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...

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...

Doused with life

Kiran was only eight years old when the incident occurred. He was walking home tired and hungry, sweeping the tar road with his eighty rupees worth new shoes as he walked on completely exhausted. His school bag, he hung it up his head and lunch box was suspended to his right shoulder. The year was 1984; India had just won the world cup. Kids were playing cricket in every street and by lane of the city. The cycle repair man was pulling the air filled tube through a bucket of water to check for the air leaks, the tall man Kiran’s neighbour stood by the repair man’s side counting the leaks himself, lest he be cheated. ‘If I can reach the end of the incline before the limping man nearing it from the other side of the road, I will get first rank in class this summer’ Kiran challenged himself. He reached the incline that would ease his harrowing walk from the school to home; he descended down the incline with measured relief and took a left turn at the end of it. He left the limping man behi...