“The feminism in this film is not just admirable for intent but also for how seamlessly it’s woven into the Holmes investigation at the centre of this film. Despite this paean to womanhood being sung from start to finish in this film, not for a minute does it feel forced.”
“Heroism in our cinema is usually of two types: Active, where the hero questions something wrong that happens around him, and Reactive, where he reacts to a wrong done to him. I don’t know if it has been done in Indian cinema before, but we came up with the idea of a ‘Proactive’ hero in Thani Oruvan.”
“The opening and final episodes of the show are titled Flush In and Flush Out. Towards the end, I wondered if it was a metaphor perhaps for the viewing experience.”
“When this city was created, it was a land of opportunity for those desperate to escape oppression and seek a new life,” he says. “Who do you think created all these landmarks: Central station, Binny Mills, the post offices… everything that we today value as heritage? But have we truly repaid them for these sacrifices, or have we simply relegated them to a corner we barely pay heed to?”
Project Power needed to burst with the imagination of good X-Men films. Instead, it settles for the security of template, but without being able to deliver much of the satisfaction inherent in it.
Ahead of the release of Raat Akeli Hai, Nawazuddin Siddiqui, Radhika Apte, and debutant director Honey Trehan talk about smaller films and OTT releases, fixation with fairness, mental health and more Our cinema theatres are notorious for their lack of quiet, and while this makes them tremendous spaces of revelry during screenings of mass cinema, genre-loyal…
If not for the pandemic, I think the James Bond film, or something else, may have eclipsed us. Regardless, this is an honour, and we are happy.
I’m talking of the Cobb-Mal romance that occurs in a dystopian wasteland, a romance that unravels more in our minds than in the film—which is only fitting, considering that much of Inception happens largely in its characters’ heads.
Much like this cocktail made by Yogi Babu and friends is a mixture of drinks that have no business coming together, the story of this film is an unsettling union of bizarre ideas, including a replica of a smuggled idol, a dead woman who may or may not be drunk, and a cop (Sayaji Shinde) whose boss yells, “En thaaliya arakaadha”, in a bid to pressurise him to solve a case.
Krishna and His Leela manages to do this beautifully, treading the delicate line between vilifying and idolising him. It simply paints him as an average young man, prone to the very human follies of instinct and desire. It achieves this neutral ground because it’s not in love with him.
It’s a film whose fleeting intrigue never truly builds into something bigger. Perhaps composer Santhosh Narayanan spotted this and realised the consequent futility of attempting to build on the shallow horror in the material. Perhaps that’s why in scenes featuring a mother bawling over a lost baby, his music remains curiously detached and blithe—like it were simply killing time by itself.