Blogical Conclusion

JOURNEY TO THE CENTRE OF THE FILM - THE SEQUEL

SEPT 7, 2008 - LAST WEEK, I ATTEMPTED TO PUT DOWN in writing a few logical, rational aspects about a film that render it attractive – intelligence, say, or industry – even if the film eventually turns out… not-so-attractive. This week, I’ll try to look at the other side – the illogical, irrational responses that erect a wall of prejudice in front of the screen, beyond which the film that’s actually playing is no longer visible; only the film that’s coloured by your bias. In a way, going to a film is like going on a first date. As you take your seat, you hope things will work out, you hope there will be a happily-ever-after. You realise, of course, that no one is perfect and that people come with flaws, and you do your best to conquer the temptations of instant judgment and look at the whole package, the entire picture. But sometimes, the colour of a dress can put you off, or a chipped front tooth, or the way the shoulders shake during a laugh – and the deal is instantly off. It doesn’t matter, after that, if this person is simultaneously conversant with the works of Kant and Kalidasa, or can whip up desserts that can make you weep with gratitude. You’ll never find that out, because you’ll never be able to get past the colour of that dress.

There’s a school of thinking which posits that, to become a critic, you’ve got to let go of bias and open yourself up to the wonderful possibilities in the person in front of you, who just happens to like colours that you don’t. The people who subscribe to this notion, presumably, also believe that critics are the products of a Cameronian imagination – slice through the eerily lifelike skin and you’ll find meshing gears and a pre-programmed chip. In the real world, though, critics are honest-to-goodness human beings, as flawed as the next person, and that wall of bias does loom uncomfortably before the screen – and it could be different things for different people. For instance, I usually find it very hard to be charitable about a film that doesn’t look good. It’s not that it has to be glossy, or mounted on multiples of crores – but there has to be a visual design in its making. I find I’m able to watch older films when the primary visual strategy was just point-and-shoot. It could be that I subconsciously recalibrate my visual expectations of those earlier films and choose to concentrate on, say, the performances or the dialogue. (Note that I said subconsciously; very little of this is rational.) Or, perhaps, my nostalgia about the film is so strong that it elbows aside every other weakness.

But when a film of today ends up looking flat, like a television serial, I just can’t take it seriously. When the lead actor or actress features in a close-up and it’s evident that he or she doesn’t know the language (the lip-sync coordination with the dubbing artist is usually a giveaway), I just can’t take it seriously. When the reaction shots don’t match (that is, when the cuts from different camera setups are indiscriminately spliced together), it throws me out of the film and I just can’t take it seriously. When the editor decides to toss in jump cuts just because the scene needs to be speeded up, or when the audio guy chimes in with indiscriminate sound effects simply so we won’t nod off, I lose respect for the film and I just can’t take it seriously. I know what you’re going to say – that these are nits I’m picking. But these are the things that burrow into my gut and gnaw away at my insides and result in a visceral loathing, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

No – actually, there is something I can do, and that’s to finish watching the film and talk myself out of these biases. I can reason out, “Okay, so the heroine looked like she’s from Andalusia and she’s pretending to be a rustic Tamilian – but forget that. And the songs are shot without the slightest iota of imagination, and all they seem to be doing is standing still and moving both hands in circles, with outstretched fingers making a five – but ignore that too. It costs a lot to make a film and no one knows what works at the box office, so forgive all this and just look at the nice parts.” But of what use is that kind of criticism? I believe in the theory that the more strongly opinionated a critic, the more finicky he is about what he likes and dislikes, the more valuable his writing becomes. Because, otherwise, you’ll never see the film from the inside of his head – and if that doesn’t happen, you’ll never get a differing perspective, even if it’s one you vehemently disagree with.

And that is what I need to do, if I’m to be any good as a critic. This is hardly a new notion – and if you look at criticism the way I do, this entire piece is redundant – but you’d be surprised how angry people still get when you denounce something they love, especially in print. If two friends went to a restaurant and ordered the same dish, and if one of them was transported to the heavens while the other spat it out, they’d have a laugh about it over a beer. But when the difference of opinion occurs over a movie, the sense of humour takes a hike and suddenly it becomes personal, as if one of them had just evinced doubts about the marital status of the other one’s mother. I began by talking about the irrationality of my reactions to a movie, and I realise I’ve come to the end, talking about the irrationality of people’s reactions to my reactions to a movie. Is that why I feel, at times, that I should have chosen to commentate about sports instead, where the scoreboard at the end leaves you (and everyone else) on the same page about who’s the best?

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