The first thing that grabs attention in the esoterically titled Pages 321 is its visual style. Stripped down, black-and-white, it establishes an unflashy hipness that seems pried from the pages of a recent hip hop video. Fortunately, director Anugat Raj is seeking anything but commercial flair in this, a bizarrely fragmented journey into the mind of a hyper-afflicted hippie.
The similarities to Darren Aronofsky’s indie gem Pi (1998) are wildly prevalent, right down to the obsessive scribbles and increasingly frantic voiceover. The Writer (Saurav Khurana), bespeckled and blessed with a Middle Eastern accent that drips like verbal butter, guides the protagonist’s unclear goal to areas that seem prime real estate for existential musings or profound social commentary. With influence, style, and acting chops coming together quite smoothly, it seemed as though Pages 321 was in the perfect position to impress its viewers. Sadly, things falls apart quicker than a torn bungee cord.
It’s tough to pinpoint where things exactly go wrong. The Writer makes some food on the stove, scribbles of profound aspiration in his journal, and before you know it, alternate character Vicky Khanna (also Khurana) loses his specks and soliloquies to himself out loud. The order and expediency of such events are startling, and serve to belittle the potent mood conjured up by Raj and cinematographer Keshav Gupta. Between the two of them, Writer’s apartment is marvelously caked in monochromatic shadings, calling to mind something out of a Woody Allen-Gordon Willis flick. As a result, Pages 321 seemingly falls to the classic case of technical craft over content – the age old plague of low-budget cinema.
By the time Vicky gets groovy and jams to Lou Bega’s “Mambo No. 5,” all tension has evaporated into the apartment’s thick air. Not even kidding, he does what every little kid did in 1999 by snagging a top hat and lip syncing the song awkwardly to himself. And while it’s cute for those under the age of ten, such behavior can become a bit unsettling in the context of a thirteen minute film. What the director was thinking is a glorious mystery unto itself, one that proves far more intriguing to engage than The Writer’s nonexistent conflict.
This ¾ backslide goes on far too long, despite the flawless efforts of Mr. Bega, before returning to a storyline that struggles to find its ground again. Vicky lights a cigarette and navel-gazes as if the whole thing were a bad trip, while, confounding images of clenched hands and female fingernails throttle this thing towards Persona (1996) levels of avant-garde imagery. It’s gutsy and exhilarating to experience, but without a thread to hang a hat on, it’s ultimately futile.
It’s a real shame too, for Raj has some good ideas sprinkled throughout this messy display. The camerawork can come off a bit shoddy in spots (with the occasionally shaky moment), but the yearning to express something great bleeds through each uneven frame. There’s a promising future here, just not one that’s delivered with Pages 321. D