing so much so that his hands start playingthe imaginary guitar to the tune of it. It ought to be pure, and for a momentor two it is. Until he starts singing, and the song turns out to be about acaged-princess. Like you know, Rose from Titanic,or Heer here. Coming on the heels of their joint escapades, the music distractsus too much towards the content and leaves us with precious little by way ofform. The rockstar is not indulging in music; he is merely conveying what hethinks about the girl’s predicament. Which sort of undermines all that blahabout the film and its music and the embarrassing reduction of the nature ofart, assuming it is experience and pain that give birth to it, when all thefilm seems to be interested is in some sort of star-crossed love story andwhere the music is merely incidental. You know, like Romeo-and-Juliet, or Heer-Ranjha, or you know, Kites. Oh yeah, death then becomes anecessity.                 Songs here, then, assume theirusual reactionary service of conveying the emotional state of affairs, and Mr.Ali’s conceit is to cause a protagonist who can facilitate their existence, andthus build a character/narrative arc. Both of them address each other, which isquite economic, and even resourceful. Questionable are the results, I say.Confession: Mr. Ali’s overarching themes about love and stuff come across aspainfully silly in their adolescence, and that is something I cannot overcome. Anddon’t get me even started on all that nonsense around Tibet, or the blink-and-miss nods to the Khalsaand Kashmir, so brief it is disrespectful, andeven disgraceful. Chances are my blood might start boiling. Let us leave itthere.   And concern ourselves with the manner in whichthe film goes about presenting them. Consider for instance, the opening and itssurefootedness, the blunt forceful cuts and the pace that is achieved, Jordanalmost walking out of one of them, a glimpse of his relationship with the mediaand its camera, and the serenity of the past it matches on to. I got to admit Istill don’t get why Mr. Ali does that thing with his opening credits (even in Love Aaj Kal), where he sort of lays outtemporal instances of his protagonist in a distinctly haphazard fashion, sortof freeing them of the captivity of narrative, and then proceeding to just dothe opposite. I do not understand the meaning/implications of such a narrativechoice other than some sort of confusion. This is not the problematic partthough. What truly baffles me is the lighting and colors he uses to introduceHeer into the scheme of things, by means of a stage-performance, and – here’sthe curious part, especially for a love story – not via your standard-issuebright lighting but the seedy red-and-black you (at least I do) normallyassociate with dance bars. At least, it is unflattering and the least bitcharitable.
  Inmy defense of straight-jacketing this sort of lighting with one sort of place,here’s another frame from the film when the bucket-list is well on its way.



Thisformal choice is further underlined by the near excessive lusting on the partof Jordan’sfriends, and whose reaction shots sort of frame Heer. Is that literally ared-herring? Probably not when you come across this shot.


Butthen, yeah, when you find her excited to visit one of those seedy movietheatres, or booze, or do whatever it is a guy supposedly does. Courtesy thoseinitial reaction shots, Heer is mostly an object who attains some sort ofpersonality (and respect?) once she jumps the gender. Or some such nonsense. Thegender mishmash here’s a mess, but again, let’s stay away from all that. What’scrucial here is the casting of Ms. Fakhri, and the complete lack of any degreeof orthodoxy in her, both as a result of her appearance and the way Mr. Alibuilds her. I am not even sure if her marital infidelity is supposed to morallystun us, because (a) when she invokes right and wrong and resists adultery itdoesn’t make much sense considering their preceding whatever, and (b) when shedoes commit adultery, we’re mostly numb. In support of (b) consider that SouthAfrican model they used in Ms. Pooja Bhatt’s Rog. You can wrap saris all around her but she’s still a foreignelement. The orthodoxy just isn’t there in the first place to cut throughlater. Which leaves me a whole lot confused about her trajectory.  Mr. Ali’s Rockstarbecomes a thoroughly frustrating and reductive affair – long passages of completelyineffective filmmaking interspersed with moments that soar way beyond the realmof the inspired and attain true transcendence. Just when performances breakdown, scenes break down, angles break down, and a line of conversation doesn’tmake any sense other than gift-wrapping for us the moment, a little movementaround Jordan (Mr. Kapoor in a more-or-less brilliant performance) completelyshatters the built-up defense and blows you away. Consider a pivotal moment in the film that causesour protagonist much of his anger. Their relationship is in top gear, thepassion unbearable, and it’s time for Jordanto leave Prague.They meet, and the impatience Mr. Ali exhibits here is quite inexplicable. Iwouldn’t want to divulge anything here (just in case you haven’t yet watchedit), but Jordan’s reaction to it, especially considering his knowledge ofHeer’s intentions, put his IQ somewhere in the range of 52-68, because hey,even Forrest Gump understood what love is. More criminal is Mr. Ali’sconception and staging of these affairs, when he could easily have kept Jordan(and us) momentarily clueless about the Heer lash-out, considering he gives ashot of her walking behind a wall and breaking down. A filmmaker who just needsa single fluid shot, the camera zooming and craning out, to convey the wholeparadox that is spiritual awakening (which involves both pride and humility inthe way one feels special) ought to know better than that.
  And he also ought to know better than having a journalist (Ms. Hyadri)who provides the same service to the narrative as Ms. Jiah Khan did to Ghajini, i.e. a built-in expositiondevice, especially when he has one readily available (Khatana, Mr. KumudMishra). He ought to know better than to ask Heer’s sister to bludgeon us witha sledgehammer on how to feel about Jordan's role in her, let us say,hopeless medical condition. I mean, the little shouts at the top of her lungs,for crying out loud. Exposition is a slippery device, and one of the rules inthe instruction manual is to never use it in drama or romance, especially inits running-commentary form. More so when you have the chops to pull it offvisually. Consider the way Mr. Ali framesthe expanse of Prague in the film more romantic moments, providing the nomadJordan, who is walking throughout the film with nowhere to go and nowhere tobelong to, at least the warmth of his own space. And when things go down, especiallyafter Prague, he makes a mockery of his private space finding newer ways to lockhim up within his public persona. I mean, yeah, the vertical bars of the prisonare a touch literal, but then the system is the least of his problems. Thereare hands swaying all around him, and there are figures stacked all about him.






  Except for that little room with Led zeppelin and JimMorrison, this Rockstar has precious little in the film by way of a home, andonly the hope of a land where he can live like he wishes to. Oh yeah, like thatother wall filled with fantasies this year (MissBala), Jordan gains a whole lot of weight when considered an allegoricaldevice. The film’s opening passage with its crowd worship feels totallydifferent when Mr. Ali cuts to it at the end, less about the fame and adulationand more the implicit obligation. In a way his talent is his curse. When thefilm finally gives him his own little space, under a little tent, from where hedoesn’t have to walk anywhere to, absolutely cut off from everything, you knowhe deserves it. I mean, despite the fact that he’s stupid. Oh yeah, a punch tothe system. And the finger to us. Sometimes, you know, you got to feel sorryfor them.

AGENT VINOD: MOVIE REVIEW

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Cast: Saif Ali Khan, Kareena Kapoor, Prem Chopra, Adil Hussain,Dhritiman ChaterjiDirector: Sriram RaghavanRuntime: 156 min. Verdict: A smart smart uber-stylish film that could’ve easily beenso much more. Andit comes with a killer title sequence.Genre: Thriller, Action                                                                
                You couldbe charitable and give Mr. Raghavan the benefit of the doubt by ignoring the snatch-and-grab(do read all the links) action sequences as an attempt to hide theirweaknesses, or you could be critical of the choppy barely-comprehensible filmmaking,where the geography doesn’t make a lick of sense, where close scrutiny of thosefragmentary moments betray cars ambling along in a chase who kinetic energy isbarely an illusion. Mr. Raghavan, in his turn, replies with a most beautifullyconstructed corridor-setpiece, and coming on the heels of the film’s mostromantic moment – her confession a tad clichéd and his probably as bittersweet(blunt and honest) a reflection anyone as opaque as him could muster courage togive away – the poetry of their relationship’s conception amidst all theviolence and danger, and the resulting shootout, where the smooth thuds ofsilencers from his gun give way to a camouflaging hug that turns out to besomething real for her, might cause John Woo to shed a tear or two. There’s ablind woman, and another with a tiny baby, and you’re laughing too. I was. Sowas my wife. At the sheer joy of it all. There was a song playing in thebackground that felt sweet and sad and happy and breathless at the same time,and in keeping with my density with anything that is in verse-form, it might aswell have been in Swahili. I listen to it now, with that sequence playing andreplaying itself in the background, with both hindsight (plot) and meaning(song) at my disposal, and I realize Mr. Raghavan didn’t even need words there.That is music action-style, or if you want to put it the other way round, it isaction music-style. And aside from the fact that it is both, it is pure.                 Unlike themelodrama of the ending, which is fake any which way you look at it. A clearand present problem in our urban/global action movie that needs immediateattention is the general dose of English in our dialogs, which just doesn’tsound right. I cannot at the moment put my finger on it, but stuff like “I can’t make it” or “Why can’t we diffuse the bomb” or “that bastard shot me” simply meltsbefore the bullshit detector, and pulls you out of the proceedings. The dramafeels tacked on, the stakes with the bomb and all feels unnecessarily high,almost a part of a different film, and the Inver Brass-esque ending, with itssummarization of the scenario around the subcontinent feels like anadvertisement for The Hindu. From a plot involving colorful cinematic utterlyfictional characters, we’re suddenly in the firing line of such cool-soundingthings as “Beijing stock market crash” and “Iran-India pipeline” and “civilwar” and “senators” and “NATO”. In a way, it is an implication of everyadolescent reader like me who actually took those scenarios in Robert Ludlum’snovels seriously. Knowledge sometimes can be a very bad thing.                 But then,Mr. Ludlum’s novels had the luxury of packing that lethargic prose andconvoluted plot into incredibly bloated books running anywhere from 500 to 800pages. There’s only so much plot and so many sequences that could go into acommercial length narrative feature. It is just an approximation but by mycount Agent Vinod has close to 50sequences, which is quite a large number for a film of the whoisbehindit andwhyisbehindit kind, where cause and effect ought to be clearly explained to theaudience so that they gain some sort of foothold on the proceedings. Thekeywords here are goals and obstacles,and in an out-and-out post-modernist thriller as Agent Vinod, where the dramatic tensions are near negligible whencompared to the “larger” scheme of things, which in turn are forsaken for somenudges here and winks there and a general level of we’re-having-a-ball-making-thisattitude (which sometimes is infectious), the audience’s understanding ofG&O attains considerable significance as far as their interaction with itis concerned. Interaction is another keyword. I mean, you don’t causeinteraction you might as well show the grass grow, no? Consider Mr. De Palma’s Mission Impossible, a film whichreceived much flak from the critical fraternity for its convoluted plot, butone that is an ideal example here – the kind that creates a perfect illusion ofinvolvement, the kind that feelscoherent in spite of unleashing excessive amount of exposition within a shortspan of time, that kind that creates willingly dumb terminals with a falsesense of interaction with its long setpieces threading together the narrative. Betweenthe Hitchcockian pleasures of the mission in Prague, to the Rififi-inspired CIA NOC-list theft, tothe CGI-awesomeness of the train chase, the film unloads upon us a whole lot ofcockamamie masquerading as plot. These are interim goals the narrative leadsto, and we are under the totally false impression that we’re engaging with thedidactic narrative when we’re merely following it.Agent Vinod has little by way of these clearly set goals. Neither are theyproperly set-up as a big event (narrative pit-stop), nor are they anticipatedin advance. It is not modeled on the heist movie pattern of the Mission Impossible movies films butinstead follows the hooking strategy of the adventure film ((in a way, all Bondmovies could be classified under here, as far as I can recollect), whereeverything is unknown, and breadcrumbs lead the way through the narrative. Andalthough Mr. Raghavan sets his narrative far more intelligently than most ofthe Bond films, there is little to no respite from this incessant trail (plot).Respite here refers to a strategically placed action sequence (unlike theobligatory ones in most Bond films that only serve to aggravate the detachment)where the dramatic stakes take over the narrative stakes, like for instanceamping up the matter of Kazan’s death or Ruby’s (Ms. Kapoor) predicament, wherewe care for something other than the smartness of everyone around. You couldsay the film is too clever for its own good. But an absence of such a delimiter is not the main concern, andis in no way the deal-breaker. Now, 242 is the perfect hook for an adventurethriller (the Ark) Mr. Raghavan has at his disposal, but he never ever sets itsstatus as the object we desire. We already know about the existence of thenuclear bomb, which is a clear mistake if you ask me, a decision thatsignificantly dilutes the film’s chances of being a thriller and instead adoptthe ways of an action-adventure. As in, a longget-to-the-bomb-before-it-explodes. Which is clearly not Mr. Raghavan’s area ofexpertise, considering he likes his narrative to be littered with crosses anddouble-crosses, and femme fatales, and false identities, and convolutedschemes. And because of the film’s tendencies to deliver punchlines and displaya general degree of cleverness, and because of the incessant pacing both by wayof plotting and cutting (there’s almost a near excessive usage of jump-cutshere, both in action sequences and general camera movements, 242, despite itspresence, rarely gets the top billing. Incessant pacing. I know, first-world problems. With Mr.Raghavan it is not a case of what’s on screen is ineptly done, which happens tobe my gripe with most movies the Hindi film industry serves me. Like Kahaani forinstance, that doesn’t even have theaesthetic sense of cinema. You know, basic stuff that at least makes the damnthing watchable. I mean, here I am complaining about the pacing and amidst allof it Mr. Raghavan gives us probably the most nerve-shattering 20-odd secondsof pure genius in recent memory – a low-angle shot from behind Vinod’s (Mr.Khan) head as the angle of elevation looks at the sniper in the distance. Aschoolbus comes and goes, and for a few moments, where the tension of the time-bombis so unbearable you are on your knees pleading for a cut. It is brilliant,precise and pure. And for sure, it is thing is going to be in my kids’ syllabuswhenever it is they learn movies. Oh yeah baby, they’ve it coming. But then, here in AgentVinod, Mr. Raghavan’s choices seem to be ill-suited to the kind ofnarrative experience he probably was aiming for. Scenes run into each other,and there’s simply too much motion. Mr. Khan walks real fast. It doesn’t helpthat Mr. Raghavan seems to prefer a drum-beating retro-soundtrack.Conversations are generally snappy, and a two-shot, at least for the firsthalf, is a rarity. And when all these are mixed together in an essentiallyexpository narrative, it is probably too much information to take. This begsthe question. Why don’t modern 0action movies employ the dissolve? Mr. Raghavanuses a whole lot of transitory elements, like flying planes, and moving cars,which basically are shorthand for physical displacement, but which make it allseem temporally continuous and a packet of information in its own right. Mymovie-viewing system suggests that nothing is as effective as a good-oldfashioned dissolve, best used in the Indiana Jones movies through those mapscomposited over real action, and cognitively it not merely works as shorthandfor time passing by but has a calming influence on our processing system. Adissolve feels like a logical end-point, and Mr. Raghavan employs it mostly forsome winks (Rajan’s death).  And considering that he gives the nuclear bomb much in advance,wouldn’t he have been better served if he had employed intercutting throughoutthe early part of the narrative, breaking to us not merely the itinerary of thebomb thereby setting the plot up for agent Vinod to unravel, but also droppingon us much in advance the film’s another major hook Bluebird, instead ofbreaking it to us at the eleventh hour when it becomes just another crypticword. And he doesn’t make his job any easier by messing up the narrativethrough cross-cutting during the final half hour of the chase, where everycharacter seems to be following his own trail and the tension that might havebeen derived from the unified goal of following the bomb-man never gains themomentum it should have (Forsyth’s TheFourth Protocol). I mean, the Colonel could’ve been ejected from theproceedings earlier so that it is just the pursuit of the bomb-man we’reconcerned about. The cross-cutting in the initial part, or the lack of it,highlights a far deeper gripe, and one that troubles Srikanth Srinivasan (who made me realize it) themost, is the irony of Vinod’s predicament, both as the agent of the authorityhere and as a symbolical figure of the genre.  The big reveal implies that Vinod has beenunwittingly a part of the Zeus group’s grand conspiracy, aiding them inimplicating the ignorant terrorists. That basically kicks his sense offree-will right out of the window, bringing him and James Bond and every suchfigure right alongside GuyMontag and JohnAnderton and RickDeckard. Which happens to be, or rather could’ve been a brilliant subversionof the spy genre, because Mr. Raghavan discourages any such reading byindulging in his referential-punchline one-two, the ending in South Africabasically echoing Casino Royale. And even in its present state the coda doesn’t sit well with me.I might be significantly dumber than Vinod in Mr. Metla’s eyes, but are wesupposed to be turning the terrorist’s weapons on them? What does that make us,and is Mr. Raghavan implying a ultra right-winging stance? How would the stockexchange fall trigger a NATO attack? Would Beijing remain silent and incapable?Would the United States and its allies be capable of going into another warwith their economic re-collapse? Does Mr. Raghavan’s Agent Vinod encourage this line of questioning? I mean, why doesMr. Arif Zakaria need to be a suicide bomber when he so easily could’ve been asniper? Which is a shame. Because AgentVinod merely ends up being a smart thriller when it could’ve so easily beena great one. Rare is the genre exercise that doesn’t merely announce the plotbut takes great care to be a treat to the eyes. I mean, who would think of quotingTuco of all the people. Or would bother to serve a closeup of dry fingersplaying the organ. Or would employ TheGood The Bad and The Ugly ringtone? Or who would bother to indulge in alittle exercise for the eye, ala the final sequence in Mr. Haneke’s Caché by having the bombman traverse thelength of the frame? Or when we wonder how the hell Vinod knows the Lankantiger, who would take the opportunity of answering it via a pleasing montageserving both as an explanation of the past and present. The thing is there aretwo films there – one a Sriram Raghavan film and the other an Illuminati production.Consider Agent Vinod as Mr. Raghavancoming to terms with the demands of the other one. And when he finds himself onthe other end, I hope the answer he finds has nothing to do with beingfast-paced. Andit probably doesn’t need much of a mention but, Mr. Khan is quite simplydevastating. Could he be the best star-actor we have? I wonder. 

CAFÉ DE FLORE: MOVIE REVIEW

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Cast:Vanessa Paradis, Kevin Parent, Hélène Florent, Évelyne Brochu, Marin Gerrier, AliceDuboisDirector:Jean-Marc ValléeRuntime:120 min.Language:FrenchCountry:CanadaVerdict:Guilty of rationalizing unethical behavior with irrational mystification. Butas a piece of music it is fantastic to listen to. Genre:Drama
                Café De Flore structures its narrative in a manner that invites the viewer to put his judgingcap on, and then proceeds to turn that judgment back on the viewer himself. Orat least, that seems to be the intention. And despite that, judge I will. Bythe powers vested in me by the blogosphere judge I will, more so because thefilm’s narrator (a woman) basically asks us to consider two mostly archetypicalscenarios. There’s Rose (Ms. Brochu), introduced as Antoine’s (Mr. Parent)better half, and her characteristics include such things as – (a) a smooth lapKevin can caress (b) a body that sways along in slow motion, and that beatsrhythmically when they have photogenic sex, and (c) a dance so graceful andeconomic you wonder why Hindi films with all their song and dance numbers investso much in acrobats. To summarize, dear reader, she’s in tune. Mr. Vallée hasenough visual chops to make that pretty apparent, more so considering the factthat the film’s title is not a reference to the famous café in Paris, but Doctor Rockit’s lovely piece, andthat his protagonist Kevin is a disc jockey. And whose ex, a most dutiful wife aswe get to learn a little later, is basically out of tune, so much so that Mr.Vallée has a dance sequence which starts off with Rose and draws us, and Kevin,in and ends with the blandness the ex, Carole (Ms. Florent), brings to thetable, drawing us and Kevin out. Not much is spent in the how either, with asingle glance in a party setting the flame, and a jump in time consolidatingthe directions on the triangle. That makes the film less of a “moral dilemma” andmore of a situation where a decision ought to be had, where the correct decisionis the one I shall pronounce in the subsequent few lines, and where the film’srhetoric strategy is clearly in the service of a wrong end. The strategy being,mirroring Kevin’s profession, free-flowing through different periods, one thepresent and the other the past set in 1960s Paris where Jacqueline (Ms.Paradis), a single mother, lives with and loves her son Laurent (Mr. Gerrier),who is affected by Down’s syndrome, and who in the entire film doesn’t have amoment of his own. Even a close-up is awarded only in relation to a dramaticmoment unfolding with respect to the mother. That makes him an archetype too,an imbecile who needs to be taken care of, and if I try and bring Zoë Heller’s Notes on a Scandal on to theaforementioned table, Jacqueline with her possessiveness is of a similarcharacter type as Barbara Covett. Mr. Vallée sets this association up bylending them an accommodation in a crummy little apartment structure, where thelow-key yellow lighting often covering the faces in shadows screams ofsomething sinister lurking in the not too distant future. A future that becomesthe present when Laurent, a seven-year old, falls in love with Véro (Ms.Dubois), another little one afflicted with the syndrome.                 The narrative thenbecomes one long music piece, a refreshing take on the hyperlink film if youask me, with the periods not having to set the action in the other up. Unlikemost films of this breed (consider Mr. Stephen Daldry’s The Hours and The Readeras frames-of-reference), Café De Flore discourageshistoricity, and much like the waves in the image above that have been cut andpasted from numerous individual tracks, it collapses the past and the presentinto one free-flowing unit. Taken that way, it’s a film that’s so ideal for ourage, where any similarity to be drawn is only through association, and which bydefinition makes our mind the DJ here. Let me be a little clearer: if the twoperiods were different films, one might have found little inspiration to linkthem into a cause-and-effect scenario. This makes the film’s rhetoric, which isvery much present and which basically overrides ours, all the more aggravating.Much moralizing of the triangular situation (probably to both appease andtease), by Antoine’s father and elder daughter, is spent before a psychic isintroduced to the proceedings, whom Carole meets to discuss her dreams where alittle boy (on one occasion referred to as a little monster) hides behind herseat while she’s driving, and whose fingers cause the scary jump. That makesthe appearance of Down’s syndrome just as specific to the narrative as having apenguin for a baby. I mean, in each of the case the filmmaker doesn’t need todo anything other than to find different angles from where to capture theopacity so much so that they become the “other” within the frame. Which leavesthe slow-mo sequence during the opening credits, and the dozen or so kidsafflicted with the syndrome walking past us, a formal choice of really reallybad taste. I mean, I am aware of the trappings of having to include such anelement where the mere mention might signal a guarded reception, lest we beaffected by such easy sentimentality, but that is by no means a defense Mr.Vallée can put up, considering there’s a distinct lack of individuality within hisframes, and Laurent for the most part is interchangeable with a cute dog. Whathis inclusion brings to the narrative is the leverage to use the inherentdependence to establish Jacqueline’s reason to get up in the morning, whichbasically reflects Carole’s reason (her husband Kevin and their two daughters),without which they both might as well end their lives. Which doesn’t sound thatalarming when I put it that way, but which assumes a whole lot of ethicalirresponsibility when it equates the binary helplessness of Laurent as anexplanation for Antoine’s infidelity. And which completely renders the horrorof the past meaningless, much in keeping with the whole re-incarnation thing,by moralizing/rationalizing them as incomplete actions that need closure in thepresent and more or less absolving them of any guilt. Carole and Antoine andRose embrace each other in what can be only interpreted as a WTF moment, somuch so that when Antoine winks at his wedding, it might as well have beenKeyser Soze giving his lawyer a high-five at having getting away with so much ofbullshit. And at the end the young Antoine and Carole stand in front of apicture, with their heads flanking it, all of them in line, like a wave, pastand present together, and you wonder if the past is rationalizing the future,or is it the other way round. It could’ve been a fascinating composition, hadMr. Vallée employed no zoom, and had the elements within the picture been inthe same visual plane. But much like his strategy, where the free-flow is onlyan illusion, the zoom clearly defines the source and the destination. Which isa shame if you ask me.

THE AVENGERS: MOVIE REVIEW

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Cast: Robert Downey Jr., Mark Ruffalo, Chris Evans, ScarlettJohansson, Samuel L. Jackson, Chris Hemsworth, Jeremy RennerDirector: Joss WhedonRuntime: 143 min. Verdict: An excuse for a privileged few to have a nice indulgent outing.Which makes it a commendable juggling act giving all of them a significantpersonality in a feature length narrative.Genre: Action, Fantasy, Superhero
                Consider this.Thor criticizes his brother Loki about considering himself superior to humans,about how he misses the whole point of ruling, and how he better not touch hisbeloved planet. Yet moments before, Thor flies into the little plane where IronMan and Captain America are escorting Loki to the Shield, knocks the latterwith his hammer, and flies out with his brother. I would want to understand thedramatic logic of such behavior, or if there’s any for that matter. I mean, hecould have one of those witty little conversations, couldn’t he?  And so I wonder if the sequence takes placeonly to have a silly little action sequence between Iron Man and Thor. And forCaptain to join the mud-fight a moment later. The problem here, apart from theyawn such a lack of imagination to cause an “action” sequence induces, is thatthere’s only so much one can do with having superpowers fight each other. Weremember Neo and Agent Smith in TheMatrix Reloaded, and we remember Potter and Lord Voldermort from last year,where all one can cause is a whole lot of thunder and lightning and smashes andflying long distances and breaking through walls and all that blah. It issilly. And it is so old everybody knows nobody is going to win, which makes itessentially meaningless footage. Or fun, if you would want to put it that way.                 The problemis, if one would want to call it a problem, is that The Avengers seems to be having tug-of-war between wanting to besome sort of ponderous pontificating piffle and fun. Fun as in the narcissistickind, where the individual (superhero) is more concerned about a general levelof coolness/awesomeness than anything else. How else can one consider theHulk’s second coming, where he reveals his big secret, and then explain what hedoes on the Helicarrier, where his intentions seem to be to not merelyreplicate Harlem but to kill Ms. Romanov. He almost kills a pilot alright. Doeshe really consider them deserving of his destructive self? Or is it merely moreof the film’s meaningless fun footage? Or, is it a literalization of the film’scentral belief, which much like Watchmen,assumes somewhat of a genre-subversion – that these superheroes are merelyweapons of mass destruction that we absolutely need to possess to fight anonymousfantastical other-worldly enemies? Sort of like an argument for war and ajustification for all that has happened over the last decade. That energy is atthe center of the conflict cannot be just a stock plot-point, right? I mean,the only difference between Mr. Limpet and Jake Sully is merely justificationto be on the morally right side, right? What Mr. Whedon intends to propose is ajustification for war to be fun and heroic, where the enemies can be safelyclassified under “others”, and where it doesn’t matter if the warriors aremerely puppets/tools manipulated into action. In other words, a simplistic worldof black and white.                 But let ustalk about the other end, mostly addressed by Loki and Thor, and to some extentNick Fury, which concerns some nonsense about our lack of compatibility with freedomas an absolute, and which is just as perfunctory as that action sequence Idescribed above. And just as ludicrous. Loki, with his illusions of grandeur,turns into his Asgard self complete with robes and horns, so much so that wehear the crowd exclaim in the background. They run. And when he appears inmultiple places and asks them to kneel in order to deliver his drivel, they do.It is astonishing how uninspiring the crowd behavior is. Here we are with a demi-Godpresent in multiple places at once, which should at least stun the crowd.Remember the medical staff at the asylum in Terminator2:Judgment Day? But no, Loki speaks, people kneel and when he starts taking freejabs at mankind, an old man stands in defiance and observes – “We’ve had men like you before.” Youwonder when. It is this lack of, let us sayreverence, or wonder, for Loki, or for anything that is, well not from aroundhere that places The Avengers in arather uninteresting place in the history of the summer action blockbuster. Considerfor a moment Super-8. There’s no suchregard for the uncommon here, much in keeping with the genre’s generaldisregard for wonder, where big is shorthand for awesome, and where most of thetricks are so tired they are conventions. We’re firmly in a fantastical world wherethere seems to be no place for the exclamation mark. Which, for some reason,feels some kind of a shame. I mean, if the crowd can believe anything, then whythe need to have the Helicarrier invisible. Considering that everybody knows Iron-Man,and that the newsreel footage of TheAvengers at work ought to establish them as a fact of daily life, and NickFury’s politics is essentially to present these guys as universal deterrents,it probably might be logical to have the Helicarrier wander about in the sky inplain sight. You know, big brother and stuff. Which is what makes me suspiciousof a film like The Avengers, whichsort of wants to stand for the criticism of Hollywood’s generally liberalbehavior. I suppose Watchmen hasalready provided the answer to Mr. Whedon’s narcissist stance, which finds spectacularmanifestation in the Hulk’s utter disregard for Loki. Mr. Ruffalo is one of ourgreat actors and the mischief in his eye is less of a superhero and more of aninteresting villain. Or let us put it this way – let usjust have some smashing fun. I mean, that is what it was all about in the end, wasn’tit. All the Avengers were doing is smashing items one-by-one, individual by individual,arrow by arrow, bullet by bullet, and having an absolute ball at that. I mean,they weren’t closing it anytime soon, and it actually took only a single pilot witha nuke to wrap the nonsensical carnage. So yeah, it’s fun. And when it’s not philosophizing,The Avengers seems to be operating inWile E. Coyote’s world. Thor unleashes the power from his hammer upon Iron-Man,who instead of falling a thousand feet back has the power in his suit chargedto 400%. Big centipede beasts run through Manhattan and Iron Man destroys oneof them by flying right into it and blasting out. And the big one, where a nukeis sent to destroy all the invaders and Iron-Man resourcefully escorts it to thesource in another universe. It would have been outright hilarious too, were itnot for the film’s abrupt shift to melodramatic tones. Still, amidst the abundanceof meaningless footage (ultra close-up barely legible shots where seconds passby before we realize what we are looking at), and the philosophizing, there’resome moments of genuine wit. Not Aaron Sorkin staircase-wit, but reverseengineered stuff, wherein you write the punchline first and then come up with asuitable trigger. Hulk pushes Thor out of the frame to have the glory all tohimself, and we smile. These are kids, you know, not superheroes exactly. Ormaybe they are. I mean, when the Helicarrier is falling and the lives of allaboard is on one man, Iron-man gets to use his genius and literally push thewheel. It is the film’s one true moment of transcendence, where both Iron-manand Captain America, past and present, push the wheel and let it soar. That is,I guess, the stuff superheroes are made of, no?

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John Fatica Noted That Toy's R Us Has A Model Of The New C7 Corvette. John Passed Around The Toy Model For Everyone To See. A Motion Was Made To Adjourn By Mike Getsy.

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Go And You Will Get A List Of Articles That Mention The C7. There Are Currently Three Categories Defined In Our Data Base. These Include Ncca News, Corvette News, And

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The Base Of The Corral Has Some Scratches, C7 And The Rest Of The Corral Is C8. And Label Is Intact On The Side. 137 American Flyer By Gilbert Auto-rama Figure 8 Corvette

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