Yavarum Nalam

Vikram K. Kumar has done his homework and has associated some big names into his production to make a movie which keeps you on the hook till the riveting end. The director might have got some inspiration from the local horror serial ‘Aahat’ and maybe even more from Steven Spielberg’s ‘Poltergeist’ but what makes this a joy ride is the screenplay which zooms ahead in the second half of the movie.

Madhavan, who the audience got accustomed watching him romancing the heroines and much recently bashing baddies, play a different role. He plays a male protagonist who strives to save his family from the hands of a super natural power. As a caring hubby and a loving son in a joint family, one can see a refreshing Madhavan. He looks dashing with his sophisticated looks. Looking at ease on screen, he is casual in his dialogue delivery and his body language. He bubbles with enthusiasm in the first half and brings out the frightened look well towards the climax.

The Director has done his part well but there is a problem too the first half drags with the usual clichés of an Indian horror which also includes a romantic number in the middle which is totally uncalled for. This does put you off and might drive you off the theatre too. But if you do survive that torturous first half you would experience quite a ride in the second half of this horror.

P.C Sreeram, the veteran cinematographer experiments a lot and some of his experiments work brilliantly and others, especially the hand held shaky sequences does make you shaky too. Editing by Sreekar Prasad is satisfactory. The background music also does its part in increasing the tension of the proceedings. Shankar Ehsaan and Loy’s music is good but totally unneeded for this kind of cinema. The credit roll song, ‘oh sexy mama’ is finely pictured though.

It is a movie that is refreshingly different.

Pink Panther - 2

Back in the fun, free-basing '70s, Steve Martin was a stand-up comic god. Me Decade audiences lined up for hours to see this one-man Beatles of absurdist humor. They bought his albums, memorized his skits -- even stayed up late to see him swing with groovy foxes as part of a then-relevant Saturday Night Live. Fast forward 30 years, and the formerly wild and crazy guy has decided to follow fellow SNL alum Eddie Murphy into the fetid family film arena. With a couple of Cheaper by the Dozens under his belt, Martin is now mangling the legacy of one of film's greatest comedy franchises. No matter how hard he tries, however, he can't completely kill the legacy of the Pink Panther. This unnecessary sequel does come awfully close, though.

When four of the world's most valuable artifacts -- the Magna Carta, the Shroud of Turin, the Royal Emperor's Sword, and France's famous Pink Panther diamond -- are stolen by master thief The Tornado, a dream team of detectives is assembled. They include British sleuth Pepperidge (Alfred Molina), Italian officer Vincenzo (Andy Garcia), Japanese tech expert Kenji (Yuki Matsuzaki), and of course, inspector Jacques Clouseau (Martin). Helped by Sonia (Aishwarya Rai), a special agent from India, and the French home team including Chief Inspector Dreyfus (John Cleese), Poton (Jean Reno), and political correctness liaison Mrs. Berenger (Lily Tomlin), all paths appear to lead to exiled art dealer Avellaneda (Jeremy Irons). But even in light of all the obvious evidence, Clouseau thinks he knows the identity of the real culprit.

If the first Pink Panther remake was the entertainment equivalent of re-experiencing the grief over original genius Peter Sellers' untimely death, Pink Panther 2 is like dancing on the British funnyman's grave. It's akin to whistling past the cemetery and spitting on the mourners inside. It says something about the quality of material here that both Academy Award winner Kevin Kline and Jay-Z's squeeze Beyonce bowed out this time around. In their place are a bevy of polished, professional actors who should really know better, and a storyline that sacrifices intelligence for sloppy CGI-aided slapstick -- and when it's all over, we barely remember what happened.

The lack of imagination and inspiration is stunning. Martin's hate-crime-lite accent wraps around impossibly dumb malapropisms as if merely misspeaking any word in the English language will garner instant giggles. He is matched by his clueless collaborators, all of whom ratchet up the brogue for supposed belly laughs. One feels especially bad for Reno, reduced to an impotent running gag, while Garcia, Molina, and Rai merely take up space. Like the haphazard Disney comedies of the '70s, the action frequently stops dead so that director Harald Zwart can stage another uninspired bit of physical comedy. If anyone other than the Sellers' estate should be offended, it's Blake Edwards. The Hollywood heavyweight, known for helming some of the best films of the '60s and '70s, gets his legacy undercut by this Panther's pathetic pratfalls.

Even if we were to consider the demographic and argue that Martin has made yet another PG-oriented celluloid babysitter, the witlessness on display argues for child abuse, not appeasement. There are so many dead spots in the script that you wonder if some of the onset bloopers couldn't have been substituted in their place. Nothing with Irons' character works, and when Clouseau and implied love interest Emily Mortimer (as poor, put-upon policewoman Nicole) get romantic, the lack of chemistry is appalling. Three decades ago Steve Martin was considered a true comedy original. The Pink Panther 2 proves he's now nothing more than a paycheck-cashing hack.