A KILLING...

It happened on a wet,hazy Sunday morning. Steam billowed out from the sidewalks, forming rings as it dissipated into an inexorable sky. The air was pungent and the atmosphere dripped menace as if mirroring the reality prevalent on the ground. A bugle uttered a shrill,desolate cry piercing through the dyspnoeal atmosphere.

It was time.

Faint light filtered into the Cell, struggling to pervade its farthest corners. Then, they came. Six of 'em. Tall,sinewy men with boots thudding into the ground, epitomising drive and intent. They rapped on the cell and finally, he looked up.

Limpid eyes peered at the Guards, camouflaging the fires raging underneath. The eyes still stared, raging against the rapidly fading light. But there it was. The trademark,insolent grin.

They cuffed him, each action a veritable lesson on efficiency and economy of movement. Then, the march started.

Hoarse cries and angry growls started to rumble from the 'cages' embodying slowly escalating tension and hysteria. Despair had punched anger in the teeth, knocking 'em out. For a flickering second, the eyes seemed to betray grim acknowledgment and tacit acceptance of fate. But the face held its pose. Oh yes, it sure as hell did!

The Guards increased their pace, the Rifles and bayonets a mere blur as they finally reached the yard. His eyes darted like a startled Frog still figuring out its focus of attention.

And then he saw her.

She was a frail old woman, her face gaunt and distraught hinting at a life lived rough. His eyes finally rested on hers.

Her feeble attempt to smile didn't quite come off. The eyes became liquid, gradually filling with tears. He looked at her quickly, his eyes imploring her to control the emotions bubbling forth. It took an infernal attempt but she managed it. He acknowledged her struggle, the sardonic grin still firmly in place. A small,motley group viewed the proceedings; their faces showcasing a whole gamut of expressions. Some believed that the man ought not to be hanged. Some believed he got what was coming to him. A few even believed he was innocent. It didn't matter anymore.

"TIME" - shouted the Super as the Guards closed in near the gallows. Time stood still, the atmosphere as thick as cold Birmingham steel. Hushed whispers ensued and a wail rang out but all sounds stopped as abruptly as they started. The hangman drew near, producing a cotton bag. As he drew it over the prisoner's face, the mask slipped.

In that one instant, the man saw his life flash by and the realisation that his life will ebb away in the next few seconds hit him like a clenched fist. The hangman saw his face and blinked. He knew it. He could almost see it. A heart that was pumping blood. The cells growing and dying...and growing again. The tissues forming, the organs functioning, the brain thinking and working,the limbs moving. It was all going to cease with a sudden snap. Summoning all his courage and mental strength, he looked away and became his old self.

Almost as if driven by automaton, the Hangman tightened the noose. Then, he climbed down and held the lever a trifle unsteadily. The SUPER had had enough. "YES" - he barked. There was a strident noise as the onlookers looked away. No one spoke. No one could.

The SUPER went near the body and poked at it with his steel-toed boots. "DEAD, I GUESS"- he muttered and spit out the tobacco that he was chewing through the ordeal. He bawled for the Doc who came to the spot in a rush. Then, he looked at the dead face. Taken aback and even infuriated to see that the smug grin was still in place, he turned only to see the old woman standing beside him.

Slowly, she walked away...

YOJIMBO (1961)

Akira Kurosawa is a name that even casual movie buffs are familiar with for he straddled the trickiest of all the ropes and passed the ultimate Test for an Auteur - please the lay fan and the informed Film critic.

If someone put a gun to my head, I'd say that he is the greatest of 'em all. As if his body of work isn't intimidating enough, he worked with some outstanding talent that embellished his Films with rare effulgence. Of all the talents, one man stood out.

Cinema has been blessed with some outrageously talented Actors who gave Films verve,depth,vitality and a sense of meaning. The great ones were/are capable of lifting a merely "good" Film to a great one. But, I doubt whether anyone in the history of Cinema was as consistently first rate and world class as that man from Japan. Brando could brood his way into our hearts, De Niro could dazzle the cinephile in us with his intensity and body language, Bogart could snap out his dialogues with barely plausible precision, Sivaji could express multiple human emotions with rare panache.

Mifune could and did all this and more. Personally, I'd say his "best" performance came in the magnificently resplendent "HIGH & LOW", one of Kurosawa's greatest Films adapted from an Ed McBain novel. His collaborations with Mifune are all acknowledged classics. But for all those awe-inducing Masterpieces, their greatest hour together was in "YOJIMBO".

If there is a better opening sequence in Movie history, I'd sure like to see it. Right from the start when the credits begin to roll, "YOJIMBO" grabs you by your throat. The thunderous BGM as Mifune comes into focus creates genuine "goose-pimples" moments. There have been many great Acting performances by the great man but here, Mifune is the personification of perfection. Hunched shoulders to drive away fleas, eyes screwed into the distance and twinkling when he talks with a member of the godforsaken village hinting at condescension, mind sharp as a rapier, mouth spewing sardonic one-liners and supremely self assured of his skills and mental acuity; Mifune is searingly brilliant and effective playing both the ends against the middle as he "cleanses" the town of all the 'scum'.

Masaru Sato's devastating mix of Jazz and Jap. Folk creates musical magic and provides perfect fodder for Mifune and Kurosawa to create something exceptional. The Cinematography is a veritable lesson to all aspiring Cinematographers. There is a scene in the Film where Mifune crouches in a room when I could have sworn it was night. Turns out it wasn't. Kurosawa is a master manipulator and his awe-inducing skills and control were never more evident than in this madly entertaining, incisive Film laced with liberal helpings of black humour and irony. The effect that it has had on future American Films is too obvious to state here. And it is apt that Kurosawa was influenced in some way by Dashiell Hammett, another Master at his own craft.

This is just about the most "perfect" Film I've seen and every time I see it, I'm compelled to marvel at Kurosawa's "story telling" skills more than anything else. He leaves nothing to chance.

As much as I love Leone, Eastwood and their "Dollars" trilogy; their "A Fistful Of Dollars" is but an adept imitation. I suppose that's as high a praise as any.