Vivegam- The spy who talks too much

Earlier on in the movie, Ajith aka Thala ambushes an international weapons exchange in a tent, between an American and an European( on the basis of their appearance alone). Set to the tune of a grungy score, the orange reflection from the explosions outside accentuate his silhouette sincerely from head to toe, when one of the alarmed men ask him who he is.

That’s enough for him to break into one of the many unhurried existential koans in chaste Tamil, with scant regard to the understanding of his audience in the tent.
Moments later he’s surrounded on top of a dam from all directions by an army of hundreds of gun men—mind you, all westerners — when he again begins to talk to himself, probably in an endeavor at breaking the fourth wall about why one can never lose till he “never ever gives up”. Healthy life policy right. But why did he have to enunciate languorously, such pearls of wisdom in Tamil from an era Valluvar was yet to hit puberty; that too in the midst of a blonde military ambush?

Such misplaced lines in ill placed situations isn’t the only problem of Vivegam. Thing is it wants to do too many. Or should I say, serve as too many things at once- a bondesque spy thriller, a spousal relationship manual, motivational material and fodder for humor, that comes dead on arrival.
Take for instance the continuous reiteration of the chemistry between Yazhini and AK. The stretch involving her packing his clothes voluntarily for a mission is point enough to reassert their compatibility. Especially in what is striving to be a spy thriller, where she essentially serves as a light subplot to wink. But she keeps popping up from time to time like a malicious pop up from a recently closed porn site, during bike chases to enquire about his well being. During gun shoots, where he’s hanging by a branch to confirm his time of arrival. And in the finale to sing along in tandem to a hand to hand combat. I won’t be surprised if Vivegam makes its way to recommended therapy in marriage counselling.

Also the director doesn’t believe in the basic intelligence of the audience or in the concept of leaving some things to their imagination. Most of the scenes play like three dimensional power point presentations. So for example if a character talks about poverty you see a slab of a poor naked child on the left bottom of the screen. Or if they’re talking about earthquake you see an earthquake GIF following solicitously. Imagine a graphically created phoenix glide across the screen, on the prompt of the word “phoenix” as a subtle metaphor of our hero.

Vivegam is also one of those times you feel like you’re in the front row of a “spoken tamil” class, with participants from Gujarat, Pakistan, America and Africa competing with one other to mangle the language to an unrecognizable extent. The sheer unintentional fun of seeing Vivek Oberoi converse in tamil, in a post coital tone with Ajith is alone worth the price of the ticket.

Vedalam, the previous collaboration of this duo was no masterpiece, but it had a lot of money shots for the die hards. It was content with providing lousy entertainment, with little regard to both, subtlety or logic. It’s genre let it leverage its star’s wattage to expand to the hilt within the milieu. But Vivegam strives at every step to subvert the spy genre to the “mass” sensibility, while ensuring that the fans of the star are tickled enough.
So there are these mandatory montages of sugar/BP induced slo-mo long strolls which have become typical of this actor; public safety awareness messages sandwiching every action block and the hapless central villain diligently servicing the hallow behind our hero in each board room conversation with his nefarious colleagues. Vivek Oberoi does the honours, mouthing these campy lines with little remorse, with the expression of a freshly minted dad outside a maternity ward.

Vivegam is a little way too verbose for a spy thriller. The thing is it would’ve been the same, even if it were a Visu film.

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Roast of Suryavamsam

There are things in life we did at a certain age, that we absolutely feel ridiculous about years later- like eating sand, touching own poop, naively dressing…err cross dressing up like the opposite sex largely because a parent cajoled us(only to leave an indelible scar behind thirty years later). Having binge watched Suryavamsam is one such thing. Yup the one with the “rosa poo chinna rosa poo” anthem. I suppose it is bound to have been inflicted on anyone born in the late eighties in Tamilnadu. It’s one of those movies that are so bad that they’re so good. Where do I start? About it being the precursor of several “Supreme Star” Sarath Kumar(SSSK) movies where he plays both, father and son.  Or about the tackiest original sound track ever by S.A. Rajkumar which would go on to scar generations for years to come, while taking contemporary music back to an era where it came out of fingers tapping on dalda tins.

So for the uninitiated Suryavamsam is the story of Chinarasu(SSSK) whose utility to his household is the same as mine to the movie- nothing. He’s a pigeon brained son in a family with a stiff patriarch(SSSK again), who condescends him for a sport. This torn carpet like treatment at home doesn’t seem to deter his appetite( as can be seen by the size of shirts, ample enough to camp refugees) or his uncontested reverence for his betel nut chewing father with a static wig. A woman he loves dumps him. Another woman looking for a loser to run a social experiment falls for him and the dad opposes him for scoring without his consent. In the process, he gets kicked out. How he becomes a Bill Gates and reunites with his disrespectful dad is the rest of the movie.

Vikraman’s movies are not movies, but moral science lessons shoved up our throat with an unending number of cliches and white flag tempting background score, for want of a gunpoint. His stories are modest about their ambitions or character sketches. His good men hail from heaven are Ujala-white beings without a trace of grey and his bad men are nigga black. Pardon the racism, but throw anything at his heroes: diatribes, torn chappals, bombs- they’ll not just forgive you, but chip in to lend a helping shoulder on a rainy day. Celestial creatures that they’re.

Take for instance Chinarasu’s delusional love for his maman ponnu a.k.a fiancee, entirely oblivious to the fact that she’s more aroused by a root vegetable. Anyways, he diligently drives an Enfield like every mama would- with color ribbons flowing from both handle bars – to pick her up from the bus stand every holiday. He takes her to the same god forsaken waterfall to sing the rose anthem I was talking about earlier, with little regard to the fact that she’s a doctor who’s feeling up wild daisies on the river bank instead of paying attention to his metaphorical song or that he’s pushing forty without a clue to earn his next meal which is contingent on the kindness of his gluttonous family. So as the D day approaches, she dumps him because who would want to marry an uncle with a brain of an infant and an appetite of an elephant after becoming a doctor, right? But here’s the fun part, he assumes blame for calling off the wedding for no intelligible reason, in the process becoming a punching bag to his dad again. Wow, no one knew there were so many different ways to be a loser with a capital L.

When Michael Douglas and Sharon Stone had to undergo so much foreplay before they could get on with it in Basic Instinct, all it takes here is just an aphrodisiac lizard on the wall. No foreplay. No class. Just plain rubber lizard. And the consummation is left to our imagination. What we instead get is a song which sounds like a love child between crass lyrics and tacky music with the hook line that goes- “Adada Alwa thundu iduppu, un iduppu“(Your waist is a piece of Halwa!).

There are many things that got into vogue through this movie. The windfall song sequence with victory montages being one such. The song begins with Chinarasu driving a dilapidated town bus. Before we can come to the first stanza, he’s already the richest business magnate in Asia, god knows doing what. By the end of the second stanza his wife is a collector and he’s well, shown signing on state budgets and other stuff. The song ends with the voice of the lizard caused accident, their kid. Yeah, one happy family.

One thing that continues to disturb me like it did the first time while watching Suryavamsam is the girl child that had to be dressed up as Chinarasu’s son. Why the casting department- if there was any – had to resort to this weird stroke of genius is beyond me, especially in a state like Tamilnadu which is littered with the male progeny. And the cutesy of this bewigged kid that refers to septuagenarians as, ” Fraaandu”(Friend) violates me.

Long before Benedict Cumberbatch could flaunt the art of deduction in solving crimes, it came to our living rooms with half the fuss, thanks to this film in which the father nabs the perpetrator by a mere sniff. Yeah, just sniffing.He remembers the flavour of perfume and conservatively narrows in on the only person in the entire village of three lakh people, to use it. Movie comes to an end. So does the purpose of having sniffer dogs.

 

Kaatru Veliyidai- Of air, style and no substance

The week before the movie’s release, Mani Ratnam’s interviews with almost every film tracking space worth its salt occupied our bandwidth. And every question directed at the auteur was adorned by a “Mani Sir” before it. The reverence is understandable, given the legacy of the man before. The adulation, even more, given that most of the interviewers were from this generation that was raised on a staple diet of his films. We yardsticked our dressing with his heroes. We tweaked our pick up lines to resemble the ones in his movies. The epidemic of monosyllabic enunciation spread from there. Our romantic moments had his songs play in our mind. Our uptight chested respect to disapproving dads drew from his movies. Our idea of classy, cool, romance, respect, revolution were some form of a tip of hat to his sensibilities. It would be safe to assume that Ratnam’s oeuvre not just captured, but fashioned the imagination of an entire generation.
Beyond their social impact, his films have served as case studies for cinephiles in this part of the  world. He was our Kubrick and Scorsese before our sensibilities could gauge their nuances. So Mani Sir, he is!

But the admiration is mostly for his extensive body of work, peach of which stopped a decade before. Have a look at the movies that’ve come in the last decade, barring Guru and OK Kanmani, none managed to resonate with the audience. He’s not someone we valuate in terms of collections or returns, he’s beyond mere commerce. His movies are an experience, more than a source of entertainment. This experience is what has some how not felt overwhelming off late, be it the inconsistent Raavanan( which was more a vanity project to reflect Vikram’s acting chops, if not his moistened triceps.) or the insipid Kadal.

His core constituency has been the tasteful deconstruction of human relations into palatable drama. Often than not, his dramas have had the just-another-person at their core. It’s the portrayal of their idiosyncrasies, shenanigans, justifications to be a certain way that has made them endearing to us. Take for instance Prakash Raj‘s Ganapathy uncle from OK Kanmani, a slow moving septuagenarian who nonchalantly loves his Alzheimer hit spouse with very little fuss. Shining light on the often overseen contours of normalcy has been MR’s strength. Most of his memorable characters have been white or black. That’s why his VC- who exists in the grey in-between -from KV gets lost in translation, much like his Veera from Raavanan. Ratnam writes these characters with truckloads of complexities without a prologue or a back story, that what comes on screen is often than not confusion. Because not just are we expected to muse on his unique creations now, but also to empathize with their quirks without being a part of their beginnings.

It’s not a prerequisite to have a back story. A movie can span across a short time or its central characters can take off from their current state of minds and brew through the course of it’s running time. A plot driven movie like say, Ayutha Ezhuthu can afford to take that path. A character driven movie cannot. We cannot identify with a Velu Nayakar without seeing the anecdotes from his early life. These episodes make him the man he comes to be before us. This is where KV falters. It’s largely a character driven plot with very little happenings than the whirlwind romance between two people, one of whom is a Bharathiyar quoting chauvinist, who practices his misogyny in the garb of romance. To digest his anomalies as they keep coming, while on the go, with no rhyme or reason, is a little too much to expect out of an audience that’s outside one’s own imagination.

We’re supposed to travel with VC’s psychological journey. Partake in his epiphanies. Root for him. Hope for him to change.Yearn for him to get together with Leela. What we instead end up getting invested in are the artifices like his fixation with his aviator glasses, the actor’s apparent weight loss, his grooming and an eternal grimace that says,”freshly minted out of Madras Talkies“. There’s so much posturing, especially involving the lips(to accentuate his debonairness), that it makes Sivaji Ganesan‘s lip concussions look like a smirk.

And what’s with casting a bunch of talented actors in disposable cameos. Seeing actors like Shraddha Srinath and Delhi Ganesh scattered as passing scenery in the main proceedings felt bad. But RJ Balaji as a surgeon walks away with the credits for being the most miscast member of the film, with him not just struggling to act, but to act sophisticated as well.

The deployment of elaborate symbolism(mountains, sky and landscape serve their bit as metaphors) , mirrors as perspective giving devices and the weird positions in which the lead pair strike lengthy conversations come across as avant-garde gimmickery, as they don’t flow organically into the scheme of things. So this shot of Leela and VC lying on a tastefully knit kashmiri carpet, with their outlines being crimson lit as they murmur to the floors, feels like a wallpaper than a scene.

Rahman’s tantalising songs and the serrated score does way more to the movie, than the movie does to it. But that’s been the case for a while now with Ratnam’s outings, where the music serves as an exquisite fresco on the ceiling to distract after the food turns out bad.

Every great creator has a point, from where he chooses to either call it a day or continue ahead to eventually taint his legacy. RGV went beyond that point. Sachin did that in search of an elusive hundredth hundred. We know how those pursuits turned out. Should Mani Ratnam continue further, only time will tell or the ticket sales definitely will. As far as Kaatru Veliyidai(breezy expanse) goes, it seemed like the title was referring to the space above my head- the breezy expanse – where most of the movie went.

John Wick Chapter 2- The movie works, but its matrix doesn’t

A mafia boss with a distinct European accent goes, “He’s committed. He’s focused….”. Who is this person , well endowed-  given the stock of buffed of men in silk suits decorating the peripheries of his tastefully lit cabin -singing litanies about? He’s responding to his second in command’s suggestion to eliminate the reason for their shift in location. The reason being a person. Not just another person, but the eponymous hero-John Wick. The bombastic prologue segues in a dark alley from where a sinewy silhouette walks towards. Enter, Keanu Reeves. We were expecting a hero to service the legend that was so elaborately woven around. What we instead get is the sight of a man trudging his way into the frame, like Dravid after third session at crease.

Let me first make one thing clear, I’m not as dismissive of Keanu Reeves like I was of Hank’s atrocious hairdo as Robert Langdon. He’s a fine looking guy. And like Hanks he doesn’t have a distinct persona that would let him have a fourth wall breaking conversation from the vintage of a larger than life role. I never complained about him in the Matrix franchise. That ecosystem warranted a neutral looking bland person and it got one. But the Die Hard, Commando, Taken template of films are essentially testosterone spiking trips, as avant garde as the posturing may seem. John Wick’s core is set in this space.  Just that there’s sincerity instead of swag, modesty instead of attitude.  It’s as tedious as it would’ve been, had Arjun played Raghavan in Vettaiyadu Vilaiyadu.

When Bruce Willis moused through the nooks and corners of Nakotomi Tower to single handedly bring the villain’s empire down , it was sheer delirium. An epidemic of wolf whistling ensued. And Mc Clane gladly acknowledged with a,”Yippee kiyay, motherfucker!”. And like that pop culture found an another parlance for posterity.

We’re constantly being reminded that this lethal person’s god’s handpicked population control technique, ahh…”the boogeyman” as the people around hype him to be. But not in one of the infinite stunt sequence do you feel this palpable danger these people were talking about, if anything he looks endangered. It’s that strange space we find ourselves in, were the one killing seems to be in danger more imminently than the ones getting killed. Vulnerability is a good thing- if it were an under dog account -it brings plausibility. But not when you’re fashioning a legend of sorts. You don’t want to shine on the fault lines.
All this critique isn’t to take anything from the set pieces, that are invigoratingly staged. They’re choreographed with a staggering vision; with an unctuous imagination. Like the stretch when two gunmen nonchalantly sprinkle bullets as they weave through a busy crowd, the claustrophobic combat in the train that ensues or the dexterous shootout in a dark tunnel   But all of that translates to such uninspired action on scene, that it feels like a school annual day gig, with Reeves going through the motions with a post coital face, keeping track beneath his breath, of every kick and punch delivered. He’s neither a skilled martial artist nor a luminous star to overlook the fact of not being one.

A man’s assaulted pup’s killed by a bunch of teenagers, one of who is a son of a Russian mafia lord. But little do they know that the pup ain’t just another pup. It’s the last gift from his late wife. And the man’s no ordinary person. He’s John Wick, one of the deadliest assassins on the face of earth. He’s part of a brotherhood that lets him shop guns like shoes.He goes on to single-handedly reduces the mob empire to a debri of corpses and brick. End of first film.
Rinse and repeat-Sequel!

It does make for one hell of a read and it should’ve stayed that way. That way it could’ve teased our imagination about who could play John Wick.Some movies are better left in the pages till the right guy comes through. A star, who can elevate the material beyond the pages. That’s the thing about star wattage, it makes a hero out of a mercenary when played right. And the lack of it, makes the mercenary,well…..Keanu Reeves.

Kaabil- The drudgery of Hrithik’s acting

Moments into Kaabil I was distracted. Not by the little kids in the row before, having popcorn wars. Not by the bright display from the mobile, next seat. Not even by the incessant banter of a marwadi contingent looking for F row in the middle of B row. It was the sight of Hrithik playing a blind man.

His face encapsulates Michelangelo’s intensity half way into Sistine Chapel. Brows arced, it is a picture of focus. What is he doing? Making omelette.Nah….creating fresco with broken eggs on a pan. He’s got this industrious look plastered on his face whilst at even the most common of things, that it lends some unintentional curiosity to the activity. We begin to wonder when he opens a tap so emphatically, if he’s there for just the water or releasing its hidden potential as well. Or the time when he’s dicing vegetables purposefully,  if he’s sculpting them for a higher cause or just cooking.
Most emotions he doles out in the movie fall in the range contained between Akbar’s royal grimace to Krish’s righteous chin quiver. The ones which don’t fall in this space, fall under the I-blush-excessively-when-I-get-horny platter from Koi Mil Gaya.

The template of the story is older than a few mountains, alright. But where did the thumb rule of character establishment go? Appu Raja(Aboorva Sagotharargal) pitted a dwarf against a bunch of evil men, all bigger than him in stature and status. We were introduced to the dwarf’s vulnerability, his fragility earlier in the film; that we became invested and went on to root in his lopsided battle.

The fun of watching a protagonist with a disability lock horns with a mighty antagonist comes from his helplessness and the dexterity he brings in to make up for it. He has to be the mouse for most parts in the cat and mouse game they play. Which is one of the many places Kaabil falters. Its hero is a blind man with 18 inch biceps and a blonde streaked mane. He sports colour coordinated designer clothes and never puts a wrong foot down on the dance floor. Instead of leveraging his blindness as a bottleneck, it’s treated like a insignificant kitchen scar. I know the title means capable, but this is over-capable with a few exclamation marks.

And the aspiration to have these things scattered in a masala flick that intends to play to the gallery isn’t a crime. Just that their existence could’ve been ratified. Like showing him live with his granny who picks up his clothes. Have a few montages of him sweating it in the gym or even learning dance. These things lend credibility to the proceedings. Just stray shots of him sniffing a smell from a far away neighbour or that of mimicking Amitabh over phone only does as much as Deepika Padukone does to a deodorant in a commercial, as far as authenticity goes.

It’s not like Hrithik isn’t earnest. In fact if acting was measured by earnestness alone, he would probably be an acting demigod. And it doesn’t help that the director isn’t any visionary himself to make up for the lacunae with a taut screenplay or a novel story. He infuses the film with a distinct copious 80s sensibility and tropes.From raped heroine, vowing hero, political villain to fat landlines with circular dial; it’s all there. Just that it doesn’t have the old school charm of the era. Dabbang was stitched out of the same cloth, but Salman played Chulbul Pandey with such unabashed conviction, that a rusted script became rustic.

Kaabil needed its hero to be fluid, to have a blast like he did in his extremely popular debut vehicle. Instead he tries too hard and the symbiotic spontaneity goes amiss from the viewing experience. If the meticulous posturing during stunt sequences or the asthmatic enunciation of dialogues are anything to go by, Hrithik’s in his own avant garde project. And even beyond all this, every time I managed to con myself of the film being in this era by the constant sight of slim fit jeans, a hideous Baba bhajanesque track would come up to remind me of its expiry date.  .

Thoongavanam- the movie that wasn’t

God! It was bloody good. I just couldn’t have enough of it. My facial hair felt validated. My adrenalin surge was making my fist pump endlessly into the desk adjoining the PC. The lurking fanboy finally had a reason to resurface with renewed vigour.
The “it” I’m talking about is the trailer of Thoongavanam. Boy was it lip-smacking with Thalaivar in amazing form, kicking some ass. A Taken it was going to be, I thought in Kamal style. Another one to go to the long list of masculinity-for-dummies manual alongside Satya and Vettaiyadu Vilaiyadu, to name a few.
We all revere the mesmerising actor the man is. A rare breed who could own the screen without disturbing the aesthetics of the story movement; towering tall enough to not belittle the movie. His recent Papanasam being a case in point.

Coming back to Thoongavanam, I walked into the first show with great expectations. The promise the tease managed, the reveal couldn’t keep up. Every thing that caught my imagination in the trailer suddenly seemed like red herrings . What with every passing scene, I could palpably feel my fervency falling apart. Was the movie bad? No.
But was it just good enough to just not be bad? This was a Kamal Haasan movie after all. All of us know that the actors would be well casted and they wouldn’t disappoint. Likewise the technical aspects can be taken for granted to be top notch. So Thoongavanam had all these bare minimums fulfilled. But did the fans of the star have anything to root for like a Vedhalam which released alongside? No.

The reviews which floated around were extremely flattering with most calling it a wonderful remake of the French movie, Sleepless Night with major assertions towards the ‘justice’ it had done to the movie.
So, is it enough for a remake to just do ‘justice’ to its original. How relevant would such ardent submission be, if the original’s milieu was diametrically different from the remake’s. Not to mention the difference in sensibilities of the respective viewing demography.

Sleepless Night is a French movie that catered largely to European sensibilities when it released back in 2011.We are a population that adds tandoori chicken to make a pizza sell. If the number of manchurians and fried rice variants that’ve been imagined by our street food industry were to be patented, it would scar the Chinese for a lifetime.
The same holds true for celluloid adaptations of foreign origin movies too. The content clicks when nativity is addressed.
This is where this movie misses the mark by some distance. Taking the culinary metaphor of pizza further, the pizza needed some tandoori sauce and Indian herbs to become palatable on the Indian roads, but continued to be a rich-bland affair that belonged on the ovens of Milan still, but aspired for acceptance in Mylapore.

Let’s take the case of another Kamal classic- Avvaishanmugi which was adapted from an English classic itself, Mrs. Doubtfire.  The movie kept the central conceit intact, but had an independent existence without tampering with the core of the original.
The motley product of dispute, reasons, characters & props that the narrative deployed stayed local and relatable, steering it in a direction different from the original, making the movie speak in the language of the hoi polloi.
Mrs. Doubtfire was a classy affair with subtle situational humor. Avvaishanmugi on the other hand was its unabashed masala recreation that relied largely on dialogue based humor and the crowd pulling ability of its lead man. Whether it did justice to the original in its entirety is subjective. But what it managed to do justice to was far more consequential than that. It reached the story to a large audience, in the process seeping into popular culture. No wonder the movie was such a roaring success.

Thoongavanam’s a grim-long-faced affair unfolding in a night club, with grimmer adults on endless loops of hide-n-seek throughout its running time. It didn’t help that it released on Diwali, a festival that makes mincemeat of guilty pleasures. Where movies are expected to be run-of-the-mill escapist affairs in line with the popular mood, it didn’t help that it was a slow movie that had every character operating at a breakneck speed. Every cop and crook in the movie, run for their lives or to save a dependent’s in this convoluted plot involving multiple ratting in either camps. But neither do we connect to their desperation nor to the plot’s urgency to cut to the chase in every sequence.

Throughout the movie we’re shown Diwakar’s(Kamal) endless failed efforts to get to his kidnapped son. He’s head-butted, pushed and punched by stock characters whose names gratuitously roll in the end credits as “Extras”. They obviously wanted to throw some light on the lead man’s masochism, if not vulnerability. But end up celebrating his fallibility to an audience that had gathered in hordes to hoot and whistle, alienating them in the process.

The redemption does come in the end. But it’s too precise to invigorate any celebration and doesn’t even belong to its lead man. In the mainstream format, when a story takes a significant time to vividly paint the struggles of its lead man, but coughs his redemption out like a blemish in the end, it defies the very syntax of movie-making for the masses.


Commercial movie making is largely about making-believe than fact establishing. The leverage of exaggeration and the staging do the trick. Case in point being Emerich’s 2012, an apocalyptic movie that traces John Cusack and his family comfortably escaping from one natural disaster to another with breathtaking ease. The contrived escapes were a bigger spectacle of defiance than the disasters itself; playing the primal battle of man versus nature to the gallery.
A closer case being Liam Neeson’s Taken that resembles the plot of Thoongavanam to a large extent. Just that Neeson’s character is staged as an invincible one-man army. Something that Thoongavanam should’ve done. Something Vettaiyadu Vilaiyadu aced. For who can forget the wolf whistles that went up the roof when Raghavan went,”Chinna Pasangala. Tha..Yaaru Kitta da vilayadringa?”
That was a movie for the masses. A star’s conversation with his fans.

Batman vs Superman- Yawn of Justice

Imagine a person connected by a bluetooth device to his pet cat. Keeping it from falling off a tree’s branch or helping it cross the road starts to become the purpose of his life with every passing mission to keep the cat alive. Well imagine the person to be wrapped in a blue spandex, itchy around the pelvis and a “who –farted- now” look on the face, that’s Superman and the pet cat, Lois Lane his lady love with an IQ of a dung beetle.
In the recent Batman vs Superman-Dawn of Justice, there’s more feminism per square footage than in all of Meryl Streep movies put together with Mother Teresa montages. For submission to Lois Lane’s whims and fancies on priority basis, seem so pertinent to Superman. Even if this misplaced priority meant a dozen immigrant heads at stake, a possibility of making it to the “No Fly Zone” and a few hundred skyscrapers about to be reduced to rubble by a nuking abomination in those precious minutes of romantic unison, he squeezes every time with her.
The warring heroes bond over motherhood, that too with a precious proper noun crisis. So did the guys, who sat on a production cost of $ 250 Million have a good enough reason to bury the two year old hatchet built on ideological differences and more importantly to go against the titular theme of the film? Yes,”Martha”!
Sure any reason, notwithstanding the magnitude of consequence has to melt at the moot of maternity. So the so called epic gladiatorial battle between God and Man, the Son of Krypton and the Bat of Gotham is a red herring that is relegated to gooey-bromance between two sons of different Marthas in a matter of minutes.
So “Martha. Martha” it is.

And if you thought, that was the last of the influence the fairer sex had on the narrative, you’re mistaken, for there is Gal Gadot’s Wonder Woman who is the biggest alpha entity of the story. She gets to belt some of the best lines and kick some kryptonian ass when the big boys are violated by an ill behaved monster on loose. In fact, ironically the scene that shows a JPEG image revealing her hidden identity gets the most evocative score of the movie with the sequences involving the sundry heroes(Batman/Superman) happening in natural sound sans exaggeration. Imagine a paragraph about something with etcetera in the end, double the font size as its body. Well, this is how its movie equivalent would look.

If the scope of the movie was already shunted by the inundating spirit of misplaced feminism, the one noted hamming of Jesse Eisenberg as Lex Luthor takes care of the unintentional humor. Neither his “nurtured-on-substance-abuse” look nor his asphyxiated articulation of every syllable, let us take him seriously as a worthy antagonist to pit two of the most revered superheroes against each other. With absolute suspension, his might probably pass off as a teenager’s novice imitation of Heath ledger. And his hyper-ventilation is fondly flattered as being “psychotic”, which is countered with an unimaginative wisecrack by him on syllable count.

The movie reeks from liberal infusion of apocalyptic rhetoric mouthed mostly by Luthor, abstract , which absolutely make no meaning in isolation or together with another disjointed rhetoric like this one-“God is tribal. He picks sides...” or my personal favourite that Alfred dishes so perceptively to the space above the audience’s head called “went-above” that goes-“That’s how it starts. The fever, the rage, the feeling of powerlessness that turns good men… cruel.

Problem with these ramblings on God and exodus is the fact that they don’t organically lead up to a proceeding befitting of their gravitas. For how seriously are we supposed to take men indulging in cross-fitness with well waxed chests while trying to forge a weapon of mass destruction or the ones who bag-pack on a trek to a picturesque peak to only get a dad epiphany to fix moral disputes.
The last time I  heard so many geometrical jargons I had a textbook in hand and a puberty to attain. So when Lex Luthor for yet another time got started about how the line was the shortest distance to either sides of a triangle to an uninspired Lois lane, I could only think of  what was for lunch.

As the end credits started to roll, it dawned upon me that maybe Batman was after all  addressing us-the audience when he asked,”Will you bleed?“, for Superman had already fled the scene, leaving us to bleed to boredom.