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.

'Aar Ekti Premer Golpo': Shall we say ‘a good start’?

Rituparno Ghosh’s Roop asks Indraneil Sengupta’s Basu if they are invited to appear at the Habitat together at the same time when his pregnant wife Rani (Churni Ganguly) wishes to go out for biriyani at Karim’s, who is he going to choose. Basu does not have an answer; in fact, he cannot have. For, both Roop and Rani are equally important and indispensable to him. Kaushik Ganguly captures with subtlety the tragedy of the bisexual man who oscillates and exhausts himself in maintaining the balancing act between his wife and boyfriend. While the whole world has labeled Aar Ekti Premer Golpo as the first Bengali ‘gay’ feature film, and in its review seems to tilt more towards delineating the vulnerability of the films two gay characters − Roop, the film director and Chapal Bhaduri, the veteran folk theatre actor, the vulnerability of Basu, the bisexual cinematographer is almost elided, as if he did not exist. What is remarkable is that the film does not stereotype Roop’s lover as exploitative or manipulative, but sensitively handles his character which, commendably enough, does not verge on the perverse. Basu’s tragedy is that he is caught between two relationships, one, socially approved, the other not; but the emotional quotient involved in both is equal. The last scene where Roop and Basu kiss and cry before they separate the reality of this in-between-ness and the very impossibility of finding a remedy to it becomes all the more conspicuous; and perhaps, it is here the film scores the most, notwithstanding its sensitive handling of the homosexual men as well.

So, let’s not call Aar Ekti Premer Golpo, a gay love story; let’s be a little more term-sensitive, and call it, a queer love story. However, the irony is, while the title of the film makes a laudable endeavour to dispense of with the sexual identity of its protagonists (underscored by the words aar ekti translated as ‘just another’), terms such as ‘gay’, ‘bisexual’, or ‘queer’ cannot be done away with in interpreting the film. At one point Roop is questioned by a media-person whether the focus of his film is on Chapal Bhaduri’s sexual life; he annoyingly retorts that had he been making a film on Amitabh Bachchan, would he have asked him the same question. Do we refer to say, You’ve Got Mail or say Saptapadi as a heterosexual or straight love story? We don’t. But in case of a film dealing with same-sex relationships say, Brokeback Mountain, some branding such as ‘gay’, ‘lesbian’ or ‘bisexual’ is found almost indispensable. Can we stop being queer or feminist, and just be humanist? Perhaps labeling is indeed necessary to advance an identity politics in a world which is essentially sympathetic only to heteronormativity. The debate may continue endlessly, as to whether labeling of alternative sexual inclinations is necessary or not, but I am going to leave it to that, and turn on Aar Ekti Premer Golpo as of now.

Roop, the self-proclaimed liberated gay film director from Delhi who effortlessly cross-dresses and is very assertive about it, is, in a way, the alter-ego of Chapal Rani, the yesteryear folk-theatre actor of Bengal, who impersonated female characters on stage. At one point in the film, Momo (Raima Sen) tells Basu that Roop is using the story of Chapal Rani’s life as a peg to hang his own story. Such an observation, though refuted by Basu, is, I feel, true; for, Chapal Bhaduri has all of a sudden drawn much attention from filmmakers and cultural commentators in the wake of LGBTQ studies becoming ‘fashionable’ in India. He has, almost overnight, graduated into an object of study, owing to his sexual fluidity. Then again, his story is also needed to be told, and yes, the focus is severely upon his sexual life. No matter how vehemently Roop denies (in a penchant to be politically correct) that he would not highlight the actor’s sexuality, he ends up, childishly demanding Chapal Rani to be honest with his sexual life. The ambivalence in Roop becomes most palpable if one juxtaposes two scenes:

(1) At the very beginning of the film, Roop compassionately tells Chapal to stop telling his tale if he finds it very painful.

(2) In the end, Roop flares up with anger when Chapal refuses to expose some very private details of his life.

The undercurrent of exploitation is there, no matter, how much Roop and Chapal Bhaduri connect with each other. Or shall we say, queer people do hunt out stories (and it is necessary) that reflect their own lives in order to empower the rebellion against heteronormativity?

What is interesting is that, though Roop may appear as Chapal’s alter ego in the film (an observation that is strengthened by the film-with-the-film), both are different. While Chapal feels like a woman trapped within a man’s body, Roop celebrates his sexual fluidity. Both are gay, but not in the same way. Besides, locating the characters in history is also very important. The reality of having alternative sexual inclinations is not same for an English-educated, financially liberated, urban film director of the new millennium and a closeted, uneducated, economically handicapped folk-theatre actor of rural Bengal. Momo is right when she says that although Roop doesn’t admit to himself, he is as closeted as Chapal deep within. But superficially at least, Roop is considerably liberated, although he, like Chapal, remains lonely till the end.

Some of my friends were skeptical that the film might end up leaving the wrong message that gay people are essentially effeminate and are always victimized. The suggestive gayness in Jisshu Sengupta’s Uday who gradually falls in love with Roop perhaps saves the film from reasserting the stereotype. Many queer activists might find ridiculous how a young Chapal is always inclined to emulate heterosexual marital bonds in his relationship with his lovers. He cooks, washes clothes, looks after the house and the kids, and acts passive in bed. But it should be borne in mind Chapal could not have been otherwise, given his spatio-temporal location, and his lack of ‘community’.

Rituparno Ghosh’s acting debut is just about okay; someone younger could have been better, perhaps. Indraneil Sengupta is as usual mind-blowing, especially in the film-with-the-film. Jisshu Sengupta with a characteristic nonchalance would definitely take the cake. Raima Sen with her sheer effortlessness is gradually emerging as a good actor. Churni is fantastic as paraplegic in the film-with-the-film.

Aar Ekti Premer Golpo is definitely a good start; though not iconoclastic in the true sense of the term, it does open up new avenues for future directors to experiment on the same lines.

PS: The scene where Chapal and the paraplegic Gopa dance to Pran bhoriye trisha bhoriye would stay with you forever.

"Moner Manush": Where’s this Arshinagar?

None can deny the indispensability of Lalan Fakir today. In the wake of communal violence that is ripping and tearing our country into uncountable pieces, Lalan’s philosophy of life and his world-view seem all the more relevant. While the Bengal Renaissance was bringing about unprecedented cultural transformation in the city, Lalan with his simplistic songs had brought in a revolution in the remote villages of Bangladesh, invalidating the caste-system and calling into question communal differences, especially between Hindus and Muslims, the two religious communities operating almost as binary opposites in the cultural consciousness of Bangladesh. Born into an orthodox Hindu family, and rescued and rejuvenated by a Muslim woman, Lalan graduated into a visionary who could not differentiate between communities. His utopian village in the heart of the forest turned out to be the Arshinagar (city of mirrors) of his song, where communal and gender differences were dissolved into an Anandabazar. However, his quest for Moner Manush (the man of the soul) continued till the very end of his life. It’s a union all great poets have always craved for, but have always felt a few yards short of achieving it: Milan hobe koto dine, amar moner manusher sone? was to be soon complemented by the heart-rending melody of Dariye achho tumi amar gaaner oparey/Amar sur guli paye charan, ami pai ne tomare…

Goutam Ghosh’s choice of subject is indeed remarkable. Sunil Gangopadhyay’s novel (or shall I say biopic?) on Lalan Fakir’s life, if read and understood, can act as a remedy to the contemporary disease of communal fundamentalism and associated violence from which our country has still not found respite. Structured like a bildungsroman (it may also be read as a kuntsleroman), the film traces Lalan’s journey from a simple village boy to a cultural icon of colonial Bengal. Because films are audio-visual, a lot could be said without the use of dialogues. The biggest flaw of the film is that more is told than shown, although the director’s expertise as a cinematographer shows itself in every single frame. Sticking too close to the written narrative, at 160 minutes the film seems to be testing your patience. Had it been a good 40 minutes shorter, Moner Manush would have been a classic piece of cinema. Sometimes, the film resorts to didacticism: the ‘preachiness’ of the dialogues could have been avoided by a smarter script. For instance, when Lalan comes back to his family as a Fakir, the conservative Hindu mother and his wife face a terrible crisis. They can neither give up on him, nor give up their jaat, for he has been nurtured by a Muslim family. The scene could have been made poignant had less been said; the pathos of the scene is totally marred by the in-your-face dialogues on caste and religion.

I am not too happy with Prasenjit’s performance; but, I do admit, he has tried to give his best. The vocal intonations were quite forced, and the voice-over (the songs) did not quite match with Prasenjit’s original voice. Paoli Dam is average, and looks funny in her first song, where she appears more like a lifeless puppet who dances as some unseen string is maneuvered from somewhere to help her make the moves. Indeed, the acting department is awfully poor. The songs are good, but not always used at the right sequence. The cinematography, as I already mentioned, is brilliant…the verdure green, the blue rivers of Bangladesh are brought to life by the camera that caresses them affectionately.

On the whole, Moner Manush is not bad; good for a one-time watch. But it does not leave any indelible impression as the expectation had been. No matter, how very much the Bengali film industry is raving about it, do not trust them. Or else, you would be disappointed. For, the film has not been able to leave the aftertaste of having truly visited Arshinagar.

The Varanasi Blast

I could not imagine myself ranting about a blast that apparently blew up the Ganga-aarti on Sitala Ghat in Varanasi about which I was going gaga even a week ago. Today’s newspaper headline left me practically paralyzed. Who engineered the blast is not important to me, but what plagues me is the utter intolerance that is prevailing unmitigated in our country. The papers are juxtaposing the 2006 blast in Varanasi and the 1992 Babri Masjid demolition with yesterday’s terrorist attack in order to place this blast in history. Such an attempt is a painful reminder of several unspeakable incidents of communal violence that have torned our country asunder and have left deep incurable scars on our souls. No communal violence can be treated as an isolated affair; and I am inevitably reminded of Paul R. Brass who observes: “It is not possible to develop a casual theory of ethnic riots separate from the discusses which encompass them free from the pressures of the prevailing ideologies and social scientific paradigms and the master narrative into which they are so often placed” (Riots and Pogroms, p.11).

Every time these terror attacks, these ethnic riots take innocent lives, I wonder whether we are not too far away from regressing into complete barbarism. The irony of our hi-tech society is that the more we have advanced technological, the more reactionary have we become in terms of humanitarianism. If “eye for an eye” is the philosophy which rules the worldview of several ethnic groups that constitute this nation, the very idea of the Indian nation would collapse very soon, if it practically hasn’t already. Let’s delete such terms as democracy, republic, etc. from our constitution, which barely have anything to do with our present-day reality. The grand narrative of nationalism has already seen its demise in the wake of global postmodernism…only that, we are learning it the hard way. This is, however, not to suggest that any alternative to the democratic framework of the nation is desirable; we do not want India to emulate Burma or Sri Lanka. But what lies ahead is utter darkness. I feel sorry for myself that I cannot afford to be optimistic any more. Is there anyone out there who can see a silver lining anywhere on the fringes of this dark dismal cloud that has covered us?

Varansi: What's not so holy about it!

Well…my nine-day work and play in India’s supposedly holiest city has left me craving for Dettol which would have turned into an Obsessive Compulsive Disorder had I stayed there for even a week more! My heart had already filled with misgivings the moment I had stepped on the platform which, incidentally turned out to be abnormally shorter than the length of the train, causing us to jump and tripping over our luggage which we had literally thrown down beside the track. This was followed by the usual hazards of finding the right kind of transport, and once it was eventually found, we were ushered into pandemonium as it were. Milton would have certainly found more epic similes appropriate to describe hell, had he ever experienced the Varanasi traffic. There were barely any signals, and almost no traffic police (the one we saw at a crossing was busy checking out clothes on the roadside stand), and what we witnessed on the streets was ten times less disciplined than the post-Tsunami chaos one encountered in the South Asian islands. Thankfully there were no buses; the smaller vehicles bumped into each other, rubbed against each other, shoved people (and the ubiquitous oxen) out of their way, yet, nobody complained, as if, chaos was the order! And I better not talk about the pedestrian! I found it difficult to apply even ‘downmarket’ to them; that was discovered to be a serious understatement. In fact, there are no adjectives in the English dictionary to sufficiently describe the crowd which famously or infamously resembled our Canning/Diamond Harbour counterpart. Arrrrrrrrrrrrrgh! What struck me in the midst of the chaos was that the city was terribly dirty! I doubt whether there is at all any sanitary system, or may be a different meaning of sanitation is in vogue there! By the time we reached our hotel, we were imagining dirt trickling down our bodies, which no ablution ceremony could purge.

The Dashwamedh Road, where we stayed, could even give our Chandni Chowk a run for its money, for a never-ending stream of humanity floated over it, as perennially as the Ganga herself. And this part of the city was a curious mixture of tradition and modernity! Signs of globalization existed side by side with the past which made itself heard rather stridently. Global travellers strolled on the streets taking in the chaotic oriental holiness, overwhelmed by the spirituality which was rather palpable. The Kashi Viswhanath Temple and the Annapurna Temple were only two of the several holy abodes that housed around 84 lakh gods and goddesses of the Hindu pantheon. Spirituality was literally in the air, but depressingly undercut by a feeling of nausea that never seemed to desert me. The only time, I felt sufficiently removed from the calamity that reigned was at the time of the Ganga-Aarti, a ritualistic performance with several props. Holy songs accompanied the dance-like movements of the priests (might not be priests, actually) who carefully performed the Aarti in remarkable harmony with each other in front of an awestruck audience. The scene appeared heavenly from the boat floating on the river.

The famous alleyways were remarkably adventurous, giving you the feel of getting lost in a maze, with old intimidating houses augmenting the feeling of claustrophobia with every step that was taken. You would be invariably reminded of Jatayu who had felt that every single house lining the alleyways was haunted. Yes, true enough! They were haunted by the past, overburdened by the histories they carried with them. In certain places, it seemed as if history was caught in a time-warp and had not been allowed to flow on. And as we took the boat-ride, we were taken back in time, for the scene on the shore appeared to belong to another era altogether. In the boatman’s narrative myth and history effortlessly slipped into each other: it was difficult to filter out myth from history. While it seemed that this journey had brought us closer to the mythological figures of Shiva, Parvati or such epic characters like Rama and Sita, we also seemed to be in dialogue with such recent historical figures like Munshi Premchand. The feeling that time had flown uninterrupted with the perennially flowing river made us feel a ripple flowing down the spine…! We too were an important part in the everlasting river of human history.

P.S: The cuisine: if you cannot do without non-veg, well, Varanasi is not a place for you. But, if you know how to spot the right eating-place, then, even veg dishes could be mouth-watering. We doted on Shree Café, behind the Dashwamedh Lodge, which we accidentally discovered for the restaurant recommended to us was closed. Punjabi, Chinese and Israeli dishes that comprised the menu were marvellous. My insatiable lust for flesh (read chicken, mutton, etc) was to a great extent appeased by the food Shree Café served. And then, there were traditional Varanasi items to taste. First, rabri and then, of course, a huge spectrum of sweets. Although, I am not too much of a sweet-person, I could not really resist the temptation of tasting a few. The rabri was awesome, and it’s a different experience to have it while it was being made. And not to forget the kauchoris and samosas! I believe Varanasi is perhaps most traditional here: the people are simply not bothered about calorie-gain! No matter how many global clothes the roadside stands that have gobbled up half the roads display, the food habit seems to have remained unchanged!

Two recent television ads and ‘gay’ sites of sexual ambivalence

Still from the Wild Stone Ad

The Wild Stone Talc for Men ad pleads with the men: DO NOT SMELL LIKE A WOMAN…SMELL LIKE A MAN. The very constructed nature of gender becomes more than apparent in the plea. The ad begins with images of men who the hypermasculine voice-over (speaking grammatically incorrect English) points out as effeminate and therefore ‘wrong’: a man with long hair, a metrosexual man in a parlour and an overweight man who cries and expresses joy in an effeminate way. However, in the ad, the male body is offered as an object of desire; the man, so far used to using women’s talcum powder makes seductive ‘feminine’ gestures…his muscular body does not quite match with his ‘imposed’ effeminate movements (this is made clearly evident)…thereby underlining the gap between masculinity associated with a well-built body and effeminacy which is ‘other’ to the muscular body. The simple equation that is thereby generated between the muscular body and manliness in turn generates an essentialization of the structure of the body and sexual behaviouralism. This essentialization is dangerous and unfortunately enough this has entered the popular consciousness. In fact, this notion by extension misinterprets effeminacy as gayness in most cases. (Also note the man in the ad is wearing baby pink) That there is no absolute connection between homosexuality and effeminacy is barely focussed upon in popular culture. As a result, incorrect ideas about masculinity, homosexuality, etc continue to circulate and get embedded in the popular unconscious.

However, the question of gaze becomes important here. Who does the camera assume as audience? Certainly, it intends to draw a loathsome reaction from the homophobic crowd, both male and female or those who do not believe in sexual ambivalence. But, by exhibiting the male body as spectacle doesn’t it also open up space to accommodate the heterosexual female as well as gay, bisexual and transsexual audiences as well?

A still from the Pepsi Ad

The second ad I would like to draw attention to is the latest Pepsi Youngistan ad featuring Ranbir Kapoor. The situation is rather funny: a guy has come to see a girl, and Pepsi is served; a marriage negotiation is on the cards. The girl is rather reluctant to marry. Suddenly Ranbir materializes from nowhere and kisses the would-be-groom on the cheeks. The guy is flabbergasted, the parents shocked, and the girl is delighted. The guy really does not know Ranbir and he says so; immediately another guy materializes from an adjacent room and asks the would-be-groom sadly whether he would also deny knowing him. The negotiation is broken off immediately and the girl thanks the boys for the drama. But they say they are there for the Pepsi; not to help her.

The little drama that Ranbir conjures up is surprisingly without any hidden mockery at gayness per se. The theme of the ad is totally in tune with the pranks Ranbir is usually seen to play on others in these ads with a characteristic naughtiness. Somehow one is bound to feel that after all some kind of naturalness is attributed to the possibility of homosexual affairs. However, the appearance of the second guy who also claims to be in a relationship with the would-be-groom underscores the polygamous nature of homosexual people. This is a kind of essentialization, no doubt. But, in a way, it also underscores the positive possibility of being in more than one relationship at the same time. The morality associated with heterosexual marriage and monogamy is overturned very subtly. However, the interpretation of this may vary. Some may look upon the introduction of the second guy as a disapproving commentary on the promiscuous nature of gay men. However, this may be read down by drawing attention to the fact that Youngistan wants more and still more…their desires are insatiable. Such desire is not only confined to the material realm of gadgets, food or fashion, but also effortlessly extends to the emotional world. So promiscuity or multiple affairs have become the order of the day, and are not specific only to same-sex relationships.

"Autograph": Signature of Love

The film sets in to usher you into wondering how many narrative frames are actually at work. It’s not confusing, but thrilling to note that the extra-diegetic circumstances leading to the making of Autograph itself may be at work here: I mean, a debutant director approaching a veteran actor to do his film. Is Subho (Indraneil Sengupta), Srijit Mukherjee himself? Are the initial scenes a direct one-on-one take on what happened in real life? And, then, there’s this film within the film. So, what you have is a Chinese box narrative, facilitating a complex layering that does not confuse but please with all its intricacies.

Intertextuality is a trope that is ardently adopted by postmodern artists, for no work of art can claim to be original. Either overtly or covertly, subtexts of already written texts are present in every work of art is produced, and therefore, the heavy subtext of Nayak that underlies (or overlies, perhaps) Autograph fascinate as the audience is sort of engaged almost compulsively into a mind game whereby he/she delightfully recognizes the similarities with the Ray classic and of course, the departures from them. What is praiseworthy is that despite being ambitious (the ambition being as monumental as remaking Nayak), the film is completely unpretentious and somewhat humble in its treatment of the subject. Srijit Mukherjee would never invite the kind of criticism that Sanjay Leela Bhansali had to face in his attempt to remake Devdas; for very intelligently this debutant director somehow does not leave any space for comparison. Autograph is a new film, in the true sense of the term.

The love that blossoms between Arun (Prosenjit Chatterjee) and Srinandita (Nandana Deb Sen) is something that we had desirously expected to bud between the debonair Uttam Kumar and the coy Sharmila Tagore in Nayak. The suggestion of a developing soft corner was there, but that never matured. Autograph sort of compeletes, yet leaves incomplete that seemingly infinitely postponed romance in the beautiful emotional drama that shapes up involving the veteran actor and the debutant heroine. The film does send out a moral lesson, but so subtly that if you are not to alert you may just miss out on it. Subho’s transformation is the key to the moral: juxtapose the two scenes: Subho smilingly putting a coin on the beggar-boy’s plate and Subho rolling up the cab window as the beggar-boy expectantly peers in, towards the end of the film. Nothing great apparently: but do note Indraneil Sengupta’s expressions in both scenes. Mute, but they speak volumes. Indraneil would take you by storms. He is the discovery of the millennium, as far as Bengali cinema is concerned. He has effortlessly overshadowed Prosenjit who seems a bit strained. He does not really have the charisma of Uttam Kumar and he struggles to look believable. Nonetheless, he has tried --- a far cry from what he does in other films, generally.( I would like to point out that whatever Prosenjit did after his remarkably intense performance in Dosor, seemed to lack in something. It would be difficult for him to outperform himself. The intended irony was towards Konkona, but ironically enough, it was Prosenjit who drew all our tears by his sheer helplessness!) Nandana puts up a believable performance…a good choice!

The songs are marvellous! I am still revelling in the rhythms “Amake aamar moto thakte dao”…kudos to Debojyoti Mishra! Soumik Halder’s camera credibly enlivens the very urbanity of Calcutta and the depth of melancholia that resides in the interstices of the city. Note the scene where a flock of white birds fly over the vast expanse of the city at daybreak. It’s heart-warming! Srijit Mukherjee is certainly the new director on the block we can now look up to! The good news is that perhaps Bengali cinema is once again coming of age!

"Do Dooni Char": Value for money happily redefined

Walt Disney’s foray into Bollywood could not have been more delightful; having tickled the funny bone of millions across the globe, Walt Disney stays true to its favourite genre in Habib Faizal’s Do Dooni Char, only that the latter conflates the tragic and the comic with a light-heartedness that brings it close to black humour, but the angst is more of an undertone than overtly felt. What touches most is the palpable reality of middle-class-ness and its irresistible consumerist aspirations: the Duggal family becomes a metonymy of the middle class and its perpetual monetary constraints. The furniture, the bedcovers, the stained chopping board, the clothes…in fact, everything is quintessentially middle class, yet the ‘feel good’ factor is never missed. For, the extraordinary couple Rishi and Neetu Kapoor bring effortless warmth into the family which grows more real with every passing minute. The main action of the film concentrates on the transition which the Duggal family almost challengingly undertakes from an almost dilapidated scooter to a four-wheeler. What follows is a crazy but highly identifiable drama with all its middle class nuances, ending up in the victory of the Duggal family. I consciously use the term ‘victory’ here, for the film does end up celebrating fundamental middle class values of honesty and perhaps the sheer happiness that comes from achieving goals through hard work, and a general deprecation of dishonest shortcut to easy money.

The film comes at a time when inflation has reached one of its rare heights, terribly affecting the middle-class. The disadvantages of globalization are perhaps felt a little more intensely now that the cultural capital of the middle-class has considerably increased, but the sustenance of the same seems difficult. The new consumerist generation feels no qualms to bid farewell to old moral values, for the only ethos available to them is money. Recalling the simplicity of folklores, Do Dooni Char primarily addressing GenY, tells an everyday story finally ending with a moral. The victory of the father lies not only in his success in buying a small car for the family, but in his success in being able to convert his children to his own world-view. I highly recommend this film to everyone. It’s truly value for money redefined; it fact, literally. You would get the intended pun in the last sentence only when you watch the film.

P.S: The Neetu-Rishi chemistry sizzles with a dignity that perfectly suits their age. Pity that son Ranbeer is trying hard to draw audiences to his Aanjana Aanjani at the same time. The parents have won over the son, hands down.

Food Soulful!

Paneer makhani

My microwave tales have been almost verging on the irritating for my dear colleagues were not getting to taste anything…so theoretical renditions of fabulous microwave yields were simply grating on their nerves, and all my valorous culinary experiments were, perhaps, becoming suspicious. Finally, however, I promised them to bring something, microwaved to college. I thought of several things: chicken fry, chicken butter masala, paneer butter masala, etc…but finally zeroed in on paneer makhani. And to compliment that asked Ma to make alu ka paratha. Pure North Indian cuisine from a middle class Bengali kitchen. However, my colleagues (barring Samata) are barely bothered about the origin of a dish…they generally do not mind anything as long as it is chewably digestible.

Alu ka paratha

My text-messages started spreading the news of a hatke Monday lunch as I shopped for paneer makhani. Paneer, tomatoes, ginger, garam masala, tomato ketchup, kasuri methi, cashew nuts, butter, and milk. I was specifically worried about the kasuri methi; it was an unavoidable ingredient but Sujan is psychologically allergic to anything green. So, I had to message him in advance that he should not mistake kasuri methi for dhone pata, the latter being a major turn-off for him. Suman has already gone onomatoepic in his messages, expressing lustful anticipation for a superb Monday lunch, thereby augmenting my tension manifold. I did not inform Krishnendu, the food-freak hard to match in enthusiasm, for I wished to surprise him on Monday. And, Sujan had almost compelled me to add another guest on the list: Kinsuk. It’s not that I did not wish to invite him; but it was Sujan who had almost made me call him up injecting in me a fear that I might die repenting later if I had not.

A sumptuous amount of paneer cooked in butter base was not good for Sujan, at least. Samata and I have been advising him on resorting to a healthy diet (which meant sufficient amount of vegetables and items containing fibre), for Sujan is one big (literally too) carnivorous guy who has never known the taste of green vegetables. I was feeling a tad guilty, for inviting him to eat something I had been sagaciously advising him against having. Anyways…

Sauteed Vegetables

We had fixed 1o’clock as our lunchtime, and all five of us gathered around the table of our department. Now, Samata had a surprise. She did not tell me that she had cooked something ‘really’ Chinese for us. Samata often saves us from the atrocious canteen offerings by her delicious cheese spreads, and sometimes something from Bobby di’s kitchen. This was the first time she had actually cooked something. What? Vegetables, mushrooms and paneer sautéed in soya-sauce. It smelt so Chinese, and it tasted so as well. The recipe was unostentatious, but amazing. Well, Samata had not flouted the health rules we were trying to impose on Sujan: she had him have a purely veggie dish for the first time; and that too cooked in negligible amount of oil. Sujan’s first step to healthy eating!

The fusion spread on the table (North Indian alu ka paratha and paneer makhani with Chinese-style sautéed vegetables) looked just as odd as chalk-and-cheese, but the whole thing reminded me of the inexpert charuibhatis (picnic) we used to have years back! The ambience was actualized by the juvenile excitement of Sujan, Suman and Krishnendu…all three made it a day for us, simply by praising our effort.

I also surprised myself. The paneer predominantly tasting of kasuri methi simply melted into asking for more while the alu ka paratha rocked. I am not sure whether the food was really that good! But all of us were happy. Perhaps that seasoned the spread generously.

Image Courtesy: Sujan Chandra

Peepli [Live]: All is not so well!

The news of Jitu Bagdi’s suicide is what I woke up to today in the morning...the 28-year old sharecropper, a resident of Karotia village in the Burdwan district, poisoned himself to death, unable to payback a loan of Rs. 10,000 (approximately US $ 200), as the crops failed due to scanty rainfall. Five kilometres away, in the village of Basantapur, another suicide was reported a few days ago…Yunus Sheikh another peasant had met with the same fate having failed to repay a loan of Rs. 22,000 (approximately US $ 440). Anusha Rizvi’s Peepli [Live] delves into this grim reality, and commendably so, but despite the sincere efforts, remains somehow detached from the real tragedy. By resorting to the comic mode, it manages to be sporadically entertaining, but the way the narrative is designed is quite predictable. In fact, Rizvi makes too much of the media, and at times, the audience ends up feeling confused whether it’s a lampoon on the media or satire on a major social problem. Actually by taking the satire on the media to an irritating, unbearable extreme, the director often loses focus.

However, the film does have its sunshine moments, thanks to the ensemble cast of non-stars, each of whom delivers power-packed performances. The difficult-to-pacify, half-paralysed, petulant mother who half-rises from her shabby khatia to abuse her daughter-in-law or shout at her good-for-nothing sons and the misfortune they have brought upon the family, is someone you would look forward to as one scene fades into another. The peasant brothers are brilliant too: especially Nattha who turns into a hero overnight having declared that he would commit suicide. The scene where the two brothers fight with fraternal affection against each other as to who would commit suicide is perhaps the most comical of all the scenes, most of the others verging precariously on the slapstick. Little did Nattha know that his life would be transformed in a twinkling of an eye, and all the media attention he gets thereafter makes his life hellish. The government officials, the ministers, the local political leaders are unsparingly satirised, and much of what they do to save the peasants makes for a laughing circus, which, as it goes without saying, does not yield any results. The ending of the film is certainly a telling commentary on how peasants are forced to migrate from the villages in search of asylums in cities, where they are thrust into life-long anguish and pain, no better than the life they have left behind. The poor peasant who quietly drags his loaded bicycle past the media-mela (carrying sacks of soil he digs out from his land), and dies in the end, but does not get any media attention, is another character one may look forward to.

Now friends, a word of caution: Do not rave about Peepli [Live] because everybody is raving about it. If you do not call the film good, your capacity to sympathise with the subaltern would not be called into question. Judge the film from the point-of-view of a film critic and not a social reformer, and you would surely find it wanting. The film is entertaining stuff…and by the virtue (or vice) of being so, the film becomes a typical bourgeoisie take on a serious peasant issue, for both eyes of the business-minded producer (read Aamir Khan) were on the box-office. Yes, the subaltern really cannot speak, and that’s why the bourgeoisie can gleefully sentimentalise on their issues…and when they really speak out…well, our government is already having sleepless nights, no?

P.S: The film may also be judged as a deliberate exercise in lightening the whole issue of peasant suicides for that's what the government has been doing so far. From this point of view, the film may appear a little more appealing.

"Once Upon a Time in Mumbai": Retelling a Postmodern Myth

Are myths really timeless? Yes, they are. Is it impossible to trace the origin of a myth? No, not really. For, myths do not always belong to prehistoric times. Myths can be created every day. In fact, the myths surrounding the Mumbai underworld are perhaps the most recent, and created and perpetuated by the Hindi film industry. Beginning in the late 60s, throughout the 70s and well into the 80s, this myth has been repeated so many times that for a Hindi film-buff the villain had become synonymous with the smuggler, who lived in a palatial mansion with an underground den having electrocuted entrances and where money, jewellery and all sorts of desirable things were hidden in chambers with password protected doors and blinking red-lights. This is magic realism at its best. Postmodern fictional representation often uses a trope which is referred to as ‘literalization of metaphor’. These fantastical garish films of the 70s and 80s did not ever use the world underworld. Rather they literally situated the villain (or the don) in a den that was underground. The best example would be Mogembo’s hi-tech den in Mr. India.

The Hindi film villain was always a diabolical smuggler, who also became a tragic hero in Don. Although the villain was finally killed, and all was set aright, the glamour surrounding the underworld and the easy road to money it ensured was difficult to overlook. The city of Bombay, apart from being the epicentre of the film industry and the associated glamour, also catapulted into a much desirable destination, thanks to the rumours (sometimes truths) about how its underworld was a utopia where fame, money, glamorous women and every other pleasure was easily accessible. Milan Lutharia’s Once Upon a Time in Mumbai, traces the reality behind the origin of the myth. ‘Once upon a time’− the very title resorts to the oft-repeated first line of fairy tales, thereby cleverly juxtaposing legend and reality, for it squarely locates the myth in a real space − the city of Mumbai. Although the disclaimer denies any relation to the lives of Haji Mastan and Daud Imbrahim, the story as it unfolds, speaks otherwise. One may argue that Once Upon a Time in Mumbai is nothing new, for Ram Gopal Varma has already told the same story in his critically acclaimed Company years ago. But the novelty of this film is that it not only reveals the myth which has so far served as the main source of plot material for numerous Hindi movies of the 70s, it also goes commendably in the retro mode to tell it in the 70s way! The sets, the costumes, the high-strung acting, the power-packed punch lines, the loud background score…everything is so very 70s, after all. Ram Gopal Varma’s Company was in the realistic mode; but Once Upon a Time, true to its title, recreates the fantastically over-the-top glam-world of the 70s. The departure from the stock 70s plot is made where the film refuses to draw the line between good and bad, and explores the grey area. That a lot of research has gone into the making is clearly visible. However, my approach to the film may send out the wrong signal that I was rather impressed by the movie. Actually I wasn’t. For, after all, the plot and execution is pretty average.

Of the performances, I would rate Emraan Hasmi and Prachi Desai quite high. Ajay Devgn is quite believable in the role he plays. I did not like Kangana Ranaut, for I do not like her, generally. Thank god, she did not sit precariously forlorn on the window sill or attempt suicide in her favourite hang-out, that is, the washroom. The supporting cast does not impress for the focus is so squarely on the two heroes that they almost sleep-walk through the film, it seems. By the way, Randeep Hooda makes a surprise come-back as the tough cop and puts up a praiseworthy show, as slick as his waistline.

I do not really recommend this film, but a one-time watch, when you have nothing to waste money on, is not discouraged.

"Inception": Maya and all that?

Well, I am still very unsure of my surroundings, although I am already four days away from the curtains closing in upon the end-titles of Christopher Nolan’s path-breaking Inception. No amount of Freud or Jung or any other psychoanalyst can really provide a clue to the narrative that very often crosses the thin line between dream and reality. It’s difficult to make the distinction; a one-time watch is certainly not sufficient to unravel the several levels of dream and reality on which the narrative operates. True, some explanation is given at regular intervals…but following the visuals and interpreting them on your own requires you to be rather alert all the time…on your toes, literally. But it’s fun! It’s like solving a jig-saw puzzle which eternally expands to become more confounding.

And inception…the title…well, it’s a dangerous thing indeed! The film claims that it is possible to implant an idea in someone’s mind and make that person believe in it so deeply that he or she loses individual ways to seeing the world. The very thought is spine-chilling. The colonization of the human mind! Shall we say this is technological imperialism taken to its furthest limit?

And, there is this incredible machine that helps one visit someone else’s dream! Just come to think of it! And once again, this machine is used to visit the dream of a business tycoon…a marvellous game is played to incept in his brains the disastrous idea of splitting up his business empire for the benefit of his competitor who pays for the whole thing. This competitor is a South-east Asian. Does the film anticipate the rise of some other world power in the near future that might jeopardize the American sway across the globe?

Whatever it is, I highly recommend Inception. It’s a must-watch for that awesome mind-spinning experience and the associated pleasurable discomfort that stays with you for a long time.

"Udaan": Up, up, up!

Vikramaditya Motwane’s Udaan could have been lost in oblivion had not the Cannes breakthrough happened. It’s a very small film, and every frame, though shot commendably, shows how little money might have gone into its making. Money, in this case, did not matter. The Cannes recognition did not come just like that; though not completely flawless, Udaan struck gold at Cannes by a theme which has barely found focus in Indian films. It’s a very simple yet vehement critique of gender construction, an uncompromising unravelling of the deeply flawed conception of masculinity that has often wrought political havoc. The nerve-racking conflict between Rohan (Rajat Bamacheri, quite good as a debutant…not brilliant though) and his father (Ronit Roy in his Bandini avatar) and the latter’s triumph in the end dismantle a long history of a heteronormative patriarchal hegemony. The insensitive, militant and almost bestial father is apparently the villain and Rohan and his half-brother’s monumental struggle is to free themselves from his strangling control. In fact, while the audience’s full sympathy is directed towards the helpless boys, the sensitive makers (the trio of Motwane, Anurag Kashyap and Sanjay Singh) did not allow the audience to miss the helplessness of the father as well. The father rock-hard on the outside is not butter-soft in the inside − now that would have been an unforgivable cliché. If you are sensitive enough, you would certainly feel the father’s tragic predicament in his failure to understand how inextricably he has been interpellated in a system which so strongly demands hard-heartedness, militancy and a sheer sense of utilitarianism from a man that he has altogether lost his emotional self. Two of his wives are dead (the clear implication is that they were victims of his lust or his unearthly anger), he cannot relate to his sons, and he harbours a profound hatred for his brother who, he believes, is not manly enough for he has not been able to father a child. Surprisingly, however, he refrains from meeting Rohan in school fearing that he may spoil his fun. He is aware of his failure, yet cannot comprehend the reason behind it. In an emotionally charged moment, he confesses that he is simply tired of compromising with others, a compromise that had begun with his father. He is just another generation in a long lineage of patriarchal Fathers faced with a son who challenges his fixated notions of being and becoming a Man.

Rohan’s ambition of becoming a writer is totally alien to this father who only believes in the undaunted pursuit of worldly-ends. As Rohan operates the monstrous machine in the factory, his dream seems to be ground to death, every time the machine comes thumping down. His father in a drunken state teases him about his girl-like features and his ‘feminine’ ambition. Rohan’s subalternity in the household is also shared by his six-year-old half-brother Arjun whose childhood seems to have been robbed off. But Rohan learns to speak; in a dramatic altercation with the father, he ends up physically retaliating him. He literally runs away from the house, with the father chasing him. But this time he wins the race, and the exhausted father finally gives up on him. He, however, comes back to take away with him little Arjun. They are both freed from the prison, and they head for the dream city of Mumbai.

The ending is a tad utopian, but, nonetheless necessary. Although all fathers are not usually like Rohan’s, the model of aggressive hypermasculinity is more often than not the only compulsive model available to male children. Any digression from it is met with disdain and insult, often compelling children to forsake their true selves. Rohan’s father is a hyperbolic representation of many fathers who often impose upon their male children their own image. Rohan’s protest and final abandonment of the house is a telling act that steals the sanctity associated with the figure of the father and the mute submission he demands of his wards. Udaan, therefore, is not merely a coming-of-age story as the publicity campaigns call it. It’s much more than that. Indeed, while watching the film, I felt a bit uncanny that last week only I had been cribbing about the relationship between gender constructs and being adept in Mathematics on my blog. Udaan gives an aesthetic expression to my essay on “What’s there in Mathematics?” I hope you understand what I mean.

What’s there in Mathematics?

How many of you out there have suffered unspeakable heart-wrenching humiliation for not being good in Maths? I guess quite a handful of you, indeed! Even those who have somehow managed to become engineers and doctors! Well, all of a sudden, this morning I felt like retaliating for the endless insults naïve children have suffered in school, at home, among so-called sharper friends for having arithmophobia!

Now I was quite good in Maths, but somehow, I suffered from a constant fear that if I fail to cross that 80% bar this year, I shall fall in the eyes of my parents, teachers and classmates. Not only that, today, in retrospection, have I felt that proficiency in Maths has a lot to do with your maleness too. If you are not good in Maths, you are not a man…you are a sissy. Alarming indeed and that too in a country where a Sankuntala Devi was born! I remember that my parents were always more bothered about my marks in Maths, notwithstanding the fact that I was scaling heights in the Humanities. I almost ruefully recall that I could not even happily pronounce high scores in, say, Geography, if the marks in Maths were not up to the expectation. I knew what would follow was an awful humiliation…intimidating anticipations about my future when I would surely be left jobless. Such terrible scolding often left me dejected for days, and spent midnight oil apprehending a beggar’s future. I had seriously started believing that everything, even your life and of course, death, totally depended on your potential of solving Maths problems. My belief was strengthened as the years passed, for I witnessed a huge population of children suffering under the auspices of not being able to make out what was the use of the information that the hypotenuse of a right-angled triangle was greater in length than the two other sides.

Nobody bothers to teach children the philosophy of Maths; instead, they have attached with the subject a baggage of materialism: If you can’t be an expert in Maths, life will reject you forever! Isn’t that a criminal offence? I strongly think it is. Name one Maths teacher who can make you fall in love with Maths. Can you? Perhaps, no. For, most Maths teachers do not know how to relate those problems in the textbook with life. Now please do not take this at face value! Connecting Maths textbook problems with life doesn’t imply that knowing how to measure a line correctly can help you draw the plan of a house perfectly in the future. That’s useless knowledge! All of us do not turn into architects or goddamn civil engineers. I mean a more universal knowledge, knowledge of life! Surely, Maths can do that! But is that the way school textbooks teach the subject? Do they at all do anything rather than throwing many of us in the Darsheel Safary syndrome with its endless rubbish on numbers? Do these text books and for that matter the dolts that teach these books ever try to play with the magic of numbers and erase the fear from the little heads?

And to the parents: Do not feel at a loss when your child cannot score well in Maths. You know, that’s a good sign. At least, he or she would not degenerate into a machine. Celebrate if he or she excels in the Humanities…that would make them real human beings. I had deliberately given up on Maths in spite of a good score at the JEE. Instead I chose to study English Literature. Nothing catastrophic has happened to me, you see! I am quite successful in life, in my own little way, and thank God, calculations do not plague my peaceful slumber!