On Woody Allen

The world of cinema should always be thankful to Woody Allen. He is that shining sun under whose gaze even the ordinary particle musters the gleam to shine to its glory. Every moment that he picks, takes that special shift from transitory to transcendental that you seem intoxicated by it for days and month to come by. And all this is done with such genius that hardly seems cloying; it’s rather inspirational to have such genius. True that his films may be overt in his self-indulgences and bear a typical maverick expression which only Woody can do.

His actors are very deftly handled in terms of space, inner conflicts. I even noticed some emotional jumps during conversations but somehow they feel liberated and deliver improvised performances with pauses or beats or gestures which only real life dialogue can evoke. Also they all seem to speak the woody allen speak at times out of their own comfort blocks but that’s again not too overboard. The point is all this adds to the mood and may be even intentional, sort of.

Woody may be laying too much emphasis on dialogue, the good old debate of showing versus telling. He may be a bit too liberal with flamboyance or cerebrally motivated lines which seem out of place with the characters at times but the overall impression is far too aesthetically sweeping to ignore.

World History of Films

Upon receipt of a very special book on “World History of Film”, my first reaction was – why didn’t I think of it? After endlessly unsettling days of frantic search over news papers, blogs, journals and words of mouth, I finally met the very sizeable - although a little more western than my taste – anthology of films and film norms over the past one century.

It was rather uncanny to have received such a book at such needy times when my gaze constantly moved from one idea to another, often capping my vision. It’s hard not to feel guilty watching a film a bit too late. All the things that matter most in your life should be done as early as possible.

Hence, the book is a rather miraculous serendipity.

Cinephiles come in all sizes, but a serious film-lover can’t always remain a passive lover. S/he needs to graduate to higher sense of purpose that only emanates from pure love. You might end up making a mediocre film, but believe me; a mediocre credit is far better than non-credit.

A particular downside of watching too many films by different filmmakers is what I call ‘fungible filmic ideas’ – you tend to see the world through all those filmmakers, ignoring the most essential tenet of finding your own voice - the second most difficult quest besides the proverbial quest of the meaning of life.

Good cinema develops a positive sense of intuition. During La Samurai, I could predict the fate of ritualistic suicide. I knew it was going to end in a celebratory death of the protagonist, even though it didn’t become obvious until very late in the film. Was it because I had seen too many films of this genre? No, it is one of the most unique films I had seen – a lone killer out to have it on nobody but himself. In fact, it’s one of the most difficult films to classify into a particular genre.

Sometimes surprises look fabricated, almost fake. You can sense that it couldn’t be automatically concluded without doubt. La Samurai was almost abstractly quite and in the words of a famous critic – ‘unbearably perfect’.

Some other times you leave it to the film to fill that void between the surprise and non-surprise. A good film always lives up to the expectation. During The Purple Rose of Cairo, I got surprised but still felt acutely aware of the reality. The film mingled the real and unreal, ever so smoothly that they become inseparable almost indiscernible (I may be over-emphasizing).

You want to wind up with a lasting sense of pleasure after devoting hours, energy, life and emotion into a film. And often a film that doesn’t seem to work on the surface enters into a sublime depth leaving your hollowness illuminated with beauty; such a film leaves you breathless yet doesn’t intoxicate you. One such film is The 400 blows.

कुछ काली बुदबुदाहटें

वो अपना मीठा सा मुँह लेकर
सामने चली आई
उसके माथे की चमक से जब नजर हटी
चाँद बेदाग़ मालूम हुआ

उसके घुलते नैन,
सोने की चाह में
जागते रहते

उखड़े फूल की खुशबु की तरह
उसकी नाराजगियां
जेहन को पैवस्त करती

उस कड़वे सुख की लकीरें
धुंए के बालों की तरह
खिचती जाती
और रुख की मिट्टी
गीले आसुओं को
पीने तैयार हैं