Skip to main content

"Wonder Boys" - Movie Review


There is an unbearable loftiness in the movies about movie making, novels or the art of writing itself. We are told a sort of highbrow frill, a play that espouses parallels to other writers or movie makers who might have trodden on this frighteningly monastic path. It is obscurantist, it is polemical and defensive.

But not this one; ‘Wonder Boys’ is deceptively simple. A former writer is undergoing a period inimical to no writer; he can’t stop writing. It is not a writer’s block, Michael Douglas is under influence, and hence cannot make choices. Therefore the long winding detailed passages leading nowhere, Katie Holmes observes. She is a student of Douglas and a good one at that. She is enamoured by her teacher, his writings inspire her and she occasionally confronts him with mad passion. Robert Downey Jr., in his usual charm and grace flavours the indifferent voyage through a spinning and dizzying journey that usurps the viewer with its fleeting moments. Tobey Maguire, another student of Douglas, shies away from a savant, flummoxes the viewers and irritates the teacher.

The movie is similar to “Kiss Kiss Bang Bang” insofar that both the movies appear as flexible as on the director’s camera. It is as if the movies have been ported for audience view without editing. The moments are brief, non dramatic and strictly insoluble. You are still gripped with pleasure as the curtain closes in on you, for you want to know more. Movie is barely pragmatic, director’s effort in each take is washed away futile without the hiss and purr to knock your senses and let you know that the moment has arrived for you to pay attention. You will end up sitting through the whole movie not even realising that it was not the moments that you had to wake up to but instead the experience of watching something that is barely filled with moments. It’s transitory to say the least.

The movie leaves a taste of something never before tasted, not far from what we have been exposed to, but a rarity nonetheless. Adding to all of this of course is the plot itself. The art of writing is not discussed elaborately as one would have expected, but the college environment and the whole atmosphere of frigidity is emotionally imperative.

The plot twists and frolic fun are there too; whether it’s a dog kill or Marilyn Monroe’s wedding jacket, whether it’s the professor’s brief episodes or Katie Holmes’ beauty. It is all there in the movie. In addition to all of this, you are bound to find something unique to fall in love with the movie. By the end of it all, you will appreciate, and like me, you would watch it twice, atleast!

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Entrenched Prejudices taking the form of Patriotism

What a great way to celebrate the Independence Day? I am bemused, apparently owing to the wide exposure of emotional experiences hitherto seemed innocuous. Delve a little deep into the acquaintance with idea "patriotism", one will invariably be granted with an uncalled inquisition, one gets to stare at a disconcerting vacuum. Why do we brand ourselves with nations that are a mere collection of geographically propelled, culturally augmented, self aggrandizing people? Answer is elusive to many for the reasons best known to them hitherto for their own good are turning skeptical now. Man whom the evolutionists assert shares a common ancestor with chimps and gibbons, naturally after parting his ways with his cousins (chimps, gibbons) choose to retain a comprehensive emotional, physiological and mental disposition. Man, if he ever chooses to embark on a space ship that supposedly travels back in time is bound to diminish his self esteem owing to his impromptu urge to track his ance...

Photograph

I was born at about 8 PM on April the fourth, in the pleasant summer of 1994; the night was calm and the four walls of my birth place imposed a thick blank darkness about me right from the birth. My mother’s umbilical cords wound around a thin cylinder; I was the 24th to be inseminated by the index finger of a nineteen year old pimpled primate. Before me, the others were put to sleep in sets of clearly delineated columns; around the cylinder, they all crooned about in good health. Our embryonic development was constrained between two rows of perforated umbilical cords. I distinctly remember, at the time of my birth, a great blinding flash of light pierced through me; it lasted for less than a second, but it was the most harrowing time I have had. You might be wondering why our mother ‘Kodak’ was so utterly circumspect; to understand this, I must, with your permission, take you down the path of evolution. In the olden days, a specialised primate ‘photographer’ peered through the well ...

Pressure Cooker

Daubing the top of wicks, one by one, with drops of kerosene, J proceeded to rest her newly bought Hawkins pressure cooker on the stove. “Now, you wait for the whistle” said the wealthy neighbouring lady who assisted J that morning with the cooker. With an assumed indifference, J waited for the whistle to lift its bottom over the lid and dance in merry. The kerosene stove, she was told won’t do justice to the cooker; she needed a proper gas stove with sleek finish and hollowed eyes that spewed blue flames with the turn of a switch. The kerosene stove with its twelve tongues brocaded over the epithelial layer of its throat, strung into a circle, served her family since the time of marriage. Her son squatted beside her, giggled and found it amusing as J rubbed his cheeks with her hands warmed before the many tongued stove. In the forlorn house under the wooden roof that leaked, between the pale brown walls that flaked, over the grey rugged tiles that cracked, mother and son lent their t...