The End of Oak Street – My Review

 

In Bengali, we have some wonderfully expressive sayings: Golper goru gache otha (roughly, a cock-and-bull story) and ganjay dom mere banano (something made after smoking cannabis).

By the time The End of Oak Street ended, I had both running through my head.

Okay, I agree the premise is fresh: an entire 1980s neighborhood somehow shifts to a prehistoric era with dinosaurs roaming the streets, chasing and killing people. But it gets boring after a while. 

Thanks to my weird brain, I even thought for a moment, when the first blackish-gray dinosaur appeared on the screen, that perhaps the dog had somehow changed into the creature. In my defense, the dog's fur coat did look remarkably similar to the dino’s.  

As for the performances: Anne is fantastic. She brings an emotional range and credibility that the film desperately needs. I liked her here, though I loved her more balanced performance in Nolan's The Odyssey. That, however, is a story for another time.

Ewan McGregor doesn't have much to do except look like a man who has lost his job, failed at being the provider he thinks he should be, and is now trying to reclaim some dignity, and presumably some cash, by delivering pizzas.

The children, unfortunately, are another matter.

The elder sibling, Audrey, is irritating in an exhausting way. She seems to have wandered into a horror film without being told there are dangerous dinos outside. She is impulsive, wildly emotional, and judging by the hints dropped in the film, exploring her sexuality too. Fair enough. But who, with prehistoric predators roaming outside, shouts like a mad woman inside the house or calls out her brother’s name loudly when looking for him outdoors?

Apparently, Audrey. But perhaps the dinosaurs had noise-cancelling headphones.

Her brother Brian isn’t any better. He spends a good chunk of the film worrying about his dog, Starbuck, which at least gives him something resembling a purpose. But the film (and Brian) conveniently forgets the dog when it suits, making viewers wonder if all that concern was merely surface-level.

And the ending? Predictable from a mile away. I knew what was coming long before the scenes unfolded. Perhaps that's what happens when you read too many thrillers. Or perhaps the film simply wasn't trying very hard to surprise anyone.

Interestingly, the most entertaining performance in the cinema hall came from the lady sitting in front of me.

She was completely engrossed. When Brian failed to time his jump into the wormhole, she cursed. When Anne was about to be attacked by that slithering, snake-like creature inside the house, she shouted, “Arey handa, taaka pechone!” (Look back, you dumbsh##!). And during the Anne-dinosaur confrontation, she was once again fully invested until McGregor intervened and paid the price. Her reaction? “Now, aro koro sordari!” (You tried to be smart, and look where you've landed!)

I found myself watching her reaction almost as closely as I was watching the film. And hers was more interesting, hands down!

Coming back to the film, the special effects didn't help either. The dinosaurs looked like they were supposed to inspire fear, awe, and wonder. Instead, they mostly inspired indifference. They simply didn't feel convincing enough to make me care whether they were about to eat, kick, or crush someone.

The scene where two dinosaurs were "doing it?"

Hilarious? Yes.

Memorable? Not really.

By the time the film ended, I was relieved. But I also rued having sacrificed a good read waiting for me at home in favor of stepping out to watch the film.

My verdict? The whole film felt like a meal prepared by a chef who wasn't entirely convinced about his own recipe. The ingredients were there. The kitchen was expensive. The platter looked impressive. But somewhere between the cooking and the serving, the chef seems to have stopped caring whether anyone would actually enjoy eating it.

Remembering Maa

 I still wake to the echo of her laugh, the shape of her hand in a dream, the sudden ache when a sentence or a photograph calls her back into the room. The world moves on with its bright reminders and curated celebrations, and I move with it too....only to find that the hollow she left is not a gap that time fills but a room I learn to live inside.

The Unfillable Void

There is no neat timeline for grief. Thirteen years is a long time by any measure, and yet the absence feels as immediate as the day it began. A book, a scent, a stranger’s smile....these seemingly small things should be harmless.....and yet, they become sharp instruments that split open the same wound. The heart fractures again and again, each shard catching the light differently but bleeding the same way it did the first time.

When Reminders Cut Deep

As Mother’s Day approaches, the world offers a thousand ways to celebrate: brunches, bouquets, curated gifts, and emails promising the perfect way to say “thank you.” Those messages arrive like confetti on a wound. They are not cruel by intent, but they insist on a reality I no longer inhabit. The holiday’s cheer becomes a mirror that reflects what I have lost rather than what I still have.

The Quiet Work of Memory

She is not gone from me in the ways that matter most. Her lessons live in the small, automatic choices I make; her voice lives in my word choices, my sentences. Her values steer me when I think I am deciding alone. Sometimes, her influence is gentle and subconscious. Some other time, it is a fierce, immovable force that shapes my reactions and my limits. Roots run deep, and even the parts that no longer fit me hold me fast.

The Myth of Time as Healer

People say time heals. I have learned that time changes the shape of the pain but does not erase it. The sharpness softens in places; the edges become familiar. But familiarity is not forgetting. The ache becomes a companion rather than an enemy......present ubiquitously, sometimes quiet, sometimes roaring....but never entirely absent.

A Way Through the Day

On days when the world celebrates what I miss, I retreat inward. But I don't do that out of bitterness. It's out of self-preservation. I honor her in ways that feel honest to me: a quiet cup of tea in the morning, a song I know she loved, a small ritual that keeps her near without pretending she is still here. I allow myself to feel the rupture and to hold the tenderness that comes with it.

Remembering Maa

Grief doesn't demand grand gestures. It asks for truth. This Mother’s Day, I will not pretend the world’s fanfare fits me. I will carry her in the private corners of my life....her lessons, her laugh, the stubborn, beautiful ways she shaped me.......and I will let the day be what it is: a reminder that love endures, even when the person who taught me how to love is no longer beside me in the flesh and blood.

The LPG Crisis and Other Musings

Vivekananda once said, “You can’t practice religion if you’re hungry.” Lately, I’ve been thinking the same applies to everyday life: you can’t focus on deadlines, client calls, or even folding laundry when your mind is doing mental gymnastics over an empty LPG cylinder.

Mornings begin with a small, private prayer - please let the empty gas cylinder be replaced today by a full one. I still have my second cylinder keeping the stove burning, but even boiling that cup of morning tea feels like a luxury, and forces me to think - what if I could use my electric kettle instead of burning precious gas? Sigh!

Outside, the autos are lined up in long queues at the gas pump for 8 to 12 hours, or sometimes more. The struggle is harsher for those poor souls. And watching that snaking line move is like watching a slow-motion parade of patience and resignation.

Meanwhile, prices of basics creep up like a stealthy cat: quiet, inevitable, and always landing on your grocery bill. You try to plan meals, but the menu of the day is dictated by what’s affordable and what won’t require burning the stove for long. Suddenly, “what’s for dinner?” becomes a strategic exercise in resource management.

All of this chips away at the small comforts that make life manageable - an uninterrupted cup of tea, a calm commute, the ability to cook without scheduling it like a military operation. When your energy and time are spent chasing essentials, there’s little left for the small rituals that keep you sane.

Still, there’s a strange camaraderie in the chaos. Neighbors swap tips, the chaiwala in the corner of the lane knows your order by heart, and someone always has a sympathetic ear for your ranting. Humor becomes a survival skill: we joke about starting a pilgrimage to our gas dealer, or about opening a museum exhibit titled “Artifacts of Patience: The Queue.”

If there’s a lesson here, it’s this: basic needs are the foundation of everything else. Fix the stove and people's livelihoods, and suddenly, prayers, work, and small joys have room to breathe. Until then, I’ll keep my sense of humor polished, my phone charged for LPG cylinder delivery updates, and my appetite for both food and life intact.