Film – The Wire

Arati Kadav’s ‘Mrs.’ Can’t Replicate ‘The Great Indian Kitchen’s’ Viscerality

Ultimately, it remains a low stakes film, not willing to take the risks of the original.

Arati Kadav’s Mrs. – an official remake of Jeo Baby’s The Great Indian Kitchen (2021) – is a technically sound film. It opens with a montage of delicacies being cooked in an average Indian kitchen. Editor Prerna Saigal cuts the meticulous preparation of each dish with a carefully choreographed piece, drawing our attention to the ‘dance’ most women have to endure inside a household, to keep it on its axis. Scored by Sagar Desai featuring sounds from everyday life (like squeaky, rusted gate offering rhythm to the track), the montage works well. But it can’t quite conjure the rhythm of Baby’s original film, which editor Francis Louis establishes in the never-ending loop of domestic labour thrust upon women. Especially inside a kitchen.

A still from Mrs. Photo: Screengrab from video.

Kadav, who broke out with imaginative Sci-Fi films (The Astronaut and His Parrot) using wide-eyed imagination to compensate for oppressive budgets, also constructs her latest venture with a similar amount of distance. The food photography is immaculate, the kitchen and the home look like they were built on a soundstage. Unlike Baby’s film, where both the kitchen as well as the home felt lived-in. When Richa (Sanya Malhotra) has to immerse her hand into a clogged sink to weed out the sediments at its bottom, it doesn’t feel as viscerally icky as Nimisha Vijayan’s character having to hand-pick the chewed-out bones thrown by her father-in-law and the husband, in the original film.

The Great Indian Kitchen did a sensational job of dispassionately recording the indignities the women in an Indian home have to suffer under the weight of their ‘duties’. Kadav’s film tries to replicate the same, but isn’t able to do so with a guttural intensity. What was affecting about Baby’s film is how casually the men of the family invisibilise the women’s work and by extension their identity as human beings – with thoughts, preferences, considerations.

A still from Mrs. Photo: Screengrab from video.

For a long time, I couldn’t even tell if Kadav’s film was set in Delhi or Mumbai or any other Indian city. Sanya Malhotra’s character appears to be dressed like a Maharashtrian bride in the film’s opening stretch, but then a character mentions Kamani auditorium, which indicates the film is set in Delhi. The original film has a crucial plot point involving the daughter-in-law voicing her dissent against the Supreme Court ruling barring women from entering the Sabarimala temple (because menstruation makes them ‘impure’). Kadav’s film swaps this for the low-stakes story of Richa bringing ‘shame’ on the family with her dance troupe’s YouTube channel. It’s a feeble, corporate-tested, diluted alternative, compared to the original.

Remakes usually require a new perspective, or some bold insights to keep things fresh for even those who have seen the original. Mrs. is the kind of faithful, strained remake that only wants to exploit the popularity of the original film, without raising the stakes for itself.

A word about Nishant Dahiya, who plays Richa’s husband as a two-dimensional ‘nice guy’ — it’s almost painful to watch, compared to Suraj Venjaramoodu – whose misogyny hides in plain sight, until his wife playfully calls out his ‘good manners’ in a restaurant. It’s a superbly tense scene in the original film, where the tone changes from fairytale to a hyper-realistic relationship drama.

A still from Mrs. Photo: Screengrab from video.

Kadav’s film seems to replicate the beats of a wedding film in the beginning, never quite shifting gears to the dystopian reality of a casteist Indian household that discriminates against a menstruating member of their family. Kanwaljit Singh, usually tasked with playing the ‘cool’ father/father-in-law character, is an interesting casting choice. Playing a rigid patriarch, who doesn’t compromise on the slightest of things, Singh brings a softness to the mundane cruelty he inflicts on the planets around him, while himself acting as the centre of the family’s universe. Unfortunately, even his character is plagued with a generic personality, never digging for deeper reasons behind why he’s like this.

Sanya Malhotra, a fine actor who can sail through terrible films with her spunk alone, can’t rise above the script’s lack of ambition. Who is Richa beyond her domestic duties and her love for dance – we hardly find out. What makes her angry, except the garden-variety sexism on display in her in-laws home? We never know. There’s a nice little dialogue about people (especially Indian women) being ‘prime numbers’, only divisible by themselves – that feels wasted in this underachieving film. Having said that, Malhotra does nail this one scene where she confronts her husband’s advances for being so inconsiderate about her own sexual pleasures.

As a remake, Mrs. should’ve aimed higher and taken more risks. Kadav’s talents are wasted in a film that ties both her hands, and then expects a culturally distinguishable film. As for Malhotra rising up against patriarchy, another film already made stellar use of her easy presence: Pagglait (2021).

*Mrs. is currently streaming on Zee5.

Ritwik Ghatak’s 1970 Documentary on Lenin Once Again Falls Prey to Political Censorship

The ruling Trinamool Congress’s tacit tolerance and implicit support of this censorship mirrors similar tactics seen in BJP-ruled states.

Kolkata: A relatively obscure documentary by renowned Bengali filmmaker Ritwik Ghatak, 54 years after its release, has drawn political wrath due to its title and subject matter. The abrupt cancellation of Ghatak’s documentary Amar Lenin (My Lenin) has rekindled debates about the growing impact of political agendas on India’s cultural sphere.

Setu, a local cultural group, had planned to celebrate Ritwik Ghatak Birth Centenary by screening two of his iconic films, Amar Lenin and Komal Gandhar, at a government school in South Kolkata. However, just hours before the event, the school revoked permission, citing unspecified “external pressures.”

“The school headmaster told us that there was pressure to stop the screening of Ghatak’s films. We then approached a local club, which initially agreed to host the screening but later backed out, citing “pressure from above”. With no other alternatives, we prepared to screen the films on a street corner,” explained Onkar Roy, the convener of Setu.

The principal of the school issued a clarification by saying that the school maintains a strict policy against “political content on campus, regardless of individual beliefs.”

“Setu requested permission for an event focused on Ghatak but did not disclose that it would involve film screenings. When posters advertising screenings of Amar Lenin and Komal Gandhar appeared, local politicians objected, stating that ‘Lenin cannot be brought into the school’. We were forced to withdraw our permission,” said Atin Das, the principal of Nakatala High School.

Commissioned by the West Bengal government to mark Lenin’s birth centenary, the 1970 documentary Amar Lenin explores how jatra, a traditional community-based theatre, was used by communists in rural Bengal to raise awareness about politically relevant issues.

A history of censorship

Ironically, the documentary was initially banned by the National Film Censorship Board for its controversial political themes. Ghatak had to seek intervention from Prime Minister Indira Gandhi. After her advisor P.N. Haksar brought the film to her attention, Gandhi personally reviewed and approved it in 1971, overriding the censorship board’s decision and enabling its release.

“Is it possible that, decades after his death, an artist’s ideas still pose such a threat?” asked Sanjay Mukhopadhyay, a film scholar who has extensively researched Ghatak’s work.

“What’s even more shocking is that this happened in Naktala, near the Azadgarh refugee settlement – a community Ghatak immortalised in films like Meghe Dhaka Tara and Subarnarekha. It’s deeply ironic to deny screenings in the very area he depicted,” added Mukhopadhyay.

“Those opposing this know neither Lenin nor Ritwik. This reflects societal ignorance,” said theatre artist and former Trinamool Congress MP Arpita Ghosh.

Ghosh’s own adaptation of Animal Farm, which satirised the Left Front government, faced bureaucratic delays and political criticism before finally being staged after then Chief Minister Buddhadeb Bhattacharjee’s intervention.

The Kolkata episode is far from isolated. The ruling Trinamool Congress’s tacit tolerance and implicit support of this censorship mirrors similar tactics seen in BJP-ruled states, where dissent is often branded “anti-national.”

A few years back, Bengali filmmaker Anik Dutta’s political satire criticising the Mamata Banerjee government was pulled out of theatres despite running full-show and required Supreme Court intervention to resume screening.

“In the current political climate, even Ritwik Ghatak isn’t spared? This isn’t just condemnable – it’s alarming,” lamented actor Ritwik Chakraborty.

Translated from the Bengali original by Aparna Bhattacharya.

On Cinema and Life: A Conversation with Anubhav Sinha | Samvad With Ashutosh

Watch The Wire Hindi’s Editor Ashutosh Bhardwaj in conversation with filmmaker Anubhav Sinha about his latest Netflix series -IC814 and the transition from theatre to OTT.

Watch The Wire Hindi’s Editor Ashutosh Bhardwaj in conversation with filmmaker Anubhav Sinha about his latest Netflix series -IC814 and the transition from theatre to OTT. He talks at length about the art of cinema, the experience of being uprooted from his hometown and living in a city like Mumbai, which Anubhav says is both cruel and benevolent.

Bauhaus and The Brutalist: Stories of the Revolutionary Immigrant Architects That Inspired the Film

When we refer to this emigration of German architects and intellectuals (or those culturally linked to Weimar Germany), the first image that comes to mind is emigration to the US, the land of opportunity – fictitious architect László Toth in ‘The Brutalist’ does just this.

László Toth, a Hungarian Jewish architect and Holocaust survivor, emigrates to the United States after World War II in search of a new life. After a rough start, a wealthy businessman recognises his talent and offers him a job that will change his life.

This is a very brief summary of Brady Corbet’s film The Brutalist, which stars Adrien Brody as Toth. While the protagonist of this almost four-hour film is fictional, his story is inspired by many real figures.

During the rise of Nazism in Germany, and especially after the de facto demise of the Weimar Republic in 1933, many intellectuals, scientists and other educated people chose to emigrate in search of a more favourable climate in which to work. For many, it was also a matter of life and death.

The legacy of Bauhaus

Many of these émigrés were architects associated with the Bauhaus, the famous school of design and architecture established in 1919 in Weimar. The institution, which later moved to Dessau and then to Berlin, left a legacy that endures to this day.

Bauhaus directors were among those who left Germany in this period. This included architect and Bauhaus founder Walter Gropius, who headed the school in Weimar and then Dessau, and designed the new building there. His Dessau successor Hannes Meyer also left, as did Mies van der Rohe, who headed the school in Dessau and Berlin, where the school was closed by the Nazi government.

Bauhaus building in Dessau, designed by Walter Gropius.

The Bauhaus was an indisputable cornerstone of interwar Germany’s cultural, political and social development, and while its architecture course was not established until about halfway through its existence, the school is worth studying from an architectural perspective.

While they each had different methods and priorities, the three aforementioned architects espoused a form of modern architecture that reflected a much broader movement that sought to change – with only partial success – the aesthetics and ethics of architecture, and even of life, at the time. All three taught their students to break with the styles of the past to offer a progressive architecture that met the era’s physical, aesthetic and cultural needs.

Of course, these men were not the only émigrés from Nazi Germany, but their stories (and those of other Bauhaus figures), can help us better understand this emigration that is often widely misunderstood.

The Bauhaus American dream?

When we refer to this emigration of German architects and intellectuals (or those culturally linked to Weimar Germany), the first image that comes to mind is emigration to the US, the land of opportunity – The Brutalist’s fictitious architect László Toth does just this.

This migration is the best known, certainly the most common, but not the only one. Moreover, it usually inspires images of the individualistic architect, a (male, of course) creative genius who puts his constructive ideals above everything else. This image was popularised by Ayn Rand’s 1943 novel The Fountainhead, and by the 1949 King Vidor film of the same title, starring Gary Cooper.

Two men speak in front of drawings, in what appears to be an architect's studio.

In truth, the picture is more complex and problematic. While our three architects all have elements in common – a commitment to modern and transformative architecture that shaped, and was shaped by, contemporary life – they did not all emigrate to the US. Nor did they go at the same time, or with the same aspirations, political and ethical commitment, or prizing their own architecture above all else.

Walter Gropius, who was from a well-off family, initially left Germany in 1934 for the UK before settling in Boston, Massachusetts in 1937 as a prominent faculty member of the newly established Harvard University Graduate School of Design. There, in addition to teaching, he set up an architectural practice called The Architects’ Collaborative.

Ludwig Mies van der Rohe, undoubtedly the most brilliant of the group, remained in Germany until 1938, where he continued to work in a not entirely hospitable political climate. He eventually settled in Chicago as director of the Illinois Institute of Technology, and began a brilliant career that would make him the US’ (an perhaps the world’s) defining post-war architect. His work was key to, among other things, developing the corporate office building that would epitomise American expansionist capitalism after the war.

Portrait of Lilly Reich. Photo: Wikimedia Commons (CC BY-SA 4.0)

Here, it is worth mentioning his longstanding Berlin business partner, designer and architect Lilly Reich, who also taught at the Bauhaus. Until recently Reich was overlooked, both for her direct role in much of Mies van del Rohe’s work and her individual output. Fortunately, researchers such as Laura Martínez de Guereñu are now shining a light on her life and work.

For her part, Reich opted to remain in her native Germany. Her status as a woman would undoubtedly have contributed to this decision, though it is difficult to say to what extent.

Socialist architectural visions

As we can see, there were indeed women architects working in Germany at the time, even if their gender rendered them all but invisible.

There were also, undoubtedly, many architects whose profile did not fit the mould of the strong-willed creative genius, but rather that of the progressive, politically committed intellectual. In many cases, these people were very close to communism and the alternative offered by Soviet Russia at the time.

A man in a coat and beret smiles at the camera.

Hannes Meyer, the least well-known of the three Bauhaus directors mentioned here, chose this other path.

His search for the ideal place to work did not include the individualistic, commercialised society of American capitalism, but rather, following his own communist leanings, that of the USSR, where he arrived in the late 1930s. His model was that of the architect fully in service to society, and he shunned any aesthetic or artistic protagonism. He was convinced that this type of architecture could only be practised in a classless society where the means of production belonged to the proletariat.

He remained in Moscow until 1936, when the country, under Stalin’s dictatorship, became increasingly closed off to foreign presence. After returning to Germany, he emigrated again to Mexico in 1939, and worked prolifically for ten years amidst the progressive social and political reform programmes of president Lázaro Cárdenas. He eventually returned to his native Switzerland, where he died in 1954.

The émigrés who followed in Meyer’s footsteps not only wanted to avoid the US, but also sought refuge where they could (or believed they could) best pursue their ideals. Instead of beautiful buildings, they envisioned an architecture that would help forge a new society and a new humanity.

In fact, as per the architect and scholar Daniel Talesnik, there was arguably a “Red Bauhaus” made up of modern architects who, following their escape from Nazi Germany, worked for the Soviet government.

These other cases, whose trajectory we have barely sketched here, have been less well known to both the general public and, until recently, to academics. However, this does not diminish their significance, and they deserve a greater place in history than they seem to have been given.

José Vela Castillo, Profesor de Teoría, Historia y Proyectos de Arquitectura de la IE School of Architecture and Design, IE University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Justin Lin’s ‘Last Days’: Another Tone-Deaf Hollywood Adventure Which Could Have Been a Solid Character Study

The film fails to explore the complexities of the missionary’s motivations and also gets the Andaman and Nicobar Island wrong.

Is Justin Lin genuinely curious about other cultures? It’s a question that came to me early on while watching Last Days, his latest feature. Based on Alex Perry’s sparkling profile (for Outside magazine) on American missionary Jon Allen Chau, who attempted to make contact with the North Sentinelese tribe in the Andaman & Nicobar Islands to convert them to Christianity, Lin’s film advertises its lack of rigour by scoring a montage shot in Port Blair (the capital of the archipelago) to a Rajasthani folk song.

Being among the handful of Indians in the screening being held in Park City (Utah), I laughed out loud at this jarring and half-hearted choice. The lack of cultural resonance between the visual and the music didn’t seem to bother viewers around me. Probably because, as far as they were concerned, this was a film set in India scored to Indian folk music. Cultural specificity be damned. It’s also the kind of low-effort film, where an Indian restaurant is called Khaana Peena (Food & Drink).

Lin’s film is riddled with bad choices: inspectors in Andaman & Nicobar Islands speak in English, even while talking to local fishermen. It sounds even more amusing when they’re being hysterical and berating their juniors. Naveen Andrews, Hollywood’s go-to conduit for most things South Asian, isn’t the worst thing in the film. There are shades of a cynical cop without any of his subordinate’s (Radhika Apte) idealism. It’s the cut-out of a trope, something Andrews isn’t able to elevate. What infuriated me more is the film’s treatment towards Meera (Apte).

Radhika Apte is a committed actor, unafraid of the big swings, making it that much easier to make her look silly in bad films. Playing a freshly-minted cop from the academy, the American embassy’s point-of-contact for their missing national, Apte’s Meera has to jump through the hoops of her clearly misogynist, dismissive superior (played by Andrews). Meera is shown to be a closeted queer character – a detail purely so that the film can convince us of her empathy for the Sentinelese. It’s a shockingly amateur choice by director Lin and screenwriter Ben Ripley.

The film embraces none of the complexity of Perry’s profile – exploring the blurred lines between faith and delusion. Jon (Sky Yang) – a second-generation Asian American raised to be a Christian – is shown to be graduating from a Christian college. Gifted a stethoscope by his father (Ken Leung) for his graduation, Jon doesn’t wish to go to medical school, a life-long dream held by his father. He wishes to preach God’s word to the remotest corners of the world.

What makes a missionary so rigid in their belief system? Especially in the case of Jon – who seems to have the vocabulary to debate, and make a case for his faith against non-believers. We see no verbal sparring in Lin’s film. What makes him so hell-bent on contacting the North Sentinelese, apart from youthful hubris? Also, did no one confront him about it, and did he never have any doubts in his own faith? It’s Lin’s lack of commitment to interrogate the role of missionaries in a world where Western imperialism is recognised that is to be blamed here.

Yang is a good-looking actor, who tries to imbue Jon with sincerity and good intentions, but I couldn’t shake off the feeling that Lin’s film could be used as a recruitment video by Christian missionaries, where Jon Allen Chau might be mourned as a ‘martyr’.

It’s a shame because Perry’s profile of Jon Allen Chau clearly underlines a promising, bright young man, who was so devoted to his faith that he walked into certain death because of it. It’s a tragedy, but Lin’s film gives it the tone-deaf Hollywood thriller treatment. The film is not supremely confident about pointing out Jon’s transgressions. There’s a laughable track where Jon is momentarily convinced to abandon his mission by a girl flying to Bangkok. Lin’s film and Ripley’s script don’t have Jon Allen Chau’s interiority worked out, glaringly apparent in their film.

By the end, I was left with many questions: Who was Jon Allen Chau? What made someone as academically bright as him such a fierce advocate for a religion? Was it ambition, faith or pride that made him pick a suicide mission? What was going through his head as the moment for it arrived or how do his parents look at religion after such an extreme event? We have no answers. Just like the makers here, and the apologists for institutionalised religion.

Last Days premiered at the Sundance Film Festival 2025.

Sabar Bonda, a Sensitive Look at Queer Desire in the Indian Village

The first ever Marathi film at the Sundance Film Festival is an exercise in restraint and economy.

Anand (Bhushaan Manoj) has just lost his father, but according to his relatives, it’s not the most pressing absence in his life. Anand is a 30-year-old unmarried man, something which is utterly incomprehensible to the folks in his village in Maharashtra. So even as he gets ready to perform the last rites of his dead father, his relatives don’t forget to remind him about the ‘stigma’ of his marital status. An aunt even wonders out loud, if an unmarried man is fit to light the pyre of his own father. Anand and his mother have to wade through a sea of inquisitions about why he hasn’t settled down – only to come up with stories like – “A girl he was in love with, married someone else. So Anand is heartbroken, and doesn’t wish to get married now.”

Director Rohan Parashuram Kanawade’s Sabar Bonda (‘Cactus Pears’) – which is the only Indian film playing at Sundance film festival 2025, and is the first ever Marathi film to premiere here – is an exercise in restraint and economy. Anand is gay, and the detail is conveyed with the close-up of an unsent text message, phrased in a manner that screams ‘lover from the past’. “My pappa has passed away, thought you should know” – it says. Living in a cramped chawl in Mumbai, armed with a job at a call-centre, Anand seems to be floating through life like a ghost. The first time we meet him, he’s nodding off in the hospital lobby, barely able to hear his own mobile phone. Almost like him reciprocating to a world, asleep on his ‘real’ self.

A still from Sabar Bonda. Photo: Screengrab from video.

Having spent his adult life in Mumbai, Anand has acquired a certain level of sophistication and agency. “As soon as I started earning well, I told my parents why I don’t want to get married…” he tells his childhood friend Balya (Suraaj Suman) – who couldn’t get through high school, and now works as a farm-hand in the village. Even Balya is gay, but without any of the privileges that Anand seems to have found in the city. Meeting him again after he goes back to his ancestral village for his father’s last rites, Anand and Balya try to rekindle their old bond.

Kanawade, who has said that the film borrows instances from his father’s funeral, writes remarkably visceral instances into the film. The way Anand holds the face of his father’s corpse, as the people around him dress the body for its funeral, is the kind of stark observational moment that can only come from actual experience. There’s a continuous droning silence in the background through most of the film, like the quiet when everyone is asleep at night, when the silence is momentarily interrupted by ambient traffic sounds and/or machine beeps. Anand and Balya’s bond emerges gradually – when they confide their loneliness to each other. It’s bad enough being a queer person in India, but few films have addressed queer folks in rural India, and the shadow they have to live under.

A still from Sabar Bonda. Photo: Screengrab from video.

Here’s where Kanawade’s film scores over its contemporaries – queer stories in Indian films have primarily been co-opted by a particular strata of society. Konkona Sen Sharma’s Mirror (2023; a segment in Lust Stories 2) and Rohena Gera’s Sir (2018) are among the few Indian films that even address the sexual desires of the folks with fewer means.

Kanawade’s film goes full monty, by addressing queer folks in Indian villages – places often even without the vocabulary for it. But it steers clear of the hostility and venom one might expect to arise from such a situation. Sabar Bonda, in fact, goes in the other direction by shining a light on the cowardice of society – especially while facing someone who owns their sexual identity.

No one raises their voice throughout the film, even though many scenes seem to be edging towards a confrontation. Balya asks him if he has any ‘special friends’ in the city. A cousin suggests he has many ‘Doctor friends’ in town, who can ‘cure’ any of Anand’s psychological confusions – and they would do it secretly. A sister-in-law cheekily asks if Anand has many male friends, and if that’s the reason why he hasn’t visited the village in the last few years. Despite all the probing, Anand never loses his cool, instead choosing to calmly side-stepping it all.

A still from Sabar Bonda. Photo: Screengrab from video.

Another one of the film’s sparkling merits is the way Kanawade showcases gay desire. The way Balya places his palms on Anand’s thighs, while riding pillion with him on a bike. In another scene, Anand sits around and watches Balya bathing with the new herbal shampoo he just got him. The aching distance between the men, shortly after Balya runs his fingers through Anand’s hair – followed by a heartbreaking confession by Balya saying he hasn’t felt affection in a long time. “In the village, the (gay) men simply believe in doing the deed and leaving,” he tells Anand.

As the 10-day mourning period comes to an end and Anand gets ready to return to his life in Mumbai, I have to admit I was scared for Balya. Was Anand and Balya’s blossoming bond even real? Was it a coping mechanism for Anand? I braced myself for an ugly altercation featuring the choicest of slurs. Kanawade’s film pulls another surprise here. Anand calmly and defiantly asserts his wishes to his relatives – something he’s able to do because of the acceptance he has from his parents, especially his illiterate-yet-progressive mother (Jayshri Jagtap).

We might be far away from curing the queerphobia around us, but at least Rohan Parashuram Kanawade’s Sabar Bonda leads a quiet revolution into the middle-class living room. Not with hysterics, but with grace and fortitude.

*Sabar Bonda had its world premiere at the Sundance Film Festival 2025 on Jan 26 at the Egyptian Theatre in Park City, Utah.

Between Melancholy and Transgression: The World of ‘All We Imagine as Light’

A new hope is born from this rejection of social norms by the woman who had previously resigned herself to their constraints.

All We Imagine as Light, written and directed by Payal Kapadia, is the first film from India to win the Grand Prix at the Cannes Film Festival.

It immediately brings to mind the masterpieces of Satyajit Ray, another Indian filmmaker to have been celebrated at Cannes, for Pather Panchali (Song of the Little Road) in 1956. Like Ray in that first film in the Apu Trilogy, Kapadia provides viewers with close-ups that are intensely beautiful and strikingly expressive, even when their subjects remain impassive and enigmatic.

Illustration: Pariplab Chakraborty.

These two filmmakers excel in the art of deliciously slow, even static, shots, which never appear overly long but instead draw the viewer into the intimate worlds of men and (especially) women, as we will see. Nor does this virtuosity slide into mere aestheticism, for behind the heady poetry of her cinematographic style, Kapadia’s work is in fact just as political as that of Ray. Indeed, the young director first became known in the early 2020s for a militant documentary on the caste system – winner of the Golden Eye at Cannes in 2021, and when she was still a film student Kapadia participated in protests against the Modi government’s nomination of a fellow Hindu nationalist at the head of the Film and Television Institute of India (FTII), and saw her scholarship revoked in response to her opposition.

The smoke and mirrors of Mumbai

All We Imagine as Light is political in a different way. The film focuses on ordinary everyday victims, first and foremost those who came to Mumbai in search of an Eldorado and who are losing hope. These are the migrants whose anonymous voices – they do not appear on screen – mark the opening moments of the film. They no longer live in the illusion created by the smoke and mirrors of the city, and it is that contrast between dreams and reality that is expressed in the title of the film.

Why does Mumbai disappoint those who left their villages in hope of a better life?

First, because it is difficult to find housing, or indeed any shelter, there. The cost of accommodation per meter square has increased so much that the factories that filled the city centre up until the 1980s have been transformed into skyscrapers. Here, luxury apartments are sold to what Indians call the “middle-class,” but who are in fact, an elite. One of the advertising posters in the film unreservedly boasts of this housing, reserved for a “privileged” few. In Mumbai, property speculation has deadly consequences.

Parvati, one of the film’s heroines, is the widow of a worker in the now-abandoned factories, and the target of a property developer who has managed to force her to leave her home and return to her village. She tried to join forces with other victims of the same injustice (along the lines of great revolutionaries like Jyotirao Phule and Bhagat Singh whose portraits appear in the film) but in vain. Since the Bombay Textile Worker’s strike was broken in the early 1980s, the city has fallen into hands of business interests and their political allies. This is no longer a time for class struggle, but for religion. Kapadia shows this Hindu nationalist version of the “opium of the masses”, documentary-style, by filming the Ganesha Chaturthi processions, where participants dance and sing.

A screengrab from ‘All We Imagine as Light’.

When they have nowhere to return to, Mumbai’s poor must pile into the overcrowded slums, which are pushed as far away from the city centre as possible. The members of the lower middle class are also relegated to buildings on the outskirts, which forces them to commute by train from the outlying suburbs. The length of these commuter journeys increases as the city spreads, along the two trainlines stretching north and south, and which structure both the time (minutes are counted in the number of stations) and the imaginary of Mumbaikars. These trains, which the viewers take several times with the films’ heroines, are a symbol of urban violence. Hundreds of people die every year on the tracks, whether from falling from open doors, or from electrocution. But this daily commute also provides respite for workers – drowsy with sleep on the way out, exhausted by the day on the way home – and particularly for women who have the benefit of the “Ladies Compartment”.

Three women

As well as being a film about a major city, All We Imagine as Light, is a film about women, about the women who are victims of the city, of men, and of social norms. The two main characters, Prabha, the eldest, and Anu, the youngest, illustrate two forms of oppression that Indian women face today – and have long faced. They both come from Kerala, work together in a hospital, and share the same apartment, but are otherwise unlike each other. The eldest, Prabha, is a woman of duty. She values strength; as a nurse she rebukes the novice midwives who are repulsed by the smell of placenta. Although she takes no nonsense, she is extraordinarily sensitive, and even expressive in her largely unsmiling reserve. Her husband has left to work in Germany, and she has had no news of him for a year. One day he sends her a rice-cooker, with no note, and she projects all her unfulfilled desires onto this anonymous object. A doctor at the hospital courts her delicately, giving her a poem that she reads once night has fallen and the city is asleep. Yet she does not take the hand he offers. She is married and thus devoted to one man alone, in accordance with Hindu tradition.

Anu, by contrast, rejects this tradition. She is graceful, laughs easily, and spends more than she earns – leading to debts she owes to Prabha – and says she will refuse all the suitors her parents propose, according to that same tradition of arranged marriage. Worse, she is secretly involved in a romantic relationship – which Prabha knows and disapproves of – with, worse still, a young Muslim man. Although today a young couple can be more open than before about their relationship when they are both from the same community, a romance between a Hindu and a Muslim puts both parties in extreme danger. Indeed, Hindu nationalists have declared war on what they call “love jihad”, a term referring to the idea that young Muslim men are good at seducing Hindu girls, converting them to Islam and thus swelling the ranks of the Muslim community with their children. When discovered, mixed couples like this are hunted down and the men beaten, even lynched. Anu’s young lover Shiaz hides in terror at the idea of being found in her presence.

A screengrab from ‘All We Imagine as Light’.

Where can these two live their love safely? Not in Mumbai, which is somewhat of a paradox, given this city was long reputed for its cosmopolitanism, and for providing an anonymity that made it an ideal site for forbidden encounters. In the film, when the two women help Parvarti to return to her original fishing village, Anu invites Shiaz to follow them secretly – and this is where they are finally able to fulfil their love. The city no longer provides the same security as the mangrove trees. It no longer conceals forbidden love, not only because of the intense promiscuity resulting from skyrocketing population density, but also because spying and informing on others has become a national sport.

Also read: ‘All We Imagine as Light’: A Tribute to Love, Longing and Friendship

While the standard Bollywood dream is in Hindi, All We Imagine as Light speaks the language of migrants – Malayalam, Bengali, Marathi – and reveals an unvarnished reality which borders on tragic. Anu still believes she can rebel, but for Prabha this struggle is in vain: no one can escape their destiny. Yet there is no place for sadness here, gravitas and grace (in the quasi-mystical sense) are what dominate. Kapadia’s women are exceptionally dignified, intensely human, and show unwavering solidarity. They also share delectable moments of freedom, like Anu and Parvati’s slightly tipsy impromptu dancing, under the half-amused, half-disapproving gaze of Prabha, on the beach, far from the city that is the melting pot for all woes.

Above all, this is the moment that it seems Prabha might shift towards a new destiny. When the sea washes a man’s body up onto the beach, she is the one who resuscitates him, by performing CPR, before the disconcerted villagers. The man, whom she then washes, has lost his memory and the villagers believe Prabha is his wife. She tries to set the record straight and then uses this misunderstanding to tell this play-husband (who joins in the pretence for a few phrases) that she does not ever want to see her husband again. This break-up opens up her heart, and she encourages Anu to call Shiaz – who is hiding in the forest – to join them openly.

A new hope is born from this rejection of social norms by the woman who had previously resigned herself to their constraints. Prabha shows the way to all those who are smothered by the condition Indian women are subject to. This is one of the reasons why only a few cinemas are screening this film in India, the director has offered to organise screenings from city to city to those who request it. And All We Imagine as Light would undoubtedly not have escaped censorship if it had not won the Grand Prix at Cannes, for which the festival should be duly thanked, along with the French co-producer of the film, Petit Chaos.

This article first appeared on the website of the Sciences Po South Asia Programme and has been republished with permission.

Christophe Jaffrelot is research director at CERI-Sciences Po/CNRS, Professor of Politics and Sociology at King’s College London and Non-Resident Fellow at the Carnegie Endowment for International Peace. His publications include Modi’s India: Hindu Nationalism and the Rise of Ethnic Democracy, Princeton University Press, 2021, and Gujarat under Modi: Laboratory of Today’s India, Hurst, 2024, both of which are published in India by Westland.

‘Omaha’ Condenses the Desperation of an America on the Margins

Premiering at Sundance, 2025, this is a road movie with a difference, of a small family running towards an unforeseen future.

“Where are we going?” six-year-old Charlie (Wyatt Solis) asks his father (John Magaro). Charlie, his elder sister Ella (Molly Belle Wright) are seated inside a car with their father within the first five minutes of the film. The kids have no idea where they’re headed. Cole Webley’s directorial debut is the kind of film where exposition comes at a premium. Information trickles down through stray scenes – the sheriff putting an eviction notice on their house right around the time they’re leaving tells us about the family’s dire financial situation. Ella tells Charlie she was taught to fly a kite by their mother before “she got sick” – explaining who the father talks to, grieving his partner, almost praying to her for forgiveness. When they’re at a store, and the father wishes to spoil his kids with a kite and a meal of their choice, the clerk informs him he has only $20 left on his food stamps.

Webley’s film is banking on the viewers to pick up these tiny pieces of information to guess where it’s headed. They’re broke, the mother has passed, and while the father joins in on his children’s silliness – jumping on the bed with them, showering them with all that he has left to give – it doesn’t do much to mask his despondency. Ella, wise beyond nine-year-old self, is adept at helping push the car each time it breaks down. She also notes her father’s need for space to grieve an irreparable sadness within, turning into a faux-parent to Charlie for that time.

Both Wright and Solis are exceptional in their roles as young children – the trickiest parts in a film. Finding the balance of being childish, entitled, exasperating, Ella and Charlie are also two supremely well brought-up kids; which reflects during the film’s most trying scenes. Magaro, who was sensational in Sundance hit Past Lives (2023), is fearless in the way he guards the interiority of his character as a grieving husband, and a father tortured by his incompetence to provide. It’s a minimalistic, non-showy performance reminiscent of Paul Mescal in Aftersun (2023).

As Ella gets impatient and plies her father with questions about where they’re headed, she finally manages to get a response out of him. “Nebraska,” he says. ‘Why Nebraska?’ – a question on the minds of the children, as much as most viewers – forms the rest of the film.

A still from ‘Omaha’.

Webley’s film strolls through roadside gas stations, as the father buys them fast food, ice cream. There’s a scene where the kids try to fly a kite in Utah’s salt flats, while the father continues sitting in his car. Not wanting to contaminate the moment of pure joy with his demons – it’s a moment of grace from a man, who has otherwise been defeated on all fronts, still intent on protecting his children from himself. It condenses the all-encompassing job of being a parent.

Through the road trip, Omaha reveals itself to be a stark portrait of the desperation of an America on the margins. It physically hurts to see the family spend during the trip – aware of the very small repository of the funds at their disposal. It’s devastating how Magaro’s face falls when he realises he can’t afford to buy two kites for his children, instead of one. The peace on his face when he sees his children have the time of their lives at the Omaha zoo – where he insists on drinking only water, while spoiling his kids with treats. There’s a raw, unforgiving moment inside a cafe, where a server warns Magaro’s character about ‘no sleeping here’ – after he puts his head down on a table. He’d just bought a coffee with his last few pennies. Not used to being treated like this, especially after being a productive part of ‘civilised’ society till very recently, the father understandably has a meltdown. It’s the only moment, where Magaro, having exercised restraint through the entire film, allows the dam to break.

If you’ve seen enough movies, you might be able to guess how Omaha concludes. Especially, after the father constantly scolds Ella about being ‘responsible’. A piece of text comes up on screen once the film ends, risking turning a well-made film into a PSA. However, that’s a minor quibble compared to that gut-wrenching climax, addressing how society’s wheel of progress crushes so many families under it. The kids might not be alright, but the least we can do is grapple with it as a society.

Omaha had its world premiere at the Sundance Film Festival 2025.

Income Tax Department Raids Pushpa 2 Director Sukumar’s Residence

On January 6, Mythri Movie Makers shared a post on their official social media handles announcing that Pushpa 2 has earned over Rs 1831 crore (gross) in 32 days worldwide.

New Delhi: The Income Tax Department conducted a raid at the residence of Sukumar, director and co-producer of the blockbuster film Pushpa 2: The Rule, on Wednesday (January 22) morning. This follows Tuesday’s raids at properties owned by Mythri Movie Makers, the film’s producers.

Sukumar, who was reportedly at the airport, was brought back home by IT officials for questioning. The raid, which began early in the morning, lasted until noon, Deccan Herald reported.

Sources told DH that IT officials are investigating suspected hidden assets and unreported funds linked to the film’s makers.

Sukumar’s success with Pushpa 2 has catapulted him to fame, with the film breaking records and emerging as one of 2024’s highest-grossing films.

On January 6, Mythri Movie Makers shared a post on their official social media handles announcing that Pushpa 2 has earned over Rs 1,831 crore (gross) in 32 days worldwide.

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A post shared by Mythri Movie Makers (@mythriofficial)

Meanwhile, IT raids are also underway at the residences and properties of other prominent film producers, including Game Changer producer Dil Raju and Sankranthiki Vasthunam and Pushpa 2 producers Naveen Yerneni, and Ravi Shankar Yalamanchili, as well as film financiers associated with these banners. A digital marketing company is also under IT scrutiny, DH reported.

Diljit Dosanjh’s Panjab ’95 Release Delayed Indefinitely

The film is based on the life of noted human rights activist Jaswant Singh Khalra.

Jalandhar: Four days after he released the trailer of his film, renowned singer-actor Diljit Dosanjh on January 20 (Monday) shared on his official social media account that the much-awaited film Panjab ‘95, based on the life of noted human rights activist Jaswant Singh Khalra, will not be released on February 7.

“We are very sorry and it pains us to inform you that the movie Panjab ‘95 will not release on 7th Feb due to circumstances beyond our control,” Dosanjh wrote on his Instagram account.

Diljit Dosanjh’s status about his film Panjab ‘95

Diljit Dosanjh shared this status on Instagram on January 20 night about his film Panjab ‘95 not releasing on February 7. Photo: Instagram/@diljitdosanjh

The singer-actor had released the official trailer of the film on January 17 (Friday) with a banner that the film would be releasing internationally but not in India.

Dosanjh had released the trailer of the film on all his social media accounts. However, the official trailer of Panjab ‘95 produced by Vancouver-based White Hill Studios was taken down from YouTube, India.

Dosanjh’s film trailer release coincided with the release of Bollywood actor and Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) MP from Mandi Lok Sabha constituency Kangana Ranaut’s film Emergency, which despite having been released worldwide faced stiff protests from the Sikh Gurdwara Parbhandak Committee (SGPC) and Sikh organisations over allegations of misrepresentation of the Sikhs.

Panjab ’95 has been in muddy waters for the past some time. Jaswant Khalra had documented the killings of 25,000 youths and had identified 2,000 police officials too, who had refused to cooperate in the extra judicial killings during militancy in Punjab.

Meanwhile, the update about the film’s delayed release invited sharp reaction and queries from fans, who had been waiting for its release for some time. Many users suggested, “Release it on OTT or Netflix.”

Also read: The Films that Get the BJP Government’s Support – and the Films That Don’t

Another user wrote, “So predictable… it was bound to happen… how can they let truth be out.”

“If they can release Emergency by Kangana Ranaut, why not Panjab ‘95,” asked another user.

Khalistani supporters halt the screening of Emergency in London

Earlier on January 19 (Sunday), some Khalistan supporters barged inside the Harrow Vue Cinema in London, UK and stopped the screening of Emergency, leading to cancellation of the film.

Reacting to the protest in London and the ban on her film in Punjab, Ranaut released a video on social media on January 20, she said, “I have some pain in my heart. There was a time when people in the [film] industry would say that my films do exceptionally well in Punjab. But today my film is not even allowed to be released. Similarly, some attacks have taken place against some people in Canada and the UK. A select group of people have fanned fire against my film and it is you and me who are suffering. Watch my film and decide if my film unites or divides.”

Experts speak

Blaming politicisation of the system as a major reason behind the delay in the release of Panjab ‘95, human rights lawyer Jaspal Singh Manjhpur, who has been working to save political dissidents told The Wire: “[In] the last ten years [we] have witnessed rise in nationalism and a push to an ideology that suits government’s narrative. Anything that comes in the way of the government’s narrative faces a similar fate; like the way Panjab ‘95’s release has been stopped. The government’s agenda is to ensure that pro-BJP films are made through which they could hound the Congress.”

Manjhpur, however, emphasised that the release or delay of the film can never affect the sacrifice and selfless service of Jaswant Khalra.

“The idea is to present the political thinking of Khalra to the public. Most of Khalra’s videos, including his last address at a gurdwara in Ontario, Canada in the year 1995 are available on YouTube. Diljit’s film might release but it will be done only when the Punjab and the Union government would want it to [release for political gains]”, he said sarcastically.

Also read: Paatal Lok 2: Jaideep Ahlawat Shines in This Competent – But Too Neat – Cop Procedural

Speaking to The Wire, Sikh scholar and renowned historian from Panjab University, Gurdarshan Singh Dhillon said that ever since the Indo-Pak partition of 1947, Sikhs have been facing a deep-rooted prejudice against them in the country.

“It has been a settled policy of the state to hound the minorities, particularly the Sikhs. So, in the light of these facts, it is no surprise that a film like Panjab ’95 on human rights activist Jaswant Singh Khalra, which exposes the Indian state is not being released,” said Dhillon, who is the author of the book India Commits Suicide, on Operation Bluestar and its aftermath.

Dhillon also said that the film is important for those who follow the fundamentals of human rights but not for the government. “I am of the view that as a minority, we have to undergo this suffering because we are Sikhs. We have been victimised since long,” he added.

While Jaswant Khalra’s wife Paramjit Kaur Khalra was not available for comments, even SGPC, which has been supporting the release of the film, avoided any response.

SGPC secretary Partap Singh feigned ignorance about the film not being released and said, “I am not aware of this development, hence cannot comment.”

Notably, on October 3 last year, Paramjit Kaur had posted a statement on X in which she mentioned that the Central Board of Film Certification (CBFC) issued 120 cuts to the film and asked the directors to change the name of Jasawant Singh Khalra, remove Gurbaani, the reference to extra judicial killing numbers, real dates, and names of the places like Tarn Taran district.

Paramjit Kaur further wrote: “This is deeply disconcerting news to us because we feel that asking for these changes is not only a dishonour to the legacy of Shaheed Jaswant Singh Khalra, but also to all the people of Punjab and the Punjabi and the Sikh community worldwide. We appeal to the CBFC to not use rampant censorship to attempt to change proven facts depicted in the film.”

Meanwhile, as per a report by BBC Punjabi, SGPC member Gurcharan Singh Grewal said that they had given a memorandum to Sri Akal Takth Sahib for its views about the film in October last year. Later the Akal Takth formed a three-member committee comprising SGPC members Grewal and Gurbaksh Singh.

Speaking to The Wire, Grewal said that last year they had written a letter to the film’s director and producer to show it to the SGPC committee. “Even we are surprised that the film’s release has been halted. I feel that the film should be released not just internationally but in India too. We are in touch with the film director and producer and will watch the film soon. Our committee is working on it. Hopefully, the film will be released soon.”

Renowned human rights advocate in Punjab and Haryana high court Rajwinder Singh Bains, who was the trial lawyer in Jaswant Khalra’s disappearance and murder case said that Panjab ‘95 is based on the judicial record of all the cases.

“The script of the film is also written based on the judicial record and evidence. Everything shown in the film is part of the court records and nothing is fake in it. The only reason why the government is not allowing the film to release is that it will break the myth that former Punjab Director General of Police (DGP) K.P.S. Gill, who was the top cop during militancy days, was a national hero. For the government, it is a typical problem, where they have no answer, as there is nothing false in the film,” Bains said.

Advocating the release of Panjab ‘95, Bains added, “I have seen the film. They have made it very well. Diljit Dosanjh is a good actor and he has done an amazing job. The film’s director and producer have shown courage by making this film. Now that it has been made, they should take a stand and show some spine and release it. They should not back out like this. The film should be released.”

Earlier, reminiscing Jaswant Khalra, the senior advocate said that during those days, Khalra went to Canada with his family and returned to India despite warnings that he might be killed. “While Khalra’s family went to Canada, he came back to Punjab. Someone from the ministry [government] had told him that he should not come back to India, else he would be killed. But he still came and was killed.”