Skip to main content

A Prophet


I am glad that I have seen ‘A Prophet’. Since Paul Thomas Anderson’s ‘there will be blood’, there hasn’t been a movie as gripping with its deliberate slow pace and as eventual at the climax. ‘Prophet is the god father of prison tales’ I kept telling myself throughout the movie, it was not until the movie was over that it struck me-prophet the shawshank redemption’s doppelganger.

The movie is around 3 hrs long and the delicate schemes that the main protagonist weaves keep the viewers amazed throughout. None of the schemes appear planned, but none are isolated and each one of the little schemes adds to the final revelatory climax. The protagonist himself is an emotionless, guileless imperfect newbie. The scar on his right cheek, long drawn eyebrows make him look like an unfortunate man who has found himself in the midst of nerve shattering egoistic racial environment in the most horrendous of the places. But, his lack of agility, promptness and hesitation make him a tad too serious, trust worthy. However, the situations that he is thrown into by the collective elephantine forces of prison don’t seem to trouble him as much as the viewer expects him to be, this makes it easier on the psyche of the viewer to watch, for the newbie though being troubled is carefree.

None of the plots are truly cataclysmic of the hesitant attitude, none too oppressive, and none too conspicuous. The viewer almost ignores the change, for the protagonist is not truly changing, it is as if the people around him are changing. You almost miss it, and he has changed-become a monster, gangster? No. he never really changes. What really happens is that the transformation is subdued by his frigid character and even the scene where he turns into a epidemic impromptu killer at the end is but a lack of alternatives.

The director has made sure that audience missed the transformation, but to tease the audience of missing something very profound, he left this - the final scene of the movie is an offence to every intelligent viewer. Line of cars on the protagonist’s trail, woman and kid by his side, scene to relish in. and just so, everyone knows it, the boss’s corrosive annoyance is handled in as much a sublime manner as the whole movie, except that you have missed it all and have to watch again, for you had no clue that prophet was the movie you would be remembering as having watched when it was released-not godfather, not shawshank redemption, for I was too young then, but prophet yes. And remember, I will.

Comments

Pushkar Bendre said…
I m seeing this tonight!!!!

Popular posts from this blog

Where British Steel met the Nubile Cultural Beauty.

Noughties have been a delight. My life began; I might be tempted to say-just as any other city’s did. But the fact is that my life began when angry gentlemen threw spades at each other. In sixteenth century, my rulers at Golconda founded me. Musi, my artery ran through me fresh and clear embellishing me for years. When plague besieged me portentously, my rulers wove one of the most beautiful monuments in India-Charminar, adorned me with the crown. But before the incumbent rulers at Golconda could flourish in the shadows of the great crown and meadows of the fecund land, Nizams defeated them in a battle. What was to come next, I would not have contemplated at that time, but looking back, I realise that the Nizams watered those shrubs of culture that sporadically rose in the rule of my previous rulers. What was to be quoted by Dr. Ambedkar after my inclusion in the united India - as home to all the riches and culture, so good to take upon the capital city status for a united India - grew...

Oceanic lass

Last night, as I walked through the canopy of dry grass, a strange illusion came over me; the night was cold and the breeze penetrating, sort of trickling through the most sensual neurons of my body. The lady with a heap of clothes on her back went past me, with mincing steps, eyeing me for a fleeting second. I paused and so did the world around me, shut my senses off and apprehended the beauty of the moment; the lady walking heavily heaving and thrusting her right foot into the pile of mud before her, holding her sari by the folds with her naked palms, all the time indifferent to the beauty she possessed. She was not lascivious by the modernistic standards, but was effortlessly exuberant, intoxicating in the way she undid the heap off her back. Presently, she bent over and was reaching out for the folds of the heap, to unite. As she sat down, I noticed that something was bothering her. Her eyes, it was perhaps a straw of dust that found its object of beauty. From where I stood, I coul...

Chowmahalla Palace

It was the morning after my wedding. The dark peachy coloured blinds on my windows were still drawn; the maid with pigtails had retreated after laying down the morning’s breakfast on the thickly lacquered table. Stepping down from the cot, silk thread from my morning dishabille was stuck in the headrest’s broad eagle wings; it threatened to steal away my modesty. Gathering the folds around my knees, I restored propriety before slipping my feet into the glint slippers. The flower vase in the patio shone its tinselled mouthful of white roses that caught sun voluminously. In the garden that night, sitting alone, with the full moon perched in the pool water before me, I recalled the incident and the man who had turned me into a woman. The day before my wedding, a painter had been called. I met him in the courtyard; he was seated on a backless piano chair. Neatly perched on the easel was the drawing board, and from behind it, with tapered quills, greeted a man with sagebrush moustache. Th...