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