Asa Jawar Majhe: Of Drudgery and Romance and Poetry

It’s one film which has been cropping up in our conversations now and then since it premiered at the 71^st Venice International Festival last year, and was later shown at the BFI London International Film Festival where it won huge accolades. It went on to become a global phenomenon bagging several awards in international film festivals before it eventually opened in Kolkata amid much fanfare, but, disappointingly in only three theatres. When it hit the Kolkata screens on 26 June 2015, film enthusiasts made a beeline for it in all three theatres, often returning home, put off by the Sold Out board. We were supposed to watch it at Nandan, but were met with a condescending dismissal at the counter, for they did not seem to believe we were asking for tickets three hours before the show. All were sold out, and yes, long before we arrived. Our next stop was City Center, Salt Lake, which as we realised from the website, was fast filling up too. We did not take chance this time, and booked seats online while still on the Nandan premises. Another friend arrived soon after, by which time City Center too was sold out; he had to run to South City Inox to grab the last remaining seat. The point in prefacing the review with my ‘getting or not getting to see’ anxiety is to bring home the fact the overwhelming zest for this film, which is rare in case of contemporary Bengali Cinema. But unfortunately, as always it has been with good cinema, this film too did not get a statewide release, nor did it get as many screens in Kolkata as it deserved.

Reviewing Asa Jawar Majhe may be compared to commenting on great poetry at the risk of spoiling its lyricism and effortless appeal. The labour of love that has gone into the making of this film is visible in every single frame. It seems as if the director and his cinematographer (Mahendra J Shetty) are romancing with every bit of the film, replicating the emotions on screen. Only profound insight and an extraordinary proficiency in storytelling could do away with dialogue. Very few films have successfully managed to narrate a story depending on background score alone. 

The slow pace, the lack of dialogue, the long lingering on rotating bicycle wheels, walls, staircases, verandas, and filling of spice and lentil containers project an existential drudgery with the “Nothing happens, twice” effect of a Becket’s Waiting for Godot. However, while Becket’s play ends in despair of a never-ending wait continuing, Asa Jawar Majhe redeems its protagonists from the mundane everydayness of living on by allowing them a moment of togetherness which though short-lived comes with the intensity and ‘feel-good-ness’ of dream romances. The film working through powerful imagery and constant reminder of a desired but fantastical world of romance (underlined by the two prototype romantic songs, Tumi je amar and Nishi raat banka chand playing in the background) deconstructs the conventional paraphernalia associated with romance and coupledom by locating its protagonists in the harsh reality of a failing economy and the narrow alleys of a cramped North Kolkata neighbourhood. The crescent moon zooming out to reveal the veil of a mosquito net through which it is seen or missed is perhaps the most poignant moment in the film. The repeated motif of the shehnai (Bismilla Khan), which is the staple background score of most Bengali weddings, has been brilliantly deployed too.

In a long time, no other director has seen such a brilliant 
debut. Aditya Vikram Sengupta is certainly in the race to 
stardom. Thanks to Suman Ghosh for backing this small 
film, which might have been lost in oblivion. Ritwick Chakraborty 
and Basabdatta Chatterjee’s ‘non-acting’ leaves an indelible 
mark. 

As the end credit rolls, it seems as if you have been exposed 
to such a truth which you always wanted to tell, but never 
could.

Piku: ‘Feel good’ in a different package

Bollywood’s “feel good” romances of the 1990s, a genre re-inaugurated by Hum Aapke Hain Kaun and reinforced by Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jaayenge, had a heyday in the hands of Karan Johar, but gradually began to lose steam, when its gelatinous sweetness began to rack the nerves. Plus, the incredibly affluent families in which these romances were usually set also began to appear tormenting, for the sheer un-realism of the abundance of wealth which they shamelessly paraded: expensive kanjivarams as kitchen-wear and designer jewellery in plush hospitals became difficult to digest, although there was an initial awe at Bombay Cinema’s sudden rise from poverty and exaltation of the propertied class, as opposed to its lachrymose moralising against the latter ever since it came into being. However, an economically devastating downslide all through the second half of the 2000s brought in the need for realism, when even first-string production houses, such as Yash Raj and Dharma Productions, devoted to fantastical melodrama and barefaced revelling in opulence, began encouraging a closer brush with everydayness. In a certain way, Karan Johar’s growing friendship with Anurag Kashyap is symbolic of the ‘commercial’ and the ‘arty’ making a conscious effort to enter into an astutely planned arranged marriage. The family drama, the romance set against it, the songs and the dance sequences – all are still sustained, but in a different, more believable package. Shoojit Sircar’s Vicky Donor and his latest venture Piku are both products (endorsed by movie-tycoon Aditya Chopra) of this new trend, which has proved to be successful not only in urban sectors or among multiplex viewers, but also in small towns and rural areas.

Piku is a family drama, sans the mushy sentimentalism of its 90s counterparts, sans an epic range of sugar-sweet aunts and uncles, greying and sagacious grandparents, well-dressed cousins having nothing to do, and plush weddings and tear-jerking funerals. Piku, despite certain ethnic specificities, manages to rise above two overused stereotypes, at least: first, the conventional Bollywood brand of an Indian family and second, Bengaliness. Although highly emotional, Piku saves the sentimentalism by bringing to familiar emotions a comic distance, or by viewing them with brash sarcasm. Father-daughter relationship has been an interesting emotional (and sexual) tie which both cinema and literature have explored time and again; Piku brings to it a mint-like freshness, despite the family’s endless toilet discourses. It’s hilarious how father and daughter alternatively bond and separate over constipation and bowel movement, Piku finding it hard to deal with the tantrums of an ageing hypochondriac father, never satisfied with his toilet ventures. But what comes through is a profound love for each other, the importance of being together, the pleasures of care-giving.

Piku, without being preachy, successfully conveys a social message which is rather timely. At a point, when even nuclear families are breaking down, with children relocating to other cities, leaving their parents behind, Piku brings together certain moments which inspire a strengthening of the parent-child relationship. Perhaps, the film touches a chord with everyone, by stringing together certain easily identifiable familiar moments, moments of despair and happiness, when one has an ageing, almost child-like parent to look after. While the film critiques the power relationship, in which the parent always takes advantage of being the parent, it also unveils the sheer joy in the ability in successfully parenting a parent. In this father-daughter equation, there is often a role reversal, shifting of power dynamics, but what comes through is the pre-eminence of affect, over and above the politics of emotion. Rana Chaudhury’s petulant mother and her regular squabbles with her son reinforce the message that there’s nothing to romanticise about the family, yet, there’s enough reason to stick to it. By associating a dysfunctional digestive system with emotion, Sircar generates a powerful symbol.

It’s interesting how Piku dismantles middleclass social decorum, by veering the narrative through endless talk on the lower bodily stratum, menopause, loss of virginity, nighties, sex life, and nuances of family feuds. This brings the film closer to everydayness, in which none is saintly, none is heinously evil. The ending divested of sentimentalization, delves deep into questions of unpredictability of life and inevitability of death, bringing to the latter a rare ‘feel-good’-ness, when it seems that there was indeed nothing more for which the old father could live on.

Amitabh Bachchan never appeared so lovably cute since Paa, and Deepika Padukone has never been so next-door. Irrfan underplays Rana with a rare panache, while Moushumi Chatterjee returns to Hindi cinema with her characteristic vivacity and chirpiness. The supporting cast is equally brilliant.

Amid the constant father-daughter row, what stands out is 

the consensus on need-based sex...well, that was indeed 

pleasantly surprising, for that one thing was powerful 

enough to dislodge all pretensions of moral high-

handedness and purity associated with the ‘tradition’ of 

old North Kolkatan families residing in palatial mansions, 

endlessly stereotyped in popular culture. 

The Imitation Game: Love and Death in the time of the Second World War!

When the Cambridge professor, with an exceptional talent at computing, is interrogated for an alleged “gross indecency” (the circumlocution for homosexuality), he asks:

So tell me what am I?

Am I machine am I a person?

Am I a war hero, am I criminal?

The interrogator does not have an answer and looks on flabbergasted at this fascinating mathematician who had dedicated his life to end the war. Sadness shows in his eyes, when the man is eventually charged of ‘indecency’ and put on hormonal therapy which would supposedly cure his homosexuality. He is indeed a war hero, who is labelled a criminal. The Enigma decrypting story and the man behind it remained in the dark for five decades: one of the most fiercely guarded secrets of the British government. What was made public instead was his ‘gross indecency’− he loved men!

Morten Tyldum’s The Imitation Game is a tragic love story, the story of a man who names his machine after his lover Christopher, the machine that would change the world. Predominantly a thriller, the film while dramatising the historical decrypting of the Nazi Enigma code (that shortened the war by two years and saved approximately 14 million lives) by Alan Turing, delves into his personal life, his homosexuality, his love affair, and the agony of being different. Flashbacks of Turing’s school days, his torture at the hands of his classmates, his love for Christopher, and his introduction to the world of cryptography undercut Turing’s apparently successful life as a cryptanalyst. Unfortunately, his success remains unrecognised; instead he is marked out as a criminal, and given the choice of two year imprisonment or hormonal therapy by the same nation-state which should have been grateful for the service he rendered.  

Ironically, the film brings out the ‘gross indecency’ of the British nation, evident not only in its illegal probing into personal spaces of its citizens, but also in its unending injustice towards men who identified themselves as homosexuals (the terms gay or queer had not yet become fashionable, during the time this film is set). Around 49,000 people were charged of ‘gross indecency’ in Britain, under the anti-sodomy law, between 1885 and 1967. A law that caused Alan Turing’s suicide in 1954!

The film interestingly posits questions of masculinity and sexuality in the backdrop of World War II, a predominantly hypermasculine affair, in which real men participated. The Imitation Game remarkably problematises this category of ‘real men’, by crowning the state-identified ‘unmanly man’ the real hero. The film could easily be canonised as one of the most telling narratives of hidden lives of heroes, poets, and other high profile men, who had either been punished or forced to lead a masked life for decades, for ‘coming out’ could have spelt the end of life for them.

Although Turing was granted Royal pardon by Elizabeth II in 2013, thanks to the campaign initiated by Turing’s grand-niece and others, those other 49000 men and women have not been pardoned yet! Endorsing The Imitation Game, the Human Rights Campaign's Chad Griffith said, “Over 49,000 other gay men and women were persecuted in England under the same law. Turing was pardoned....others were not. Honor this movie. Honor this man. And honor the movement to bring justice to the other 49,000.” (The Hollywood Reporter)

Benedict Cumberbatch credibly brings out Turing’s vulnerabilities and eccentricities, his eyes speak with a rare intelligence and his body language articulates a curious mixture of confidence and helplessness. Mark Strong’s sternness, Keira Knightley’s radiance and Matthew Good’s amicable disposition make the characters extremely believable. Greyscale footages of the real war that intersperse the narrative attribute to the film the truthfulness of a documentary, despite its overarching fictional framework.

Although we now have the answers to all the questions that a visibly devastated Turing poses to the interrogator, the film closes with a profound sense of despondency, the agony that Turing died an unceremonious death that was grossly unjust!

Baby: Terrorism, thrills and patriotic fervour

Neeraj Pandey’s Baby acquired more mileage and topicality than it aniticipated, thanks to the Charlie Hebdo incident, that has since floated multiple discussions, conferences and articles on the nature of global terrorism in the public domain. While acknowledging the fallacy in labelling every Muslim as terrorist (contrary to populist notions), a sizeable number of sensible journalists, social scientists, and political commentators seem to have arrived at a consensus that it is undeniable that the global face of terrorism in the twenty-first century has been unambiguously Islamic. S Prasannarajan, the editor of Open, writes:

"Fourteen years might be a tiny patch in history, but scars on the twenty-first century has one adjective – religious, or to be specific, Islamic."

Cautiously abstaining from generalising this claim, Prasannarajan qualifies the adjective, by pointing out, how such widespread ‘Islamic’ terrorism is contingent upon mindless misreading(s) of Islamic religious texts:

"The text of Islam continues to be read and misread for sustaining the twin essentials of its power struggle: conquest and the cult of martyrdom. Someone out there, somewhere in Arabia or Persia, is deconstructing the text for the expansion of a monochromatic imperium of absolute faith."

In the same edition, delineating terrorist networks that have spread like a difficult-to-unravel matrix in India, so much so that the country might just be sitting on a ticking time-bomb, P R Ramesh signs off with a portentous warning: “Indians have every reason in the world to be worried. Very worried.”

Pandey’s Baby reinforces this warning, uncovering the alarming networks through which terrorist activities are channelized, how young minds are tutored in and interpellated into jihad discourses, how it is becoming increasingly difficult to separate the perpetrators of violence from their victims. There are numerous nodal points in this militant network, which has disseminated worldwide rhizomically. There's no single trigger point of this violence which can be identified and eliminated; rather, this extremist ideology of  terrorism is being spread through countless groups, cyber networks, and training camps. While raising the alarm, Baby makes every attempt to dispel the anxiety by projecting an extremely efficient undercover security force, composed of zealous patriots, with the right mix of brawn and brain, who are always on vigil to protect the nation and its inhabitants. However, Ramesh’s warning that India is precariously living on the edge nags till the end.

Baby, addressing the populist sentiments towards the squabble over Kashmir, rather than delving into the complex discourses that condition militant activities across the globe, makes of it an us/them issue, India’s vulnerability against a revengeful neighbour. Yet, what sets the alarm bells ringing loud is that terrorist threats no longer reside on the other side of the borders; the threats are perilously lurking in every corner of the nation. 

Pandey, however, dissociates religious identity from the national, by making the leader of Baby, a Muslim. And Ajay tells Taufiq that on his passport, he writes INDIAN in bold letters, in the box against Religion, prioritizing the national over ethnic identities. But, what’s most unsettling is the power of this jihad, the immense power of the discourse of martyrdom associated with it.  With each passing day, it is seducing a steeply rising number of young Muslims (notwithstanding their nationalities) who are embracing its ideology fanatically, in the name of founding a puritan Islamic empire. Case in point: Jamal.

Pandey reveals an appalling reality, but, does not allow his average audience to ponder over it, by hooking them on to the thriller bait of ‘what would happen next?’ The thriller narrative mode, spinning mostly on hardcore action, violence and breath-taking suspense, supersedes the disturbing reality it presents, and perhaps, this is what is drawing the crowds to the theatre. Despite its honest efforts, Baby eventually turns out to be another patriotic film, sans the mushy sentimentalisation of its predecessors, though. But Ajay's desh-bhakti is no less electrifying than a Sunny Deol uprooting a tube-well, and mouthing volcanic dialogues in front of an India-hating Pakistani mob. 

Pandey’s A Wednesday was far more subtle and nuanced than this.

The film is remarkably well acted. Danny Denzongpa brings the right dose of confidence to his portrayal of Feroz Ali Khan. Akshaye Kumar’s Ajay is raw and fiery, while Rana Daggubati literally brings to his performance a bulging muscle power.  The performance which surpasses all is that of Rasheed Naaz as the Maulana.

Post Charlie Hebdo, and a ridiculously juvenile PK, Baby would appeal to many and generate new meanings. But both Hebdo and PK are coincidental to its release, as it goes without saying. It is Pandey’s good fortune that both these disasters (of very different kind though!) turned out to be his lucky stars, that unwittingly gave him a rather smooth sailing at the box-office.