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With this review, we believe it is often important to revisit the classics as well!

What happens when you put 12 men in a small, claustrophobic jury room in New York during the hottest day of the year? It makes for an incredibly dramatic movie. ’12 Angry Men’ is a court room drama written by Reginald Rose, who is also the producer alongside Henry Fonda. The movie, under the direction of Sidney Lumet was made on an incredibly tight budget of $340,000 and its release in the year of 1957, although critically acclaimed, proved disastrous in the box office. It was only when it was aired on television that it finally found its audience becoming the classic it is today and deservingly so.

The Plot

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An 18 year old boy is brought to trial for the murder of his father.  All evidence finds him guilty; the jurors are convinced that it is going to be a really short session. But when the votes are called for, they realise that it is never that easy. One man out of all the 12 jurors is not entirely convinced that the boy is guilty. Juror 8 (Henry Fonda) is the only one to vote ‘not guilty’ in the preliminary tally and is the only one holding up a unanimous verdict. This infuriates the other jurors who want to get the session over with as soon as possible and resume their daily life. They try to convince him that he is over complicating the matter but Juror 8 stands firm in his belief that there is a room for a ‘reasonable doubt’.

Although the audience is given no preliminary knowledge of the case but as the story develops they are provided the evidence put in court in the form of third person narratives, as Juror 8 fanatically tries to argue the authenticity of the evidence. He believes that all the evidence is circumstantial and the boy deserves a fair deliberation. He becomes the only one standing between the boy and the electric chair. Human emotions flare as their patience is put to the test and the vilest of human character begins to surface as the discussion draws on. In the heated debate human values are brought to question, abuses exchanged and facts doubted. ’12 Angry Men’ brings to the screen human drama in its rawest state with all its prejudice, stereotypes and malice.

Casts and Characters

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Sidney Lumet’s ’12 Angry men’ depends upon the volatile mix of personalities in the cramped up jury room to deliver a staggering courtroom drama. The jury members have their own way of life, their own personalities, and each one remarkably different from the other. The jury is a mix of common people from different walks of life – an assistant football coach who tries his best as the jury foreman (Martin Balsam), a meek banker (John Fielder) who is often dominated by others, an opinionated and short-tempered businessman (Lee J. Cobb), a rational and analytic man of facts (E.G.Marshall), A paramedic who grew up in a violent slum (Jack Klugman), A tough and respectful house painter (Edward Bins), A salesman (Jack Warden) whose only concern is the baseball tickets burning a hole in his pockets, An architect (Henry Fonda)  who is at first the only dissenting voice in the jury, A wise and observant old man (Joseph Sweeney), A loudmouthed and prejudiced garage owner (Ed Begley), A European-born watchmaker (George Voskovec), A wise cracking advertising executive (Robert Webber).

Each actor does a remarkable job in bringing up their character in the most believable manner. This becomes rather important as the film has a lot of close up shots of the characters. Every emotional outburst seems genuine and every argument carries such tension that can make you root for that one juror or make you pathetically hate the other.

Cinematography

’12 Angry Men’ is no Bollywood movie with enchanting Swiss landscapes where the characters seem to suddenly appear out of nowhere and burst into a song. Instead the movie is grim and almost entirely takes place in a small claustrophobic jury room. But this banal confinement becomes a completely dynamic set piece – when the audience gets one good look at the hot, tiny room with its confined walls, they are more able to empathise with the characters that are desperate to get the session over with. The room grows even hotter when twelve angry men throw their tantrums and their jibes as the walls seem to close in on them. The small room also becomes the silent representation of the jury’s narrow mindedness in the case in hand, a satire of ‘fair trial’.

Verdict

’12 Angry Men’ is a remarkable film. Although it does take time for the movie to develop but the audience will find their patience well rewarded in form of a thoroughly entertaining movie.

 By Ambiso Tawsik ([email protected])

White Waters- the name reminds one of a relaxed, pristine white and blue beach, and very much true to its name, the café is done up in beautiful white and aquamarine blue. This is the aspect of the café that makes the visitors go wow and make them fall in love with the ambience.

Unlike most restaurants, White Waters does not have a linear seating plan, but tables spread out all over, with a number of options. The best seating area, without any argument is the table on the upper level. With comfortable sofas that can seat up to ten people easily and a big table with internal lighting, this area creates an amazing atmosphere. For such a terrific ambience, one would expect great music, but it was not so, as they only played regular pop. The Doors did play once, but it was a remixed version; their haunting numbers could have elevated the experience further.

Coming to the staff and the service, they were pretty decent and the food did not take ages to reach the table. The staff was polite and ready to help, though one had to call out to them from above.

Most importantly, the food was rather average and one could make it out that the high prices were for the atmosphere. The Veg. and Non-veg. Platters were filling, but did not have the wow factor one would expect. In other snacks, Honey Chilly Potatoes and Honey Chilly Lotus Stem were sticky due to the over-dose of honey, but were bearable.

The Veg. Biryani tasted like any other biryani and there are other places where a much better version can be availed for a much lower price, same is the case with the Non Veg. Biryani. Though both were tasty and appetizing, they couldn’t be called extraordinary.

In the matter of drinks, the place serves your normal alcoholic drinks, but for the straight folk, there is Cucumber Cooler to be had, Kiwi Smoothie and Berry Blast are also good choices.

The place is rather good for catching up with friends, birthday parties and the like.

Cost for two: 1300/-

Home delivery is not available.

Timings: 12PM to 1 AM

Location: C-39, First Floor, Opp. Odeon Cinema, Connaught Place

With a background score which pains the ears and song sequences which hurt the eye, one can wrack their brain and wonder how there’s a 200 crore markup for Krishh 3. The only inviting aspect about the movie is that you can relive your favourite Hollywood movies from the past and have a quick look at all of them in three hours. Krishh 3 has all the spices a Bollywood movie would have- a doting-loving father, a manic pixie dream girl wife, the third vertex to the love triangle and of course a villain. Rakesh Roshan has used the usual except with a little leap of faith in technology. Hrithik Roshan makes the roles of Dr. Rohit Mehra and Krishh believably disparate by donning the double role well. Vivek Oberoi plays a commendable villain despite his actions being physically restricted throughout the movie. Kangana Ranaut too carries off her role well, however it seems Priyanka Chopra has been merely used to bear more children and welcome more sequels to the franchise.

With an incessant romantic dance number between Ranaut and Roshan, with no new action sequences introduced to cinema, the same old superhero movie storyline and an extremely poor background score- Krishh 3 highly disappoints as it is nothing but an amalgamation of Hollywood flicks we’ve grown up watching. If only Rakesh Roshan realised that Indians do watch Hollywood superhero films, He’d probably have thrown in some originality and a tinge of creativity; that way Krishh 3 would have lived up to the expectations and hype.

With inputs from: Raashi Nahata

Bhaag Milkha Bhaag is a long daunting story of a true “life” of an Olympic world champion for whom life becomes a constant battle for survival. Milkha Singh, after being victimized by the Indo-Pak partition was wounded with scars which failed to heal with time.

The phenomenal director-producer Rakeysh Om Prakash Mehra tries to give his audience a perfect flashback of the Flying Sikh, with the first half seeking to enlist the motivating factors for the protagonist- to run with a happy childhood in a proud family. Soon this life turns into a traumatic one of a refugee boy who wields a knife and becomes a coal thief. But the editing deficient flashback, takes a different turn with a captivating love affair with “Biro” (optimistically played by Sonam Kapoor) inspiring him to choose the right path in life. This leads him to join the army and eventually breaking an athletic world record at the 1960 Rome Olympics, giving him world prestige for the rest of his life. Instances of Milkha running, wounded and punishing himself after defeats are a constant reminder of the gutsy dream chaser aiming to get a national holiday named after him.

With moments of great inspiration, the film manages to pull its way through the second half with rigorous practice sessions on sets of Ladakh giving us a fine reminder of what made Milkha one of India’s most iconic athletes.

The film earns its title from Milkha’s father’s last words, “bhaag milkha bhaag” asking him to literally run for his life, making it the most patronizing memory of his life.

Eventually the well-intended biopic turns into a very detailed, exhausting 187-minute roll which lacks objectivity and turns into an overdose of melodrama. Soon you realize that the early years of the gangster mischief, the Australian affair, and meaningless songs are irrelevant and divert from the traditional pattern of a sporting biopic.

Farhan Akhtar pulls the snail-paced movie, with his convincing Punjabi accent, boorish physical presence, and tremendous commitment to his role as the Flying Sikh.  Supporting roles of Milkha’s guides in his historic journey are portrayed convincingly by Pawan Malhotra and Yograj Singh.

As for the ratings, I will give the mouth-publicized flick 3 out of 5, as it is definitely a one-time watch for Farhan’s irreplaceable performance as an inspiring Milkha Singh- one that will go down in history.

In the run of daily life, take a stop to watch this mis-matched, much in need of editing film as you might end up taking a personal lesson back home.

 

Directed by Kathryn Bigelow, Zero Dark Thirty is the story of a CIA officer, Maya (Jessica Chastain) who is working in the U.S. Embassy in Pakistan, on the mission to locate and eliminate Osama-bin-Laden, the al-Qaeda leader responsible for the 9/11 attacks that claimed 3000 lives. The title, though it sounds curious, simply refers to the military term for thirty minutes past midnight, the time when the US Navy SEALs raided bin-Laden’s residence.

Completely dedicated to her mission, Maya is not very social and appears to be friendless, except when with Jessica (Jennifer Ehle) and Jack (Harold Perrineau). She is not a coward and one to sit back, as her bold statement to the CIA Director, that she located Laden’s whereabouts, makes you want to clap for her. This is proof that Maya is a woman of steel and ready to fight conventions that hold women back. However, even though Bigelow is known to push aside stereotypes, we see in Maya the anxious and worried woman who is left behind while the men go out to save the day.

In the first half of the movie, the torturing of the detainees fails to grab your attention and you wait for something better to happen. Bigelow tries to show that the torturing didn’t lead to Osama, but proper detective work and technology did. Maybe that is why the first half doesn’t seem to be very appealing.

The movie becomes interesting the moment we see and recognise the house that we saw on TV when Osama’s death was broadcast all over the world. Even though the viewers know the climax of the movie, what happens in the second half tends to get the pulse racing and makes the wait to see bin-Laden’s demise even more excruciating. Truthfully, if the movie receives an Oscar for the Best Film, it must be for the second half of the film.
 

“It’s like a fucking knife in me”, said Junot Díaz, on the pressure to produce a follow-up to his 1996 short story collection Drown,  that released to explosive critical acclaim.  Greats have been known to succumb, but with the release of his sophomore publication and debut novel The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, Diaz, creates a narrative that juggles the two contrasting curses that have been known to afflict Latin-American literature: the “Macondo” (a shorthand for the García Márquez school of fiction) and “McOndo” (a term coined by Alberto Fuguet for the backlash against magical realism), with a breathless, capacious pace.

In what the New York Times called a “Mario Vargas LLosa-meets David Foster Wallace-meets-Kanye West” manoeuvre, three generations, two nations, a multiplicity of voices that echo the complexities of being American, sexual shenanigans, a foppish genocidaire and a sincere homage to all holy tenets of geekery, are all held together by the eponymous Oscar and narrated by his sometime-friend Yunior, in a relentless, streetspeak brand of Spanglish liberally interspersed with flash talk and razzle-dazzle words.

The book opens with a nod to “magic realism,” the most hackneyed tradition associated with Latin American fiction in the United States, introducing “Fuku Americanus,” or “the Curse and the Doom of the New World,” brought into being by the European colonization of Hispaniola and, more specifically, Columbus’ peregrinations circa 1492. But in Díaz’s hands, the “magic” gives way to “realism” in the first few paragraphs. The broad strokes of his global curse suddenly become very personal: “It’s perfectly fine if you don’t believe [in this],” the narrator tells us. “In fact it’s better than fine — it’s perfect. Because no matter what you believe, fuku believes in you.” Not surprisingly, fuku is eventually reconfigured as “fuck you.”

“You really want to know what being an X-Man feels like? Just be a smart bookish boy of colour in a contemporary US ghetto.”

Diaz creates in Oscar de Leon, (“not one of those one of those Dominican cats everybody’s always going on about. He wasn’t no player. Except for one time, he’d never had much luck with women”) a portrait of the artist as the homely lonely homeboy hero, painfully overweight and overtly precocious user of words like ‘vertiginous’ and ‘indefatigable’, “a hardcore sci-fi and fantasy man”, well versed in “Japanimation” and Marvel comics lore and with a burning ambition to write a space fantasy epic combining the characteristic themes of JRR Tolkien and EE “Doc” Smith. A Dominican-American growing up in Paterson, New Jersey, during the 80s, his counter-stereotypical nerdiness make him a doubly marginalised figure who spends most of his life wondering if he would ever get laid. A sensitive inamorata who ‘falls in love like the rest of us fall asleep’, Oscar’s emotional rawness and authenticity, his willingness to die for love, exasperate and then engross Yunior, are striking. The novel traces the strands of Oscar’s peculiar emotional DNA back through familial and national histories, in particular those of his mother, grandmother and grandfather, all three of whom suffer injustice and brutality at the hands of Rafael Leónidas Trujillo, the Dominican Republic’s iron-fisted ruler from 1930 to 1961. The plot interweaves period chapters set in Santo Domingo with those in New Jersey and New York as if hoping to diagnose Oscar’s addiction to love and Yunior’s encroaching self-loathing via personal and political histories. Accounts of betrayals, beatings, tortures and other manifold perversions of humanity darken Dominican narratives filled with beautiful and strong women seeking love, and proud men crushed by their perceived failure to navigate a ruinous social system.

Funny, unapologetic and intensely readable, his novel has a fine sense of itself as a performance rather than something ominously lapidary. It’s also good on the weight of history. And the reader is left guessing about poor Oscar until the very end.

Iva Dixit
[email protected]

Sometime before the world began perceiving him as a once-brilliant success-cliché who’d simply gone stark raving mad and taken to penning scathing novellas about intolerable ex-wives, Hanif Kureishi produced his debut novel The Buddha of Suburbia – a curiously satirical work that drew almost entirely from Kureishi’s own tumultuous teenage years growing up in the suburbs of South London.

The book is an-almost Bildungsroman of sorts, as it is the chronicle of a short time in the life of half-Indian teenager Karim Amir, (‘an Englishman born and bred. Almost.’) whose narration is a sardonic account of the in-between-ness of his origins: suburban, non-white, (‘more beige than anything’). Pop music, sexual explicitness and suburban self-denial come together in a raucous clash of cultures in ‘70s Tory England, with little doubt as to which side Karim favours.

So what sets Karim apart from the legions of leather-and-Levi’s clad punk heroes found in Beatnik literature, sniffing in disdain at the inanities of suburbia? Young, disrespectful and suspicious of bourgeois working-class pretensions, Kureishi creates in Karim a peculiar anti-hero who is vain, foolish and prone to too many chatty exclamations of hyperbole and superficial witticisms, but somehow rises to any satirical occasion with a laconic, exaggerated insight that is uncomfortably close to the truth.

The ‘Suburbia’ is Chislehurst, snug in its complacent manicured lawns, racist attacks on Pakistanis, and absurd fascination with all things Oriental and exotic, where deadly conformity rules supreme and deviations from established norms are not tolerated kindly.

The ’Buddha’ in the title refers to Haroon, Karim’s father, buttoned-up bureaucrat by day and velvet-waistcoat-clad-mystic yogi by night, dispensing a vague mish-mash of Buddhist and yogic philosophy to suburban yuppies seeking redemption of a higher call than polished wood flooring. Haroon’s mystic stint and eventual relationship with the dilettantish Eva Kay, opens up a world of staggering new possibilities for Karim, as it is she who unfolds the world for his restless ignorance to delve into.

Eva’s unforgivably cool son, Charles, a mediocre musician, with his platinum blonde hair and emotional coldness, is the sexual focus of Karim’s Chislehurst years, who later markets himself as a punk rocker Charlie Hero to the musically forgiving Americans.

It is in London, less than 20 miles away but an alternative universe itself with its hot promise of endless drugs, sex and excitement, that Karim eventually discovers a talent for acting and develops the first of many disillusionments with love and politics.  Karim’s maturity can be measured by the distance he travels from Chislehurst, and the perspective he gains on Charlie

Kureishi’s beginnings as a playwright make plenty of appearances in the technique and narrative of the novel, evident in the precedence of speech over description. Karim’s calculated colloquialisms and the ambiguity between speech and thought are liberally interspersed with mock-dramatic cliché and theatrical narcissism.  The comedy of the novel relies on the narrator’s determination to stay on the surface of things – to combine candour with caricature, espousing an irreverent take on his surroundings while remaining absolutely straight-faced.

“Perhaps in the future I would live more deeply,” he says with comic solemnity as the novel ends, “But that is not for now”.

Iva Dixit
[email protected]