The macho rhythm that Adeni attempts to work up with ‘Mikhael’ is the kind that could be passable at the moment, but forgettable soon after. Which is why despite all its attempts to be a swanky action flick, it strikes you as a charade more than anything else.
‘Chanakya Thanthram’ lacks the writing to be a fantastic, edge-of-the-seat thriller. It simply goes about its job, and feels like many of its unproductive predecessors, but with a variant, pertinent note thrown into a messed up plot.
The intrigue that shrouds the title ‘Ira’ barely makes its ways into the film. It is less about victims or even victimization and more a customary plot on the hunters and the hunted; a generic fare that simply isn’t rousing enough to have your hair standing on its ends.
Ajai Vasudev’s ‘Masterpiece’ has snippets from writer Udayakrishna’s former films, that the latter stitches together with a banal thriller thread and a few drained out jokes, making it appear a botched up film. And yet if you are the kind who might get goose bumps galore, watching Eddie hurl away a dozen goons all over the campus playground, you are more than welcome to grab that ticket right now.
It could only be a real zany mind that would have the nerve to start off his film the way Dominic Arun does, that within minutes has the audience dropping their jaws – either in amazement or in morbid fear of what’s in store for the next couple of hours. The effect is pretty much similar to what Terry Zwigoff accomplishes with ‘Bad Santa’, where he adeptly replaces the chubby, soft footed, white bearded old man that we have long been accustomed to, with a drunken, bad-ass, swearing champ, Billy Bob Thornton.
As dispiriting as it sounds, ‘Clint’ is a film that only partially does justice to the incredible life that has inspired it. I would have loved it had it been an uncompromising and moving feature as it should ideally have been, instead of the too straight paper-to-screen adaptation that it has turned out to be.
‘Avarude Raavukal’ falls short of the basic dramatic tension that drives a film forward. Running for two hours and eleven minutes, it fruitlessly tries to draw out a tissue thin thought into a feature film that sloppily lands all over the place.
This isn’t the first time that we have seen men acting like juvenile boys in Malayalam cinema, and it certainly won’t be the last. But what does one do, when a film cannot even make a respectable use of the clichés that have been garnered from all around?