Spotlight (2016)

Watching any piece of biographical journalism on film these days takes me back to the first time I watched two contemporary films that belong to this genre. 

It may not be that I claim these two to be the best of the lot (All the President’s Men clearly wins that race), but what I am certain of is that these two, for me, represent two extremes that can exist within the boundaries of good filmmaking, particularly in this genre. 

I am, of course, talking about Michael Mann’s The Insider and David Fincher’s Zodiac.

Now, I could (and I should, but I won’t, owing to a serious lack of inclination to write anything these days) put forth atleast half a dozen points to prove my argument of how these two films veer towards opposite directions even if both are excellent pieces of journalism-related filmmaking.

However, in the interest of keeping this post about the film that I have referred to in the post title, I shall only mention one:

Mann’s film is about a journalist wanting to air on his news channel a whistleblower’s account against his tobacco manufacturing employers. Fincher’s is about a journalist and an amateur detective trying to track down a serial killer on the loose.

So, going by the plot lines I have just mentioned, the first should be flat, cold and calculating- given the little or no threat to life that there is to the characters involved. And the second… well the second should atleast be filled with emotional turmoil.

Only, if you were to think so, you would be totally wrong. 

The Insider is anything but flat or cold or calculating, whereas Zodiac is- like every other film of Fincher’s- exactly that.

Watching Spotlight, this year’s chief contender and ultimate winner in the Best Picture category at the Oscars, made me think of the two films at various points.

Starring an adequately wrinkled Michael Keaton and an adequately toned down Mark Ruffalo amongst others, the film follows a four-person investigative team called Spotlight that works for The Boston Globe newspaper as they probe into multiple occurrences of child sexual abuse by Catholic priests in Boston area, only to find that the occurrences aren’t singular at all, but systemic to the workings of the Catholic church. 

And so, what begins as an inquiry into one case of a priest being accused of molestation quickly turns into thirteen as they start digging; and then into a staggering eighty seven, as they go deeper.

Dealing with a subject as sensitive as this, I thought Tom McCarthy has does a fine job of sticking to a script that is focused solely on the efforts of team Spotlight without straying into greyer, more sensational areas that would’ve certainly made the film much more controversial while not adding anything to its artistic merit. McCarthy uses all elements, right from a steady background score, muffled cinematography, authentic-sounding dialogues and subtle actor performances to maintain a near-neutral tone in the narrative that rises only on a few occasions.

Which is fine, as it still makes for an interesting watch.

And yet, while watching the film I could not help but wonder how different and, more so, how much more effective all of this would’ve been had it been helmed by either Fincher or Mann (or atleast the Mann from the 90s). Because, I found the film to be surprisingly underwhelming for one that has just bagged an Oscar for Best Picture.

Yes, it is indeed commendable how the director succeeds in bringing out such restrained performances from an A-lister star cast (I particularly liked Stanley Tucci and Liev Schreiber who bring depth into their presence despite their limited screen times)

But it is also not a good sign when the performances are so restrained that you are not able to find a single shot in the film you could deem as memorable and affecting, except one:

Don’t get me wrong, on a scale of 1 to 5, I’d give this film a definite 3.5 on any given day. 

I am just not sure how much of it winning at the Oscars can be attributed to it being a fantastic film and how much of it is merely owing to the fact that it deals with a subject matter that a primarily Christian audience would find sensitive. 

Worth a watch.

Catch trailer here:

PS: On account of the latter being pure fiction and not biographical unlike this film, I have refrained from comparing Spotlight with Barry Levinson's Sleepers, even though the two revolve around child molestation in institutions where children are easily silenced. However, if I were to compare, I would go with Sleepers as the better film.

Review: A Valentines Day Story by Percy Wadiwala

To read the story, please click on the chapters below: 

Chapter I- The Girl                          Chapter II - The Boy

Chapter III - The Manipulator          Chapter IV - The Lady 

Chapter V - The Friend

‘A Valentine’s Day Story’ begins just as every other Elveren narrative that I have had the good fortune of reading on account of my *cough* Honorary *cough* role as first level proofreader for young master Wadiwala: with a leisurely panache that sets the tone for the rest of the tale and assures the reader of this being no more an amateur piece of literature, than is any of P.G.W.(the original)’s noteworthy works.

What it also assures the insensitive and ungrateful audience of is that what is to follow demands from them, one and only one thing in return- to enjoy the story.

Surely that is no big ask, is it now?

Well of course, I must admit that to relish this manner of mature and deft story-telling, one would have to set aside all that is arduous and crippling, harrying and suffocating and- not to mention- outright boring, in his life. One would need to shed all that worries him, all that ticks him off and all that makes him want to smash his head through a six-inch thick concrete wall, before he is in any position to enjoy the tale.

In fact, let me do the honour of going a step further and describing to you, oh hardhearted reader, the most appropriate setting for reading an Elveren adventure, which is- sunset, at the beach, next to the waves, on a recliner, chilled Pina colada in one hand and a print of the story in the other. 

Enticing enough, no?

And yet I must state to you, with tremendous sadness, that there are so few a people who give a damn and there are so many who are so quick to move on without paying heed to such an undemanding request as is, of this talented writer. 

A simple request to just read what he is offering to you for free, even when what he is offering is, essentially, a premium piece of literature that deserves accolades equivalent or greater than those heaped upon the public school storytellers from the glorious days of our literary past. 

And fucking Cheat’n’Bugger is a bestseller for people! The horror!

Alright. I see ire seeping into my wordage. So let me finish the review before the good stuff gets drowned in the filth. 

Aided by a select handful of premise-perfect illustrations that etch certain lines, scenes and character descriptions into your brain with most singular precision, the author once again provides, for our entertainment, a breezy peek into the 'Wodehouse-esque' universe of Midgard-Caledonia with its peculiar inhabitants and their peculiarly idiosyncratic doings that result into some of the wittiest dialogues I have come across in my readings.

And what more! Love is in the air this time around, what with the tale being set against that auspicious mid-February phenomenon we call as Valentine’s Day, which, more often than not, leaves a trail of broken hearts in its wake. 

And thus, Jormund Elver, our unlikely hero- whom I am sure you will get to see more of if young master Wadiwala obliges and who I have come to consider as the perfect specimen of a colourful albeit clumsy Sagittarian- finds himself being dragged into another adolescent love triangle that is commonplace in life at Midgard-Caledonia High School.

If you are no stranger to Jormund’s world, I do not see purpose in spilling the beans here as you would be aware already how minor conflicts can turn gargantuan when the bumbling Elver gets involved.

If you ARE a stranger, you need only be aware that minor conflicts can turn gargantuan when the bumbling Elver gets involved. Period. So let me not talk any more on the story. 

But stranger or not- rest assured, you are bound to have fun while reading this and you are bound to feel light and airy from the inside after you’re done reading. 

Maintaining an almost stately poise in his flow, the author ensures that his character descriptions are done lovingly enough to breathe life into both their features and flaws. His portrayal of feminine beauty deserves a special mention here. It is omniscient, to say the least and when considered alongwith the intermittent pictorial insights, makes the frequency with which the male leads keep falling head-over-heels in love seem all the more plausible.

Mind you, the breeziness of the tale and other ancillary elements were not what appealed the most to me. What did, was the unabashed love for writing and the astonishing flair for language that the author possesses, such that each page of his rib-tickling narrative stands out so vibrantly in the readers’ imagination, making them ponder whether it is indeed a story that they are reading, or is it actually a painting in disguise. 

“What ho, old chap!” I am addressing Perseus now, in his own Elveren greeting style. 

“When will we be served ‘Something Fresh’ from your writing lair? My frontal lobe aches in anticipation mate!”

Disclaimer: Percy Wadiwala is a dear friend whom I- in my infrequent spells of optimism- like to think of as an actually intelligent version of myself. Though I may consider him as a mentor of sorts and turn to him for inspiration and advice from time to time, to think of this review as me trying to kiss his ass would only be the readers' own folly, causing him to miss out on something genuine. (Also I'm not sure if this helps but FYI, we've always gone Dutch so neither owes the other a penny for coercion or undue influence to enter the picture) 

Bottom line is, just read the bloody story because its a bloody good one. Peace.

The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka

My first Kafka!

And now I am a bit less clueless as to what it means when they call a piece of art 'Kafkaesque'.

No wonder the likes of David Lynch and Co. consider him their source of inspiration.

The story begins with our protagonist, Gregor Samsa (a metaphorical representation of Franz Kafka​ himself, if I am not mistaken), waking up one fine morning to find that he is not able to get out of bed as he has transformed into a large bug. Worried that he will be late for office- where he is employed as a travelling salesman- Gregor then makes several attempts to come to terms with his new body and get on with his routine before his father or his boss's chief clerk- who has come to his house to check why he is late today- will get a chance to reprimand him for being tardy and ungrateful.

Yes. That is how surreal it is.

And, to top it all, by never giving an explanation as to why the metamorphosis actually happened in the first place, Kafka ensures that the physical deformity does not take centre-stage in the plot even if it is precisely what triggered the conflict.

Kafka, in its stead, maintains a firm grip on the telling, ensuring that the focus remain on presenting it as an absurdist commentary on authoritarianism and the impact it has on an obliging mind.

Gregor, despite facing the misfortune of having metamorphosed into an insect-like creature, is never shown to rise above thinking about how the people around him will react; whether his family will forgive him for the burden that he has become by losing his source of income; whether his father will notice the little acts of obedience he is still displaying undeterred by the loss of his ability to communicate; whether his sister is aware of how grateful he is for trying to make life a little less miserable for him by clearing out the furniture so he be able to crawl around freely and by putting out stale food in his room, twice a day.

By setting the scenes inside closed rooms till the very end and by describing them in a bleak, claustrophobic manner, Kafka makes the reader experience better the unintelligent and over-complaisant mindset of the main character. Gregor never reaches a point where he can starts believing that he, and not his family, is the one who is suffering. Neither does he understand the selfish nature of the people who rule his life.

And that, I believe, holds true for any person who chooses to remain co-operative and accommodating of a society- or the few who govern it- that is ever ready to impose on anyone and everyone willing to bend.

The writing is 'German' stern, yet packs quite a few moments of absurdist hilarity that makes one smile, cringe and ponder- all at the same time, if you will believe me- at the silly little travelling salesman whose life has been turned upside down and yet whose first thought is, 'Heck, I'm going to be late for work!'

Certainly worth a read.