Ginger drafts...

I still remember the scene where the main protagonist approaches his brain lying on the railway platform; with a screw driver in his hand, he lowers it into the many furrowed brain. As the train approaches to a halt with its screeching tyres, protagonist squeezes his head tight with both hands, as though great exploding pain is emanating from somewhere within him. This scene indicated the protagonist's state of mind. It is from "Pi". My first introduction to Darren Aronofsky. And the scene where another of Aronofsky's protagonists holds his arm high up and runs the jagged ends of an oiled saw into it - "Requiem for a Dream" haunts you like no horror movie does. And lately, he produced "The Wrestler"; in this, his take on character development approaches that of Fincher's in "Zodiac". Only, the tedium is kept at bay by the rhythmic shuffling of emotions. Now, in "Black Swan", with Portman looking so downright emaciated in som

The old country and its romantic frills; lonely Jeep slowly rattling through the rickety roads, raising a smoke on its trail and dropping a fleck of dust on gorgeous lassies of the French land. The opening scene where a running tap is filling an open public tank with sheepish looking old ladies sitting atop a platform (gossiping about nothing important) evokes in one, something anachronistic, a feeling of old and arcane act of movie making, as it was in seventies and eighties. Tall buildings with their winter shadows casting on each other as the sun rolls over to the other side of the horizon,   seem to represent the village as a narrow star cornered in a chaotic galaxy. The peoples of the planets that inhabit this narrow constellation, enjoy tranquil bliss that will regress into chaos any moment now. The scene that holds the opening with a semblance of rare quietude is about to find its delusion cracked open. Chaos is incumbent. Lovely Emmanuelle Beart, as a romantic young girl, in t

In the meat shop, people gathered On the iron suspension, torsos hung by, obscuring the vision off the haggard old hyderabadis Pale red flesh around the bones is the one I long for Men watched, absorbed in the moment as the young man plucked testicles, one by one, off the hung impediments Behind the platform strewn with dishes full of brain, guts, and flesh were teenage boys who busied themselves with tossing bones into a heap by the corner with precision, with knit eye brows, laying the haunches before him, butcher sliced softly the slackened puff of a thigh with the blade puckered in its teeth, a thawed leg bone's epithelial embracing tissue was dropped into my black bag An experienced hand drew many hands of blade into the boneless collect, mincing it to my liking The emptied sacks of pitted torsos, like the street lamps, flickered, my mammallian mind lingered heavily on them Outside, a harmless young boy waited patiently, swish -swish, he dragged his slippers on the tiled flo

The revelations in the movie seem to have a life of their own – they are unusually shocking, catatonic (for, it gags your conscience), caustic and self aggrandising.  This movie is an example of daily routine elevated to the proportions of imminent catharsis. We are presented the happily smiling, familiarly nonchalant, abruptly impulsive, casual family members. Unlike other movies (or what common sense would have you believe), no one revelation drops on your plates, the many tentacles of vulgar emotions. Although the stupefying account of revelations stomp raucously through the hallways, kitchen and affects every single guest, the inevitable stay at the hotel makes it possible for a rare drama to unfold. One by one, revelations form tides of invisible emotions, and like the moist gum of a tree that slopes downwards, harden before they can be amended. The scriptwriters marshaled the prickly pungent emotions in a logical order (which is not all together apparent), so the audience is s

If you show this movie to David Cronenberg, he would have felt dispirited that the context was underutilised (could have been elevated to visceral proportions), but he would have (I presume), appreciated nonetheless. There is a sense of isolation, gagging your sense of comprehension. The protagonist is seen, in his depressed state (victim of a breakup), confronted by two gorgeous (with apocryphal impulses) ladies. The apartment itself is tranquil, you will notice the creaking of the floor as occupants trot about; you will also notice the impending loneliness smothering our protagonist of his judgement. He is seen nervously befriended by the two ladies. Hesitance in his lending a hand, unusual preeminent method adapted by the ladies in drawing him into their den, boyish nervousness in the protagonist, and rhetorical mode of acquaintance building – this is a spooky movie that you would have always wanted to see but Hollywood, in its perpetual indulgence of nonsense, never obliged. And

Ah,what an opulence! Movie opens with the family luncheon; great hall doors opening to still greater, wider and brilliantly furnished halls with roofs so high up above that the warm air seems to struggle in its attempt to fill the distance, rubbing its back on the tall roof’s ceiling. The dinner table, a mirage of aristocratic splendour; a wide stair case connecting the floor above with the one below resonates with royal charm. Everyone seems to be in great spirit. The scene with top view of the dinner table in the background and the great silver white chandelier hung before our eyes; the one where the maid attentively collects the coats from the visitors to deposit in a room that seems frightfully bright; one of the maid (impeccably dressed in white overall with red stripes) sliding open the heavy doors -scene after scene, we are presented an unforgivable affluence. If it ever crossed your mind to quickly arouse your passions of artistic grandeur, this is the movie to watch. Story

Nothing like a good french movie. This one begins with the typical french backdrop; no hurry, no great introduction of either the theme or the plot. Mother phones her son, and we infer that the movie is going to be sort of a family Reunion. French are real charmers; I say this, because, the movie establishes its playground, so to make things clear. Audience finds an indication or two, clearly delineating the plot. We are made aware that the old man is on his death bed and the forgotten son (who shares a truculent relationship with his father) is to rope in old pals. Although, the plot seems transparent enough, it doesn’t settle down silently on the floor of our collective minds. For, the seemingly apparent plot is about to implant, in the most sublime manner possible, trickle by trickle, something of great import. The technique adapted by the makers of the movie is not seminal. It is cliche, for all I can care to comment on the backdrop. But the nagging versatility the french are kno

“Winter’s Bone” opens up with a chilling old country setup; a gloomy environment, calm and sedative to the point of exhaustion. The family lives in a house overlooking dry grasslands, in the distant neighborhood is a horse stable run by a rather indifferent woman. The surroundings are so evocative of morbid dullness, as if it is upon you and there is nothing you can do to avoid it. The brief shot of protagonist chopping timber before she sets on the journey, to me, is the most definitive; she chops wood leisurely, with an absolute surety of the inconsequential life, it is at once infectious. Unconsciously, audience is influenced by this scene. As the protagonist steps up on the act of finding the whereabouts of her father, the aloofness that the family she represents is more accentuated. The neighbors, immediate relatives all seem to bear upon them, a stigma of isolation. Something underneath seems to rise up in flames that obfuscate the present situation. It is as though the collaps

Hari was experiencing strange fatalities. Since the day of tragedy, his bodily functions were peculiarly marred and left him confused. It was his wife Priya who observed the morning after “funny that you should sleep the whole night on your side and lay like a mannequin”. To this, he rebuked sharply “whatever do you mean wife?” Priya, looping her long thick braid into an unbelievably perfect chignon above her neck, remarked “oh dear. You will soon find a job, and this will all be behind us. That accursed factory is not the only one in this town” piercing the sharp end of the bow shaped hair pin through her braid, continued “but to see that you are despondent to the point of an insomniac bout is alarming”. “I fail to understand. Woman, but I slept peacefully. In fact, I dreamt about gouging tunnels through the rocky mountain to lay underground track for railways.” Hari was speaking in a murmur. Shadows of leafs lolloped over one another in beautiful caresses on the bed sheet before

Chapter 1 We were about ten of us, running, in measured steps, towards the exit. Two unruly dogs, broad chested and thin wooled, dropping a serious glance through their almond shaped eyes, followed us at a brisk pace. Sniffing heavily, they dodged our desperate attempts; we flung, holding by the shoulder straps, our college bags. One of us thought it wise to fling at the dogs, one book after another. It was a narrow pathway; white polished marble floor beneath our feet reflected our troubled gaze. The dogs satisfied that the intruders were cast off at a safe distance away from the treasure house, returned to their post. It was getting dark, and we could only see the massive pillars on either side as we stepped outside. The roof over our head was ornamented with a spectacular chandelier; rows of dragons embraced the chandelier in concentric circles. The roof was so high overhead that we strained our eyes to get a good look at the grandeur of art. The neglected chandelier now housed a ho

The hump of his back rose up like the desert wanderer’s as he leaned forward to scuttle the earth with a tiller. The rusted plate of his shovel wheeled about in the mud throughout the day and the old man, holding the lapping metallic tongue by the neck of its wooden throat, dug furrows in his fields. Through these shallow furrows, water ran to meet the tilled land. There it gurgled at the mouth of the rectangular piece of land, and left foam and bubbles on its wake. Water gradually swept, half seeping into the ground, the whole surface of the rectangular piece. Each square inch of the ten acres farming land had to be watered that day. With his feet sinking into the mud as he stood in the furrows made for runnign water, the old man scopped mud out of the mouth of one rectangular piece of land to cover the mouth of another. This way, from dawn till dusk, he laboured assiduously.  Dry seeds popped in a fitful nervousness, with the slightest touch of water. In the afternoon, the old man

This is the story about a girl named Amelia Pond. She lived inside a pond, a serene one at that. Desert flowers rose up around the pond turning it into an impenetrable fortress guarded by the thicket. In the pond- frogs frolicked, slapping mud on their underbellies; swans alighted in the mornings, they bathed, frittering away in a flutter, something of no particular import, into the pond; earthworms wriggled heavily; a school of fishes leaned into each other as they swooped around the bend in the pond. The forest with its tall trees, cast shadows on the pond as the drawn blinds on a window. And it rained. In the following summer, on a fine morning, through the dark surface of the pond, laden sumptuously by the shadows, two eyes rose as a crocodile’s would. As the irises of Ameila's eyes blew open in winding concentric circles, her pupils shrunk away, and she dropped her eye lids just in time. it was the forest fire. The conflagration engulfed the pond as wave after wave spat sli

The year was 1933. My grandfather, a man of stately demeanour, stepped out of his brilliantly camouflaged straw walled and thatched roof hut. A majestic brown dog, sneezing heavily, pawing his rear feet in the mud behind him, rushed to meet his master who paid no attention to the creature’s servility. Rapping the slightly torn white dhoti in the morning mist, he proceeded to wear it with diligent care. He was an ascetic of daily chores, his short trimmed moustache beamed with military dogma; his neighbours, mostly paunched men, did not care to see the principled man, they saw a peasant. And peasant he was, with a dog that wailed and wilfully pranced around the master all day long. In 1933’s Germany, Hitler was promising to cleanse the German body of Semitic veins. through the streets of desolation and despair, rose anarchic voices of dissent. Hitler, a talismanic man of utilitarian principles, promised the unemployed, food and shelter. His supporters were the middle class, he proffer

“Avoid placing your hand across through the grill” a soft mellowed female voice poured out of the speakers inside the elevator. With a typical grin, Kranthi remarked “what would happen if…” Shravani, a woman in her early twenties, was as pragmatic as she was sincere to the institute’s ambitions. Slightly dazed though she was with the day’s work, let out a half restrained smile. Pushing the maroon coloured holographic button, Shravani let the glow of neon torch on her helmet find Kranthi under its scanner. “Your reaching out with your hand, across through the grill, will dilate time. Work is under way, and the research team would be disconcerted”. Kranthi noticed Shravani’s long drawn pointed fingers with neatly manicured fingers. Like the erect stalk that rose up amidst the plump petaled floral envelope of a budding rose, her head sprouted out of the double padded space suit she had put on. She had a pretty face; short forehead, long lips, and lush cheeks. Through the brown irises, h

Even the most inhabitable lands can be conquered by Colin. The savage will be vanquished, spare no one” thumping his chest admiringly, with a delicate lift of his chin, T continued “candle island’s mystic potentials shall no longer be entertained.” The crew, Colin, was named after a groundbreaking invention by one of its members. D, although shared her husband’s flare for much needed enthusiasm, slightly hesitated. Before venturing a thought, she cleared her throat as if to gather her thoughts under the pretence. “Well, of course, the women will be looked after with utmost care. No need to worry about that.” As he said these words, T was at once aware, as if a thin stroke of pain had shot through his nerves leaving him numb, momentarily, unabashedly. An unusual calm overtook them both. Clearing the cobwebs out of the way, D led the way up through the hilly terrain. Stepping out of the shallow mushy land that was surrounded with shrubs of esoteric quality, D pointed out to the crew tha

Chapter 1 N was a man of indistinguishable calm and stately demeanour. Standing before the thickly coated green lacquered door casings, he would demurely fling open the doors every morning and walk towards the end of the hedgerows surrounding the compound wall. The other day, he lodged firmly beneath the door, a log of wood, for the street dogs occasionally stole into his veranda. He grabbed the door and shook it a little, the hinge was lax and needed mending; perhaps, he could run the cotton cord (that his wife weaved all through the day) around the length of the wooden shaft, and through the dry twigs where hay was puckered tightly into folds. Present season’s harvest did not yield enough to lay over a roof of opal tinted tiles. Mopping his brow, N observed his neighbour’s roof that ominously slanted both ways in straight lines of alternating furrows and polished curved backs of an army of red frozen tortoises. The election was round the corner and congress party workers were leavi

Out of the seething quicksand that rapidly sucked every object along the concentric circles, there arose something, just the tip of it was visible. We all, Mr. R, Mr. S, Ms.T and myself watched in amazement as the object grew bigger and bigger, the form of it now conceivable. As it dug out the mud itself and poured out, the pipe like object swivelled with a screeching sound of metal that we felt beneath our feet. The ground was shaking under the intense struggle between the heavy thick black viscous fluid the pipe contained and the ground that resisted the separation. Fumes rose up high in the air, the caustic ashes burned our nostrils, the reddened exteriors of the viscous pipe solidified as it fell on the ground with the tail growing behind it. After about two hours, the pool gradually died and the pipe still attached to the ground broke after it condensed in the air outside, the umbilical cord was shredded with tearful pools of concentric circles. It was still not day time. Mr. S

It was a steep incline, I was driving towards it on my two wheeler. But the wall rose up before me as a wave would, and to drive over it, I had to let go of my vehicle and crawl up to the edge of the top. I made it with barely enough time, the fringes of a collapse pattern were forming beneath my heels as I stepped on it and ran across the wave’s head. My friends drove before me, two of them, I wondered for a brief moment, if we would make it at all. They were no where in the horizon, squinting my eyes at the ugly bearded hag in a meditative mode in the room on my left, I proceeded to search for the window sill in the house. Something I remembered form the previous time I visited the place, I shuddered to let the thought play on my mind though, for I had barely ever visited this haunting mansion before. Then I found, behind a yellow coated wall, through the red tiled hallway; I reached out to the window and crouched into it. Outside, the sound of sirens and the street’s routine calme

“Do you know who we are fighting the war against?” enquires the tall German officer pacing back and forth with a steady gaze upon the pretty Jewish boy in Nazi uniform, and the boy replies Russia, France, England, all of which are returned with a slight nod by the tall German. Finally though, stately, the German officer with his arms crossed against the chest, with an askance glance self correcting to freeze upon the boy, observes “Jews”, and continues “it’s a holy war that we are fighting”. This to me, is the most memorable scene of the movie. A Jewish teenage boy is growing up in Hitler’s Germany. A rare sensibility, movie strikes upon the teenager, whose sister is jealous, for she would have liked it to be the son of the family. Alas, this teenage boy ain't so much a man, he hides in a beer barrel to stay away from the march of Nazis, but gets home late, too late to bid farewell to his dying sister. With these scenes, movie sets up a stage filled with fractured emotions where

“Solaris” is one of the top ten, greatest, groundbreaking and purest form of movies one must definitely see. I often wonder how it must have been to live in the seventies when scientific paradigms were shuffled ceaselessly. It was a time when the scientific world was indomitably theorising to have found expressions of the unification theory, the one law that explains everything from the atoms to big bang. It is in the spirit of those days that one must visualise, against the backdrop of the culture that was caustically rooted in scientific ecstasy that one must watch Soalris. If 2001, a space odyssey was the celebration of science giving way to inquisition of the nature of troubled human inventions; solaris is an elevation of philosophy, nature of which can only be understood through the movie. Nothing that I can say about the movie would suffice, it has to experienced through the movie. Physical laws governing the universe had been largely understood, we were probing deeper into the n