Mirai, Review: Rod of the Rings v/s Sword of the Rings

If this film makes good money, the makers can rue over the fact that the plot took off when the villain was trying to get possession of the seventh book of scriptures, out of nine, which would impart magic and, ultimately, godliness and immortality, and ended with his attempt at acquiring the ninth and last one. Well, they could have made nine films instead of one, and earned nine times over. Mirai is another instalment in what is now an open franchise. Pick any period, from the times of Lord Rama, or even earlier, to any time in the present, or future, and unleash mayhem and gore of the most extreme kind. Lord Rama is said to have lived in the ancient Treta Yug, a mythological period in Hindu cosmology that predates the current Kali Yug (or Kalyug) by millions of years. However, some modern interpretations and claims, based on astronomical data or specific genealogies, place his birth around 5114 BCE (courtesy AI).

Mirai begins with the Battle of Kalinga, a brutal war, fought around 261 BCE, between the Mauryan Empire, led by Emperor Ashoka, and the independent kingdom of Kalinga (present-day Odisha). Ashoka won the battle, but the immense death toll, estimated at over 100,000 lives, profoundly affected him. This devastating loss caused Ashoka to abandon his policy of military conquest, embrace Buddhism, and, instead, promote a path of peace and righteousness. Mirai tells you that Ashoka won this war with the help of divine strength. Having turned to non-violence, he did not know what to do with his divine gifts, so he split them into nine tomes. These king-size volumes were hidden in various places, in India and other countries, including Morocco and Japan, and caretakers were appointed, who protected them, beginning 261 BCE, to 2024, from falling into the wrong hand(s). They were safe in their hidden locations, for 75 to 105 generations. But, in 2024, a man, who was evil personified, decided to gain possession of them, and use them for himself. Now, if you suspend your disbelief and accept this as a credible beginning, you will lap-up the rest of the plot quite easily.

There are too many characters in Mirai, which is a pre-requisite in any mythological or super-hero film, many of them in similar attire and get-up, as sadhus. So, it is difficult to remember their names. However, these are some of the key players. There is a pregnant woman named Ambika, who, in the year 2000, gets a divine revelation that the villain, after acquiring the other 8, will come to steal the 9th scripture, which is hidden in India. We are not told anything about her background and who is the father of her child she is carrying. However, she is told by some priests that her yet-to-be born son will stop the run of the villain, 24 years later. But she will have to let him go his way till then, and give her own life as well, immediately after birth, in order to protect an entire community from turning into stone, thanks to a teenage villain’s guile.

Her son is the hero, Veda, who is born in Varanasi, grows-up as a vagabond and is guided by shooting stars, which show him where to head next, from Kolkata to Hyderabad. He has two hangers-on as friends, and leads the life of a Robin Hood, saving innocents and punishing criminals. His extremist ways attract the attention of the police, who start following him. For many a year, he is unaware of being the chosen one, and one day, destiny will lead him to a charmed rod, Mirai, which will turn into a powerful weapon in his hands. ‘Destiny’ chases him in the shape of Vibha, a mysterious woman, whose mission is to convince Veda about his divine status and lead him to the rod. Veda falls in love with Vibha, and, after some misgivings, agrees to follow her instructions.

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The latest projects from María Astrauskas, Laura Baumeister, Alvaro Brechner, Maitane Carballo Alonso, Ana Endara, Ignacio Juricic, Madiano Marcheti, Andrés Ramírez Pulido, Diego Martínez Ulanosky, Alejandra Moffat, Valeria Pivato, Francisco Rodríguez Teare, Pablo Stoll, Roxana Stroe and Jacques Toulemonde, are the fifteen proposals, from nine countries, at the San Sebastian Film Festival’s 14th Europe-Latin America Co-Production Forum, selected from the 268 works submitted. This year’s edition will run from 22-24 September, and the projects will be presented by their representatives to potential partners with a view to completing their financing and improving access to international markets.

Eleven of the proposals will be the first or second films by their makers. Bringing their feature film debuts are Maitane Carballo Alonso with La boa y el bambú / The Boa and the Bamboo after having participated in the omnibus film Begirada (2020) and having directed the short documentary (Ez)Ezagun (2020); writer and screenwriter Alejandra Moffat with El atletismo y el amor; the also producer and screenwriter Diego Martínez Ulanosky with No es un río / Not a River; the visual artist Francisco Rodríguez Teare with No me dejen morir solo / Do Not Let me Die Alone; and the editor María Astrauskas with Patrimonio / Patrimony. Finally, Roxana Stroe, who participated in Nest with Black Friday (2015) and O Noapte în Tokoriki / A Night in Tokoriki, 2016), which carried off the Generation 14plus Special Prize at the Berlinale, will present the project for her first full-length film, Houses are Silent.

Also showing are the projects of the second works from directors who started out in San Sebastián: Elogio del crimen / Praise for Crime, by Andrés Ramírez Pulido, whose first film, La Jauría (2022), carried off the Semaine de la Critique Grand Prix at Cannes and was selected for Horizontes Latinos; Lo que sigue es mi muerte / What Follows is My Death, by Laura Baumeister, who participated in New Directors with La hija de todas las rabias (2022) after being awarded at the Co-Production Forum and WIP Latam; Mãe do Ouro / Mother of Gold, by Mariano Marcheti, who presented Madalena (2021) in Horizontes Latinos; Pacto Sublime, by Ignacio Juricic, who premiered his directorial debut, Enigma (2018), in Horizontes Latinos; and Victoria en las nubes / Victoria in the Clouds, by Ana Endara, who competed with Querido Trópico (2024) in Horizontes Latinos.

Returning to the Festival with their latest projects are renowned names su

Furniture choices reflected the cinematic elitism of the era. Inside private lounges, the aesthetic leaned heavily on classic French salon culture. Tufted velvet sofas in deep burgundy or navy anchored the rooms. Louis XV–style chairs with curved legs and floral upholstery formed small conversation clusters. Gilt-framed coffee tables held crystal ashtrays and champagne coupes. These weren’t spaces for quick interactions—they were designed for dramatic, theatrical lingering.

Furniture served as more than mere decoration. It sent signals. The seating had weight—both literally and metaphorically. These chairs weren’t made to be rearranged on a whim. They rooted people to a position of stillness and prestige. Designers and festival organizers were not concerned with mobility or practicality. What mattered was image.

Iconic photographs of the time show stars like Catherine Deneuve perched elegantly on ornate armchairs, surrounded by a décor that resembled the backdrop of a European palace more than a press area. These were moments carefully staged by their surroundings, with furniture playing a silent but vital role in the composition.

Cannes, during this decade, was still largely a French affair. International studios were present but hadn’t yet asserted control over the visual language of the festival. As a result, the aesthetic was less about global luxury and more about French cultural dominance. It was cinematic aristocracy in plush form.

Even in public-facing areas, the furniture maintained a formal tone. Outdoor seating, for example, consisted of wrought iron café sets with stiff cushions. They weren’t designed for comfort. They were props for an ongoing visual narrative of exclusivity. This was an era where a chair wasn't just a chair—it was a throne for temporary royalty.

By the 1980s, the Cannes Film Festival began to shimmer with the influence of global wealth and international branding. The arrival of American studios, corporate sponsors, and a growing obsession with celebrity changed the tone—and the furniture followed suit. Heavy baroque décor gave way to shinier, louder, and more photogenic materials.

Lucite chairs, chrome-framed lounge sets, and mirrored coffee tables became the norm in VIP areas. The once-muted palette of creams and reds exploded into high-contrast environments featuring metallic finishes, jet-black leather, and mirrored surfaces. The function of furniture started shifting toward spectacle.

Cocktail tables began carrying more than drinks. Many were branded—logo placements etched into glass or printed onto runners. Sponsored lounges introduced furniture designed to echo luxury but made for temporary installation. Faux-marble side tables, acrylic stools, and neon signage created a nightclub-like atmosphere within the Mediterranean sun.

Seating began to reflect hierarchy more visibly. VIP zones were not just roped off—they were furnished differently. Plush armchairs with angled backdrops created photo zones where celebrities would be encouraged (or required) to

What makes gambling so cinematic isn’t just the stakes—it’s the psychology. A raised eyebrow during a poker bluff. A trembling hand at the craps table. These moments reveal characters at their most honest and most desperate. Gambling movies are rarely just about games—they’re about people. The gambler archetype is often reckless, brilliant, flawed. They walk into rooms lit by neon and walk out with nothing, or everything, or something much harder to name.

Great gambling films dig into deeper themes: addiction, ambition, deception, and redemption. They explore the edge where control ends and chaos begins. They ask questions like: Can you win without losing part of yourself? What happens when you believe the next bet will fix everything?

And it’s not all about Vegas. Yes, Sin City owns much of the cinematic gambling space, but other locations bring different flavors. Parisian poker rooms, smoky Hong Kong mahjong dens, back-alley card games in Seoul—they carry their own histories, tensions, and styles. Each backdrop adds new shades to the gambler's journey. While Vegas symbolizes excess, other cities often focus on desperation, subtlety, or legacy.

What binds all great gambling stories is that blend of adrenaline and intimacy. The risk is never just on the table—it’s in the heart of the player.

Before Texas Hold’em was a household term, films like The Cincinnati Kid introduced audiences to the stoic poker face and the long con. Released in 1965, it pits a rising poker star against an old legend—not just for cash, but for respect. Its slow pace and simmering tension reflect a time when gambling was less about spectacle and more about control and character.

Then there’s The Sting (1973), starring Paul Newman and Robert Redford. While not strictly a gambling movie, it deals with con games and bets of a different kind. The charm lies in the elaborate deception and the way it turns the audience into accomplices. With jazz-era costumes and a razor-sharp script, it became a blueprint for countless heist and gambling-inspired films that followed.

California Split (1974), directed by Robert Altman, dives deeper. It's raw, messy, and surprisingly personal. It follows two men slowly dissolving into the betting life—not glamorously, but honestly. There’s no big score at the end, no clear moral, just a portrait of how gambling can consume. Elliott Gould and George Segal deliver performances that feel more lived-in than scripted.

These early films shaped the grammar of gambling cinema. They gave us slow-burn tension, the hero vs. the odds, and the idea that not all wins are victories. They also built the foundation for the antihero gambler—the charming rogue who’s always one bet away from destruction or salvation.

More importantly, these classics influenced every poker scene that came later. The close-ups, the eye flicks, the raise-calls-folds—filmmakers copied these moves again and again because they worked. They didn’t need flashy edits or special effects. They had the power of risk in every shot.

When directors want to showcase

What he needs the most now is to believe. 

This idea of knowing you can do it, and that you deserve to make it, is a central part of the story. Director Elan Milkes plays with these elements of character through mystical interludes that bring cosmic importance to the action on the ground. It is as if he is suggesting you need to be in harmony with the universe to reach your full potential and find your purpose in life. But how do you know when you're in sync with something so much more vast than yourself? The dramatic question in Finding the Zone is whether professional baseball is, in fact, the young man's calling. 

You can watch the trailer here: Finding the Zone