"Diaries of Transformation": Delightfully In-between

Title: Diaries of Transformation: Work in Progress
Produced and directed by Anirban Ghosh
Camera: Farah Ghedra, Anirban Ghosh
Music: Satchit-Paulose
Distribution funded by Pratyay Gender Trust
Screened at: Dialogues: The Fifth Kolkata LGBT Film Festival, 2011
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Academic debate rages over the fact whether the subaltern can represent herself or is always represented by the bourgeois intellectual. However, Anirban Ghosh’s Diaries of Transformation: Work in Progress attributes sufficient agency to the gender subaltern, although the fact remains that Ghosh does represent the bourgeois intellectual. Interestingly, Ghosh is careful enough to address the issue in the film itself. Oishik Sircar, Human Rights Activist, talks at length on the English-educated bourgeois leadership in queer activism and the inaccessibility of many gendered subalterns to the discourses of contemporary queer politics. However, I felt that Diaries is interesting because it does not treat the sexual subaltern as a subaltern; in fact, the film is appealing because it narrates tales of victory, rather than victimization. True, both Rai and Suman have been maltreated by an insensitive employer and callous Kolkata police respectively; but, eventually, they emerge victorious. Raju, Bini and Pinky also have their share of misgivings; Sabir’s situation is even more interesting; for him it is quite difficult to reconcile his religious and sexual identities. Tista and Sudeb appear comparatively more enlightened, and talk at length on the politics of trans-identities and assimilation. But all of them are unpretentiously candid. Especially, Bini and Pinky impress with their warmth and their humorous, no-holds-barred derision of the hypocritical ‘straight’ population.
As one story effortlessly flows into and mixes with another, shots of the various nooks and corners of the metropolis act as means of transition, as it were. Kolkata is overwhelmingly present in the film. The gender margins are physically located at its centre: the Kalighat temple, the Howrah Bridge, the Book Fair, railway stations, markets and pedestrian alleys occupied by gully-cricketers. The hijra and the transsexual man are very much a part of everyday reality, yet invisible. Of course, the invisibility is not literal, but metaphorical: they are deliberately not seen. A shot of an elderly man, probably chewing pan, with a nonchalant expression on his face speaks volumes. He is standing on the veranda, the space that connects the home with the world, but is significantly indifferent to the world, as it were. Another marvellous shot is that of a little girl making an attempt to fly a kite, while the voice-over (Sudeb) talks about irrational gender construction.
Diaries is not only confined to the issue of transexuality; it also focuses on prostitution at length. Without this, the film would have been incomplete. While it sufficiently challenges the received notion of the transsexual as sexually promiscuous, it also treats prostitution as any other trade, dismantling the moral reservation associated with it. Raju, Bini and Pinky talk about their profession, the occupational hazards, and their aspirations with remarkable forthrightness, sometimes shocking the audience, sometimes drawing hearty laughs.
Family remains an important issue all through. Acceptance by the near and dear ones is at the end of the day important to each of them. Raju and Bini are particularly concerned about keeping their mothers happy, while Sudeb and Sabir are at pains to find acceptability within the family. Social humiliation is integral to their everyday existence, but none of them have given up. I would like to mention Suman’s mother in particular: delightfully simple, yet uncompromising when it comes to supporting her transgender son. Gender liminality is celebrated without any inhibitions, throwing to the winds the puckered brow of the moral police.
Technically too the film is quite brilliant. Ghosh has a keen sense of editing and of course a very clear cinematic vision. In association with Farah Gherda, he has done a commendable job with the camera. And finally, kudos to Pratyay Gender Trust and particularly, Anindya Hazra for promoting such a film!

"The Dirty Picture": What’s not so dirty about it?

I watched The Dirty Picture sitting in the rear stall of Roxy Cinema amongst a raunchy, unsophisticated crowd whistling suggestively at every drop of the pallu and every hard-hitting dialogue! The 80s were exuberantly revived in the theatre as well as a marvellously uninhibited Vidya Balan bosom-thrust the narrative forward in a believably recreated well-known and often disparaged cinematic garishness of that decade. I was too small to have been to the theatre in the 80s; my first-hand experiences of the cinema hall had begun after the mid-90s, when multiplex comfort could not be even dreamt of. In the 80s, till the late 90s in fact, the educated middle class, especially Bengalis, had strong reservations against Hindi cinema, its mindless violence, titillating choreography and awfully ear-splitting cacophonies that posed as songs. Silk Smitha, the Southern siren, was as tabooed as pornography, or perhaps a moral sin! In fact, I clearly remember I was not allowed to see an otherwise ‘clean’ Sadma on Doordarshan, simply because of Silk Smitha’s erotic cameo! I guess more than the issue of clothes or rather the lack of it, Silk Smitha posed a major threat to the bourgeois hypocrisy about sexuality and sexual desire, by her totally no-holds-barred gestures and parade of socially ‘hidden’ body parts. The Dirty Picture self-reflexively satirizes this moral pretension by exposing the bawdy reality that lies underneath.
The most interesting aspect of the film is the format: reviving the 80s format to tell a 80s story is rather commendable. The sets, the costumes, the choreography, the songs, and the dialogues are all moving intertexts of what we have seen in the 1980s blockbusters. The dialogue gets as cheesy as Bahuton ne touch kiya hai, lekin kisi ne chhuya nahi, yet is so compellingly appropriated by the over-the-top narrative that you really feel drawn in. Vidya Balan makes it all sound and appear so convincing, as she almost effortlessly moves from cleavage-revealing, navel-flaunting raunchiness to sentimental vulnerability.
The film is commendable because it deconstructs what it seeks to construct almost in the same breath: while cashing-in on the female body as the most marketable commodity, it turns upon itself to satirize the practice with credibility you can’t help marvelling at. However, the film is rather weak in several points: especially, Silk’s acceptance speech at the awards function stand out like a sore thumb. The second-half of the film sufficiently loses the punch of the first, for Silk’s downfall is much too drastic and somewhat unexplained. Yet, what is interesting is that, the film could make appear the downfall tragic rather than engaging in moral judgement. But again, despite her boldness and unpretentiousness, Silk somewhat disappoints in death. Why that red sari and the vermillion? I mean the bridal makeup? She could have thrown conventional desires to the wind in the end as well! The film had not prepared us for this.
If not for anything else, watch the film for Vidya Balan: she has cautiously toed the line between the vulgar and the sexy, mouthed the mushy sentimental lines with tremendous credibility, and moved from the compulsively naughty to the lovingly vulnerable with so much sincerity that you can’t help ask yourself whether she is the same demure Lalitha. Naseeruddin Shah has given lechery a new meaning altogether. Emran Hashmi has definitely improved as an actor. But Tusshar is an eyesore! Had he not been there!
Well ‘dirtiness’ gets a makeover in this Milan Lutharia venture: remember it is not a biopic of sorts. It is perhaps the story of several so-called B-grade female actors who rise and fall without perhaps making any difference to the industry, but whose stories need to be told.

Gangor

Director: Italo Spinelli


I remember reading Mahasweta Devi’s ‘Choli Ke Pechhe’ (‘Behind the Bodice’) some ten years back, when the memory of the rage this Khalnayak song had stirred up was still quite fresh. It was amazing, and excruciatingly painful, to experience how this Bollywood song was ironically used to bring home the unspeakable plight of a tribal woman. The sexual titillation of the seductively choreographed song with a voluptuous Madhuri Dixit gyrating with occasional bosom-thrusts was frowned upon by the censor board; but the way in which Mahasweta Devi used it gave a complete new meaning to the sensation the song had created. The story not only obliquely questions the shameless parade of female sexuality for public consumption; it also unravels the woman’s vulnerability in a society where beastly sexual hunger for the female body lurks in every corner. Reading Gangor with reference to the hardcore commercial flick Khalnayak is extremely important. While Khalnayak puts the modern day Sita (renamed Ganga) through the fire-test of keeping her chastity inviolate in a defenceless world of lustful men, and makes her emerge victorious, Gangor hammers home the reality of the powerlessness of the woman, doubly marginalized.
However, the Italian-Indian production Gangor, based on the short story, reverses the irony, to some extent, as it were. The story was about how the picture Gangor’s exposed breasts (a journalist from the city captures her feeding her child and publishes the picture in the papers) spells disaster for her; how she is raped multiple times and is transformed into a prostitute. The film has to a great extent ameliorated the grotesqueness of the story, the effect of which was mind-boggling. But, nonetheless, the message is more or less the same. However, the irony is reversed in the sense that the film by literally exposing the bosom of the protagonist cashes in on the same thing it goes out to critique. What a literary text can do without being sexually titillating, the film cannot afford to.
I agree that there wasn’t any pretension in what the director was aiming at. Priyanka Bose, as Gangor, has dropped all inhibition and has believably animated the character. Yet I am sure the film would never be released in India. The censor board would certainly step in and recommend several cuts. The irony is that even when a song like Choli ke Peeche can play uncut on national television with all its licentious suggestiveness which is more objectionable (as regards to the representation of women in films), the ruthless reality of a woman’s sexual vulnerability would come under the censor-scissors.
However, I thank KFF for showcasing this film. I am not sure about its fate, though.

"Meherjaan"

Director: Rubaiyat Hossain

Meherjaan, primarily a love story, is bitingly political; the setting of the film, the 1971 war involving East and West Pakistan, is a terrible historical milieu etched in blood in the collective consciousness of the people on both the sides. The film unearths those painful experiences amidst a lyrical rendition of a beautiful love story.
Meherjaan is saved by a Khan soldier of West Pakistan; and the latter, in turn, is given shelter by the girl. Caught in the dilemma of whether to betray her own nation by falling in love with the enemy, Meherjaan holds her emotion back for a long time. But, she does fall in love eventually: Wasim’s humanitarian world-view that calls into question the grand narrative of aggressive nationalism wins her over. The greater part of the rest of the film is devoted to help Wasim return to his country safely.
While Meherjaan’s personal world unwittingly merges with the political, the war grows more intense with each passing day. A new nation is about to be born, but the political vision of its makers is seriously challenged. Feudalism is soon to be replaced by a new social order that anticipates communism; but, the positive dimensions of feudalism cannot be totally ruled out. An affectionate zamindar, the father-figure of the unnamed village in the interiors of East Pakistan, becomes the principal target of the Peace Committee. Eventually, he is murdered, and the village is set afire. A new country is on the verge of birth, but the bloodbath that precedes it is grotesque.

And, of course, interspersed is the tale of the woman who loses her lover to partisan animosity, and is raped by the soldiers. These tales have been often deliberately evaded by history; nobody has ever bothered to record the trauma and the unspeakable suffering of these women molested brutally during the war. Neela’s daughter born out of rape comes back to Dhaka to research on these women to find very little.
Then there is Salma. Her world is confined to a huge wooden almirah; her fantasies, her dreams and all her idiosyncrasies play themselves out there. She is looking for her knight in shining armour, who, eventually, comes. One good thing is the film, despite the agonies and pains, it portrays is not too awfully dark.
One drawback of the film is that the screenplay is a tad convoluted. It could have been slicker. However, Meherjaan, like Guerrilla, deserves to be released commercially in Kolkata. Bangladesh art-house cinema is certainly going places. It’s time they got wider international recognition.

'Sahib, Biwi aur Gangster': Love, Sex and Politics

Tigmanshu Dhulia transposes Abrar Alvi’s Sahib Biwi aur Gulam (a Guru Dutt production) to contemporary Uttar Pradesh, precisely to the realm of a decadent Raja (Jimmy Shergill as Sahib), unable to outgrow his faded feudal glory and cope up with the rise of the common people, once their subject. Set in the bleak backdrop of dirty politics, Sahib, Biwi aur Gangster is a nerve-racking tale of crime and passion told with a spine-chilling honesty. The film in many ways recalls Vishal Bharadwaj’s classic Maqbool, especially in the love/power nexus in which the three main characters are caught.

Chhoti Rani (Mahie Gill) is way too modern and remarkably less passive compared to Chhoti Bahu of Sahib Biwi aur Gulam. In the game of power that unfolds Chhoti Rani plays a pioneering role that is almost destructive. Enigmatic and whimsical, Chhoti Rani has fallen from grace in Sahib’s eyes for having harbouring amorous feelings for a certain Lalit; the details of the love story, however, is left undisclosed. Under no circumstances is she ready to transgress class boundaries, even though she falls in love all over again with her ex-lover’s namesake, incidentally her chauffer (Randeep Hooda). A clandestine steamy love affair ensues whereby Lalit is ensnared by Chhoti Rani into acting the way she wants him to. Lalit too is no simpleton; madly in love, he throws morality to the winds and embarks on a vicious mission of overthrowing the Sahib and usurping his throne. What he realizes with a fatal blow is that he, despite his cunning and daredevilry, cannot outgrow his class. Class remains central to the narrative; and every human emotion subservient to the necessity of preserving the hierarchy.

The world of Sahib, Biwi Aur Gangster is not very unfamiliar to us. Besides Maqbool, we are also reminded of Anurag Kashyap’s Gulal, one of his finest films till date. In terms of storytelling the film scores the most for it keeps you glued to the screen as endless surprises await you till the end. The film is also worth a watch for the powerhouse of performances it delivers: Randeep Hooda is reinvented as the macho Lalit (alias Babloo); equally credible as a passionate lover and a compulsive evil-doer, Hooda steals the show almost effortlessly. Jimmy Shergill dons the turban of royalty with dignity, and delivers with aplomb. Mahie Gill is good, but needs more experience, it seems.

I am somewhat enjoying this new trend of reworking classics that have crazily caught up with Hindi filmmakers, and interestingly, most of them are doing justice to it. This is a very postmodern phenomenon, which not only offers a reinterpretation of the classics, but also calls into question the sanctimony of authorship and originality. Thanks to the emergence of the multiplexes, again a very late capitalist event, that films such as Sahib, Biwi aur Gangster, are finding producers and of course a doting audience.

'Baishey Shrabon': Death of Poetry and a Deadly ‘System’!

It’s extremely difficult to review a thriller, for you often tend to give out the plot, which, of course, is commercially murderous for the film. Srijit Mukherjee’s Baishe Shrabon is primarily a thriller, but it is much more than that. The very title of the film, I believe, underscores the hegemony of the poet who has of late become so literally omnipresent (thanks to the farce the new government has made of him) that all other Bengali poets have been swept into oblivion. Sukanta, Sukumar, Binay, Shakti, Joy Goswami, and others are still esoteric property while Tagore has found access to the popular domain: none can deny Tagore’s superlative potentials as a poet; but this is also irrefutable that a politics of canonization can be discerned in analysing Tagore’s massive popularity and the comparatively lesser recognition the other poets have received. The climactic moment of the film therefore coincides with 'Baishe Shrabon', the day Tagore breathed his last. Interestingly, both Abhijeet and Prabir have to take the assistance of Google to find out the days on which the ‘lesser known’ poets have passed away.


On the other hand, the film is also about the death of poetry. A mad poet, who had set fire to the Calcutta Book Fair for publishers had time and again refused to publish his poetry, is at the centre of the narrative. Baishe Shrabon is different from other thrillers because it is not just about finding out with bated breath ‘whodunit’; it also engages the audience in working out the clue that may be hidden in the poetic lines found in the chits beside every victim. Interestingly, the victims are all from the lowest stratum of society, and the verses found next to them are predominantly proletariat in nature. Although the film does not clarify the choice of such verses, the silence speaks volumes. In fact, there is no criminal in Baishe Shrabon! It is the system! The reference to the anti-Establishment poetic movement (Hungry Movement) of the 60s is of special significance here.


Baishe Shrabon has adroitly blended the esoteric and the populist to a marvellous effect. The handling of the camera, especially in the narrow alleyways of the slum and in the last scene, is simply brilliant. Anupam Ray has not been able to recreate the Autograph magic though. However, Gobhire jao, profoundly rendered by Rupankar, stays with you long after the film is over.


The most promising performance is offered by Parambrata: it is his best, till date. He emotes perfectly, almost flawless; his comic timing is enviable; his accent, recalling his ‘Bengali medium’ background, is awesome. Prasenjit does not disappoint either, as was expected, although the character he plays has affiliation with several suspended police officers we have seen in numerous Hindi films; but, nonetheless, he is good. Raima Sen is effortless and Abir is loveable. The surprise package, however, is Goutam Ghosh. He animates Nibaran Chakraborty with so much life that you do feel your eyes moisten at his death.


Big Cinemas had a considerable number of viewers on Ashtami morning, and that speaks for the success the film is already enjoying. Wishing Baishey Shrabon a long run at the box-office! And a request: Those of you who have already watched the film, please do not give out the end! It does not deserve to be given out, really. People must go and find out for themselves, and believe me, it’s worth it.

'Rang Milanti': Queen of Hearts: Polyamory to Compulsory Monogamy?

Kaushik Ganguly’s Rang Milanti returns to the age-old theme of the woman’s search for the right mate, vaguely recalling innumerable Bernard Shaw plays, particularly Man and Superman, minus the Shavian concept of the woman’s duty of creating higher beings and preserving them. However, the biological primacy of the woman over the man is certainly assumed. Kamalika is in love with four of her very close friends (Rik, a computer engineer; Tito, an aspiring filmmaker; DJ, a DJ; Laden, a clothes supplier), but cannot make up her mind. Deeply despaired of the separation her sister goes through, Kamalika does not want to take any hasty decision in settling on her partner, lest she too ends up in an unhappy marriage.
The interesting part is that film does not moralise about Kamalika’s polyamorous disposition; rather it approves of it jubilantly. The rest of the film is a delightful journey whereby Kamalika puts her four lovers through a series of tests, assisted by an equally delightful fake psychiatrist, suggestively named Anu Ghatak (which translates into catalyst). Kamalika’s brother-in-law (Saswata Chatterjee in an amazingly fun-filled role), lovingly patronizing as he is, doubles up as the psychiatrist to help her choose the right partner. The ten tests he designs for her lovers have names drawn from film titles: Kapurush Mahapurush (test for bravery), Bajimaat (test for presence of mind), Saheb (test for fluency in English), Father (test for baby-sitting), Kori Diye Kinlam (test for financial standing), Amanush (test for sanity in a drunken state), Ashukh (test for fitness), Abhijaan (test for adventurousness), Apanjan (test for love for family), and Lathi (test for respect for old people). Surprisingly, there is no test for sexual compatibility. Either the assumption is that the woman has no sexual desire, or the director did not have the guts to shock his middle class Bengali audience by making the heroine sleep with all the four lovers. The question of sex arises only when Kamalika has decided upon her partner and is thoroughly disappointed by his approach to sex. Then again, she accepts him for the message is that nobody is perfect. It’s disappointing that sex features last in Kamalika’s search for the ideal partner. The search is interestingly more class-conscious and value-oriented: actually, in order to survive happily in the upper/middle class bracket the woman is compelled to judge her partner on the basis of his social functionality rather than sexual prowess. Therefore, sex takes a backseat in the quest for the ideal mate, and practically so.
The four men surprisingly do not fight over the girl; they rather exhibit an incredible sanity in this whole affair, accepting gladly the girl’s agency in deciding upon her partner. They are too careful not to fall out with each other, notwithstanding who Kamalika eventually chooses. I was wondering when men became so civilized and rational. Ganguly’s men have finally come of age, at least on screen. It’s a tad difficult to believe that none of the four men really protest having to play a remarkably passive role.
The final message is that nobody is perfect, and one has to settle on the best out of this imperfect lot. Kamalika is ultimately not agential in this whole affair of making up her mind for the right partner. Her brother-in-law directs her through this utter confusion: the woman does not get the opportunity to consider her own priorities. Her final choice is conspicuously conditioned by the demands patriarchy makes upon women. Her desire for the right partner is given free play so as not to disrupt an existing social structure. The man eventually wins, all over again.
Nonetheless, Rang Milanti is an amusing watch. It is a fun-filled journey, thanks to Saswata’s amazing performance, Churni’s sophisticated demeanour, Ridhima’s vivacity and the credibility of the four men, Gaurab Chakraborty, Gaurab Chatterjee, Tanaji and Indrashish. Ringo as the snobbish Prakash is also praiseworthy. The music is a downer though. What is after all important is unalloyed entertainment, and Rang Milanti does not disappoint you to that end. A packed Star Theatre on Panchami evening was frequently breaking into splits and cheery claps, and that’s all a director wants.

Iti Mrinalini: Love, Life and…

I was actually expecting to see something like Tennessee Williams’ The Milk Train Doesn’t Stop Here Anymore (1963) as the curtains went up on Iti Mrinalini, the latest Aparna Sen venture. Well, the Williams play and the Aparna Sen film do have similarities; but, of course, I gave up on the comparison much too soon. Any story of a successful commercial actor would have some parameters in common. In fact, Marilyn Monroe’s portrait that hangs in Mrinalini’s (Konkona Sensharma) room and is conspicuously focused on all through the film, speaks volumes to this end.
In a television interview, a few days before the release of the film, Sen said that she has never tried to convey any message through her films consciously; perhaps, no good artiste ever does that. But, somehow, Iti Mrinalini does send out a message, loud and clear; but, without being preachy or didactic, of course. I’ll come back to that later. In fact, not a single message; rather messages.
It’s not very difficult to see why Sen claims that Iti Mrinalini is the most commercial of all her films. Because the film is based on the life of some fictitious mainstream actor of Bengali films of the 1970s, it demanded a commercial treatment, no doubt. But, at the level of the plot too, the commercial aspect is much too evident. Actually too much happens in Mrinalini’s life. In fact, too many tragedies befall her, which, in a way, weaken the plot, as there is a prominent tendency to sentimentalizing. If good cinema refrains from being sentimental, this is definitely a flaw. But, seasoned audience of mainstream Bengali cinema of the 1970s, would be generous enough to give Sen the license to sentimentality; and I am sure I need not explain what I imply here. May be the screen life and the real life of the actor gets curiously mixed up. One may recall the unending series of trials and tribulations, a female protagonist of mainstream Bengali cinema generally underwent in those days, assisting a marvelous exercise of the lachrymose glands of the overly soft-hearted Bengali mothers and aunts (a construct, mind you) who poured into the theatres foregoing their usual afternoon nap. But yes, Sen has nowhere crossed the limits, for her Mrinalini is an apparently strong person.
The film has the structure of a bildungsroman: Mrinalini’s journey from the margins to the center. Although she accomplishes a lot in her professional field, she loses out on the personal front. Actually, more than anything else, Iti Mrinalini, is a love story. It’s the story of a woman who seeks love all through her life; but, it’s not that she doesn’t find any. May be she doesn’t find the kind of love she hankers for. Although Chintan Nair (Kaushik Sen) counsels her saying that she has never realized that love is of different kinds, Mrinalini does not seem convinced. A daughter out of wedlock, a non-committal lover who is inextricably tied to her family and who keeps on telling her that he would come to her one day…Mrinalini does not get the social recognition as a wife or a mother. She acts aunt to her daughter and keeps hoping that Siddhartha (Rajat Kapoor) would legally tie the knot one day. Exasperated she eventually breaks the relationship (“It’s over between us”), but it takes her long to arrive at the realization (assisted by Chintan, of course) that he too might have loved her in his own flawed way. It was love, nonetheless. Chintan becomes her friend, philosopher and guide, and defines for her another kind of love altogether. In fact, it’s a two-word message from him “Ami aschhi” (I am coming) that saves her from taking her life. The ‘message’ is that love may not only happen within socially approved structures of relationships only; love mostly transcends such constrictions. Although Mrinalini seems to accept what Chintan says, her reaction to Imtiaz’s (Priyanshu Chatterjee) betrayal appears a tad too immature. Why does she contemplate suicide? Hasn’t she seen enough so far as not to succumb to such duplicity?
Anyways, the film reaches a different level altogether in the end. Mrinalini is notorious for trying to control everything in her life. In fact, her young daughter calls her a control-freak. When she contemplates suicide, she says that entry on the stage of life was not in her hand, but she can certainly time the exit. But, little did she know that life was more absurd than it appeared to be. When thoughts of death finally desert her, and she goes out to walk her dog with a renewed enthusiasm for life, she is shot dead by a bullet targeting a young boy (Saheb Chattopadhyay) on the run. This very arbitrariness of life which Sen beautifully represents sends a chill down your spine. What you simultaneously realize is that you have come a long way off from the Naxalite 1970s Calcutta to dwell in a city where crime has become the order of the day. It’s difficult to guess who this boy is. But, the doubling of Mrinalini’s boyfriend Abhi does trace a journey of the city and the changing ideology of its young denizens.
I was absolutely overwhelmed by Konkona Senshrama’s mind-blowing performance; Rajat Kapoor does a decent job, and Anjan Dutt’s voice-over matches his personality well. The voice does not seem lent. Kaushik Sen imitates the South Indian accent really well, and delivers with aplomb. Even Saheb Chatterjee gives a believable performance. Kudos to Ananya Banerjee as Sohini, Mrinalini’s daughter. And last, but not the least, Aparna Sen herself. She is as glamorous as ever but she could have been a little more careful in imitating Konkona’s mannerisms.
And, of course, the songs! Am still humming Ajana Kono Golpo…I can’t really get over the magical spell of Bishe Bishe Neel…Debojyoti Mishra has done a fantastic job! The songs would stay on with us forever…and may be enough reason to go back to the theatre.

Delhi Belly: Belly-ticklingly boisterous

Delhi Belly is a test in how much you can laugh; in fact, it’s a laugh riot that may stand-in for a 96-minute VLCC abdominal work-out, of course without the perspiration! Your belly would literally undergo so many vibrations, you may emerge from the theatre trimmer than before! Delhi Belly is indubitably the best stress-buster to come in a long time. An adult comedy need not always bank upon double-entendre, slapstick and crass humour to draw the guffaws, and thanks to Aamir Khan, Abhinay Deo and Akshat Verma (the story and scriptwriter), the likes of Golmaal, Double Dhamaal, Dhol, etc. would perhaps run for cover now, out of shame. With Delhi Belly, the adult comedy in Bollywood finally comes of age.
Well, it’s a comedy of errors, and what an error to begin with, I swear! It’s gross, but, nonetheless, hilarious, for the whole thing remains so close to reality. Priceless diamonds get exchanged with dung ‘erroneously’, which in turn gets delivered to the devilish don who, of course, is not particularly pleased. And what follows is a roller-coaster ride of bhaag bhaag that barely gives you the opportunity to recover from your splits! The ensemble cast is a clique of men and women extremely identifiable, only that, they are caught up in a funny situation, which is not particularly funny to any of them, really! I believe that is indeed the hallmark of a good comedy. To add to that, like all good comedies, Delhi Belly does make you think, too. May be afterwards. The show ends in several deaths, break-ups and other unpleasant things underlining the darkness that looms large at the heart (read, belly) of the city.
The film begins with a familiar background score from the late 70s which soon reveals its source: the television at the airport airing a Rishi Kapoor track. This very song acts as an intertextual tool that refers back to the movies of the 70s, where the villains were inevitably smugglers. A clichéd theme is taken, given a make-over, and transmuted into a truly contemporary comedy. The tragic underbelly is however hard not to recognize. Violence, lust, covetousness, opportunism, distrust, blackmail, heartbreak, all these are woven into a rich comic texture, but, with a tragic undertone. The film’s greatness lies in operating on black humour without giving an overwhelming feel of it. Therefore, it’s hard not to laugh, but on second thoughts, the darkness does make its presence felt.
Imran Khan, Kunaal Roy Kapoor, and Vir Das make an awesome threesome! Specially, Kunaal as Nitin is unforgettable, given his believable struggle with an upset tummy through the roller-coaster ride. Vir as Arup is remarkably subtle, sometimes lost, and marvellously funny. Imran Khan is good, but certainly is overshadowed by his two other friends. The quirky Poorna Jagannathan as Maneka is ‘queerly’ loveable, and it’s hard to forget the scene where she shoos away an elderly couple by pretending to ‘ride’ Imran, when the latter gets a real hard-on! Vijay Raaz as the merciless don is full-on entertainment, and I wondered how he did all that with a straight face. Even Shehnaaz Treasury as Sonia performs.
Ram Sampath’s music is another plus. The disappointing thing is that the coolest track of the year Bhaag DK Bose Bhaag only comes in bits and parts, but somehow lends the film its marathon mood. The end credits roll with the extremely funny I hate you (like I love you) with Aamir Khan dressed in a way to remind you of Shotgun Murugan. I have rarely seen the audience sitting through an end-credit song so patiently and enjoying it too. And please note, the T-shirt Imran Khan wears for the greater part of the movie has ‘Stylish Rajnikanth Sunglasses’ written on it on a tag on the left side of his chest. Well, if that too means something to you!

Noukadubi: With and Beyond Rabindranath

Initially, I was rather apprehensive of Noukadubi (The Boatwreck), for I was rather disappointed with this Tagore novel, for it is perhaps the weakest of his prose-fictions, in terms of plot. The plot turns on too many glaring coincidences, much in the manner of several Dickens or Hardy novels. Again, the later part of the novel where Kamala almost mushily sentimentalizes on her victimization is simply nerve-racking. At times, Noukadubi  seems to read more like a Sarat Chandra novel, than a Tagore novel (However, I am not suggesting that Sarat Chandra’s novels are bad; what I’m trying to imply is that Tagore seems to play to the gallery in a manner akin to Sarat Chandra’s in Noukadubi; and this unsettles the reader, for she opens a Tagore text with a different kind of expectation altogether) Quite bewildered by his choice of text, I was rather curious to see Rituparno Ghosh’s treatment of a story, which originally begins with an interesting twist, but dwindles into dullness. Boatwrecks are famed to wrought havoc, as had been already established by Daniel Defoe's prose romance Robinson Crusoe, and therefore, an fascinating point to begin a narrative. That element of thrill was also there on the first pages of the Tagore novel as well; but, lost wind as the story unfolded. So, I was rather interested to see whether the Rituparno film can sustain the interest! 

I do not really believe that you need to read a novel before going for its cinematic adaptation. But in case of Rituaparno Ghosh’s Noukadubi, I would personally suggest that if you have not read the novel, it would be difficult for you to appreciate the spectacular departures the director makes from the original story. Re-narrating a novel frame by frame on celluloid is not desirable at all; Ghosh steers clear of that brilliantly and very interestingly renders one of Rabindranath’s not-so-good-novels rather watchable. 

What I could not stop marvelling at is the little play on authorship that Rituparno introduces. From the very beginning of the film, Rabindranath enters the narrative as a character whom Hemnalini (Raima Sen) adores, and when asked by Annada, her father (Dhritiman Chatterjee) whether she has developed amorous interest in someone, she says that her obvious choice is the poet. Next, Ramesh (Jishu Sengupta) while shifting to his new house and setting it up, admits that Rabindranath has become an indispensable part of his reality and demands a special corner in his house. I guess he even uses the word bojha (or burden) that the cultural phenomenon called Rabindarnath Thakur has become in the educated middle class Bengali household. The picture of the poet is used quite frequently; particularly the positioning of the picture in the scene where Nalikakshya (Prasenjit Chatterjee) sings Tori amar hothath dubey jai (My canoe sinks all of a sudden) is rather suggestive. The camera moves from Nalikakshya seated on one side of the room to a tearful Hemnalini sitting on the other side. The picture sits royally in-between the two, almost, overseeing, as it were, the proceedings. While he is the primary inspiration behind the story we see on celluloid, the director good-humouredly calls into question the very sanctity of his authorship by moulding the existing text to serve his cinematic purposes, right under his nose, as it were. This in turn deconstructs the whole notion of author-as-God, and also perhaps rescues Rabindranath from the unquestionable divine status many have attributed to the poet. Ironically, the picture is shown to be ritualistically worshipped. The introduction of this picture leaves you wondering endlessly what happens when the author himself finds access into his own fictional world. Then again, whose fictional world is this? Rituparno’s or Rabindranath’s? In fact, when the film ends, you realize the significance of the song Khelghar bandhte legechhi (I have begun building a doll’s house brick by brick) with which the film begins. The word khela translates into ‘play’; the suggestion is the director too is all set to begin a ‘play’ (please note play may mean both ‘game’ and ‘drama’) with a Tagore text; he is constructing a little drama, in the spirit of ‘play’, where he enters into a dialogue with the original author of Noukadubi. In this sense Khelaghar bandhte legechhi almost functions as a preface to the film.

The Bhawal-Sanyasi case forms the subtext of the film and quite understandably so; Shakuntala too is an important inter-text. The story of the wife’s predicament when she finds that her husband has completely lost all memories of her acts as an elaborate dramatic irony in Kamala’s (Riya Sen) narrative. In one occasion there is a delightful reference to Tennyson as well. In the novel both Ramesh and Akshaye gift the same hard-bound copy of Tennyson to Hemnalini. The suggestion could be that Tennyson, the pioneer of mainstream Victorianism, was an important vehicle of cultural colonization in colonial Bengal. One may recall in ‘The Lady of Shallot’, there appears a couple walking hand-in-hand in the moonlit night, when Tennyson almost with a sense of urgency quickly adds that they are lately married. Love or sex outside wedlock was regarded sacrilegious by the Victorian moral police. Therefore, Tennyson as a gift resonates with political implications. Ironically, however, the very inviolability of the institution of marriage is sufficiently challenged by the novel (and the film).

The use of Rabindrasangeet is extremely intelligent and the songs selected meaningfully contribute to the plot. Khelaghar bandhte legechhi amar moner bhitore (In the core of my heart, I have begun building a doll’s house brick by brick) with which the film begins acts a dramatic irony introducing Hemnalini’s vulnerability in love. The heart-rending Tori amar hothat dubey jaye literally takes on the title, while adequately expressing the misgivings of estrangement. Tomar ashimey (In the eternity that you are) comes at the right moment when a lovelorn Hemnalini fights with herself to come to terms with her reality. And all ends well with Anandalok e mangalaloke birajo satya sundar!

I feel that Noukadubi demands to be appreciated not only on the level of the narrative, but in terms of its execution. Since I was sceptical of the novel per se, the film came to me a pleasant surprise. And yes, once again, Rituparno Ghosh has proved he can really make his actors act: Raima is believable, and Jishu is sublte; but Prasenjit disappoints to a certain extent. He fails to bring into his performance the gravity Nalinakshya’s character demands. The astonishing part is that Riya Sen has actually acted; but, I feel, the lion’s share of the praise which Riya would command, should go to Monali Thakur whose voice-over has miraculously accentuated her performance.

An enjoyable film, Noukadubi could have gained a little more complexity had Ghosh shown a developing physical relationship between Kamala and Ramesh before the latter comes to discover Kamala’s real identity. The novel had given clear indications of that. But for some unknown reason Rituparno has refrained from it. But that does not take away from the film its brilliance.

The King Must ‘Perform’!

Tom Hooper’s The King’s Speech is apparently a heart-warming tale of how King George VI overcomes his speech impediment with the assistance of an Australian speech therapist Lionel Logue. But the film has larger political implications: it is not just about conquering a disability, it is also about the public role of the King, and that too the British King in the 1930s who must put up a majestic performance on the world stage, a performance that would have well-meaning impact not only in England but the numerous colonies to which he was the ultimate symbol of power.

The film at one level offers a common man’s story, the Duke of York (who later becomes George VI) stripped of the royal aura that circumscribes him; at another level, it unravels the pressures of becoming the King of England, the obligation of performing as a King must conventionally perform so as to keep inviolate the notion of the Protector and perhaps also the hallowed image God’s anointed  and appointed representative on Earth. In the face of the Nazi uprising in Germany, on the eve of World War II, the King cannot afford not to perform according to the expectations of his millions of subjects scattered across the globe. The personal and the political come into a major conflict which the King must resolve. He must overcome his speech impediment or tarnish his kingly image irredeemably. The film captures the psychological struggle of the disabled King with remarkable intensity without being preachy. Colin Firth carries off the role with panache and so much credibility that you fall in love with him.

It’s a story of the marginalized, ironically indeed. The King of England and marginal? The sublimity of The King’s Speech perhaps lies in its making this absolutely credible. The King is stripped off the aura that makes him King and the film imagines his private life with amazing sincerity. While probing into the psychological roots that may be the cause of the fumble, Lionel discovers how the young prince was forced to give up his left-handedness; how he suffered the painful treatment for his knock-knees; how his nanny hated him and pinched him in the presence of his parents so that he wailed to the disgruntlement of the latter. From early childhood, he was thrust into role-playing, and no form of disability or unconventional behaviour was encouraged in him; in fact, was mercilessly repressed. Here the King’s tale coincides with that of any unfortunate child who has gone through traumatic experiences for not being ‘normal’. This is exactly where the audience connects with the King’s story, and partakes his grief.

David Seidler’s screenplay which is a product of several years’ serious research is near flawless. However, the ensemble cast is perhaps something one should look forward to. Geoffrey Rush as the unrelenting speech therapist with an excellent sense of humour is a treat. Helena Bonham Carter as the King’s wife (I would not say queen and you would know why when you watch the film) is marvellous. She shares her husband’s insecurities with so much affection that she almost unknowingly ends up playing a caring mother to a helpless child. The rest of the cast is equally believable.

The King’s Speech is a must watch; it takes you within the walls of the imposing Buckingham Palace and reveals to you the emotional odyssey of a man beyond the grandiloquent mask of Your Highness that he wears and how!

Memories in March: Bonding and Beyond

Aar Ekti Premer Golpo has paved the path for the issue of alternative sexuality find access to the arena of popular Bengali cinema. But Bengali cinema is yet to come of age when in comes to representing alternative sexuality; for, it’s high time that queerness was rescued from being an issue and represented as ‘normal’. Whether it’s Aar Ekti Premer Golpo or the present film Memories in March (Dir: Sanjay Nag), the endeavour to ‘normalize’ queerness is more than honest; but the very fact that it’s an ‘issue’ is something none of these films have been able to transcend. Perhaps, because Bengali cinema is still at a very immature stage of representing queerness, that it tends to get preachy documentary-style whenever queerness is discussed. Therefore when a disconcerted Mrs. Mishra (Deepti Naval) innocently asks Ornab (Rituparno Ghosh) that whether her negligence or her inability to spend quality time with her son Siddharth has anything to do with the ‘abnormality’ in him, Ornab is infuriated and tells her to have herself examined by a psychiatrist. Bengali cinema is still at a stage when a queer relationship cannot be represented like any other heterosexual relationship without the weighty baggage of justification. Many would argue the very concept of being queer is rather ‘new’ to India; in fact, the heteronormative/queer binary has entered the popular consciousness of the country after the economic liberalization in the early 90s. Therefore, it is impossible not to address the question of associating abnormality with queerness even at this stage. But I believe that queer cinema comes of age only when it represents same-sex relationships as natural, and not as something deviant which demands to be integrated into the mainstream. Memories in March has failed to achieve that maturity.

Coming to the film proper: Memories in March is not a merely a film about a gay relationship; it is something more than that. In fact, like many other Rituparno Ghosh films, it is about human bonding, about the genesis of new relationships between strangers despite apparent differences. However, things seem to happen too fast. Mrs. Mishra arrives in Kolkata to collect the ashes of her deceased son when she shockingly discovers that he was gay. She learns from Shahana (Raima Sen) that he was in a relationship with his boss Ornab, whom she accuses of having seduced her son. Ornab loses his cool and enters into a verbal tirade with Mrs. Mishra which ends in an emotional calamity. However, Mrs. Mishra gradually comes to terms with her son’s being gay and accepts Ornab and the fact of his being an integral part of her son’s life.

What strikes us as unnatural is how amazingly composed the characters are! Be it Ornab, be it Shahana, or be it the bereaved mother herself − all of them a remarkably controlled. Although Ornab breaks into tears sitting in the car at the place of the accident, the way he dresses up the very next day in office does not carry any mark of what he is going through. Shahana claims to be in love with Siddharth; but she too is exceptionally unperturbed. Mrs. Mishra too seems to rise above the trauma much too soon. Perhaps none of the characters believe in public display of private emotions. But somehow Siddharth’s sudden death does not seem to be a harrowing affair. There’s too much of an economy of emotions which at times appears incredible. However, I must admit that the songs penned by Rituparno Ghosh with their melancholy notes compensate for the emotions that seem to be lacking.

The film may appear a bit stifling for most of it happens in a poorly-lit apartment; perhaps the apartment contributes to the dark mood of the film, but somehow it appears a tad claustrophobic. Even the rains which come in the end only slant into the balcony of the flat drenching the clay ash-container. Besides that, too many television-style close-ups grate on the nerves at times; there’s barely a long shot in the entire film. Sometimes it seems that you are watching a telefilm.

Veteran actor Deepti Naval is simply outstanding; she is never over-the-top. Although remarkably composed, her eyes speak volumes. She does not act; she behaves and that too with an amazing dignity that suits her personality to a T. Rituparno Ghosh was comparatively better in Aar Ekti Premer Golpo; however, he tries his best to deliver. But his English is slightly strained. Raima Sen is extremely unimpressive as Shahana, although expectations were higher this time.

Memories in March is nonetheless sensible and demands a one-time watch at least. And let me tell you it does not appear to be a Rituparno Ghosh film as many had anticipated it would. Although the look-and-feel is reminiscent of many a Ghosh flick, none can deny that it has been made by someone else. It’s a Sanjay Nag film, after all. Despite Ghosh’s script, it certainly lacks the fine emotional touch that is the hallmark of an out-and-out Ghosh film.

N.B: I have one fear though: Rituparno Ghosh should not become the face of gayness per se. All gay people are not like Rituparno Ghosh. Perhaps this could have been better established had the film shown Siddharth over whom girls too used to drool and with whom Shahana fell in love, head-over-heels. That too would have contributed to breaking the stereotype even more!

'Dhobi Ghat': Intertwined lives and a city

In his non-fiction narrative on Bombay, Maximum City: Bombay Lost and Found, Suketu Mehta writes:

If you are late for work in Bombay, and reach the station just as the train is leaving the platform, you can run up to the packed compartments and you will find many hands stretching out to grab you on board, unfolding outward from the train like petals.

 Kiran Rao captures through her lenses a Bombay which generates a new meaning for everyone who visits the city. What Arun (Aamir Khan) feels about the city ---“Mumbai my muse, my whore, my beloved’ ----- is Kiran’s feelings too, or else she could not have shot Bombay so romantically, yet realistically. The film opens on the rain-drenched Marine Drive through Yasmine’s (Kriti Malhotra) amateurishly held video-camera, and soon moves to other people and other stories inextricably connected with each other. Arun’s painting exhibition is a tribute to all the people coming from different states of the country, people who have made Bombay what it is today. Arun makes a dig at those whose political agenda is to officially provincialize the city. The film cutting across class and community borders is actually an answer to the drive towards such provincialization.

Shai (Monica Dogra) who flies to the city from New York on a sabbatical falls in love with Arun, while the slum-dweller washer-boy Munna (Prateik Babbar) gradually falls in love with her. The film effortlessly moves amongst the world of art, the dark underworld of the city, the posh high-rises and cramped slums, and breathes into the city the freshness of the sea breeze and the infinite mystery of the ocean itself, the mystery of how human relationships are sustained overcoming so many differences.

Arun’s discovery of Yasmine’s video-tapes reveals for him a new perspective of looking at the city. Yasmine, the newly-wed girl from Uttar Pradesh, captures every nook and cranny of the city, every single activity that forms a part of her Bombay life to send to her brother Imran in the village. Arun starts living Yasmine’s life through the tapes and is absolutely shattered when he conjectures that Yasmine had taken her own life in the very room where her videos have been playing day and night.

Pratieik’s dhobi is perfect in body language and in dialogue delivery. His awareness of his class when he visits his customers, his shyness when Shai offers him to be her city-guide and when he gradually falls in love with her, and his anger at his brother’s murder − all these emotions are in the right place. He doesn’t act, but behave. The same is true of Monica Dogra and Kriti Malhotra.

The camera within the camera technique is simply brilliant, for often you do not realize whose narrative you are listening to (read watching)? Is it Yasmine’s or is it the omniscient director’s? Tushar Kanti Ray has done a commendable job! Gustavo Santaolalla’s background score is so very much in tune with the scenes, that you barely recognize it as background score separately.

Lastly, a good piece of art is many things roped into one.. But quite significantly it reestablishes faith in the essential goodness of human beings. Perhaps this is what Dhobi Ghat does and how! A single visit to this ghat is not enough…you would feel like going back.