Cinema As Odyssey And Orgasm: On Blade Runner 2049

Blade-Runner-2049-db
If there’s one film in the last 15 years that absolutely must be seen in IMAX, it’s Blade Runner 2049.
In this staggering epic, Deakins and Villeneuve weave a mind-blowing visual tapestry filled with details that are somehow both godly and unholy. The original score and sound design, instead of being dwarfed by the epic immensity and evocative terror of the vision, rise to match its towering magic: the sound is, turn by breathtaking turn, melancholic, unfeelingly brutal, soulful, and cataclysmic.
2049 masterfully evolves and continues the original’s haunting laments on the horror of being alive, and being human. I need to let it settle for a while before I can even consider if it surpasses Scott’s enduring cinematic gem, but I can confidently say that Villeneuve’s film comprehensively matches the awe-inspiring intelligence, the disturbingly profound existential inquiry, and the incredibly risky but hugely rewarding avant-garde optical palette of the 1982 classic.
bladerunner_2049_hal_hefner art
The new film, like the original, is HARD science-fiction, so if you’re not interested in the genre, look elsewhere. Word of caution to people looking for an action movie: this is not for you. Blade Runner 2049 is 2 hours and 43 minutes of unhurried, magisterial storytelling where the focus is on the nature of human emotion and memory, on ideas the size of a metropolis, and on spiritual explorations so sweeping that they will, on further probing, potentially screw with your sleep, and crawl into the previously tranquil porosity of your dreams.
There seems to be nothing that Villeneuve cannot do.
Advertisements

La La Land (2016)

la-la-land-1

City of stars, are you shining just for me?

Damien Chazelle is a revolutionary traditionalist. If he helms a movie chronicling the heroic travails of a drummer, he’ll grab you by your ungodly cuffs and make you feel the drummer’s rage and insanity until you start to sweat and swear quietly to yourself, unable to quite comprehend the magnificent crescendo of pure cinematic energy emanating from the screen. If he makes a bittersweet jazz-themed romance musical about the Herculean gap between dreams and reality, he will leave you unbearably dizzy with melancholy by the film’s end, shaken and wounded and gratified and intoxicated.

Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone pick up on the film’s exuberant flow and take it in stride. Their chemistry makes the film; there is some Annie Hall in there, some Casablanca, but the film, like its stars, is driven forward  with unbridled invention. The seamlessly flowing colors of clothes and aquamarine skylines and the neon-lit streets of L.A. mix together so wholesomely well, you’d think this guy’s been making movies for an entire century now. Because how else does a film like this even exist?

The film belongs to its cast and its director, but it belongs just as much to Tom Cross, whose editing prowess elevates the film’s pathos into some obscure, otherworldly feeling; it belongs to Justin Hurwitz, whose original score is the movie’s thrillingly rich, complex heartbeat; and it belongs to Linus Sandgren who shoots this odyssey in glorious widescreen Cinemascope at 24-paintings-per-second. All my respect and love to the lighting department, production design and make-up crew. La La Land looks and sounds and feels and breathes like a true musical: a relentlessly poignant film that has no other agenda for existing before you except to ask that you give a little more love.

To the people who, like me, sit and stand and walk and live in the sidelines of their lives transfixed by the endless possibilities of how it could all turn out: this movie is for us. Mia and Sebastian are our angels.

Udta Punjab (2016): !THIS IS AN EMERGENCY!

poster
“Choose Life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol, and dental insurance. Choose fixed interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisurewear and matching luggage. Choose a three-piece suit on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pissing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up brats you spawned to replace yourselves. Choose your future. Choose life… But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose somethin’ else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you’ve got heroin?”
Danny Boyle’s masterful 1996 film opened with Mark Renton running through the streets. It caused a small revolution encircled by all things political, moral and societal; at the center of it, a dizzying, unholy spiral of drug addiction. Lives lost, families destroyed, human wills broken: this war on drugs escalated so fast it became as individual as it was encompassing.
And its victims need our help.
Abhishek Chaubey’s fearless and absolutely terrifying Udta Punjab turns the mirror on us. How we failed our nation’s youth. This failure isn’t carried only by corrupt police officials who take their cut and let the drugs be sold without prescription or control. The failure isn’t just on the part of a government whose workers are more bent on profiteering than on saving actual human lives. The failure is ours. Every single one of us, who stood by and let our brothers and sisters in the beautiful, holy land of Punjab suffer. They suffered for our mistakes. But we can start mending it. Little by little, starting now.
It doesn’t surprise me at all that in a film full of electrifyingly authentic performances, Alia Bhatt’s acting stands out. Everything her character is subjected to, every fight she puts up; it is a horrible, brutally honest, emotionally naked playing field. And her acting chops elevate its uncomfortable crudeness into something damn near spiritual.
This is an urgent film. It borrows the unrestricted anger and fist-shaking intelligence at injustice from Spike Lee (WAKE UP!). It borrows the metaphorical light at the end of the toilet from Trainspotting. It borrows dark, DARK humour from Tarantino. But it is explicitly and fearlessly Indian. I’ve been to Punjab with my family, and believe me when I tell you, it is a state whose people, culture, faith and language are beautiful and kind and generous and have hearts of gold. And now this wonderfully magical place has turned into a literal warzone because of a menace we can’t seem to get a hold of.
Udta Punjab’s status as a work of art cannot be judged solely based on aesthetic merit. This film is WAY too important for that. After crossing through so many hurdles of censorship and right-wing propaganda, the film has finally released in a theater near you. Please go and watch it. It needs to be seen.
And afterwards, in place of being film critics and poking around for plot holes, maybe we can have a discussion about helping our countrymen who are wasting away at the hands of this monstrosity through no fault of their own.
Maybe Udta Punjab is the last push we need to say ‘enough’ and start doing something about this. Hats off, team Phantom. The country owes a great debt to you.

Cowboy Bebop and Samurai Champloo: a spiritual analysis

vlcsnap-4175-08-07-05h41m45s193

Samurai Champloo looks and smells (when you become a hundredth as insane as it is) and sounds like the botched memory of a fallen God, drunk and out on his ass alone, in some unpopulated corner of the planet, residing in a time where unfinished business was a virtue; a land of mystic uselessness, the era of the death of purpose, the directionless abyss of the perpetually bored.

Its three fascinating protagonists inevitably bring to mind Cowboy Bebop’s magnificent failures masquerading as people with actual ambition, without any hint of irony. Being broke is their superpower, second only to stumbling headfirst into unneeded trouble for no reason and to no reasonable end whatsoever. There is a reason Edo Japan and 2071 AD outer space connect in this manufactured continuum, running like parallel rays in opposite directions and creating an illusion of difference so perfect it is shattered only when you acknowledge how much of it is like real life.

Watanabe, being the unrestrained beast of insanity that he is, puts it first in an anime where space cowboys merrily bounty-hunt through the chaos of creation, sets it in the future of what lesser humans falsely perceive as Time, and sets the score of a late 21st century tale to old-school jazz.

Then he does it again, not satisfied with a once-in-a-century masterwork, prepping up another anime within the next five years, this time plotting the invisible outline of that scattered wisdom into the fabric of the Edo period in Medieval Japan, punctuated and enlivened by a score of modern rap, R-n-B and stir-fry hip-hop.

Most surprising of all, though, is that it works. Spectacularly, soul-shatteringly well.

I do not presume to really understand what both Cowboy Bebop and Samurai Champloo are about. I have made my peace with the fact that every time I watch and re-experience these fictional universes, the less I will know about them. Their existential bullet-points redact slowly with time, or so I thought, disappearing into the dusky night of my subconscious like an untamed monster baring its fangs in front of me for the last time.

As you sit to watch it again, the cycle of rediscovery begins anew, this time informed by your perception of what the respective shows stand for in your head, ready to be twisted into unrecognizable shards of what sane fanboys and girls call psychological implications. Bebop and Champloo stretch beyond that horizon of self-important and vain critical analysis, resting on the impressionistic gaze of its piercing meaningfulness into your soul rather than your flawed mental faculties.

My popular culture compatriots often ask me why anime holds such a special and objectively superior place in my mind. There is quite literally no limit to what you can conjure up to tell your story in an anime, combining sights and sounds to put forth the nakedness of the dark human will, spirituality or plain voyeuristic fun awesome enough to give the viewer a time of his life and then have him die a la Infinite Jest due to overexposure to pure magic.

You can say the same with regular 3D animation and live-action now that visual effects evolve exponentially faster than our human sensibilities. Technically speaking, you can very well show anything you want in a film or TV show in live-action without compromising on your vision. But there is something about the composition of anime and the way it chooses to tell a story, mingling painting and poetry as if it were the easiest thing in the world.

Paradoxically enough, the restriction of anime to two-dimensional artistry is what raises it beyond the trappings of time and context. I really believe every person who has watched the best of anime, including front and center, of course, Miyazaki’s films, has experienced that particular work independent of everything and everyone else in his or her surroundings. No two people in the millions of fans worldwide could ever agree on what Bebop is actually about.

Stories are wild creatures indeed. In the case of Bebop and Champloo, they’re unique and timeless, glowing axle-points in this corner of the gradual quicksand that is existence. We all say thankya.

 

Day #76, April 15th, 2016.

Still from How to Train Your Dragon (2010).

Dreamworks’ HTTYD stormed theaters and changed everyone’s perception of dragons. No longer (just) the fiery monsters who need to be slayed for victory, dragons could now be considered upsized versions of adorable cats. 

A coming-of-age film, an action-adventure, a buddy comedy, and an instant animation classic: all this rolled into a joint of dazzling colors in the landscape, a background for all the thrill to unfold.