S. R. Praveen

Pop cultural references in a film often give a hint of the particular demographic the makers are aiming the film at. In Arun D.Jose’s Bromance, the references that fly thick and fast, almost as an easy stand-in for thoughtful dialogue writing, are from recent films. Just like his first two films, Jo & Jo and 18+, Arun attempts to create a movie targeted at the youth from a super thin storyline. But, unlike his previous outings, he goes for a much more fast-paced narrative that partly succeeds in covering up for the weaknesses in the plotting. There is the impeccable comic timing of Sangeeth Prathap, who continues in his Premalu vein to pep up even dull scenes. Written by Thomas P. Sebastian and Raveesh Nath, Bromance takes off with Binto (Mathew Thomas), setting out to find his elder brother Shinto (Shyam Mohan), who had gone missing.

Humour in free flow, with impeccable timing, could turn even poorly written films into experiences worth sitting through. But, when the humour is forced, with the effort to make us laugh painfully visible in every other scene, it can bring down even a film with a decent idea. In Sreejith Babu’s debut film Painkili, written by Jithu Madhavan, the attempts to create comedy, except in a few scenes, are akin to the efforts to push out the last bit of toothpaste from a near-empty tube. Writing was not really one of the strong points of Jithu madhavan’s Aavesham, which turned into a major hit mainly due to Fahadh Faasil’s unrestrained, over-the-top performance. Panikili is designed in such a way that almost every character is at some point required to exhibit over-the-top behaviour, even when it does not come naturally to them. The result is a film which struggles to take off, and is confused about what it really wants to say.

First impressions can be hard to change, but in Ponman most of our initial assumptions about the characters turn out to be wrong, as it happens in thoughtfully-written films. This change is not brought about by deceptive writing or staging of scenes, but it slowly gets revealed to us in the organic unravelling of the plot from one event to another. Nor is the change achieved through a quick whitewash job of characters we had judged harshly, but by consistently giving us those little pieces of information that would make us understand their actions in a better perspective.

Private eye Dominic, like all wannabe Sherlocks, has a habit of making quick deductions about other people just from their appearances. But, unlike in most other films, the protagonist of Gautham Vasudev Menon’s Dominic And The Ladies’ Purse gets it wrong in the opening sequence when he makes assumptions about a person aspiring to be his assistant. It is a delightful subversion of the overused detective trope, which fills one with hope for what is to follow. Unfortunately, the film does not always live up to this early promise except in a few interesting patches. Gautam Menon, in his first Malayalam outing, appears to be in a bit of a dilemma as to how to treat the star at the centre of his film. While there are a few scenes lampooning the pompous private detective Dominic (Mammootty), there are an equal number of scenes of his assistant (Gokul Suresh) being amazed by his investigative abilities.

One well-crafted sequence can sometimes make a film worthwhile, even when the film in its totality hits a notch below where it could have. These sequences tell us of the possibilities that a filmmaker holds, and serve as a showreel of someone whose work is worth looking forward to. Such sequences are galore in debutant Sreeraj Sreenivasan’s Pravinkoodu Shappu, partly thanks to cinematographer Shyju Khalid, who has shot some of the major Malayalam films of the past decade. To list out a few, there is a school bus chase sequence that sends chills down your spine due to its clever staging; there are thoughtfully lit night scenes inside a toddy shop, and one by a pond where a murder is taking place under the dim, reddish tail lamps of a vehicle; or like that of a masked man attacking a house at night, seen from the point of view of the woman facing it; or even the opening sequence which juxtaposes a classic nostalgic song with a shocking visual.

If someone were to narrate the story of Identity, directed by Akhil Paul and Anas Khan, chances are that halfway through, the person will get lost in a maze of complicated side stories. It need not have been that way, for at its core, there is a fairly interesting and mostly uncomplicated storyline which holds up the film until the interval point. After that, one can witness the screenwriter being acted upon by the pressure to keep the audience guessing. For, by the halfway point, we almost get an idea of all the principal players and there is little left to uncover. It is at this point that the tedious work of the writer begins, building up elaborate plotlines for the villain’s true intentions and the hero’s real identity (which reminds one of such surprise reveals in quite a few other movies). Several of these plotlines are convoluted. It would require immense amounts of patience to untangle all the motives of the multiple villains in the narrative.

Dream projects often come with their share of self-indulgence and doses of obsession. Yet, somewhere one gets to feel things expressed right from the heart of the maker, who has immersed his soul in this idea for so long. What one misses amid all the plasticity of Barroz, Mohanlal’s dream project and his debut directorial, is such an expression which hits us right where it matters. It is no wonder then that one is largely left untouched by the fantasy drama that plays out over 150 minutes. Part of the reason for how Barroz turned out in the end could be the abrupt exit of Jijo Punnoose, the brilliant brain behind India’s first 3D film My Dear Kuttichathan, in the early stages of the project. One of his major grouses was the drastic tinkering with his original screenplay. His stand appears to be justified since one of the weakest elements of Barroz is its unimaginative screenplay filled with overdramatic dialogues that spoil every other scene.

Dead wild boars and gun-toting humans floating down a zip line from inside a forest to a bungalow, dinner conversations replete with tall tales of hunting and backhanded compliments, residents for whom the gun is the one, and probably only, thing that matters in their lives — this is the world in which Aashiq Abu’s Rifle Club is set. It is a closed world with strict honour codes, which doesn’t bar the characters from mercilessly lampooning the incompetence of someone else in the club. And, almost all of them belong to the same family.