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One of the components that goes into my reviews of individual feature films is a kind of conceit… a self-serving sort of satisfaction that flows from a thought process stemming from the premise that I know what I am talking about and that I have a history of my own in the film and television industry that backs that up.

All of that is true… as far as it goes. There are, you are about to learn, exceptions. For instance: while I may be a child of Hollywood, I know diddly squat about Bollywood; and that matters when viewing, let alone attempting to review, a motion picture such as RRR.

The three plus hours of brightly colored filmmaking sent me to the Encyclopedia Britannica where (and I quote): At the turn of the 21st century, the Indian film industry—of which Bollywood remained the largest component—was producing as many as 1,000 feature films annually in all of India’s major languages and in a variety of cities, and international audiences began to develop among South Asians in the United Kingdom and in the United States. Standard features of Bollywood films continued to be formulaic story lines, expertly choreographed fight scenes, spectacular song-and-dance routines, emotion charged melodrama, and larger-than-life heroes.

RRR has it… all the above… in SPADES. It is hard to know what to make of it. Is it entertaining/engaging? Yeah… at least for the most part. Are the fight scenes expertly choreographed? Yes… and graphic… and, at the same time, only believable in the way one accepts the action in a Marvel movie.

What about the song-and-dance routines? Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly would applaud, but what are they doing in the middle of this action/semi-historical melodrama? One can only wonder. And are the heroes larger-than-life? No question. The whole thing is wildly overdone, garish, fanciful, sometimes silly, too long, totally over the top… and yet… underneath all the above is a painful representation of colonialism and the brutality of the abject racism perpetrated by the English on the people of India in a way that had me trying to think of something comparable in American film making and the black experience of slavery.

My mind culled through titles, from Birth of a Nation to Roots, to 12 Years a Slave. Mississippi Burning came to mind, Gone With the Wind, Home of the Brave, The Defiant Ones, Imitation of Life, A Raisin in the Sun, To Kill a Mockingbird, Black Like Me, Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, The Great White Hope, The Landlord, The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman, Ragtime, The Color Purple, Get Out, Do the Right Thing, Crash.

Graphic as these films are… powerful though they may be… the ugliness of racism in those presentations is not delivered as overwhelmingly pervasive as that which is represented in this hokey, Bollywood thing to which I became riveted. This is not your daddy’s Gandhi. Revolution is in the air… and on that screen. And I question if you have ever seen the totality of this kind of disdain and hatred from one race to another, anywhere that is more prevalent than it is in this film.

Underneath all that glitter, those outlandish musical numbers, the bigger than life action sequences, and the melodrama… that message is what director S. S. Rajamouli put out there, and that is what I came away with. I think you will too.

I had heard mostly good things about a minor filmic effort called Pale Blue Eye starring the almost always interesting Christian Bale. What really sold it for me was a pal of mine from New York (who shall, for now, remain nameless). My big city friend is more cerebral than I, but still a guy whose analysis is one I almost always find compatible with my own.

What can I say? I regret seeing this movie more than my simple words can convey. I feel as though two hours have been taken from the precious few I have left. I found the acting horrific, and the casting even worse. The script had more holes than any mystery should ever be allowed, and when the movie was not being just embarrassingly bad, it was downright silly. See this at your own risk. I mean, there are people who like it… and what is two hours in the grand scheme of things? Most of you, I am sure, can afford the time, but only assuming you are considerably younger than me.

All Quiet on the Western Front is another battle ground all together. It is brilliantly executed and, as it has been in the past, a story worth the re-telling. In this case it is done expertly with a group of actors and extras who seem devoted to this re-creation of one of the greatest anti-war message films of all time. There is nothing new here. It is simply phenomenally well done by the film maker, his cast and crew. I highly recommend it. So, incidentally, does the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. This film has received nine Oscar nominations.

The other side of the spectrum is She Said… an overlooked (by the Academy) but still very strong social drama of the true-to-life story of the two reporters from the NY Times who broke the Harvey Weinstein scandal and were at the forefront of the MeToo movement. Maria Schrader, who directed the award-winning series Unorthodox has scored once again with this motion picture.

People I respect, publications I admire, even the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, have singled out Women Talking for an inordinate amount of praise… not just the kind that respects the effort, even though the “patient” died, but authentic praise, including a nomination for an Oscar for best adaptation of a screenplay.

I counter with a resounding BS. The film is a yawn, despite its illustrious cast and good intentions. The script is not a screenplay but rather a (at best) modest vehicle for a small theatre way off Broadway. Everything and anything that might be of cinematic value takes place off-stage. The title of Women Talking says it all.

Producer Frances McDormand has done for the oppressed females of rural anywhere what she previously did for rootless Americans in Nomadland… which, let’s face it, is not very much. Ms. McDormand may be married to the very brilliant producer/director Joel Coen, but she seems to have learned little from that association.

Finally, I owe an apology to Margot Robbie to whom I gave short shrift in last week’s review of Babylon, saying something to the effect that I had yet to become a fan of hers. Not true. My oldest daughter chimed in to remind me that Ms. Robbie essayed the role of Tanya Harding in the motion picture I, Tonya. I had forgotten that… more accurately, I did not remember that it was Margot Robbie who so expertly played that title role. So, I guess I might be described as an erstwhile fan who just was not impressed by her latest effort. In other words, as to fandom and Ms. Robbie, I come on board, but with something less than a resounding me too.

 

Barney Rosenzweig