Why every movie buff should just STFU and celebrate Baahubali 2

India’s unity is in its diversity. Yeah right. So is ADMK’s unity now. Common, who are we kidding here. We’ve always been a nation bifurcated as north Indians and south Indians, not just geographically; but psychologically as well. The condescension has been mutual and over the years of being cultivated as polished global citizens, become subtle and sub-conscious. The only places we embrace each other’s identity wholeheartedly is in the cuisines. Sights of north Indians thronging dosa joints and south Indians making beelines to break naan outside north Indian restaurants, being case in point. Outside this, the only things that get us together are the Independence day, cricket matches( thanks to IPL the regionalism has sunk in here too) and festivals.(not anymore, given that the same historical episode falls on different dates on either sides of the Vindhyas.)

So cinema is no exception to this. Movies made in the Hindi language are respectfully called as hindi cinema- given the “Hindi is the national language up your throat” rhetoric  -and movies made in every other language are marginalized under the umbrella of regional cinema. So it’s no surprise that not beyond 5% of the people in a state come out to the theaters to check a movie out. So if you take a Dangal which is the highest grossing movie in the history of Indian cinema, it has managed to bring in a footfall of close to 4 crore people out of the total population of 134 crores, which is a mere 3%. Let’s take the worst case scenario that out of the entire population, only 20% comes to the theatre at all. Even then the most popular mainstream movie in a long time has managed to bring in a mere 15% into the halls. All this goes to show that you might have several dubbed versions, go on whirlwind promotional tours and learn to say “thank you” in a new language on reality shows; but notwithstanding these cutesies the people would continue to see you as a stranger and your movie as an effort in Chinese for which they’ll have to shell out their demonetized currencies.
These deeply embedded bottlenecks have to be taken into context to acknowledge Baahubali-2’s historic showing at the ticket windows; not just in terms of commerce, but culture as well. It is for the first time since the conjuring of Indian cinema, has a movie been perceived as being “pan Indian”, galvanizing the nation as a whole. It’s not just performed like a Salman Khan movie in the North but as a Rajnikanth starrer in the south

So what is it about Baahubali-2, that has made it into such an endearing sensation. Is it the scale? Probably; but there have been other movies like the Dhoom movies or Robot, which have had the scale, given their budgets. Bigger the budget, higher the vantage of scale to mount the film on, one might think. But few films come close to being set on the dizzying imagination as B2. Take for instance a scene that segues into a song sequence. The lead pair’s on a ship. The actress has a parallel thought. No surprises for what it culminates to next. But how it does is the deal breaker. The masts come down on either sides of the ship to flap as gigantic wings, to fly along with the sea gulls into the skies, where clouds scurry along as horses on either sides. These are stuff dream tutorials are made of.

We are a generation that has kowtowed to western imagination. We would quiz each other on Star Wars trivia, dedicate our coming off age to Rowling and worship Tolkiens for “his precious” and wake up before the rooster to keep abreast with GOT happenings. When it comes to myth, Greece has been cooler because Hollywood has made many a million dollar A-lister parades in that space. And the proper nouns are lot more lighter on the tongue and have a ring to them over draught beer. Achilles, Adonis and Thermopylae any day over Arjuna, Krishna and Kurukshetra, right?

Thanks to religion and philosophy, cutting close to mythologies in our backyard; we’ve not taken an instant curiosity to them, outside our moral science classes. As a result not many of us know of the marvelous anecdotes they bore in them of love, greed, desire and betrayal. About the masculine alpha males who strutted across the face of earth with unmatched prowess or the powerful women who  were active practitioners of progression even before feminism was needed in this part of the world. Amar Chitra Kata managed to uphold the spirit of the country’s mythology for a while, but it was a comic book and couldn’t grow beyond the school.
The characters in Baahubali are written with a strong heartland appeal, with easily digestible traits to connect to. They’re  distinct individuals with strong personalities and clear belief systems akin to the central characters of Ramayana and Mahabharatha. And the sequences are often tip of the hat accounts. Like the way Sivagami carries a new born through a river, similar to Vasudeva carrying Krishna between a split river. Or the way Kattappa is a mute spectator, who’s loyalty is different from his conscience akin to Bhishma. Or the more obvious central plot of feuding cousin brothers akin to Mahabharatha. It’s all there, but as homage, in spirit, in another form in a fictional land.

S.S.Rajamouli imbues his male protagonists with a certain virile charm, that’s been missing in our cinema ever since it started pandering to the diaspora abroad. They’re dhoti clad, with distinct mustaches and not five o’ clock shadows, brawny and not lean and manly, not boyish. There’s this moment in the movie where Bahubali walks into the court, his gait in rhythm to the invigorating chants in the score to the aid of his cornered wife’s. The drama that precipitates from there to a confrontation is stuff goosebumps are made of. For the first time in a really, really long while I saw sheer delirium in the theatre for a way a moment in a movie was staged. Not for a star doling out a punchline.
If the men partake in the drama, women create it. The women in the movie, Sivagami and Devasena are the fulcrums around which the men function. They’re strong, opinionated,intimidating and majestically feminine.

With such big feet, big shoes need to be there to fit in. The narrative has to have the gravitas deserving of such strong protagonists. Rajamouli’s screenplay stages these characters with such blue eyed adulation, imbuing the proceedings with the necessary friction and conflict. The interval sequence is one such scene designed with a keen sense of dejavu, as a homage to the acclaimed interval block from the previous movie. The circumstances that culminate into the half way point in the two films are entirely different; one is to do with the erection of a giant statue of a king in the present and the other is his coronation in the past. Yet they both overlap in terms of spirit in a common point of conflict.

There are some subtle suggestions of providence, be it the pseudonym Bahubali assumes which later happens to become his son’s name. Or the way the movie ends poetically, with the journey coming to an end in the place it all started. These are grace notes. decorative intentions on the fringe of an already masterful painting. Baahubali is much more than an overpriced behemoth its price tag suggests. It’s way more than the “why Katappa killed Bahubali” itch. It’s much more than an unprecedented fiscal success story it has come to be. It’s just not a movie, but an experience. A cerebral expedition into the childlike mind of its creator. A triumph of his audacity to look beyond the commercial commonplace. A case study on why sometimes great ideas don’t necessarily need a language to be appreciated. Jai Mahishmathi!

Sakhavu- A well intentioned ode to communism

Even before the word go, the movie takes off as the opening credits roll as dilapidated strips of footage and newspaper cuttings on communism- international and local – to the loud cries of war bugles and rusty voices intended at summoning the very spirit of communism from every soul in the theatre, notwithstanding the butter popcorns and coke by them. So even before the screen begins to come alive- before the red on the screen can dry up – we exactly know the side between left and right, the movie’s headed. No surprises there. In these kind of doff-of-the-hat vehicles, all we expect is a compelling tale to chronicle the journey of a man towards his idealistic culmination; without being alienated. The moment Nivin Pauly appears on screen as this man, we’re rest assured about not being alienated.

He’s storming out of the house, late in the night over a fight with his mother. Fight over a strand of hair in his food. Extracting the funny side from domestic duress has been Nivin’s chief constituency and he does it here as well. He plays Krishnakumar a.k.a Kichu, a wayward loser with no aim in life. In short, his favorite alter ego that he’s endearingly played to great effect many times, without a change of wink.(Oru Vadakkan Selfie, Thatathin Marayathu and Premam from the top of the head)  The usual gullible friend/ accomplice in crime, Nivin’s exploitation of him, their combined idiosyncrasies in public places and Nivin being the sporting ass of jokes; all of the accouterments find a place here as well. What’s different about Sakhavu is the scaffolding that he holds on to, doesn’t come in the form of love, like it usually does. Unlike his previous outings, the happy-go-lucky portions are subplots to warm up to another story. A lofty, grimmer one about Sakhavu Krishnan(Nivin again with  a Gemini Ganesansque persona).

Sakhavu is in the ICU in the same hospital, Krishnakumar has come to give blood…rather pull another stunt towards becoming district secretary of SFK, a communist party. In the process gets acquainted with a friend of his, stationed outside. It is through this man that we get to know about the person lying inside and crowd praying outside.

A person who dedicated his whole life to give a theory, the sanctity of practice. To turn it into an uplifting tool from being a fiction of utopia. Sakhavu Krishnan used communism as a powerful instrument to create conversations between exploited and exploiters. This stretch of the movie uses the usual tropes: establishment versus poor scenarios, strikes outside the factory gate,galvanizing monologues to large gatherings, the police nepotism to affluent and even the lock up torture sequences. But what fleshes these sequences are the finesse with which they’re handled. The old wine is not only served in a new bottle, but served tastefully. We get this wonderfully staged fight in the night, where light and sound are put to good effect to create the necessary intrigue. Not to mention well written lines like the one he claims Sakhavu(Comrade) before his name to be the surname that depicts his caste and creed.
Through these portions we come to know of this individual, who is looked upon as a saint by a legion of well wishers, as he lies unconscious in the ICU of an obscure government hospital. We just don’t know him by his teachings or the anecdotes alone anymore, we know him by his instincts and intentions as someone to root for.

There’s a beautiful narrative device at play as Krishnakumar gets to know about the story of Sakhavu Krishnan. His friend prologues with a precursory that they spoke and looked the same, sometimes. Moments later Krishnakumar proudly glances at himself in the mirror, as we move back in time to see Sakhavu, as him. Just as he so narcissistically would visualize , while listening to one anecdote after another. Even towards the movie’s end, when both men are in the same room, we’re not shown Sakhavu. Probably he looks different. Probably they both are doppelgangers. Probably not. It’s not that important after all.The movie leaves this ambiguity to brew in us, as Krishnakumar walks out with Sakhavu in him. Their resemblance has transcended beyond superficial.

This line from Kaththi comes to mind, that explains communism as one’s awareness of next idli after his hunger being another man’s. Sakhavu takes this culinary metaphor to indicate communism as well. After the point of realisation, Krishnan tells his mom that he’s coming home for dinner. She says there’s only morning’s food left. And he is okay. From staging a walk out over a strand of hair on his food, to going back to eat whatever is left without; we see the entire of his transformation, as his priorities change with him.

The idiot before the box

Feet pointing ceiling wards, I’m tucked in a warm corner of a sofa in my hotel room in Bangalore. Warmth caused from my absolute deposition in similar position without a limb movement since the past one hour. So there’s this Kannada film-Kirik Party that I wanted to check out and as a result of which been in moot with my body; protesting its inertness and it, my audacity to get off the ass. However, with a little assistance from the balmy weather outside, the body wins and I’m left to turn to an old habit for solace-swapping channels.

The television comes alive the image of Rajini in a graceful bell bottom trouser. He’s slapping around his sister, who’s apparently lied to him about her romantic life, that he had come to know about. The scene’s reeking of chauvinism, but the man’s grace more than covers it up. His hair isn’t the messy pigeon nest it came to be a few years later with the superstar moniker, it’s parted from the side gracefully. Arulirunthu Aruvathu Varai is a movie for all seasons. It continues to remain so.

Probably one among either the movie or Rajini cause a sandwich craving.The hand meddles with the Swiggy app and moments later there’s a club sandwich that is room bound from a joint few kilometres apart. The mood changes. So does the channel.

Shahrukh is a bloody heap, yet he’s pummeling an army of blazer clad henchmen with conspicuous looking punks, that almost descend on their collars like hibernating rodents . All of them despite being the “bad” entourage, are thorough gentlemen. They patiently wait for their turns to get at our hero, ensuring he at no point does he have beyond one person to sink his fists into. And our hero gamingly hams along, with an eternal chin quiver. Baazigar is one of those delightful masala movies, where the hero’s moving in slow motion in a scene that is already shot in slow motion. An 8 metre rusted iron rod gets planted into his solar plexus, yet after a brief pause he manages to not only kill the villain with it; but limp a few miles to die on his widowed mother’s chiffon; leaving her with a corpse and a stained sari. The woman’s old, dependent, mentally unstable and now orphaned. But who cares about all that.All that matters is,she’s been avenged by her serial killer deceased son. “THE END” the screen screams before our mind begins to ponder further.

The sandwich makes its appearance and craving settles. Mood changes. So does the channel.

Aamir Khan’s deconstructing the definition of “book” to a painful detail to get back at a professor. He’s supposed to be a geek, but he plays it with the gawkiness of an alien that belonged in PK, nevertheless endearingly. Rancho is one of the most celebrated character of this generation and not without a reason. Watch him spiritedly explain the anecdote behind how the “Aal izz well” phase came into vogue, you know the stuff cult classics are made of.

I’ve watched 3 Idiots a million times like anyone else. So the channel changes before I begin to get sucked in once again.

A septuagenarian is frolicking with a certain sense of authority and a wig, heavier than it; with a girl younger than his molar tooth. The gentleman in point being Rajkumar, who’s apparently got his regime for diabetes mixed up with the choreographer’s vision, to come with something that looks like a form of non verbal exorcism.
I felt violated by the shenanigans. Thankfully most of the sandwich had made it past the digestive system. At least I had the luxury of changing the channel, my heart went out to the poor girl onscreen who was subjected to child abuse.

I get up to make myself a nice drink. Hmmm..the pleasure of solitude, fermented liquid on rocks and the company of a box with infinite entertainment.Channel changes.

Bhai’s bed bound, reeling from some pain. Something we’ve not seen in any of his several court appearances. What’s moved the mountain…rather who?
It’s not the blurry image of the deceased from Bandra pavement nor the blackbuck. It’s his muse, a lanky Anushka who’s apparently confronting the man about their skirmish from sometime back. He’s in tears. She’s gotten to him. It’s a beautiful scene from Sultan where he breaks down before his estranged wife in the most vulnerable point in life. The pain that separated them once, gets them back together.

Too mushy for a Bhai movie. Drink’s hit bottom. The limbs have become pleasantly lethargic. Eyes are in search of sleep. Mood changes. Channel changes.

“If the homo sapiens were in fact homo sapiens…is that why they’re extinct?”
“Joey, homo sapiens are people!”
“Hey, I’m not judging!”
I cracked up like I did the first time. Joey’s dumbness is addictive. To me, David Crane and Marta Kauffman, writers of Friends are demigods, much bigger in stature than Tolkiens and Rowling. While LOTR and Harry Potter had to resort to magic and an alternate world set in fantasy to capture the imagination of their subscribers, Friends mined its epicness from commonplace. There’s no gibberish, no scale and no convoluted subplots and backstories. Just a bunch of friends who live their lives with us. Or atleast made us feel that way. None of them are path-breaking actors by any standards. But tell you what, they needn’t be. Because we don’t know them, as much as the characters they’ve dissolved into before our eyes. So Ross doesn’t behave like Michael Schwimmer. Maybe Schwimmer is a lot like Ross.
That’s the thing about Friends, it gives you a sense that life would be great with every iteration. The dark corner in the bedroom wasn’t eerie anymore. No one was looking back at me from there. It was just my over imaginative head. I needed to rest, a early morning train awaits. The TV needed to as well.

Power off.

A night well spent.
.

Timeless onscreen romances

Love should probably be the most inexplicable emotion ever fathomed by human mind. Imagine something which could be the vast universe and the speck rogue comet.Love is exactly that. It’s meaning could be exhaustive, accommodating the entire gamut of emotions and at the same time compact enough to be conveyed with a blushing cheek.

It could be complex enough to remain undecipherable over a life time; 

Simple enough to be mastered before puberty. 

It could elude with the deceit of a downpour evading a famine hit land;

While endlessly rain into overflowing tanks. 

A ruthless miser to some;

An indiscreet philanthropist to some other.

An intoxicant to some;

An inspiration to some other

A irrevocable injury on some; 

An antidote to some other. 

A permanent scar on some;

A badge of honor on some other.

A mirror to one’s soul to some;

The wall before the mirror to some other.


I’m this sort of a person who talks in movie metaphors over dinner table conversation. Also, most of my learning and epiphanies have happened at the behest of moving images.This piece is an effort at enlisting some manifestations of love; in all it’s glory through some celluloid cult classics that’ve intrigued and inspired me to write this.


Ennu Ninte Moideen
 is based on a real life story that happened in a rampantly casteist Kerala. It eulogises the trials and tribulations of Moideen(a muslim) to win the hands of his beloved love interest,Kanchamala(a hindu) for over a span of close to three decades;that only saw their love accrue endlessly . Fate mercilessly conspired in their lives- as the sharp end of the stabbing father’s hand. As the apathy of casteist parents who dug their heels deeply in their respective stances. Finally as the the whirlpool, that dragged him to his death. Kanchanamala till date leads a celibate life as Moideen‘s widowed wife.


Vicky Cristina Barcelona
presents love in it’s enigmatic opulence. It tells the story of two friends, Vicky and Cristina,who fall in love with the same man; who’s life is already spiced up by the tantrums of a reclusive wife. Narrated with characteristic Woody Allen nonchalance, this movie makes a passive endorsement to bohemian sensibilities of a man’s ability to love two women at the same time with fervent reciprocation. It uncannily portrays how soulmates compliment and complete each other.

What starts as a promiscuous pursuit; turns into a endearing masterpiece that manages to make one actually root for the threesome.


Punnagai Mannan
 celebrates the redemption aspect of romance.It reiterates the fact that every end ushers a new beginning sooner or later. It narrates the story of a guilt ridden guy, who happens to accidentally survive a suicidal leap with his lover that consumes her life. With the passage of time,another woman walks in to his life from the same place he tried to end it once. She inspires him to love again.He resists and then eventually reciprocates back.After all,light at the end of the tunnel needn’t be of a fast approaching train’s everytime.The movie ends on a tragic note, with the couple getting killed in a freak accident in the same suicidal cliff that the story began from. A testimony to irony, that  fro the jaws of death and killed him at the threshold of another beginning.


Titanic
is a tragedy; which talks about the conspiracy of fate in one’s life. It brings Jack, a lowlife on board of one of the most ambitious vessels built, the infallibly perceived Titanic. Over the course of journey he happens to fall in love with the aristocratic Rose who’s ruing over her engagement. Their lopsided romance grows from strength to strength with every passing mile sailed, for fate to play spoilsport in the form of an iceberg that breaks the vessel and their relationship. Every time the movie plays, our hearts sink along with Jack and the plank.


The Holiday
is about two lovelorn women, Iris and Amanda who swap homes to hold their lives from crumbling apart.The movie traces the journey to their self discovery in the process of finding love in their new homes. It talks about the impact of travel and nature on widening a person’s perspective. The movie’s soul is surmised in this wonderful monologue by a teary-eyed Iris reminiscing about her failed relation-

“I understand feeling as small and as insignificant as humanly possible. And how it can actually ache in places you didn’t know you had inside you. And it doesn’t matter how many new haircuts you get, or gyms you join, or how many glasses of chardonnay you drink with your girlfriends… you still go to bed every night going over every detail and wonder what you did wrong or how you could have misunderstood. And how in the hell for that brief moment you could think that you were that happy. And sometimes you can even convince yourself that he’ll see the light and show up at your door. And after all that, however long all that may be, you’ll go somewhere new. And you’ll meet people who make you feel worthwhile again. And little pieces of your soul will finally come back. And all that fuzzy stuff, those years of your life that you wasted, that will eventually begin to fade.”

Charlie- A deconstruction of the protagonist

I had to be told by the visibly baffled ushers that the movie was over, all of it including the last syllable of the end credit. It’s been a while since a movie has had this kind of an effect, that the blank screen seemed alive, long after the moving images seemed to have breached its contour. The movie in point being “Charlie”.

The way it started in an abstract manner made me think it was only a matter of time before things would go above the audience’s heads, alienating them in the process.

It’s always about the initial few minutes as far as a movie goes. You’ve got to pique the viewer’s interest and allow him take the trip you’ve in offer, dovetailing his imagination with your narrative in these precious initial minutes. Otherwise, predisposition sets on them as they decline to get on board and resort to next important things like checking the reclining extent of their seats or getting up to add some butter to the popcorn tub.

So as I was saying, it started abstractly, but with every passing moment the sense of intrigue enveloped me. Soon there I was, moving in tandem in my head with the stroke of the artist’s brush on his canvass till the last stroke that led to the incredible painting, the movie was.

Charlie is a celebration of the spirit of wanderlust, eponymously named after its protagonist. It talks about his constant travelling, warming us up to his psyche through the perspective of people on whose lives he’s left an indelible impact; enriching one albeit.

So we embark on this journey to find Charlie along with Tessa, who’s intrigued by one of his creations with the brush; yup; he’s an exemplary artist who makes sketch trophies of people, the only footprint of his available to her at all. As fate would have it, she comes across men, one after the other from the sketches. With every first person anecdote endorsing Charlie, a dot gets connected in her mind that’s attempting the big picture.

He’s like one of these exotic birds, which doesn’t confine itself to one sanctuary. It belongs to the sky and the sky to it, flying mockingly above frontiers. He loves touching upon a myriad lives in his journey, oh so nonchalantly. But never lets to be touched back, in his characteristic inoffensive way.

A zephyr, that bristles its way through the hair strands cozily to leave without a trace.

From the account of the burglar who came to burgle, who he hitched along to burgle with after a drink to the cutting of a marinated fish(ersatz cake) on mid sea; commemorating the birthday of an unlucky hooker who breaks down to only be held by him to be told-“The sea’s got enough salt and can do without your tears”, we travel along with Charlie .

Here’s this bohemian spirit in all its prowess, stopping a suicide victim with great difficulty to only negotiate a postponement to kicking the bucket. He sells the experience of magic mushrooms and the sight of a cloud crowned peak, to justify the postponement .

Once she likes the new habitat he gets her acquainted to, he barely tries to check on her in a fiduciary way. In fact he tells her how she could just roll down from the mountain top on her Enfield, to an assured end if this wasn’t working. But that’s him, this unobtrusive person who lets people be.

There’s this beautiful scene in the movie, where a lovelorn septuagenarian is overwhelmed after being introduced to the lost love of his life-a nun now, by Charlie. This man locks himself up and asks to be let alone  curtly, when Charlie goes in search of him. Charlie just smiles in an empathetic, un-offended manner. That moment, you understand his reverence to space and privacy- A cornerstone to his nomadic life pursuits.

In another uncanny episode, Charlie advertises his demise on a leading daily’s obituary column to check the turnout for his funeral and the extent of emotion at display. He later tries to reason out with his baffled wellwishers on his hoax of a funeral over drinks, sufi music and wisecracks.

For a fluid entity like him, intimidated by the very thought of settling down; knowledge of another female constantly on his toes is an unsettling feeling with the fear of permanence it brings about. So he indulges in a cat and mouse game with Tessa; notwithstanding her earnest efforts at catching up to him.

And it doesn’t help that he doesn’t have a permanent residence,uses mobiles, laptops and constantly hitches a lift to commute from place to another; leaving behind no digital traces for her.

The movie ends with Tessa and Charlie coming together in a festival over a glass of lime juice finally, courtesy his tip to her about his whereabouts. The union happens in an unhurried, mischievous manner without much adieu, like the epiphanies that happen to us over the course of the movie.

This is that kind of a holistic movie where nothing stands out like a sore thumb screaming for individual attention despite their superlative contribution to the film- be it the blemish less performance of the two leads, Gopi Sundar’s ethereal score or the auteur’s  skilful narration of the convoluted plot in an endearing manner. Every element functions as a cog in the wheel.

Overall, Charlie is the personification of our organic self. That part of us that comes alive at the prospect of constant adventure, travel and bonhomie without the need for any form of societal validation. An alter ego that endorses leading a life without an ambition; making life an ambition in itself.

An alter ego that doesn’t delve on the consequences of an act or the accruals of a deed, but lives every moment till its last drop. One that is so preoccupied with living an experience and monkeying to the next one, to take stock of petty things like success and failure. A good Samaritan who touches upon lives of people he bumps into; not because it’s good; but because it is cool.

Jacobinte Swargarajyam-Chicken soup for the Soul

Earlier on the movie we are shown an affable looking old man pulling the leg of Jacob’s youngest son, who blushes in response like a pug tickled on its sensitive belly. He then goes on to ensconce on the plush sofa laid out in the hall, browsing a daily. We think of him to be family. Probably a family friend. As it turns out, he’s their driver. Jacob is that kind of a man. His family, that kind of a warm place.

Before a family outing he wants Jerry, his eldest son to click a few moments with a vintage camera bought out of his first earnings. He wants pictures taken with this archaic device over its slicker digital counterparts. He believes it watermarks memories, distinct and exclusive from digital photos taken by the dozen these days.

Jacob is a very emotional man, who’s his family’s fulcrum and his family, his.

While on a drive, Jacob proclaims himself to be the richest man in the world denominating his wealth in the terms of his children’s value to him.A loving husband.A doting dad, he waxes eloquently about perspectives, epiphanies, anecdotes to Jerry like a cult founder to his follower.
Altitude is a motif in the movie used as a metaphorical device.
All the life lessons imparted to Jerry happen from a vantage point overlooking a landscape beneath. From over a sand dune once. From the ridge of the terrace, where Jacob tells his son that the best place to look at a city to appreciate its opulence is, from its top.

But Jerry is a naive person who’s leading a life too gifted to appreciate these words. It takes a crisis,the size of the one that hits him, for him to appreciate the fruit held in the flowery discourse of his father.

All of a sudden his cup that seemed full is turned upside down. His father is forced to move to another country on the lookout for newer vistas. His prosperity gets disarranged like a pack of cards. All that he is left with is his Family and a dark corner, life’s pushed him to.

Distraught and devoid of hope it’s at this point- eyes closed, he sticks his head out of the roof of a wedding party’s limousine that he’s unwillingly become a part of-courtesy an acquaintance. This results in one of the most poignant moments in the film.
The car gets into a dark alley as epiphanies start brewing from within. With the strong wind combing against his face, he starts reminiscing his dad’s words about Dubai being a land of opportunity which he would realize when the time was right. And when he opens his eye as the car moves out of the dark tunnel, he sees the city standing before him like a benevolent deity.

If till this point it was about the king and his kingdom. From here on it is about the prince shepherding his family  out of oblivion and bringing back his father from exile; while discovering his own self.

The crisis takes away every bit of opulence from them, barring themselves. If anything it brings them closer than before. It brings out hitherto dormant dimensions in each one. Their mother rises above the confines of her chores, guiding Jerry from the place of their father. She pushes him to his limits. Empathizes when he stretches beyond. Jerry manages to fill his father’s huge shoes, buoyed by his mother’s unrelenting support.

What doesn’t break something, makes it stronger by its strength.

The Jacobs in this period are kept on their toes. They learn to be desperate. To sacrifice.To cut slack. They know the real friends that they’d made, who weather the storm along with them. They collectively function with an objective to instill back the faith that left them along with Jacob. Resiliently they see  through the crisis and unite with him in due course.

We get to know in the end that this is a true story. An extremely motivating one at that. But, to weave an endearing celluloid fable out of it, it needed an auteur with a vision beyond just retelling anecdotes prosaically. What we get are well fleshed characters. Scintillating performances that dissolve in the cause of the movie. Sequences staged so well to empathize and root for. Like the one in the end, where Jerry’s mother manufactures an embrace to break the ice between him and her husband that results in a Kodak moment before Jacob’s vintage camera.

The last time this happened, the camera captured a merry moment. But this click is different from that by the underlying gravitas. It is the visual equivalent of a victory bugle at the end of a battle. It captures a proud father, his relieved son and a thankful family that’s wrapped themselves around in a warm embrace.

The king returns to his kingdom, to a place that now feels like his heaven.