Reviews

So iconic is 'Gaslight' that it resulted in the emergence, in the English language, of an entirely new expression - "gaslighting" - which refers to the manipulation of one person by another, into doubting her, or his, own sanity.

The basic plot premise of 'Gaslight', and its validity may, clinically speaking, be, perhaps, questionable, involving, as it does, the systematic psychological exploitation of Paula (faultlessly played by Ingrid Bergman in what may, arguably, be her finest screen performance) by her husband Gregory (Charles Boyer), into believing that she is insane.

It hardly matters.

The credibility of the premise, as it ultimately unfolds, tellingly, on the screen, is attributable, to a large extent, to the absolutely spine-chilling manner in which Boyer has portrayed the character. It remains one of the greatest depictions of villainy I have had the fortune to witness, and Boyer, as Gregory, deserves to be ranked as one of the greatest screen villains ever. So internalized, indeed, is Boyer's act that it necessarily, required, as its foil, a performance of equally sustained intensity, by a matching performer, and it is hard to imagine anyone but Bergman essaying Paula. Bergman's role is especially difficult, and is played, by that consummate performer, as required by the script, in several layers, and at various levels. From star-struck adoration, to progressive mental debilitation, to steely self-determination in the concluding moments of the film, Bergman's act spans the entire emotional spectrum, without missing a single beat.

Between them, Boyer and Bergman create an unforgettable cinematic experience, rewarding and cathartic in equal measure. THIS is superlative film noir, which, ever so often in lesser films, tends to falter towards the end. 'Gaslight', however, remains as rewarding, in its climactic moments, during which Joseph Cotten provides much-awaited relief from the palpable tension that pervades the film. We know, eventually, how the story has to end, but, in its telling, we remain transfixed.

Undeniably a Cukor masterpiece, and deserving of every one of the ten stars that I have chosen to award.

Doc Hollywood is, by far, one of the best comedies, as well as one of the best romantic comedies - the two constituting distinct and different films genres - I have ever seen.

Michael Caton-Jones, directing the film, has taken exquisite care to ensure that there is not a single dark moment, and that the audience keeps smiling throughout. The plot is one long hoot. Ben Stone - whose unfortunate name acts up against him when he rams his car into a fence and a local villager asks - "Did he say he's ben stone?" - is a doctor who decides to migrate to LA to learn cosmetic surgery and, en route, as noted above, rams his car into a fence in Grady, a small village, which kicks off a series of haps and mishaps, each more side-splitting than the one before it. Ben (winningly portrayed by Michael J. Fox) is convicted, for having rammed said car into said fence, by Judge Evans - who incidentally is also the owner of the hapless fence, and seems blissfully unaware of the basic legal principle that one cannot be a judge in one's own cause - to 48 hours of community service at the local Grady Hospital. He has his car taken apart by the local mechanic, thereby extending his stay at the village, willy nilly; falls in love with ambulance driver-cum-single mother Lou (a luminescent Julie Warner in her first significant acting role, who steals every scene she's in); is gifted an adorable pig, by one of his patients who claims to have no other means to pay Ben's fees; saves said pig from becoming the mechanic's dinner by a last minute dash to the butcher, because, incidentally, that's the reason why Lou agrees to go on a date with him ... it's one mad romp throughout, every moment of which is magic. The love angle between Ben and Lou, which unfolds ever so sweetly, and includes a transcendental waltz in a carnival, set to Patsy Cline's 'Crazy', in which everyone else magically disappears and leaves them dancing, alone and with each other, is sheer delight. Even Woody Harrelson, who pays the 'third angle' to the triangle involving Ben and Lou, and whom Lou, at one point, even agrees to marry, is no villain, but, instead, portrayed as a lovable yokel. Its like a classic Wodehouse novel ... there are no dark moments, there is no villian, there are an adorable hero and heroine, and the heroine, ultimately, has to reach the arms of the hero. Mind you, this can hardly be regarded as a spoiler, as the end of the film is forewritten with the very first sight Ben has of Lou ... in which, incidentally, she is in the nude. When Ben offers her a blanket to cover herself, she smiles - "if you're a doctor, I haven't got anything you haven't seen before."

And yet, unusually for its time, there is no sex in the entire film. Rather, though Lou implores Ben, at one point, to forget everything and make love to her, Ben, gallantly, says that it would not be correct, as he is leaving town in two days. In any other film, this would be anachronistic; in this, it's just charming.

The only one scene which, in my view, could have been avoided, involves Ben and Lou devising a novel way to keep off hunters in the woods ... but even that scene, strictly speaking, is not really bad ... it's just not as perfect as the rest of the film.

See it. It's magic.

At one point, Ben and Lou have an argument, as to whether Ben had, or had not, won a bet he had, with the town mayor, that he would win Lou over within a week. Ben says he won it; Lou insists he didn't, and that he had breached the one week-limitation. You can see the film and draw your own conclusions; but I think he won the bet.

'Before Sunrise' is a love story like no other. To classify it as a 'rom com' would be to do it signal disservice. It is an exquisite montage of beautiful moments, over the course of a single evening and night, involving just two people, over which ... it cannot really be said that they 'fall in love'. They are in love from the very first scene; that's apparent, but, over that unforgettable night, they realize what it means to both of them. Their love, as it were, acquires form and takes shape. Which is why I say that this is a love story like no other - I have not seen another film which, instead of relating how the lead characters FALL in love, relates, instead, how they understand what their love means to each of them.

Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy, she as beautiful as he is handsome, essay these characters (Jesse and Celine) with warmth and empathy. The film is bound to remind you of Audrey Hepburn-Gregory Peck's unforgettable day in Rome, and is, in a way, a modern take on that classic. There is, however, a lot more conversation here - meaningful and poignant in equal measure, dealing with everything from reincarnation to relationships, to love and childbirth, to politics and poverty. We immediately relate to it and, over the course of said conversation, the relationship between Jesse and Celine acquires contour and colour. There are ever so many scenes which you take home with you and which cannot be forgotten, of which my two personal favourites take place in a music hearing room in a record shop, somewhere during the first twenty minutes or so, when they listen to a record (and during which, as admitted by Delpy in an interview, she almost fell in love with Hawke), and later, when they declare their love for each other, in a telephonic conversation ACROSS a dinner table (you have to see the film to know how THAT happens).

Rewardingly, the film ends on a note which, though bittersweet, is more sweet than bitter, and closes with a smile.

One of the most incisive studies of first love (though Jesse and Celine both confess to having been in earlier 'relationships') possibly filmed, 'Before Sunrise' is a film made clearly with the heart, rather than the head. Richard Linklater handles each scene in the film with the delicacy of a Ming vase, allowing, even while his lead characters prattle on, so much to remain unspoken between them. These unspoken feelings are, I suppose, what we know as 'love'.

Or so 'Before Sunrise' would have us believe. And I, for one, am persuaded to.

Holden (Ben Affleck) and Banky (Jason Lee) have been bum chums for 20 years, and shack up in the same condo. Holden falls for Alyssa (a luminous Joey Lauren Adams). Only, Alyssa is a lesbian. So they decide to be best friends, but that drives a spoke in the Holden-Banky friendship.

And then there's a major twist midway, during a rainy night, and the whole track of the film changes. And just when you think you've figured out where it is headed, comes yet another twist, and everything's topsy-turvy once again. Leading, inexorably, to an ending that, in hindsight, is oddly fulfilling, but entirely unpredictable.

'Chasing Amy' is one of the most intelligent movies I have seen. Though, on its surface, it belongs, definitively, to the romance canon, it is, clearly, much more than that. It is a penetrating psychoanalytical study of the mind of the "differently sexually oriented", through Adams who, as Alysson, puts up a bravura performance. Rarely have I seen a character, on screen, laid so emotionally bare, so that we can literally see into her soul. So incisive, indeed, is the study that 'Chasing Amy' embarks upon, that, at the end of the movie, we are left wondering at what Alysson has gained, and what she has lost, and, ultimately, whether the trade-off was worth it at all.

As her thoroughly besotted lover, Ben Affleck, too, puts up a spirited show. As a man battling conflicting emotions, seemingly irreconciliable, Affleck makes us warm up to him. We know how, and why, he acts as he does, and we watch, transfixed, as the consequences inexorably follow.

Much of the power that 'Chasing Amy' holds is attributable to its dialogues, which are complex, rich with emotion and feeling, and hard-hitting. What Adams and Affleck say to each other form, even more than their physical proximity or intimacy, the core of the film, and affects us, the viewers, just as much as it affects them. 'Chasing Amy' is, at the end of the day, an enduring homage to the power of the spoken word, which can hurt just as much as it can heal.

It's an enriching and unmissable viewing experience.

Why, then, have I awarded it only 8 stars out of 10?

Search me. I really don't know.

Have no illusions ... The plot of 'The Lady Eve' is thin as tinsel. And, perhaps, for good reason, for, once Barbara Stanwyick, playing the titular Lady Eve, starts casting her spell, from practically the second scene in the film, all else ceases to matter.

Transcendentally portraying the con-woman Jean - aka the Lady Eve, later in the film - Stanwyck is pure magic. Paeans have been sung about the scene, a bare 20 minutes into the film, in which Stanwyck, her cheek firmly pressed against that of Henry Fonda playing a Charlie Pike completely at sea - the pun entirely unintended - ruffles his hair, for an unbroken four-minute shot, falling, in the process, hopelessly in love with him. That magical sequence sets the tone for the rest of the film, which proceeds, through a rejection, of Jean, by PIke. provoking a reincarnation of Jean as a Lady Eve Sidwich, their marriage, etc. etc.

Forget it. The plot, as I said, is merely a via media for Stanwyck to weave her magic. And, alongside Fonda, we all fall prey.

The film is not perfect. For that matter, one gets the impression that Preston Sturges, in lending his final touches, could have been a trifle more careful - especially in the second half of the film in which Stanwyck dons her Lady Eve avatar, which appears, at times, to be stretched, and also lapses, at more than one point, into mindless absurdity. Clearly, though, it is all deliberate. It is impossible to mistake Lady Eve Sidwich as anyone other than Jean, and it is ridiculous to presume that anyone, seriously, could fail to notice the fact. Yet, Henry Fonda, as Pike, is delightfully beguiled, and allows himself - along with us - to be merrily led up the garden path by the Lady Eve. Logic is clearly not at a premium here, and is not meant to be. It's just a fun ride, all the way till the memorable last line of Stanwyck, now back to her Jean persona ... "So am I, darling ... so am I." One of the most unforgettable exit lines in films, and, if you see the film, you'll know the reason why.

While Stanwyck, clearly, carries the film on her dainty shoulders, and renders it a one-woman triumph all the way, Henry Fonda proves the perfect choice for Charlie Pike, portraying just the right degree of confused adoration, conscious, and yet unconscious, of the conflict between his heart and his head, but willing, at all times, to let the heart win.

While I have had to cut a few stars for the somewhat imperfect manner in which the second half of the film has been put together, let that not put you off from seeing it. It's a wonderful experience, and not to be missed.

A film like 'Taxi Driver' makes me wonder whether, perhaps, it's just my fault, not being able to appreciate "great" cinema. 'Taxi Driver' is, unarguably, one of the most highly regarded works ever committed to celluloid, and many claim that the chance to essay the character of Travis Bickle, the tormented protagonist of the tale, is every actor's 'wet dream'.

Travis Bickle, unquestionably, is unforgettably portrayed by a De Niro at the very top of his form. Every move is measured, nuanced, and honed to perfection. As a performance, it is a tour de force. No questions about that.

But what about the film itself? I read both the reviews, of this film, by the highly regarded and universally respected Roger Ebert, who, clearly, is overawed by it, as he is by Scorcese himself. Myself, I came out of the experience with a "Was THAT it?" feeling. Internet reviews of the film had raised my expectations so high that, at the end of it all, I felt as if someone had hit me with a wet sock.

Ebert, in one of his reviews, meditates considerably on the ending of the film, which, he wonders, might be a dream, and partook more of the character of "music" than of "drama". To me, it seemed nothing of the kind. To me, the film appeared to be a straightforward story of a vigilante, who - to avoid straying into spoiler territory - achieves something honourable, and is lauded for it. I found nothing dreamlike about it, and, with all due respect, felt that the film ended on a note which was disappointingly flat.

I do not intend to expound on the story of the film, which is straightforward, and would be well known to net surfers, having been discussed ad nauseam an interminable number of times. The Wikipedia introduction to the plot of the film, though, I felt was misleading. It claims the film to be the story of Bickle's "descent into insanity". To me, it seems nothing of the kind. Bickle appears just as sane, at the close of the story, as he was at its start.

Apart from De Niro's performance, which invited the four stars I have, somewhat hesitatingly, awarded this film, I found nothing really to right home about. Sure, Jodie Foster, at twelve and a half, is cute as a button, but she really has nothing much to do. And I also feel that the wonderful Harvey Keitel, who stays on screen for exactly two scenes, is sadly wasted.

All in all, a disappointment.

Or is it, perhaps, that I just do not appreciate great cinema? Maybe. Who knows?

One of my favourite Maugham stories, one that's little known because it's so short, is 'Salvatore'. It ends with the following unforgettable words:

"I started by saying that I wondered if I could do it and now I must tell you what it is that I have tried to do. I wanted to see whether I could hold your attention for a few pages while I drew for you the portrait of a man, just an ordinary fisherman who possessed nothing in the world except a quality which is the rarest, the most precious and the loveliest that anyone can have. Heaven only knows why he should so strangely and unexpectedly have possessed it. All I know is that it shone in him with a radiance that, if it had not been unconscious and so humble, would have been to the common run of men hardly bearable. And in case you have not guessed what the quality was, I will tell you. Goodness, just goodness."

Substitute the "few pages" for "a little over two hours", and there's 'Forrest Gump' for you, in a nutshell.

Goodness, unalloyed and uncontaminated, is always very difficult to portray on screen, and it's even more difficult to make a tale of pure goodness riveting viewing. Grey is always so much more interesting than white. Yet, there are the rare examples of cinematic excellence where the story is just about goodness, and the wonderful places it can take you. Told with panache, and essayed with sincerity, goodness still retains its power to hold. 'Yankee Doodle Dandy', with James Cagney's unforgettable performance as George M Cohan, is one such example. 'Forrest Gump', with Tom Hanks literally living the role, is another.

The story is epic in scope. It spans more than half of Gump's life, and portrays how greatness has nothing to do with IQ. There is such a lot to learn, about human nature, from the film, that it can hardly be told within the limited scope of a review. Gump lives his life on the surface, and yet the film is introspective, of life, in the extreme. It breaks the wall of entertainment and takes us to a place where celluloid becomes Art.

I'm saying nothing further about the story. And yet, I cannot but omit to mention the scene, near the end of the film, when Gump meets Jenny, luminously portrayed by Robin Wright, and her son. The chiaroscuro of expressions which cross Gump's face in that scene can serve as a textbook example for all who want to know what Acting is all about. The film is worth repeated viewings even for that one single shot.

And yet, wonder of wonders, there are those who have panned 'Forrest Gump'. Well, it takes all types to make a world.

Times have changed.

In it's time, Rosemary's Baby was regarded as a horror classic. It still is, to an extent. But to tell the truth, more than 40 years after its release, the definition of horror, in cinema, has unquestionably changed greatly, and, in these days, not having, as it does, any over-the-top gore or jump moments, Rosemary's Baby may no longer scare.

In fact, if I found anything really unnerving in the film, it was that expression, on the face of Mia Farrow transcendentally evoking Rosemary, in the final 2 minutes. It made me grateful that the film ended there, without showing what followed thereafter ...

For, as Polanski tells the story, we already know, or at least have guessed, about halfway through the film, all about Rosemary's baby, even when it is still in utero, though Rosemary herself may not. And THAT is where the supreme artistry of the film lies. Horrifying though it may not be any more, it still is chilling, and chilling to the core, as the fate of Rosemary herself always remains entirely unknown, till the very end. And that is also why the ambiguity in Mia Farrow's parting expression remains so disturbing, and stays etched in the memory much after the film itself has ended.

I cannot figure out, for the life of me, why Mia Farrow did not get an Academy Award for her performance. Ruth Gordon did, of course, for playing the perfect foil, as Minnie Castavetes, to Mia's Rosemary. Mia's indecisions, her fear, her abject terror at the threat she perceives to the life of her unborn child, far transcend the limits of the script, and stamp themselves indelibly on the psyche. It is truly a bravura effort, and carries the character to a level where Mia and Rosemary become entirely indistinguishable. To say the least, it can serve as a textbook example for anyone who wants to learn what acting is all about.

Equally inspired - if not, however, equally challenging - are, unquestionably, the performances of Ruth Gordon and Sidney Blackmer as Minnie and Roman Castevet. I particularly liked the sly ambivalence with which Blakmer delineates his character, so starkly in contrast to his wife's menacingly overbearing effervescence.

The premise of the film is undoubtedly far-fetched and difficult to believe or digest, and, in the hands of a less inspired cast, may have been reduced to B-grade phatasmagoria. As it is, however, as conceived and created by Polanski and as executed by Farrow, Gordon and Blackmer, it is nothing short of art on celluloid.

Rewarding and memorably disturbing viewing, more than 40 years after it was made.

Paeans have been sung about Kathleen Turner's seductive debut in this 1981 thriller, as the quintessential femme fatale. Many superlatives have been heaped on her. Quite frankly, I found her to be the greatest weakness in a film which could, with a more "fragile" heroine, have worked much much better.

For, the moment you set your eyes on her in her very first scene in the film, you know nothing good can come of associating with Matty Walker, whom she portrays. She spells trouble with a capital T in every scene, and that, unfortunately, is where the film falters. You can never like her at any point, and that makes her entire part eminently predictable - I could figure out nearly every scene of the film before it actually took place on the screen.

William Hurt, too, is adequate, but seems, at points, to overplay his part as the confused, indeterminate lover, with whom you are never quite able to empathize, principally because he is, to put it bluntly, such a wimp. He lands himself in deep trouble, and, unfortunately, you are left with the uncomfortable feeling that he entirely deserved it.

The principal failing of this film, therefore, is essentially that the main characters are all black or white, with no hint of grey showing anywhere. No harm in that; provided it's not so glaringly apparent, and the roles are more subtly drawn out, which is what a great thriller fundamentally needs. This aspect of subtlety, unfortunately, is completely absent here.

And yet, it's not a complete wash-out - the plot is reasonably engaging, and Ten Danson, in a bit part as Hurt's prosecuting attorney friend, puts up a wonderfully nuanced performance. It would not be too much to say that at least 3 out of the 5 points which I am reluctantly giving this movie deserve to be credited to him.

It's noir; ergo, it's watchable. Period.

Political thrillers are not my cup of tea. World history does not fascinate me. I'm a simple guy who likes his stories - whether on the written page or the silver screen - simple. I prefer fiction to fact.

Which is why, perhaps, I am not in a position to comment on the qualities of 'The Year of Living Dangerously' as a political film, dealing with the troubled times in Indonesia at the time of the overthrow of President Sukarno in the 1960's. About how faithful it remains to the ground facts and realities of the situation as it then existed, I know nothing.

And therein lies the strength of this film. Peter Weir has, in 'The Year of Living Dangerously', crafted a piece of cinema which, to say the least, is strikingly atmospheric. The viewer is plunged headlong into life in Jakarta as it was then, to a point where, at times, the experience becomes frankly cathartic. The scenes are authentically shot, obviously with care to be correct to the last detail, and at times it becomes difficult to analyze how Weir managed it all. And to do him credit, Mel Gibson, in one of his earlier appearances, manages a remarkably credible performance as the enterprising, if somewhat maverick, journalist Guy Hamilton, and is convincingly supported by Sigourney Weaver, who, despite being essentially his love interest and nothing more, is dependable as always.

Where, perhaps, the film does falter, at times, is in putting the pieces together, so that it transcends the "docudrama" genre and becomes epic. A bit more continuity, here and there, might have gained the movie a few more brownie points.

And then, of course, there's Billy Kwan. An astonishing portrayal, of one of the most intense characters I have seen in cinema. 'The Year of Living Dangerously' is worth watching even for the sheer experience of absorbing Linda Hunt's enactment of the mercurial character, for, believe me, it's a tour de force if there ever was one - a portrayal which permeates into you at so many levels, it's difficult to make out where Hunt ends and Kwan begins. That it is a male character essayed by a female artist is of course creditable; it is, however, another triumph for Hunt that she never lets us become aware of this. In the hands of a lesser performer it may have been reduced to a casting gimmick; in Linda Hunt's hands, it becomes one of the greatest performances ever seen on screen.

I certainly feel kindlier towards political thrillers after watching this one. Perhaps you will, too.

Everyone knows, by now, that this film was a re-enactment of the Scopes "Monkey Trial", with some minor cinematic embellishments. Everyone also knows, probably, that it is a complete courtroom drama, practically from start to finish.

By way of a storyline, there is admittedly nothing much. Bert Cates is put on trial for teaching his students about the evolutionary theories of Charles Darwin, which are statutorily prohibited, being, as the lawmakers and townsfolk feel, opposed to the theories of creation professed by the Holy Bible. His trial, and what becomes of it, is what the film is all about.

I practice law myself, and, in that capacity, it is clear to me that the case could have been wrapped up in 10 minutes flat, solely on the basis of an initial argument voiced by the prosecuting Counsel, but never carried forward, that what appeared to be on trial was the law itself, and not the law breaker! In other words, the statute itself was not being tested; the only issue was whether Bert Cates had infringed it or not; the answer was admittedly and incontrovertibly in the affirmative; Q.E.D.

But no. It doesn't wind up quite so lamely. Because the vision of the film is much more epic in scale - it is a fundamental battle between evolutionism and creationism, or scientism and religion if you will - which, to an extent, is still being fought, on one battleground or the other. And the ringleaders, in this case, are prosecuting counsel Matthew Harrison Brady, played by Frederic March, and defence counsel Henry Drummond, played by Spencer Tracy - with commendable support, from the sidelines, by a strictly tongue-in-cheek Gene Kelly, playing reporter E.K.Hornbeck.

And what a show these two titans make of it! If ever a film rose to an entirely different level solely due to the performances of the lead cast, this is it. We, in the 21st century, may entirely empathise, in theory, with the postulates of Drummond, blisteringly enacted by Tracy so that one never knows where acting ends and real life beings; at the same time, Brady, though apparently pathetically outmoded in his canons and theories, becomes, in the capable hands of March, an equally powerful persona, stern and inflexible in his beliefs to the sorry end, even while remaining, deep within, inherently vulnerable, so that one wonders, at points, whether he needs to be cajoled or censored. Clearly, March's character is much more complex, and difficult to portray, than Tracy's; yet he carries it through with unmatchable aplomb. At the end of it, each imbues, to his persona, so many shades and inflexions, that it is just impossible to classify one performance as greater than the other.

The message, in the end, is profound, and needs to be told. And each, Tracy and March, tells it in his own inimitable, unsurpassable, way. It is, perhaps, therefore, our own unavoidable misfortune, that science and theology have, even today, no real meeting ground.

Pure cinema. In exelcis.

Douglas Sirk was regarded as the grandmaster of melodramas. He remained, throughout, both revered and reviled.

And 'Written On The Wind', regarded as his crowning achievement, shows you why. Exaggerated, larger than life, emotionally overcast, it is about as close to opera as cinema could possibly be. What works, despite it all, are the performances, which, despite being a bit over-the-top in keeping withthe general aura of the entire film itself, are satisfying on the whole ... with a special word for Dorothy Malone, as the nymphomaniac Marylee Hadley who, at the end of it all, is the only one who retains your sympathy.

And that, unfortunately, is where the film falls apart. The whole affair is so in-your-face that you hardly have occasion to empathise with any of the characters. Though the attempts by the others, Rock Hudson, Lauren Bacall and especially Robert Stack, are sincere in themselves, they fail to thrill essentially because the film itself overshadows them all. There is nothing subtle or soft here, everything is either black or white, as a result of which the viewer has little to think about, little to absorb ... you just sit through the entire experience, but take back little with you after it is all over.

It's all right for one viewing, and is about as representative of Douglas Sirk's repertoire as you can get. But that's about all it is.

Well, it IS another way of spending an hour and forty minutes.

To its immediate credit, it must be said that 'The Thing' has one of the most impressive, and iconic, opening sequences in film ... the scene of an unknown gunman in a helicopter following the seemingly terrified, yet magnificent, huskie across the barren snows of the Antarctic, remains etched in memory long long after the film has drawn to its finale.

And the finale, too, with its bleak air of uncertainty and unspoken words hanging in the air, too, remains equally memorable ... so much is left unsaid ...

But in between, the film is just another gore and splatter "creature feature", of a malevolent alien visitation on our peaceful planet. I would hesitate to categorize it as horror, for there are no truly scary scenes in the film - the effect of the few "jump shocks", too, fade away too fast. Sfx-wise, true, the metamorphozing scenes from human to monster are well executed, but, beyond that, fail to terrify, or even, for that matter, to thrill. It's the usual man-versus-monster flick, with the majority falling prey, and a dismal few surviving ... if they do at all, that is.

What succeeds for the film is the atmosphere ... set entirely against the blank snow and the claustrophobic environs of an Antarctic station, the blustering winds and flickering lights do build a sense of menace, which continues throughout its length. And to John Carpenter's credit, he does keep the audience guessing - who's man and who's monster? Performances are nothing to write home about ... it's one of Kurt Russell's earlier ventures, but, as is unavoidable in a film like this, he, like the other characters, has little do, except to try and set things right and restore some sort of equilibrium.

But does he? You are still undecided about it at the end, and THAT's where 'The Thing' scores, and elevates itself above the routing creature flick which it otherwise, unquestionably, is.

Otherwise passable, but worth a watch for the beginning, and the end.

At the start of the film, Tom Regan - played to perfection by Gabriel Byrne - stands dutifully behind the swivel chair of Leo O'Brannon (Albert Finney). At the end, Leo walks away from Tom, at Miller's Crossing ...

And that is the summum bonum of the entire film ... the slow turning of the tables. The entire experience remains unforgettable even for the unpredictability and ambivalence Byrne brings to his portrayal of Tom Regan, imbuing the character with an underlying menace which pervades his portrayal throughout, so that his query, towards the memorable close of the film, "What heart?" assumes a significance all its own. Though John Turturro's turn as the homosexual Bernie Bernbaum is often touted as the star performance in the film, I myself was not so enthralled by it; the character appears to me to be a bit sketchily drawn, with some gaps remaining to be filled in. And Turturro, in my view, pitches his act just a wee bit overboard, so that it does not remain entirely credible.

No ... The film, in my view, belongs to Byrne and Byrne alone. Further, it is also memorable because it essentially abandons the usual bullets-and-bloodshed formula which most gangster epics adopt, and concentrates on the psychological aspect of the whole thing ... it's a fascinating exercise in mindplay and, perhaps for that very reason, is intellectually draining as well.

What was going on in Tom's mind at the end of it all? I've yet to figure out the answer ... and that's where 'Miller's Crossing' scores.

Mind you, it's a wafer thin storyline. A heart-warming little story of an ex-convict returning to a city, and the infatuation of the local Lolita has for him, it touches you, ever so softly, from behind the facade of the boisterous small town existence and the foibles of the small group of townspeople who form the nucleus of the story. At the end of it, you're glad you sat down to watch it - it's a laid-back mind-soother, which leaves you with a warm feeling all over.

What elevates the film by several rungs is, however, the superb performance of Robert Burke as the mercurial, unpredictable and enigmatic Joshua Hutton, who leaves you ambivalent about his real intentions till the very end, when all is revealed. Supporting him, ably, is the petite Adrienne Shelly, who may not be strictly pretty, but has an elfin charm - not really a little girl any more, but not yet a woman. They complement each other perfectly, and it is this chemistry that makes the film glow, and forms the perfect foil to the humdrum backdrop of everything else that is going on.

It's rewarding, and relaxing, viewing - a perfect de-stresser, if there ever was one. If you can get hold of a copy, hold on, tight.

'Paris, Texas', mind you, is not edge-of-the-seat viewing. It is not thrill-a-minute cinema; neither will your adrenaline be activated every 5 or 10 minutes.

It is a slow, introspective study, through the interplay of just 5 characters, of solitude, and loneliness, and its gradual fading away ... of the ingratiation of the archetypal 'outsider' into the fold of mankind, once again ... even if, at the end, the wheel turns full circle ...

Harry Dean Stanton, even if he underplays his role to textbook perfection, straddles the film like a colossus from start to finish. A complex character if there ever was one, it is Stanton's triumph that he imbues it with shades which make it more comprehensible and less dense ... and the mercurial Natassja Kinski, who gets barely half an hour of screen time, lights it up as only she can. The penultimate scene between the two (I won't reveal the details here) provides one of the most intense picturizations of the husband-wife relationship that I, at least, have seen.

So far as performances go, it would be unfair not to put in a word for the adorable Hunter Henderson, who plays the couple's son Hunter, and illumines every scene he is in.

And yet, perhaps, 'Paris, Texas' would not have been what it is without Ry Cooder's haunting background score ... perhaps the greatest example of the use of the guitar in the background music of any film, to devastating effect.

Not popcorn viewing for sure, but if you're in the mood for serious, affecting cinema, don't miss 'Paris, Texas'.

I am not an American. Of the "American spirit" which, according to Teddy Roosevelt in this film, George M Cohan epitomized, I cannot say I understand much.

And yet James Cagney's performance, as George M Cohan is so unforgettable, that these considerations mean nothing ... Essaying the character of an all-white hero, with no shades of grey whatsoever, is not an easy job, and one really fails to notice, while watching this masterpiece of cinema, where Cohan ends and Cagney begins.

For, have no doubts about it, 'Yankee Doodle Dandy', besides being a triumphant ode to the 'American spirit', must remain one of the high points of cinema, and, undoubtedly, among the greatest examples of biographical cinema ever. Cagney imbues the character of Cohan with such complete honesty that one cannot but help fall in love with the character. The story lacks, certainly, in drama, and the scenes of Cohan's childhood do drag a bit, but then one hardly notices it ... once Cagney enters the scene, it is such a tautly directed piece of cinema, and performed to such exquisite perfection, that one remains captivated start to finish.

In fine, Cagney is Cohan and Cohan is Cagney, and, as in the film, the little jig down the stairs, with which it draws to a close, and which Cagney himself thought up and performed, on the spot, without rehearsal, says it all.

Cinema, truly, cannot get more uplifting than this.

'Dhwani' means sound. And why the film is named 'Dhwani', you get to know about two thirds down its meandering course, when the 'twist in the tale' is revealed. And the twist, unquestionably, took me my surprise - I least expected it.

Which is, I think, about all I can say favourably about this tortuous film, which just goes on and on, absolutely nowhere. Essentially a simple, and totally lacklustre, love story, which could have been told in a flat 10 minutes, the film drags on, seemingly interminably, for nearly 2 hours, leaving you wondering, at the end, what it was all about. There's a political subplot which has nothing whatsoever to do with the film, and, like most of the film, seems to serve no purpose at all. There's a secondary romantic track between Suresh Gopi and Rohini which lasts exactly 3 minutes, and is left, then, dangling in mid air, remaining unresolved till the end. Stand-out comedians like Jagathy, Innocent, and even that one-man laugh riot Mammukoya, are given two and a half inconsequential scenes each, making you wonder why they ever accepted these roles. Most regrettably, even a star performer like Thilakan, despite being, supposedly, a political manipulator par excellence, who claims to make and break Chief Ministers, leaves you wondering about the truth of his claims, given the utterly juvenile tactics he resorts to in order to win over a favourable judgement from Prem Nazir playing a retired judge - who, it must be said, in his last film of his, hams his way merrily from beginning to end. As the political sub-plot is itself a non-starter, Thilakan, too, unfortunately, contributes nothing.

'Dhwani' remains one of the most disappointing film viewing experiences of mine. Touted as being master-composer Naushad's maiden foray into Malayalam films, the songs, too, were nothing to write home about so far as someone like me, who is a die-hard aficionado of Naushad's work in Hindi films, right from the early '40s, is concerned. Shobhana and Jayaram, despite being talented performers, seem totally disconnected, apparently aware that the entire exercise was going to end in zilch.

I, for one, have never seen a film boasting of such an array of leading lights of the industry, having nothing whatsoever to do.

A total washout.

There have been movies which have focused on death as their central theme, but it is always the person dying around whom the film focuses ... never have I come across a film in which all the characters - ESPECIALLY the person dying - are merely peripheral players, and Death, itself, is the lead player ... such a unique example is 'Sukrutham' - a study of death, if there ever was one.

Mammootty delivers, here, a career-defining performance as cancer victim Ravishankar - and yet the victory of the film lies in the fact that it is not ABOUT Ravishankar per se, but about the persons around Ravishankar, and how they are affected by what happens to Ravishankar. To that extent, Ravishankar remains basically a pivot around whom the film revolves, while the film itself is a masterful character study of everyone EXCEPT Ravishankar himself.

Gowthami, as Ravishankar's confused wife, also acquits herself commendably, and, even at the end of it all, one remains ambivalent about her character which, like Ravishankar himself, remains consigned to fate. Scripted, almost obviously, by M T Vasudevan Nair, 'Sukrutham' is not easy, or even comfortable, viewing, but it is a memorable cinematic experience, and is a harkback to the introspected, searching performer that Mammootty was then ... at par, in every way, with his 'Thaniyavarthanam'.

Cinema can't get more serious than this.

First, for those who have seen the latter but not the former, 'Vadakkumnathan' is NOT - emphatically NOT - 'Thanmathra' revisited ... In one memorable climactic parting shot, 'Vadakkunnathan' pulls the rug, literally, from under 'Thanmathra's feet.

I admit I am one of the few viewers who was not impressed by 'Thanmathra', no matter how well Mohanlal may have acquitted himself - I feel it was a film without any storyline at all, a cathartic weepie about one member of a family getting Alzheimer's and following his dismal journey, thereafter, till the inevitable end ... somehow, I felt the film was essentially exploitative, without conveying any ultimate message.

And THAT is where 'Vadakkumnathan' scores ... it has a message to convey, and the manner in which it is conveyed takes your breath away ... this is yet another film in which, if you haven't seen the film to the very end, you haven't seen it at all, as the entire ethos of the film is crystallized into the last unforgettable scene. Mohanlal's Bharathan Pisharody, here, too, seemed to me to be a far more complex, and demanding, character than his Ramesan Nair in 'Thanmathra', and, therefore, that much more brilliantly portrayed. Which is not to say that Padmapriya lags any way behind - after all, in that last memorable scene, it is her all the way, without Mohanlal to lend any helping hand at all ...

Let us leave it at that tantalizing point - revealing anything more would do severe disservice to a memorable effort by a fledgling filmmaker. In sum, 'Vadakumnathan' was everything that 'Thanmathra' could - and should - have been, but, unfortunately, was not.

It's been literally ages since I saw a Western, when I decided, for a whim, to view 'Rio Bravo' ...

What a viewing it was! A textbook Western, gripping viewing from start to finish, 'Rio Bravo' just carries you along till the memorable, satisfying finale. To be true, it has hardly a story to boast of, but the sheer charisma of the lead players, notably John Wayne, Dean Martin and Angie Dickinson (not to say Walter Brennan, who steals whichever scene he is in with consummate ease) much more than makes up ... so that one smilingly forgives the just-turned-18 Ricky Nelson for looking a bit shaky now and then.

They say 'Rio Bravo' was an answer to another proclaimed Western classic, 'High Noon'. I confess I haven't seen 'High Noon' as yet. Whether I would like it better than 'Rio Bravo' or not, I don't know. All I can say now is that, for one who's been starved of Westerns since long, 'Rio Bravo' is like water in the oasis - fresh as fresh can be, with scene after scene which will remain in your memory.

Westerns, I must say, don't get any more Western than this.

One question that would, forever, remain unanswered is, probably - why on earth did they change the ending, as contained in the book? Victor Hugo is one of the most difficult writers to translate to celluloid. His books - masterpieces of literature by any standard - contain endless descriptive chapters, which have little or nothing to do with the story itself, but which cannot be skipped over. The first 100 pages, or so, of 'Les Miserables', for example, do not contribute to the story of the novel at all, which starts only thereafter.

When, therefore, one gets down to filming a Hugo book, the most difficult task is to compress, within the limited cinematic time framework, the evocative "atmosphere" which Hugo builds through these seemingly unending descriptions, which are meant primarily to transport the reader, literally, to the scene of the events which are to take place.

In such a situation, it would be nearly fatal to tinker with the storyline of the book, as is done here. The result, unfortunately, is that the grand tragedy which is Victor Hugo's opus ends up becoming damply sentimental, despite the poignancy of Charles Laughton's closing line - "Why was I not made of stone, like thee?" It is delivered memorably by Laughton, and is a fitting climax to a noteworthy performance, but, for all that, it is a mutilation of Hugo.

There are, undoubtedly, great moments in the film, and all performers have performed above par. Maureen O'Hara, in her first film role, is all passion, and is the perfect foil to Laughton's dark Quasimodo. Yet, their relationship, which was the very essence of Hugo's masterpiece, remains, in the film, entirely, and sadly, undeveloped - Quasimodo, unfortunately, becomes, instead of the central character in the drama, a cocooned individual, who merely plays a peripheral part in the entire affair.

Ultimately, therefore, the tragedy of the film, despite the bravery of the effort in making it, is that it ends up, not as the story of Quasimodo, the Hunchback of Notre Dame, but of Paris. As a period drama, and a study of Paris in those turbulent times, the film may score; as a sketch of Quasimodo and his turbulent relationship with the fiery Esmeralda, however, it fails.

If they had only stuck to Hugo's original story ...

'The Navigator' was my introduction to Buster Keaton. I have to say that, not just Keaton, I, too, remained largely wooden faced through the film. The art of silent slapstick comedy, as perfected by Sir Charles Chaplin and his ilk, is not easy ... the timing has to be precise, as also the spacing of the gags, and, here, I feel, 'The Navigator', somehow, fails to deliver. Which is not to say it is not without its funny moments ... there are a few genuine laughs along the way but, at the end of it all, you are left feeling a trifle dissatisfied. Much of the humor is repetitive, and the underwater scenes, though praised by some, seemed to me to drag on interminably. I, at least, got a distinct feeling that Keaton, in this one at least, was short of ideas ... the last 15 minutes of the film, in my view, underscore this perfectly - they do nothing for the film at all. So that, once the end credits rolled, I was left a feeling that it was all "much ado about nothing".

Humdrum viewing, at best.

First things first - Steve is not Rick, and 'To Have And Have Not' is, most certainly, NOT 'Casablanca'. Not by a long, long shot.

Having said that, the Steve 'avatar' of Humphrey Bogart is not quite distinguishable from the Rick 'avatar' of that mercurial performer, and Lauren Bacall, as 'Slim' Marie Browning does have her own distinct appeal, as different Ingrid Bergman's fragile Ilsa Lund as champagne is from caviar.

On the whole, however, 'To Have And Have Not' pleases, but does not really thrill, as 'Casablanca' did. It's fine and engaging viewing, so long as it's on, but it doesn't continue to follow you thereafter. As in the case of 'Casablanca', this, too, is an 'episodic' film, revolving on a single incident, but the denouement, in this case, is not quite so memorable as it was in 'Casablanca'.

I have dwelt on 'To Have And Have Not', studiedly, vis-a-vis 'Casablanca', because the atmosphere and situational setting - even the motivations of the principal characters - in the two films are unmistakably similar, and, having seen one, the sense of deja vu, when viewing the other, is unavoidable.

In sum, engaging viewing while 'To Have And Have Not' certainly is, it is not a classic of cinema, as is 'Casablanca'. As a topical and situational film, there's nothing to complain - yet, at the end, one does feel a bit let down at how it all winds up.

Good viewing, all in all, as a harbinger to the days of cinema now long gone by ...

Judy Garland remained, through her life, plagued with insecurity about her appearance - she was on the plumpish side, not classically beautiful by a long straw, not statuesque or willowy or any of the other things which leading ladies of that era were meant to be.

So what - who cares. Her Vicki Lester, in 'A Star Is Born', remains one of the most unforgettable creations seen on the silver screen, who remains with you for ever and ever. Judy Garland's interpretation of the character was a tour de force if ever there was one, imbuing and imbibing the persona with shades and contours which even the creator of the character would possibly never have visualized, making a legend out of an otherwise ordinary heroine with all human frailties.

Which is not, of course, to say that James Mason, as the mercurial Norman Maine, fell short - it's just that the character of Vicki Lester was so powerful that it HAD to dominate the film. It is a story often told, no doubt, but as told through the persona of Judy Garland essaying Vicki Lester, it is something else altogether - and yet, with supreme grace, Vicki does not let Norman fade away ... she remains, to the unforgettable end, MRS Norman Maine.

Who cares, then, for the physical attributes of Judy Garland?