No Man is an Island

THE BROTHERS Abbas-mustan are seasoned Bollywoodwarhorses.theycreatedasuccessful brand of cinema in the ’90s which was uniquely theirs: large sets, song-and-dance which remind you of MTV grind, good-looking men and women kitted out in sexy attire and no morals. They excelled at getting our seedha saadha stars do dodgy things for pyaar and paisa: an impressive array of A-listers — from Shah Rukh Khan to Akshay Kumar to Salmankhantosaifalikhan—passedthrough their hands and scored humongous hits.

The duo has been on the down-slope for a while now, the Abbas-mustan baroque construction of scenes and situations at odds with contemporary styles. Their last outing introduced TV comic Kapil Sharma to the movies via a limp comedy. In this latest one, expressly made to launch Mustafa, son of Abbas, they haven’t taken any chances. They’ve cherrypicked from amongst their own hits to cobble together Machine: the biggest chunks are recognisably from Baazigar, crossed with Soldier, and Race.

You could play a spot-the-movie game through the 148 minutes which pan out in what can be called an Abbas-mustan template: swanky cars zooming around tracks, rich fathers of good-looking daughters flagging off races, leading men spouting dialogues in pursuit of pretty women, tricky twists, and a plot with enough holes to drive several trucks through.

Machine is the kind of film the director duo would have got away in the ’90s. Or maybe not. Even the squelchiest of plots need some acting chops and charisma: none of the young people, including the debutant Burmawala, is in possession of these crucial ingredients that makes a star.

The mystery of why it’s called Machine is revealed only in the last few interminable minutes. I stayed to pay my dues. Abbasmustan typified a certain kind of splashy, shiny Bollywood, which told its tales with zest. Who doesn’t remember Yeh kaali kaali aankhen with SRK and Kajol burning up the floor? This is the end of an era. SG WHAT WOULD you do if you are stuck in an empty highrise without food, water and electricity, your cellphone juiced out, no one in the know, and no way out ?

The premise of Trapped is instantly gripping. Being trapped, without a glimmer of hope or help, is one of our primal fears. And many brilliant films have been made on the subject: the one that has maximum recall is Danny Boyle’s harrowing 127 Hours, about a mountaineer trapped in a crevice. The film is a testament to the indomitable human spirit, and its incredible resistance to pain, fear and terror.

Shaurya (Rao) gets inveigled into an unfinished apartment in an uninhabited building. The door, with the key on the wrong side, that slams on his face also shutters his hopes of a future with the girl (Thapa) he has fallen for.

The enormity of his plight doesn’t dawn on him immediately. How can it, when you are in the middle of Mumbai, the city which never sleeps and where the hubbub never subsides? You can see people moving about in the distance. Can they not see you? Can you, with the multitudes around you, not be heard? Can you actually starve to death? Short answer, yes. The trouble with Trapped, in which Rao is practically a solo act, is that it is uneven. There are too few genuinely scary heart-inmouth moments. Shaurya’s despair stays mostly on the surface: we see his jeans getting loose, his ribs starting to show, the grime collecting on his body, but I wanted to see more of the soul. Rao is more than capable of stripping down to the essentials and showing us the truth, which is why he is such a powerful actor. Here, I couldn’t see enough of his insides.

And the tension, which, in the best tales of surviving against all odds, is a constant thrum, keeps leaching out. At one stage, when he, and you, stare at hope, and then see it recede, it is suitably dark. And then it slackens again: a film like this one needs to keep us wired.

Trapped also has a powerful philosophical subtext: can you be completely isolated in a crowd? You don’t have to be physically trapped within four walls to feel alone: you could be in a vast crowd, and see peoples’ eyes graze over you, not registering you, the essence of you. That is true horror. In the film’s best moments, the supremely talented Rao gets us to feel just that.

He shares the film’s other really fine passage with a furry creature he starts out being terrified of: his being able to walk past his terror, and share his feelings out loud, tells us just how communication can make even the blackest hours better.

Given Motwane’s skills at creating emotions, and Rao’s ability to channel them, Trapped doesn’t take us as far over the edge it could, or should have. THE YEAR is 2004. A wealthy businessman who lives in Delhi with this family — well-preserved wife, three offspring — is facing bankruptcy. In some quarters in the Capital of India, the fruits of economic liberalisation are being gobbled up; in others, they are pure poison: Mantra is about these people, their rocky lives, and that time.

First-time director Kharkongor succeeds in giving us snapshots of a few sections of the city: the fat-cats who rule India, children of privilege who fatten on old wealth, and, in a brief, telling glimpse, of those who fetch up here because there’s nothing in the villages they left behind.

KK aka Kapil Kapoor (Rajat) lives in a plush Panchsheel bungalow, drives a sleek foreign car, and forces himself to smile every day. Wife