Perception, Pretension, and Prevarication

 Filmmakers’ predilection towards exotic ailments has quite a long history. From Alfred Hitchcock (the eponymous Vertigo, 1958), Christopher Nolan (short-term memory loss in Memento, 2000) to our very own R Balki (progeria in Paa, 2009) various directors have portrayed mysterious maladies in movies with varying results. At first glance, Eugenio Mira’s second full-length feature, the Spanish film Agnosia (2010)—a similar bizarre medical condition in which an individual’s brain loses the ability to process visual, aural, and olfactory stimuli—seems to be a mere addition to this fascination of filmmakers. But curiously enough, drawing that conclusion would be a perceptual error on the part of the viewer. Because Agnosia treats the travail and trauma of a character suffering from the titular affliction merely as a plot point to drive the story forward. As a film it is a period piece, costume drama, triangular romance, and an espionage thriller rolled into one.

Even though the genre-mashing characteristic of Agnosia will become evident to the viewer when s/he is well into its 106-minute running time, the opening sequence makes it amply clear in an instant that what is about to unfold on screen is a sumptuous treat for the eyes. As the story comes to life, Unax Mendía’s (who was also the cinematographer for Mira’s debut feature The Birthday in 2004) camera opens on a valley enveloped within the Great Pyrenees mountains. The year, we are informed, is 1892. The setting, replete with a stage with curtains drawn, a ramp, and vacant chairs arranged in rows gives the impression of a performance about to commence—auguring an important element of the tale.

As the guests, all military officers, arrive in horse-drawn carriages, we find that they have been invited to witness the working of a new invention by an engineer, Artur Prats (Sergi Mateu), employed with the Holbien industries, which has been manufacturing ‘the best weapons’ for many years. The item on display is a catadioptric lens (a mirror lens known for its focusing capabilities) that can be used as a sniper scope. Helping Prats is his little daughter, Joana, who has been entrusted with the responsibility of releasing a bunch of black balloons, which the military officials shoot as targets while looking through the sniper scope.

A visibly distressed Joana becomes even more distraught at the cracks of the rifle, her anguish amplified by the neighing of a horse, which bolts at the sound of the gunshots. When one of the officials shifts his focus and shoots down the animal instead, Joana faints, hitting her head as she falls. As Prats’ assistant Carles Lardin (Eduardo Noriega, nicknamed the ‘Spanish Brad Pitt’, who has acted in films by Alejandro Amenábar, Brad Anderson, and Guillermo del Toro) comes to her rescue, to his utter dismay, he finds that Joana is having trouble distinguishing him from her father. This, coupled with the stage-drama like setting, are nothing but a foretelling of the tale that is about to unfold. If the bursting of the black balloons portended to the dark world Joana will be plunged into, the breaking of the glass of the sniper scope symbolised the shattering of Artur’s dream—both as a parent and a professional.

Seven years pass by. In the meantime, Artur has parted ways with his employer, Lucille Prevert (the prolific German actress Martina Gedeck, whose filmography includes The Good Shepherd and the Academy Award winner The Lives of Others—both in 2006; and The Baader Meinhof Complex in 2008) and has set up his own company, Joana Lenses, with Carles.

Artur treats Carles more as a son than a business partner, and has even promised Joana’s hand to him in marriage. When we first meet the adult Joana (Bárbara Goenaga), we hear her saying she is not comfortable wearing her mother’s clothes. It seems discomfiture has become a way of her life since that tragic incident at the valley. Fate has played a cruel game on Artur as well. A man who manufactures lenses for a living has been left behind with a daughter who cannot even perceive the faces of her close ones, even when they are at an arm’s length. The guilt-ridden Artur, disregarding the fact that his business is going through a rough patch, has employed a doctor, Meissner (Jack Taylor) to cure Joana, on whose methods Carles has very little faith.

The two ways in which we, humans, react to a disorder as strange as the one Joana is suffering from are expressed by two different sets of individuals in Joana’s household. While Carles, though outwardly devoted to Joana, is inwardly aloof; the servants, especially one individual named Mariano—begrudged by the fact that they have to wear different-coloured rosettes, because colour is one of the few stimuli Joana still reacts to—make fun of her.

But, Carles, Artur, and Joana are all unaware that a nefarious ploy is afoot, that will very soon engulf all three lives. It is a plan set in motion by Artur’s former employer, the ruthless Prevert, to extract the formula of the sniper scope—a secret, she believes, is in Joana’s possession. To attain her objective, Prevert plants a spy, Vicent (Félix Gómez), in the guise of a man servant in Artur’s residence. But when Vicent gets inadvertently fired from his job, he is sent back on his mission. Only this time, the plan is to exploit Joana’s malady in a manner reminiscent of Kurosawa’s Kagemusha (1980).

Three days are all that Vicent has at his disposal to coax the formula out of Joana—the period during which Joana will be completely isolated from all stimuli, while being cocooned inside a dark, sound-proofed room, as part of Dr Meissner’s last-ditch attempt to heal her.

But just like the darkest hour is always before dawn, a ray of light will invigorate Joana during those three days. She will, for the first time in a long time, feel as if those distant stars in the sky—the only thing in the world she could see in the same manner as any other individual—have landed inside that dark room, while being ignorant of the fact that she is, in reality, becoming a pawn in a game of deception.

Even though the perpetrators of this reprehensible charade take every precaution, they find themselves completely unprepared by the opposition they come face-to-face with. The adversary in this case is nothing but love—passion that arises from completely unexpected quarters and threatens to jeopardise their elaborate sham. 

In an interview, Mira had stated that the reason he chose nineteenth-century Spain as the setting for his film is because modern technology has nullified many of the problems that Joana faces in the film as a result of her ailment. But it is quite apparent that there are certain aspects of human nature that is not bound by any era, period or millennium. Each one of us harbours a secret; our love for another individual is not holistic and all-encompassing, but pigeon-holed to a specific aspect of him or her; and that in the end true love is all about sacrifice—putting the other’s happiness before that of our own. 

Love in the Life of a Lugubrious Loner

 The title of the young Italian writer-director Paolo Sorrentino’s second feature film, Le Conseguenze Dell’Amore (The Consequences of Love), released in 2004, does have a Bergman-like feel to it. But the ethereally beautiful opening shot is more Kubrick-ish, Tarkovsky-esque, and a la Leone.

In a sterile white interior, a lone figure appears on screen, in extreme long shot, riding a travelator moving in a snail’s pace, with a suitcase beside him. Even though we are yet to meet the film’s protagonist, that single long take presages a lot about him. In one deft touch, Sorrentino tells us we are about to encounter loneliness, an ascetic existence, and a life that appears to have transformed into an automaton so much so that it needs external assistance even in moving along.

When we do meet the protagonist, Titta di Girolamo (a brilliantly understated and restrained performance by the noted Italian theatre director and actor, Toni Servillo), seated at the lobby of a plush hotel in Lugano, Switzerland, a voice-over tells us ‘I am not a frivolous man’. That declaration can be considered redundant. For one glance at this stoic, scowling, sartorially elegant bespectacled and balding man, cigarette in hand, with his back half turned towards us and towards life, is all that it takes to make us realise the same.

Sorrentino also introduces us to Sofia (played by Olivia Magnani, granddaughter of the legendary Italian actress Anna Magnani, who had starred in films by Roberto Rossellini and Pier Paolo Pasolini, among others), who works as a maid at the hotel’s bar. When we first lay our eyes on the young Sofia, she has a shaker in her hand, symbolising that soon she will be shaking up someone’s placid personality.

For one brief moment, we believe that these two character’s eyes have met—thereby materialising a connection that we can feel palpably—only to find that she is staring at a horse-drawn hearse through the lobby window. While the shot at the travelator set the scene for the film, the hearse, as we shall find out, portends to its conclusion.

Titta seems to have little regard for the saying: ‘Solitude is a good place to visit, but a bad place to stay in’. While to most of us, a hotel is our temporary abode, for this non-descript, taciturn, insomniac from Salerno in south-western Italy, a hotel room has been his home for eight long years.

His routine is as unwavering as his suits are impeccable. For six days a week, he sits at a corner table in the hotel lobby, observing the various guests at the hotel, ignoring interaction with any other individual, except when forced to do so. Titta is a man who has become so unaccustomed to living that when he is forced to converse with someone else, he peppers his sentences with philosophical ditties, while avoiding any reply that would throw light on his life by stating ‘The truth, my friend, is boring.’ Only for a day every week, does he leave his gilded cage, carrying with him a bag full of money to the bank. Ironically, for a man who steers clear of all sort of human interaction, at the bank he insists that the money be counted by hand, and not by a machine, stating that ‘We must never lose faith in our fellow men’.

Rude to the point of brushing aside a chambermaid’s polite queries with stern silence, we find Titta in others’ company only when he is sharing the table with hotel hermits like him, playing a game of cards. Two of his fellow players are Carlo (Raffaele Pisu) and his wife Isabella (Angela Goodwin)—the former owners of the same hotel. Due to Carlo’s gambling habits they have lost it all and have now been relegated to only a room in the establishment.

Like every man, Titta, too, has a few ‘unmentionable secrets’ in his life. One secret is that every night he eavesdrops on the conversations of Carlo and Isabella—by placing a stethoscope on their common door—hearing Carlo lamenting the spectacular life they once led and wishing for a spectacular death. There are two more secrets—one regarding the origin of the suitcase full of money and the other about a particular habit that Titta has cultivated for more than two decades.

Titta’s monotonous, meticulous, and morbid non-life is shaken to the core the day a visibly upset Sofia approaches his table and demands an answer as to why for two long years he has refrained from responding to her ‘Arrivederci’s (goodbye). The question whether he even acknowledges the fact that she exists seems to rattle Titta’s own existence of anonymity. That is when we see a faint smile on his face for the first time. Later, when he perches himself on a bar stool and tells Sofia that it is one of the most ‘dangerous’ things he has ever done, we, too, like her cannot suppress a smile.

The two go out shopping, he buys her an extravagant gift with the sole purpose of taking their relationship to the next level, and they even have a lovers’ tiff. A man who firmly believes in the saying that once someone knows a secret, it isn’t a secret any more finds himself spilling his darkest secrets to Sofia without even batting an eyelid. As he and Sofia seem to be coming closer, we find Carlo and Isabella drifting apart after Titta catches him cheating at cards.

But like all great love stories, fate will intervene in Titta’s tale. In a turn of events that will involve a missing suitcase containing nine million dollars, the Mafia, and hit men, Titta transforms himself from a man devoid of any imagination to one who can outwit even a seasoned Mafia boss.

Though the preceding paragraph seems to indicate that Le Conseguenze Dell’Amore ultimately ends up being a clichéd Italian film full of stereotypical characters and scenario, it actually avoids any such pitfalls.

It is in fact, an existential tragedy, encapsulated by that shot of Titta looking through his hotel room window at a passerby below, who, while engrossed at staring at a female runs straight into a lamppost. It is also, as the title suggests a story of love. Not the usual ‘romantic love’ that we are spoon fed by soppy Hollywood romances, but the love ‘The Fab Four’ from Liverpool spoke about in their song called ‘The End’—‘…and in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make’.

A Subterranean Saga of Salvation

There comes a point in each of our lives, when we just cannot stand the sight of the profession we are employed in. But for Bulcsú (Sándor Csányi), the issue is slightly more complicated. As a ticket inspector of the Budapest Metro, his job is to kontroll, or to ensure that passengers have bought a ticket or at least have a valid pass. This apparently monotonous and innocuous job turns out to be a daily struggle, primarily because, with almost no exception, the passengers hate kontrollers and their job. In fact, they do so with such ferocity that the ticket inspectors face verbal—and even physical—abuse almost on a daily basis.

In this thankless livelihood, Bulcsú and his crew, comprising the elderly Professor (Zoltán Mucsi), the narcoleptic Muki (Csaba Pindroch), and Lecsó (Sándor Badár), who is afraid of dogs, has just been joined by the bumbling recruit Tibor (Zsolt Nagy). It is through Tibor, or Tibi, who acts as the surrogate for the viewer, that we learn that as if the incessant animosity of the Metro passengers was not enough, a prankster nicknamed Gyalogkakukk (Hungarian for the cartoon character Roadrunner), also known as Bootsie (Bence Mátyássy), who, apparently has eyes at the back of his head like the devil and can run like him, is making life hell for the kontrollers. On top of all this, there have been seven suicides, or jumpers who throw themselves in front of an onrushing subway train, this month alone. Later on, we realise that in most cases, it is a mysterious hooded figure that is pushing people on to the tracks.

Like the gigantic exhaust fan that we see Bulcsú perched upon in one shot of the film, each day in the life of our poker-faced protagonist is an endless cycle. Through a conversation with a passenger named Feri (János Kulka)—from whom Bulcsú hides the reality that he is now employed as a ticket inspector of the very Metro Feri is travelling in—we get to learn that Bulcsú had left a project that he was working on unfinished before he ‘went underground’. Bulcsú explains that he simply got weary of waking up everyday knowing that he had to wage a daily war to prove that he was the best in his work.

But deep down both Bulcsú and we, the viewer, know that the life he has consciously opted for is no better. While he has shut the world above by never venturing out into the sunlight, spending his days boarding one train after another and the nights by sleeping on the platform, he feels equally confined by his daily routine that never veers from waking up, working, and wandering off to sleep, and waking up again to engage in exactly the same sequence of events.

It seems the only time Bulcsú can feel any rush is when he competes in the perilous game of ‘railing’ with one of his rival kontrollers, Gonzó (Balázs Lázár). ‘Railing’ is like Russian roulette. Only difference being it is a footrace and does not involve a revolver, though the stakes are equally high. When the last passenger train leaves, those who are participating in ‘railing’ run after it, following the serpentine tracks. But the objective is not to catch the train ahead of them, but to avoid getting crushed by the ‘midnight express’, the last train that comes after the final passenger train, which never stops at any station, and is always breathing down their necks, and is hot on their heels.

The ‘midnight express’ is nothing but a personification of the past that Bulcsú is running from. That is why, even though he has made a name for himself as a ‘railing’ champion, even after winning another race, his face is not flush with the exhilaration of victory, but cringed with an aura of defeat.

One day, into this dreary life of Bulcsú, appears Szofi (Eszter Balla), a girl in a teddy bear suit. She is the daughter of Béla (Lajos Kovács), who, after being banished from the world above when he could not stop in time because of ‘insufficient braking distance’ now drives one of the subway trains of Budapest Metro. Like the Little Bear constellation, Szofi takes on the role of a guiding star, lighting up Bulcsú’s humdrum existence. For the first time in a long while, Bulcsú starts thinking beyond the frequent fights with the commuters, the boring conversations with his crew members, the menace posed by Bootsie, and the perilous hooded figure.

It is difficult to categorise Kontroll (2003), the first feature length film by the Hungarian filmmaker Nimród Antal. Like its characters who hop, skip, and jump over railway tracks while ‘railing’, the film deftly hopscotches across several genres—drama, mystery, thriller, comedy, and even romance. Filmed in its entirety in a subterranean setting, the brooding atmosphere is lightened both by individual character traits (like Muki collapsing into a narcoleptic fit every time his temper rises) and by the interactions of the kontrollers with passengers without tickets, which vary from the benign (a stuttering man trying in vain to explain his situation) to the bizarre (being handed a lottery ticket in place of a subway ticket; being threatened by a gypsy that she will put a curse on the inspector who had the gall to ask for a ticket; to a guy pulling out a syringe full of blood and wielding it as a weapon).

Kontroll was selected to be a part of the Un Certain Regard category of the Cannes Film Festival in 2004—two decades after the last Hungarian film made it to the prestigious event. Not a small feat by a director making his full-length feature film debut, by any means. Thus, one would have been perfectly justified to hope that the four sets of escalators all moving upward in the final shot of Kontroll would also signify the rise of this talented born-of-Hungarian-parents but raised-in-Los-Angeles filmmaker. Unfortunately, his career graph, since then, has resembled not the final, but the opening shot of Kontroll, wherein all the escalators are seen moving down. The clue possibly lies in the fact that he never went back to his homeland again but decided to heed the call of Hollywood instead for his next three films: the vacuous horror flick Vacancy (2003), the atrocious heist movie Armored (2009), and the pathetic sci-fi offering Predators (2010).

When Words Fail to Deliver

O' Henry, one of the most prolific and celebrated short story writers of all time gained entrance into the glitzy world of Bollywood, courtesy Rituparno Ghosh's maiden Hindi directorial venture Raincoat (2004).

Based on one of the master's most popular short stories, 'Gift of the Magi', Raincoat deals primarily with two characters—Manu (Ajay Devgan) and Neeru (Aishwarya Rai). Once engaged, now estranged, they meet after a long period of separation at a time when both are undergoing emotional crises.

 What emerges is a tête-à-tête that lasts for the major part of an afternoon and the lion's share of the 117-minute running time of the film.

 A curtain of rain separates the couple from the rest of the world. Confined within the four walls of a room in a house in south Calcutta, they embark on a 'game of words'. Careful not to pry or delve deep into each other's lives, they find that although time has eroded their passion, an ember still glows deep within their hearts.

The film encapsulates the maxim that true love is all about selflessness, sacrifice, and sentiment. It is also about putting on a façade. That is precisely where the implication of the eponymous raincoat comes in.

Protected from the torrential rain, Manu enters the now married Neeru's world wearing a raincoat. He takes it off after he enters her home, but soon finds out that he has to wear a garb to face the harsh realities that stare him in the eye. Neeru realizes the same. The film is all about the mental makeup that we put on when faced with a reality that makes the heart grow fonder about the dreams that one once cherished and wished would one day be realized.

In the consumerist society we live in, the kind of emotion that Manu and Neeru have for each other is antiquated, and is amplified by the mise-en-scène of the room, filled with old clocks, ancient furniture, and similar bric-a-brac. It is as if both the characters are in a time warp, lamenting a past that they treasure, and a future that is as bleak as the weather outside.

It is a story-within-a-story format that Ghosh has implemented, but with little success. Considered by many as the best screenplay writer to have emerged from Bengal after Satyajit Ray, this is precisely where Ghosh falters in this venture. For a film that is solely dependent on dialogues, this is one department where Raincoat fails miserably. 

What could have emerged as an illustration of connotation is ultimately relegated to banality that at times precariously teeters on the verge of being branded inane. The spine of a screenplay is conflict, creation of tension, which keeps the viewer engrossed in the goings-on—aspects that are conspicuous by their absence in Raincoat.

With the single room setting a la Hitchcock's Rope, two-character interaction reminiscent of Gus Van Sant's  Gerry, Raincoat had a lot of potential in it. Deft art direction, mellifluous melodies—which, for once, do not hinder the progress of the film—and able performances by the two protagonists make one feel even sadder for the opportunity that has gone a-begging. 

One emerges out of the theatre after watching the film imagining what it could have been, rather than what it actually is. Add to all this a poster of Sophia Loren that the camera lingers on for quite sometime brings to one's mind Vittorio de Sica's Sunflower starring the legendary actress—a film that dealt similarly with unrequited love, but succeeded in eliciting a sigh of despair in a context diametrically opposite to that of Raincoat!

Reincarnating Manmohan Desai!

There’s a particular shot in Om Shanti Om, where the director, on a film set, tells the producer that he has three cameras for the next shot—'Ek Satyajit Ray angle, ek Bimal Roy angle, aur ek Guru Dutt angle.' The producer coolly tells him to try out the Manmohan Desai angle because that’s the one that sells.

That sums up the entire film for me.

I have not seen Main Hoon Na, and to be very frank, Farah Khan, to me, has never come across as someone who can make serious cinema. And that’s exactly where I had gone wrong.

In the happiness of my pursuit of cinema, I had all but forsaken the pursuit of happiness that is watching films. I still remember one of the interviews of the late Manmohan Desai, where he had emphasized that there is already a lot of strife, pain, loss, sorrow, and grief in the world. When an individual enters the cinema theater anywhere in India, he wants to leave those behind at the entry gate. For three hours he wants to visit another world where 'Everything is fine in the end. If it is not fine, it is not the end.'

Whether the 1970s was the 'golden age' of Hindi cinema or not, why Manmohan Desai is not studied the way he should be, might or might not have been some of the questions the researcher and/or even the filmmaker had in mind while conceptualizing Om Shanti Om. But it is quite apparent that they have, indeed, expressed their love for that era and the man.

What has really impressed me about the film is the fact that it has the guts to laugh at itself. Being a film about the industry (in fact, considering there’s a literal roll-call of yesterday’s, today’s, and tomorrow’s film personalities in a much-talked-about song sequence—I refuse to use the term ‘star’, because it does not apply to at least 4–5 of them—it can, in fact, be called a film of the industry, for the industry, and by the industry), the little nudges in the ribs that it gives to itself are quite commendable. It has taken almost every stereotype that you can think of from the '70s (there are actual footages from '70s films with OSO's stars inserted in the frame, a la Forrest Gump) and thrown them back at us. In fact, it has delved on certain aspects that I have always wanted to ask while gorging on those stupendously entertaining films by the Desais, Mehras, et al. For example, how does a mole on the cheek so drastically alter one’s appearance?

There are many such references, whether a nod to actual incidents that occurred during shooting (watch out for a take on Mother India with Deepika Padukone doing a Nargis and Shahrukh Khan doing a Sunil Dutt) or characters that were obligatory in those blockbusters—the suffering mother, the selfless friend, and the scheming villain. In fact, it mixes today with yesterday seamlessly and am not talking about the 30 year time-frame that the film covers. 

For example, I know for a fact that everyday thousands of youngsters still arrive in Bombay (I still prefer to call the city that, Mumbai just doesn’t have the correct twang to it) with one dream, like the one Shahrukh Khan’s character has in the film—to make it big: ‘a round bed, velvet slippers, silk coat, loads of servants and to top it all, a FilmFare award!’

The film is not an ode to the 1970s. In fact, it is not an ode to any era at all. It is a paean to the joy of both watching a film and making it. It unabashedly lauds those people who, when they enter the darkened theater, wants to be transported to a world where the hero can do no wrong, where the heroine is 'dreamy', and where the villain will get his due, even if he seeks refuge in Hollywood!

The spoilsports among us might point out the fact that not all oblique insinuations have been in good taste. Especially those who refused to be a part of the 'roll-call number' (for want of a better term) have had quite a few digs made at them, be it a photo on a driving license or anything but parental affinity to girls young enough to be daughters. But, these again, are minor issues as compared to how well the film has tackled the 1970s in the first half, in particular, and filmdom, in general.

Shahrukh, the self-proclaimed 'rockstar' possibly found an even bigger fan following after OSO, because this is the film where those gazillions who come to Bombay everyday will find themselves reflected in the superstar’s persona—at last in a character he plays on screen, they will find themselves. There are, I think only three films of Shahrukh that I like. But this is the film, which has made me realize why he is such a huge star on the film firmament. In between a Chak De, a Swades and a Kabhie Haan Kabhie Naa, this man has, as an actor, carried on the legacy of Manmohan Desai, the legacy of unadulterated entertainment. We all know by now who the real 'Mohabbat man' is, don’t we?

About three-quarters into the second half, many of us, especially the Bimal Roy fans, will know how the climax of the film will turn out. But that, to me, was not a deterrent. It is just Farah’s way of taking her hat off to one of the best films ever made on the same premise that her film is based on. It, to me, was not plagiarism, not even an 'inspiration', but just a film fan’s way of saluting a master and his masterpiece.

There’s one prop in the film that encapsulates the spirit of Om Shanti Om. Shreyas Talpade handing Deepika Padukone a wine glass filled with tea. Yes, Hindi cinema has traveled, the form has changed, but the essence of going to a film is still the same old entertainment, like the staple morning cup of tea.

And to those of us who smirked at the issue of reincarnation (in fact a character in the film also asks the same question. It really is amazing how most characters in the film ask questions that we audiences have had in mind) in a film releasing in 2007: you just mistook the '70s to be dead, it is still with us, in ‘spirit’; we simply didn’t recognize it till now.

MKD would have said 'Om Shanti Om—I likes lot!'