Of war and retribution

When Michelangelo painted the Fall of Man, little did he fathom the commonality and the parallels that could possibly be, insipiently and rather incongruously, drawn between the falling out of the men on the mural and the growing wedges between men and women irrespective of creed and colour, who, driven by anger, jealousy, lust, ambition, and egos, go to war. Men have been at war for ever. Even so, images of war on celluloid sear the soul, cripple memory and instigate fears of yet another conflagration claiming the lives of hundreds of innocents. But, the sucker for war films that I am, I end up compulsively and with renewed interest watch was films the second and even the third time. Saving Private Ryan (1998) is a film I have watched thrice and every single time I did, I came away thoughtful, questioning. Why do men go to war (I say men here as the case of women going to war have been critically rare)? In 1914, the Germans, the British, the French and the Russians went to war, the leaders disregarding faint but powerful voices advocating peace. Mammoth egos of powerful men led thousands to their deaths, countries and economies collapsed, widowed women lined the streets demanding jobs, Russia convulsed internally as the peasants and the working class rose against the Tsar. Even after the Treaty of Versailles had been signed, the League of Nations established, the losing Germans stripped of everything including their dignity, and the world sighed in relief, Europe went up in flames again in 1939, this time primarily because of the whims of one man—Adolf Hitler—and the uncompromising attitudes of the Allied powers. The mass murder that followed left all involved with nothing more to fight for or fight with and hence the bloodiest war in history came to an end in 1945. Saving Private Ryan is a story set in 1944 and begins on the beaches of Normandy in France, seen through the eyes of erstwhile Private James Francis Ryan (Matt Damon). Captain John H Miller (Tom Hanks) and his company, oblivious of the German emplacements throughout the beach lands in hell as the German guns open up. Miller loses more than thirty of his men under ominously grey French skies, in one of the best combat sequences ever filmed. As young American soldiers, most not more than boys, kiss their crosses and utter the Lord’s Prayer and stricken men look around the bloody beach for a limb, the catastrophe that is war comes home in one blinding flash. A day later Captain Miller is informed of his next mission—finding Private Ryan, under direct orders from the Army high command in Washington, following the deaths of all three of his brothers in combat. A shamed American military top brass is faced with a tragic dilemma—breaking the news to the grieving mother and delivering alive the one hope in the world she has—her last child. Thus, begin’s Miller’s journey, seven of his men giving him company through the French battlefields, through the heart of German reinforcements. He loses one man then another to battle. As the men trudge along, they make small talk, trying desperately to shrug off the fear and the possibility of death, they bet dollars on the origins of their group leader, toss around dog tags to find Private Ryan and even converse about the merits and demerits of a melancholic love song playing in the background of their last battlefield. They also lose friends, the team medic Wade who asks for morphine so that he does not feel the pain and dies calling for his mother and the big Caparzo who tries to save a tiny French girl from German sniper guns because she reminds him of his niece and falls to a shot. And Miller faces rebellion in the form of Reiben who wants to kill a f****** German PoW but relents to reason by Miller and protestations by Upham, the translator. After a few false starts, Ryan is actually found alive and unwilling to vacate his post. What wrong have these men committed? Why do I get to go home while they don’t? The utter uselessness of war, the half-baked logic of sending young men to their deaths for no fault of theirs, apparent or otherwise, the preposterous arguments in favour of armed conflict and absolutely unnecessary exercise of power…it all comes to naught. There is no logic for war, no logic either for transferring the weight of the ambitions of one man or one class of men on to the shoulders of common men and women. In the glazed dead eyes of Captain John Miller and the tears-streaked eyes of Private Ryan, is reflected the futility of war.

Of human ups and downs

Every once in a while, along comes a film which portrays the real as a fractious compilation of human failings, surrender to the baser instincts, departures from the staid guidelines of societal behaviour and finally, unnatural, uncanny and unprecedented success. A chronicle of pseudo-modern realism, The Social Network (2010) by David Fincher is a matter-of-fact, pragmatic, often banal overview of the forces behind the Facebook phenomenon. It is not the usual gravitas-filled, pathos-induced biography that we are so used to watching. Mark Zuckerberg is not really the wartime hero who sends tremors of emotion through the gloating audience, nor is he the vile, repugnant anti-hero who elicits nothing more than hatred; he is a hero and an anti-hero all at once, a function of duality overwhelmingly and achingly real. He pilfers the idea of a global social networking website from his Harvard colleagues, the handsome, well-bred Winklevoss twins and their Indian friend, adds his ingenuity as a master programmer and $19000 of his best buddy, Eaduardo Saverin’s money and voila! We have The Facebook. Then, Sean Parker walks in. The former founder of Napster is now out of a job and looking to make big bucks. Zuckerberg, who can safely now be renamed “Suckerberg”, falls for the charms of the big-talking Parker who nets him a huge financial deal. And yes! On Parkers word “The” is dropped from Facebook! Then, what does Zuckerberg do? He quietly and coolly deletes Saverin from his friend list, reducing his profit share to 0.1 per cent. Not surprisingly, Saverin takes Zuckerberg to court and that, along with the Winklevoss’ trial, forms the backdrop of this little gem of a film. But, of course, the millionaire twins sue Zuckerberg for theft of intellectual property, a heinous crime in the haloed portals of Harvard. Based loosely on Ben Mezrich’s 2009 bestseller The Accidental Billionaires, the film is helped along marvelously by a taut, gripping screenplay by Aaron Sorkin. Jesse Eisenberg is superb as Zuckerberg. The wronged former best friend Saverin is played to perfection by Andrew Garfield. However, the high point of the film is Justin Timberlake’s turn as Sean Parker. His rakish, over-the-top, loud act completely overshadows the second half of the film.

Grimace alright...but watch

Danny Boyle’s last film celebrated the filth and grime of Mumbai. The enterprising chaiwala, in pursuit of his childhood love, ended up taking Uncle Oscar home. Boyle is again part of the Oscar race…this time for a fine piece of cinematic experiment. It pits human spirit against the uncompromising, unrelenting force of nature. Nature as we have seldom known it. 127 Hours does not create a fantastic canvas of rain or hail, nor does it breathe life into the bounties of nature by panning the camera too close to accentuate the smallest particles that sustain life. As it sweeps over the dry, yellow, silent canyons of Colorado, it breathes life into the rocks and boulders that have made these devastating ravines some of the most beautiful, though one of the most feared, natural formations on the planet. The nooks, crannies and crevices are breathtakingly shot. American hiker/adventurer Aaron Ralston (James Franco) traverses these dangerous depths with the characteristic nonchalance of someone with many years behind him climbing rocks. Just that this time, the rocks decide to trap him and for good. From here on 127 Hours becomes a clear, concise and abridged guide to human survival. Ralston, his hand stuck against a boulder that has fallen into a crevice with just enough space for him to balance himself on the climbing rope, survives for five days, or 127 Hours, on a bottle of fast diminishing water, moisture from chewing his contact lenses, meager dinner (the last three days without dinner or lunch), a few yards of climbing ropes, some patience and lots of grit. Four days hence when the vitals start deteriorating and everything from the first steps on the canyon with his father, little sister playing his favourite tune on the piano, a zillion apologies to a doting mother, handycam recordings for family and friends and a phony act as a radio jockey (also for the handycam) have zoomed past his rapidly collapsing mind and feverish eyes, Ralston does what he had envisioned on the second day itself. He decides to live…even if he has to without his right hand. And how does he think he can do that? All he has is a Chinese multi-purpose knife which is of little help. Day five, Ralston must use the knife. And he does. Cutting through tissue and nerves, Ralston seems to be remarkably accurate.
Highlight of the film—James Franco. He is excruciatingly real. Moves from being a charmer to someone with incredible amount of guts with amazing ease. Beginning with his encounter with the girls out to have some fun on the boulders to gnawing at the tissues of his arm with a pen-knife, Franco is a delight to watch.