Movies

Hindi Cinema’s Collections Fall 13% in 2024 as Regional Films Outshine Bollywood and Hollywood

31% of these collections came from dubbed versions of South Indian films, including the blockbuster Pushpa 2: The Rule. Excluding dubbed films, the decline in original Hindi-language films was a steep 37%.

New Delhi: The 2024 Indian box office witnessed a mixed year, with regional cinema outperforming Bollywood and Hollywood in terms of growth and audience engagement. According to the Ormax Media Box Office Report, gross box office collections for Indian cinema stood at Rs 11,833 crore, marking a 3% decline from the record Rs 12,000 crore achieved in 2023.

Bollywood and Hollywood struggled

Hindi cinema experienced a challenging year, with gross collections declining by 13% to Rs 4,679 crore from Rs 5,380 crore in 2023, reported the Hindu businessline. Hindi films contributed only 40% to the overall box office in 2024, down from 44% the previous year.

31% of these collections came from dubbed versions of South Indian films, including the blockbuster Pushpa 2: The Rule, whose Hindi-dubbed version grossed Rs 889 crore. Excluding dubbed films, the decline in original Hindi-language films was a steep 37%.

“If only original Hindi-language films are considered, the decline in box office was a steep 37%,”the report noted.

Hollywood films also faced a steep 17% decline in the Indian market, with gross collections dropping from Rs 1,139 crore in 2023 to Rs 941 crore in 2024. Mufasa: The Lion King was the top Hollywood film, earning Rs 172 crore and securing the 11th spot in the overall box office rankings.

Pushpa 2 dominated

The Telugu action thriller emerged as the year’s highest-grossing film, amassing Rs 1,403 crore globally. Its Hindi-dubbed version set a record as the highest-grossing “Hindi” film of all time.

Other major hits included the sci-fi action film Kalki 2898 AD (Rs 747 crore) and the Hindi horror-comedy sequel Stree 2 (Rs 674 crore). Tamil action thriller The Greatest Of All Time, Telugu action drama Devara – Part 1 and Hindi horror-comedy Bhool Bhulaiyaa 3 also performed well, grossing above Rs 300 crore each.

Regional cinema shined

Regional industries saw notable growth. Malayalam cinema doubled its market share from 5% in 2023 to 10% in 2024, crossing the Rs 1,000 crore milestone for the first time. Survival thriller Manjummel Boys led the charge, grossing Rs 164 crore globally.

Tamil and Telugu cinema maintained their strong positions with 15% and 20% market shares, respectively, while Gujarati cinema saw an impressive 66% growth, collecting Rs 84 crore.

Also read: ‘Heart Over Mind’: The Best Hindi Films of 2024

Despite robust box office earnings driven by higher ticket prices, footfalls in cinemas fell to 88.3 crore, a 6% drop from 2023 and 14% lower than pre-pandemic levels in 2019. The average ticket price rose to Rs 134, up 26% from Rs 106 in 2019.

How Sufi Poetry Transformed Bollywood Music in the 90s and Beyond

A distinct transformation occurred in the 90s, when the mystical allure of Sufism wove its way into the lyrics and melodies of Hindi cinema.

Filmi music has embodied romance for nearly a century now, accompanying people through love, loneliness, grief and more. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say that most people who grew up listening to Bollywood music formed their understanding and expectations of love around the lyrics.

Each decade of filmi music was defined by its unique themes and styles. From the Rabindra Sangeet and Marathi Bhavgeet influences of the 30s to the frolicky lyrics of the 70s deemed unbecoming by purists, these themes were largely propagated by the lyricists and composers of the respective time periods. So, what happened after the 80s?

The general consensus is that somewhere around the 90s, Bollywood music began to lack the strong personality that its predecessors of the earlier decades possessed. Was there anything distinct and remarkable about this period apart from the Western influences?

The Sufi wave

The 90s were the days of post-liberalisation in India, and Bollywood was more aspirational than ever. Non-resident Indian Rahuls living in palatial homes in the US and Rani Mukerji’s couture lehengas governed the screens and dreams.

But this era also coincided with two other events:

1. The time Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan – one of the most popular Qawwali singers to have ever lived – became a global sensation, popularising the genre outside of South Asia.

2. The arrival of A.R. Rahman, a practising Sufi, in the Bollywood music industry. He is known to have attributed his inspiration to Khan.

It is at this point that khuda, the word popularly used by South Asian Muslims for the almighty, begins to appear commonly in many songs.

Conflation of Khuda and the lover

While the traditional Sufi literature had the poet referring to khuda as the beloved (mashooq) while imagining himself to be a female engaged in worship (aashiq), things changed when the ideology entered popular culture through Hindi cinema.

The theme evolved beyond the confines of the traditional ways of singing it and often equated the beloved with God. It became increasingly common for the poet to address the beloved as baakhuda and rehnuma, where the object of desire is a human being who appears godly to the aashiq, with the act of loving being his chosen path of worship. It is also believed that the ultimate stage of Sufi love, where the aashiq becomes one with his mashooq, is death.

The Sufi genre of qawwali and the concepts of shama and parwana (the flame and the moth that dives into it) have always been popular with Hindi music composers. It is hard to say when exactly Sufi poetry pervaded into the very grammar of Bollywood music but the coming of Rahman serves as a good starting point.

The language of love and yearning in the late 90s and early 00s

Rahman delivered some of his biggest hits of the 90s in collaboration with celebrated urdu poets such as Javed Akhtar and Gulzar. These songs, with their evocative lyrics, became iconic in defining a new era of Bollywood music. Notable examples include Chaiya Chaiya from Dil Se.. (1998), with its poetic lines like “Taweez banaake pehnu usse, Aayat ki tarah mil jaaye kahin,” and Satrangi Re, from the same movie, with lyrics like “Main farsh pe sajde karta hu, kuch hosh mein kuch behoshi se.”

Soon enough, other composers and lyricists like Irshad Kamil and Prasoon Joshi caught on, churning out mass favourites such as Ya Ali, Mast Qalandar, Oh Rangrez and more.

Playlists titled “Bollywood Sufi” always include the same half a dozen songs that everyone unanimously agrees upon. However, the influence of the way love is looked at in Sufi poetry permeated into new ground within Bollywood; these lyrics of Allah Duhai Hai from Race 2 (2013) serve as an example:

Maano ki jeene ka
Yeh matlab hai
Ishq hi ek mazhab hai
Ishq naa ho toh Rab hai rootha

Also read: In Kashmir’s Sufi Shrines, Women Carve a Space For Themselves Through ‘Wanwun’

The language of these songs is not just expressive of crazy passion, but rather a deliriousness in love. This shift in the inspiration, theme and lyrics of Bollywood music is unmistakably Sufi poetry’s gift to Bollywood of the 90s, 00s, and even early 10s, which was struggling to make a mark as clear as the decades preceding them had in terms of filmi sangeet.

Legacy of Sufism in Bollywood music

It is fascinating to think about how individual artists hold the power to influence a couple of generations and shape their idea and vocabulary of love and, by extension, their own selves.

The songs of the late 90s and early 00s not only serve as nostalgia devices but also introduced a whole new language of love, worship and yearning. Songs like Charkha tell us how everyday objects and devices were used to simplify the complex themes of Sufism to the common folk back in the day. The idea of Sufism has, perhaps, never been more popular with the common masses than it is now; whether the audience is aware of it or not is another matter.

Lahari K is an advertising professional.

The Quiet Replacement of Extras by VFX in Films

Digital agents now populate frames where junior artists once stood, raising critical questions about labour, cinematic authenticity and the politics of representation.

Advances in visual effects (VFX) technology are producing spectacular imagery in Indian blockbusters. In Mani Ratnam’s Ponniyin Selvan in 2022, a 10th century kingdom comes back to life. In Om Raut’s 2023 film Adipurush, we witness the burning of mythical Lanka. In Siddharth Anand’s Pathaan last year, Shah Rukh Khan flies in and out of a canyon valley. These images are entirely computer-generated or artfully blend computer-generated imagery (CGI) with live-action photography. They are created using software applications during the “post-production” phase of a film by VFX artists working in studios often far removed in time and place from a film’s real locations and stars. But “post-production” is not quite enough to describe the central role this technology has assumed – a film’s VFX supervisors, like a film’s cinematographer or production designer, are now involved in conversations about the look and story of the film at its inception. Films are being imagined, scripted, shot and sold on the strength of such effects, which are every day transforming the physical processes of filmmaking.

The transformation, however, is much more widespread than a focus on spectacular imagery and special effects would suggest. VFX artists are also leaving their mark in almost every frame – from adjusting the color of light for continuity to modifying an image on a censor’s demand. Such effects are not all spectacular, nor do they necessarily call attention to themselves as special. One of the more profound developments in recent years has been the quiet replacement of physical performers who populate the frame with virtual performers. Critics, journalists, and scholars of Indian cinema should pay attention to this transformation. The substitution of human presence poses important questions not only for the essence of cinema as an art, but for the visual politics of cinematic representation and the political economy of film production.

Superstars fill the spotlight of Indian cinema’s blockbuster machine, but the cinema also needs bodies in the background against which these popular icons can pop on-screen. At the end of Sanjay Leela Bhansali’s 2018 film Padmavat, hundreds of women descend the steps to a ceremonial pyre for self-immolation as their fort is breached by invaders in medieval Rajasthan. Trailing their queen (Deepika Padukone), they create a fiery vision of mass suicide that is the film’s most indelible image, one which provoked heated debate upon the film’s release. But the creation of this sequence was no less heated. Filming took place over several days during a hot summer in Mumbai’s Film City. To generate fire and smoke, real and virtual elements were combined. The blazing pyre was digital, but smaller flames dotting the frame were created on set by setting fire to rubber tires. Those burning tires evaporated into clouds of black smoke that filled the frame, while the tires themselves were carefully concealed. But assembling the women proved difficult; the film’s director, Bhansali, is alleged to have complained about the 350 extras or “junior artists” hired for this scene: “The shooting of the scene went on for a week, and the junior artists got restless. They would meander off in groups in between shoots and doze off due to exhaustion.” Their exhaustion may be explained by the relentless heat of the city and the infamous exactitude of the film’s director, as well as the particularly noxious effects of those burning rubber tires. Black smoke may photograph uniquely well, but those same fumes rapidly induce nausea, dizziness and depletion. As overheated extras struggled to cope with the physically draining effects of the shoot – and perform an obedient choreography of collective resolve – Bhansali described the shoot as a “challenge more emotional than physical.” To guard against the emotional and expensive challenges errant extras can mount to a film’s completion, filmmakers may be turning to an altogether different source from which to cast their anonymous crowds.

S.S. Rajamouli’s 2022 film RRR opens on a hot day on the outskirts of Delhi in 1920s India. Hundreds of angry young men have gathered around a colonial police station to protest the arrest of Lala Lajpat Rai in Calcutta. The mob will soon be dispersed by an imperial officer (Ram Charan), whose muscularity sets in motion a revisionist fantasy: armed violence, the film tells us, could have cut short colonial rule decades earlier than the transfer of power eventually took place. This historical fantasy finds its visual expression in the displacement of the people – icons of collective non-violent non-cooperation – from the centre of the film’s visual world to make place for strong superheroes. Indeed, the people are mere mirage: many of those we see gathering around the police station are not paid extras but digital “agents” generated by crowd simulation software. Similarly large crowds today are extended with digital agents created, costumed and animated as armoured soldiers flanking a swordfight (Ponniyin Selvan) or gun-slinging commandos watching a helicopter land (Jawaan). All of these films were made during or after the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic, which triggered safety protocols across India’s film industries – crowd simulation solved the problem of physical proximity for the pandemic era (and allow cinematic persons to persist in a “post-human” mode). But such “solutions” may remain in place long after the pandemic ends its rampage, accelerating older shifts in how films are made, with stark consequences for those who have long participated in their production.

Still from RRR (S.S. Rajamouli, 2022)

Compare, for instance, how crowds were convened for another nationalist epic, Gandhi, by Richard Attenborough in 1982. Using crowd casting suppliers, translators and megaphones, hundreds of thousands of real people were contracted to recreate the rising political consciousness of decolonial struggle. The film’s production in India was controversial, but as a co-producing partner, the National Film Development Corporation sought to allay anxieties by settling on a deal: revenues from the film’s run in India would be used to launch a new welfare fund to support film workers, among whose largest representative associations were those for extras or junior artists. The deal was the product of intense political struggle. Through the 1980s, film workers organised and struck repeatedly as they fought for better terms from film producers and for recognition from the government. Negotiations were incredibly fine-grained. What an extra would be paid depended on if they spoke more than five words or fewer, whether they waded into water above their knee or below it, and whether their faces appeared prominently in the camera or not. The relative muteness or stillness of background players, even their facelessness, then, are financial calculations with aesthetic consequences. I cover this terrain of political struggle more extensively in my recently published book, Seeing Things published by University of California Press this year, which examines the production of horror films in 1980s Bombay. Some of the same struggle is registered in Gandhi. If you pause it just right, you will see extras looking directly at the camera instead of away from it and toward their messianic leader (played by the half-white Ben Kingsley). It is an act of disobedience that injects something like lived reality into cinematic fiction, an unscripted insurgency that could only arise from live performers. But the problems posed by the materiality of live performers – by their capacity for exhaustion or infection, their demand for better dues or call to strike – are being quietly scrubbed by VFX artists.

Still from Gandhi (Richard Attenborough, 1982)

VFX artists now supply the appearance of extras onscreen, rather than extras themselves. Many of these artists are employed at Indian VFX studios, among them Makuta VFX (Hyderabad), Red Chillies VFX (Mumbai) or VFXWalla (Hyderabad). In Hyderabad, their offices are clustered in the same upscale neighborhoods that house the local offices of global corporations, rather than closer to the film’s traditional filmmaking neighborhoods – a reminder of the original orientation of India’s VFX industries. These studios emerged at first to supply “outsourced” digital labour for Hollywood studios, which have relied on digital visual effects to a greater extent for a longer period of time. Indeed, crowd simulation software first revolutionised Hollywood filmmaking at the turn of the century, evident in such films as Gladiator by Ridley Scott in 2000 and The Lord of the Rings by Peter Jackson the following year. Since then, India’s contribution to global VFX output has grown. It is estimated that 20% of the world’s VFX work is executed in India. This should unsettle our idea of what counts as an Indian film, but also about the kind of exploitative labour unleashed by advances in technology. VFX work is symptomatic of the neoliberal recalibration of labour. These are workers outside unions, working across time zones, and competing with workers in other countries for a slice of the VFX pie. A high-pressure environment in which artists flame out quickly and studios declare bankruptcy, VFX artists may be little more than “coolies, working in air-conditioned, white-collar sweatshops.” By generating mass redundancies for the junior artists who have for decades supplied the human supplement to the superstars in the foreground and focus, VFX artists are unwittingly defanging the background or junior artists’ union in favor of using digital extras in their films’ backgrounds. Instead, VFX workers might learn something from their struggles.

Kartik Nair is an Assistant Professor of Film and Media Arts at Temple University. He is the author of Seeing Things (University of California Press, 2024).

This article first appeared in India in Transition, a publication of the Center for the Advanced Study of India, University of Pennsylvania.

‘Kottukkaali’: P.S. Vinothraj’s Film is a Devastating Silent Scream of Defiance

The director of this Tamil film invokes symbolism and some intriguing choices to make audiences think.

P.S. Vinthoraj’s second feature film, Kottukkaali (‘The Adamant Girl’) ends with a question for its audience, which reminded me of Hrishikesh Mukherjee’s Bawarchi. Starring Rajesh Khanna, the 1972 film ends with the narrator (none other than Amitabh Bachchan) saying: “And thus, Raghu (Khanna) left in search of the next quarrelling household. We hope it won’t be yours.” A social drama like Mukherjee’s, Vinthoraj’s film evokes the innocence of films from five decades ago (such prescriptive endings might be considered cheesy in today’s times). It also depicts the refinement in the form of these films. While Mukherjee’s contemporaries believed in dialogue, filmmakers like Vinothraj have embraced the visual form of storytelling.

Kottukkaali begins with a long wordless scene, where we see a woman praying at a roadside sanctum. Even through all the ambient sounds of a village waking up, asa woman walks back to her house with the camera following her around daybreak, we hear her whimpers. Why is she crying? Why was she pleading with God, a few moments ago? As she makes her way home — we see her daughter, Meena (Anna Ben), sitting like a corpse. It might seem like she’s been overpowered into submission, and yet a certain kind of defiance rumbles within her. Ben’s resigned death stare might just be one of the finest, single-emotion performances on screen.

With Meena in the red corner, we have Pandi (Soori) in the blue corner. Kottukkaali might not seem like a boxing match on the surface, but it’s a slugfest of ideals, conditioning and agency. As we saw in Vinothraj’s debut feature, Koozhangal (‘Pebbles’), the joys of his seemingly sparse, straight-forward films lie in the mundane revelations. Pandi and Meena were supposed to get married. He lived away from the village, and she fell in love with someone else. Not just that, the boy was from a different caste. From the looks of it, she’s been intimidated to the point where she has shut down. She speaks to no one, preserving every ounce of strength to fight for her dignity. Despite everyone around her pleading with her to ‘mend’ her ways, Meena resists.

An intriguing choice on Vinothraj’s part, is how the film never adopts Meena’s point-of-view — she’s always seen from outside like a foreign specimen. It gets closer into Pandi’s mind though — wrestling with the betrayal from his to-be wife, stewing in his unhinged rage that his possession (his future partner) doesn’t belong to him by default, and exhibits attributes of a free-thinking person. But Pandi’s misogyny alone doesn’t encapsulate him, he has a few more shades. Vinothraj emphasises these with slight touches, when he hides the cigarette as Meena walks past him – hinting at a man raised on values to not smoke in front of women.

During the film’s final stretch — when Meena and all her extended family are in front of a seer, who ‘cures’ disobedient women – we see Pandi wandering around with hurt in his eyes. Right before Meena, when Pandi sees the way the seer humiliates a lifeless, “morally corrupt” woman, shakes him. Despite his social conditioning, Pandi recognises what is happening in front of him is not right. This, despite Pandi having had a full-blown meltdown in the film [a shocking scene] when he beats Meena, her mother, his sisters, the men who try to shield them, and even tells Meena’s father to hang himself for giving birth to a ‘dishonourable’ daughter.

The film has some obvious symbolism, like when Meena sees a rooster with her feet tied to a piece of rock. Then there’s the sight of an aggressive bull, a mirror image of the ‘brave’ men trying to ‘cure’ Meena’s dissent. A stream continues to flow on the side as Pandi raises hell. One can almost imagine Vinothraj watching mother nature observe and judge human beings and their disingenuous codes and ethics. As Meena is taken to the seer’s retreat, another family exits the place in a luxury car. The symbolism might be a bit blatant, but I didn’t mind it because Vinthoraj’s film has the purity and idealism of a diploma film (I mean it in the best way possible).

In its final moments, Vinothraj film turns to Pandi’s point-of-view, almost trying to transport us into his shoes and see what the whole circus for the last 100 mins has eventually culminated into. It’s a masterstroke by a promising filmmaker, during which the screen ceases to exist and we’re almost standing in the film, just before Meena suffers the indignities at the hands of the seer. What would we do in such a situation? Remain spectators or intervene?

As the film fades to black and the end credits roll with no accompanying sound, I imagined Vinothraj expecting his audience to wallow in the question in the dark, for a bit longer. Unfortunately, in the multiplex where I watched the film, the lights came up only a few seconds later. There was already a commotion of ushers opening exit doors, awaiting the audience to leave the theatre in an orderly fashion. The phones started to ring, I heard a few giggles through what was supposed to be a quiet, solemn moment (at least, according to the director’s design). I’m afraid Vinothraj’s meticulous planning wasn’t as successful and not for a lack of trying.

We, as a society, aren’t ready to wrestle with films that reflect our unflattering selves. We’re not ready for the uncomfortable questions posed by the likes of P.S Vinothraj. So we’ll giggle at memes, disappear into our mobiles to read the latest celebrity gossip, run to the food court and buy some cheap dopamine. Anything that steers us away from having to stare into the abyss.

*Kottukkaali (The Adamant Girl) premiered at the 2024 Berlinale, and is playing in theatres now.

‘Barzakh’: This Fawad Khan, Sanam Saeed Starrer is a Seductive Yet Flawed Exploration of Human Nature

Asim Abbasi’s Barzakh is a noble failure, an undertaking that tries to reach for the peak of Himalayan ranges, and instead ends up on the balcony of a resort overlooking those mountains.

Asim Abbasi’s web series from across the border, Barzakh is the kind of big swing most cinephiles would want to unconditionally endorse. Born out of one’s unabashed love for stories, ambitiously conceived, thoughtfully designed, breathtakingly shot and impeccably performed, Abbasi’s six-episode series has most of the ingredients needed to make something memorable and singular. Unfortunately, one also wishes someone was around to tell the writer-director to rein in his ambitions, and offer some distant feedback for the stretches when the show is infatuated by its own eccentricities. The result is a show that feels seductive on paper, but never reaches the heights it was meant to.

Streaming on Zee5, Barzakh (meaning: limboland) is set in the ‘land of nowhere’. Everyone seems to talk in metaphors here, depending on their interpretations of a holy book called the ‘book of nowhere’ (a stand-in for the Quran).

The town is ruled by a businessman, Jafar Khanzada (Salman Shahid) a Dickensian, grumpy, bitter old man, who hates most people. There’s a good reason for it. When a young Jafar (Khushhal Khan) had left town to make something of himself, so he can earn a comfortable livelihood and provide for the love of his life — Mahtab (Anika Zulfikar) — he doesn’t know it is the last he will see her.

When he returns after many years and dozens of unanswered letters, he finds Mahtab has gone missing. The town is almost ghostly in its silence. No one tells him what happened to Mahtab, forcing him to assume the worst. Even in a fantastical setting, I bought Jafar’s resentment of the townsfolk. Shahid’s temperament is diametrically opposite to Khushhal Khan’s, with the former being acidic and spiteful, whereas the latter is cheerful and enterprising. It’s a stunning choice on Abbasi’s part to show how heartbreak fills a person with venom, making him an entirely different person over the course of a lifetime.

After Mahtab’s disappearance/death, Jafar loses his faith in goodness. This affects his two marriages, from which he bears two sons Shehryar (Fawad A Khan) and Saifullah (Fawad M Khan). The two sons are summoned when Jafar announces he will marry for a third time to the love of his life, Mahtab. The only problem is Mahtab has been long dead, these circumstances are revealed to us over the course of the show. The two sons, battling their individual traumas while growing up with a caustic, absent father, make one final effort to reconcile with their old man, feeling bad for what they believe is an undiagnosed condition of dementia.

Also read: ‘Deadpool & Wolverine’: The Joys of a Diwali Sparkler in a Run-of-the-Mill Franchise Film

The beauty of Abbasi’s show is its sincerity to commit to the unknown. Even while risking sounding hokey through much of its dialogue, the show never tries to be resolvable. After all, human beings, like most other creatures, are gullible. They’re drawn to fairy tales that offer answers and comfort, but they’re also seduced to carry out their darkest impulses in a mob where they won’t be held accountable. It’s this complete range of the human condition — from kindness to barbaric (while trying to act along the ‘rules’ written in a holy book) — that seems to fascinate the audience. It also leads to the show being completely scattered, and this commitment to the ambiguities of the unknown means the show also often feels obfuscatory.

Shahid, who was marvellous in Kabir Khan’s Kabul Express is eccentric and cruel to a requisite degree. Fawad Khan, who hasn’t been seen on Indian screens since Karan Johar’s Ae Dil Hai Mushkil (2016) is tasked with being the reality check of the show. Each time a scene takes a flight of a fancy, it’s the job of Khan’s Shehryar to puncture it with cold logic and levity.

Khan’s Shehryar and his adolescent son, Haris, are grieving the untimely passing of Leena (Eman Suleman). Fawad M Khan, playing Saifullah, is a haunting character who chooses to repress his desire in exchange for his mother’s well-being and relatively functional family life. It’s a sacrifice that no one sees, forget acknowledging or reciprocating it. This makes Saifullah’s hurt that much more raw and real. Sanam Saeed, playing Jafar’s third child, Scheherezade, also his caretaker, gets a raw deal from Abbasi. Saeed’s role is the most underwritten one here, skirting the lines of a human and a being from another realm.

Unlike Abbasi’s last undertaking Churails (2020), which despite its ability to bite more than it can chew, was more confident and efficient in its storytelling, Barzakh meanders quite a bit. There’s an entire episode where Scheherzade infuses psychedelics into the food of Jafar, Shehryar and Saifullah, explained as a way for the father and his sons to exorcise their demons, almost feels like a filler episode. They all have their resentments, we get it.

Also read: ‘Kill’: Slaughter Is the Best Medicine in This Relentless, Remorseless Action Film

The metaphors in Barzakh feel heavy-handed beyond a point. Doves being squished with bare hands, the fairies lugging around a slab of stone tied to their backs, the circularity of a serpent devouring itself. There are a few stunning flourishes too, like the way Abbasi and his cinematographer Mo Azmi, depict a love-making scene by showing a woman squeezing a fruit and spilling its nectar on her lover’s back. It’s an indication of how subliminal Barzakh could have been, had the writer-director shown such imagination without alienating their audience with talks of spirits, shamans, fairies and paradise. The even-tempered conflict between Jafar’s feudalistic ways, and the brimming anger of the townsfolk, is a fascinating sub-plot that gets flattened out amidst all the verbose dialogue.

Abbasi’s Barzakh is a noble failure, an undertaking that tries to reach for the peak of Himalayan ranges, and instead ends up on the balcony of a resort overlooking those mountains. It tests our patience a bit before getting to the good stuff. It just wants to tell its story. In a time, when everything has become about fan-service, Abbasi’s show feels like civil disobedience, which is not the worst thing, if you ask me.

Barzakh is streaming on Zee5, with new episodes every Wednesday and Friday.

Madan Mohan@100: The Composer who Brought a Rare Sensitivity to Romance

We remember with perfect clarity the flawless musical composition of Madan Mohan (1924-1975), whose birth centenary falls on June 25 of this year.

Bombay film songs acquire a trajectory that leaves the film and its actors behind. Over time we find it difficult to recollect the name of a film, or even the actor on whom a song was filmed. But we remember the melody. Think of the wonderful song ‘Tum jo mil gaye ho, toh yu lagta hain, ke jahan mil gaya’ in Hanste Zakhm (1973) . In the scene, a mediocre actor Navin Nischal lip-syncs the song for an equally mediocre Priya Rajvansh. Both are utterly forgettable.

Nevertheless, we recollect in great detail the wonderful lyrics by Kaifi Azmi for the film produced and directed by Chetan Anand. We have vivid memories of Mohammed Rafi’s voice. And we remember with perfect clarity the flawless musical composition of Madan Mohan (1924-1975), whose birth centenary falls on June 25 of this year.

Experts on the Bombay film and its music tell us that Madan Mohan did not get his due in the industry. May be, maybe not. Popularity is not a substitute for talent. Who can, after all, forget the music he composed for the number, ‘Har taraf ab yehi afsane hai. Hum teri ankkhon ke diwane hai’ in the film Hindustan Ki Kasam (1973).

The lyrics of the song were written by Kaifi Azmi and picturised on Raaj Kumar, who walking in the mist poetically recollects Priya Rajvansh’s, well, eyes. If there is Priya Rajvansh in a film, it must have been made by Chetan Anand. Never mind the ordinary war film and its stars, we recollect the song sung in the wonderfully mellow voice of Manna Dey.

Songs set to music by Madan Mohan and written by Kaifi Azmi are songs of love. Kaifi Azami is reported to have said that his song which was set to music by Madan Mohan in the 1970 Chetan Anand film Heer Ranjha: ‘Meri duniya mein tum aaye, kya kya apne saath liye’ was the best love song he had written. It certainly is a memorable love song redolent of the wonderful poetry for which Punjab is known.

Madan Mohan, who himself looked like a film star from the 1950s, reportedly had no training in music. Yet he composed the most amazing numbers in partnership with Mohammed Rafi and Lata Mangeshkar. He put together an everlasting number for Sharabi (1964) starring Dev Anand and Madhubala; ‘Sawan ke mahine mein, ek aag si seene mein, lagti hai to pi leta hoon, do chaar ghadi ji leta hoon’.

The lyrics were written by Anand Bakshi and the film was directed by Raj Rishi. It was one of the most peppy numbers that came to us from the industry.

Karan Johar’s Rocky aur Rani ki Prem Kahani reignited another catchy tune composed by Madan Mohan, ‘Jhumka gira re, Bareilly ke bazaar mein.’ The song was sung by Asha Bhosle for (1966) Mera Saaya, one of the most improbable film stories that saw the light of day. Picturized on a coquettish Sadhna, the lyrics of the song were written by Raja Mehndi Ali Khan.

The film was directed by Raj Khosla. Mohan could also compose a soulful number for the same film. It was sung by Mohamed Rafi, ‘aapke pehlu mein aake ro diye, dastaane dil suna ke ro diye’. He also gave music to the playful number in the same film ‘naino wali ne hai mera dil loota’ sung joyfully by Lata Mangeshkar.

A stupendously improbable ‘ghostly’ story ‘Woh Kaun Thi’ (1966) directed by Raj Khosla is remembered for one of Lata Mangeshkar’s most sensual numbers: ‘lag ja gale, ke phir yeh haseen raat ho na ho’. The lyricist was Raja Mehndi Ali Khan and Madan Mohan composed the music for this timeless number. The lead pair was Sadhna and Manoj Kumar. We remember them, but remember the songs more.

This is a salutary reminder of what M.K Raghavendra suggests in his 2016 work on Bollywood, written as one of Oxford India’s Short Introduction. He argues that film music achieves a life of its own. It is difficult to think, he suggests, of a Hollywood number transcending its context, the way Bombay Film music does.

The 1950s are described as the time when melody was king. Madan Mohan’s music reached into the 1960s and 1970s, bringing a rare sensitivity to romance at a time when Western tunes and cacophonies began to dominate Bollywood.

He created music that raised the standard for many films, for example Rajinder Singh Bedi’s (1970) Dastak. He was awarded the National film award for the best music direction for that film. Who can forget ‘baiya na dharon sajna’ written by Majrooh Sultanpuri from that film, even though we can hardly recollect the name of the actor upon whom this song was filmed.

Film critics tell us that Madan Mohan’s talent was underutilised because he had no known film maker or actor to back him the way Naushad was preferred by Dilip Kumar, or Raj Kapoor had Shankar Jaikishan, and Dev Anand S.D and then R.D Burman. Madan Mohan composed more than a hundred musical scores, but most of them were unused.

He became an alcoholic and died of cirrhosis of the liver in 1975 at age 51. He died early. And the world lost a composer who could weld poetry and music, both of which are the basic instincts of human beings, together in such wonderful ways.

Madan Mohan returned with a bang to popular memory when his unused music was resurrected by his son Sanjeev Kohli for Yash Chopra’s Veer Zaara (2004). The lyrics were written by Javed Akhtar and most of the songs were sung by Lata Mangeshkar. Those wonderful lyrics and the musical scores sent waves of nostalgia awash for the genius of Madan Mohan, the man who brought melody into our lives.

Neera Chandhoke was a professor of political science at Delhi University.

Union Government Denied Screening of Four Films In International Film Festival of India In 2023

The films which were denied permission were set In Bhutan, Gaza, Turkey and Hungary.

New Delhi: The Ministry of Information and Broadcasting (I&B Ministry) denied permissions to four films set in the Gaza Strip, Turkey, Hungary and Bhutan for screening in the 54th International Film Festival of India (IFFI) held in November, 2023 in Goa.

According to a report published in The Hindu, the four films which were denied permissions are — A Gaza Weekend, a satire directed by Basil Khalil set in a post-epidemic Israel where the Gaza strip becomes the safest place in the Levant; Dormitory, directed by Nehir Tuna, a drama about a teenager sent to a residential Islamic seminary by his father; Explanation for Everything, a Hungarian drama directed by Gábor Reisz that won the Orizzonti award for best film at the 80th Venice Film Festival; The Monk And The Gun, Bhutan’s official entry to the Oscars directed by Pawo Choyning Dorji — the records from the Ministry of Information and Broadcasting revealed.

For film festivals, the government waives the requirement for a certificate from the Central Board of Film Certification (CBFC).

According to the policy for certification of films for film festivals notified in January 2006, “In order to consider the request for exemption from the process of certification for films to be screened in festivals, the following documents shall be sent by the Director of the Festival addressed to Joint Secretary (Films) along with the request for exemption: (i) List of films to be screened in the festival, (ii) Synopsis of each of the films, (iii) Composition of the Preview Committee, which should comprise persons who are related to the film industry or are critics/writers connected with film, (iv) Report of the Preview Committee certifying that the films have been recommended for exhibition at the festival, (v) Certificate from the Director of the Festival to the effect that the screening of such films would be limited to delegates (definition of delegates would include film-makers, media students, critics, film theorists, film lovers and all those associated with the production and business of film and members of the press duly registered with the festival authorities as well as its jury), (vi) Certificate from the Director of the Festival to the effect that the festival is non-commercial in nature.”

Notably, The Monk and the Gun, a satire featuring mock elections in Bhutan was screened in the Bengaluru International film festival (BIFFes) held from February 29–March 7, 2024. The film was also shown at the Jio Mumbai Academy of Moving Image (MAMI) Film Festival held from October 27–November 5, 2023 and won the Audience Choice Award in the festival.

As per The Hindu, Dorji’s film is set to be released theatrically in India and the trailer of the film is being shown in cinemas across the country after the CBFC granted permission for the same. Hence, it is unclear why the the ministry denied permission for its screening in IFFI.

‘Disappointed That ‘Ram Ke Naam’ is Still Relevant’: Anand Patwardhan on Janmabhoomi Politics

In his 1992 film ‘Ram Ke Naam’, Patwardhan meticulously traces the Ram Janmabhoomi movement of the 1990s and its culmination in the demolition of the Babri Masjid.

New Delhi: As Ayodhya prepares to welcome Lord Ram, the line between the political and the religious seems to blur.

Amidst questions raised by prominent swamis regarding the religiosity surrounding the temple’s inauguration, the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) remains undeterred in proceeding with the much-anticipated ‘pran pratishtha’ ceremony.

In a special interview with documentary filmmaker Anand Patwardhan, a chronicler who has skillfully captured the shifting realities of our times, The Wire’s Zeeshan Kaskar discusses the evolving landscape of contemporary India.

From documenting the anti-Indira Gandhi agitations of 1974 to his recent work titled Vivek, addressing various facets of post-2014 India, Patwardhan has exhibited unwavering dedication in his pursuit of truth. His films have served as a warning to the Indian public, shedding light on the perils of majoritarian politics.

However, in his 1992 film Ram Ke Naam, that stands out as a timeless masterpiece, Patwardhan meticulously traces the Ram Janmabhoomi movement of the 1990s and its culmination in the demolition of the Babri Masjid.

Even in 2024, Ram Ke Naam remains an unparalleled audio-visual documentary, providing a deep understanding of the political dynamics leading to the construction of the Ram temple in Ayodhya. Patwardhan’s lens captures the essence of a pivotal moment in India’s history, offering viewers a comprehensive perspective on the complex interplay between faith and politics.

In this interview, Patwardhan talks about Ram ke Naam and the Ram temple inauguration on January 22.

An Escapist Outlet: The Rise of Hyper-Masculinity in Indian Cinema

The violence and anger depicted in films, such as ‘RRR’, ‘Pushpa’, ‘Kabir Singh’, or ‘Animal’, prompt contemplation on the underlying reasons for the increasing appeal of such violently toxic masculine representations in Indian cinema.

“Madness is the most disgraceful thing that can overtake a wild creature.”

— Rudyard Kipling, The Jungle Book

It is often said that cinema acts as a mirror to the society we live in. At times, it depicts issues faced by society, and sometimes, it chooses to escape from reality, taking the viewer to an imagined territory. It is difficult to identify when society is influenced by cinema or vice versa.

Films depict a complex society with numerous cultures, identities, and issues in various ways. Sometimes, these representations raise important questions. In recent times, films like Kabir Singh (2019) or Animal (2023) attracted the public as well as scholarly scrutiny regarding the depiction and politics of gender in Indian cinema.

In a recent interview, actor Naseeruddin Shah said, “Mardon ki insecurity badh rahi hai, isiliye ab aur zyada zor diya jaa raha hai hyper masculinity ko…” (the insecurities of men are increasing and that is why there is a push for hyper-masculinity.)

Indian society is patriarchal, and the Hindi film industry, in particular, is a male-dominated industry, where the majority of the technical crew, including filmmakers and producers, are male. The ‘male gaze’ dictates how the interplay and politics of gender are represented in our cinema.

As a student of history, my work allows me to go back in time to see how the conception and representation of masculinity has evolved over the years. When I think of films like Animal or Kabir Singh, I often compare them with the image of the ‘angry young man’ that emerged in the 1970s.

Also read: Prasanth Vijay’s Film ‘Daayam’ Unravels Kerala’s Gender Paradox Amidst Grief and Patriarchy

Expressions of anger

The angry young man was violent but, like Robin Hood, a friend of the poor and an enemy of the rich. The figure of the angry young man was essentially anti-establishment and stood for the welfare of the poor. Similar to Amitabh Bachchan, Naseeruddin Shah is depicted in art house films such as Albert Pinto Ko Gussa Kyon Aata Hai (1980) by Saeed Akhtar Mirza as a young man frustrated with the system but non-violent.

Prakash Mehra’s Zanjeer (1973) created the image of the angry young man played by Amitabh Bachchan. The 1970s were more turbulent and testing than any other in India’s history, characterised by increasing unemployment, poverty, and political violence. It was the time when, on one side, the Indian armed forces had just emerged victorious in the Bangladesh Liberation War against Pakistan, and on the other side, the daughter of independent India’s first Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru, Indira Gandhi, was voted in. The evocative slogan of the decade was, ‘Indira Lao, Garibi Hatao’ (Elect Indira, Eradicate Poverty).

The terrible drought in East India in the mid-1960s impeded India’s development and aggravated poverty, resulting in the country’s increased reliance on western powers for aid. The 1970s witnessed the hollowness of the government’s ‘Garibi Hatao (Eradicate Poverty)’ slogan, juxtaposed against the harsh realities of daily life, marked by inflation, escalating unemployment, and pervasive political and financial corruption. Indifference towards the burgeoning student movements nationwide further fueled a sense of helplessness.

The common man was disillusioned and angry with the system, and at that time, emerged the figure of Inspector Vijay Khanna (played by Bachchan). This film paved the way for a new kind of hero – a brooding, angry, despondent Bachchan, as opposed to the romantic, charming Rajesh Khanna or Dev Anand. The ‘angry man’ persona consciously reshaped notions of masculinity, stardom, and political discourse on the screen, leaving an indelible impact on subsequent developments in cinema.

What Bachchan’s Vijay Khanna was to commercial cinema, Naseeruddin Shah and Om Puri were to art house cinema. Both of them were considered to be the best of their time. They immortalized characters like Albert Pinto from Saeed Akhtar Mirza’s Albert Pinto Ko Gussa Kyon Aata Hai? or Bhiku Lahanya from Govind Nihalani’s Aakrosh during the 1980s.

The 80s were arguably a lost decade, with Indira Gandhi pursuing her gambits of nationalising banks and loan melas when she should have been ushering in economic reforms and deregulation.

In the movie Albert Pinto ko Gussa Kyon Aata Hai?, the central themes of the narrative revolve around Pinto’s struggle to determine his life’s purpose beyond repairing expensive cars for affluent clients at the garage. Pinto’s lack of awareness regarding the social and political dimensions affecting his family leads to the imprisonment of his unemployed younger brother, exploited by local criminal elements.

Initially, Pinto’s anger seems rooted in selfishness, but it transforms, symbolising a broader discontent. This discontent is reflective of the imminent expression by real Mumbai textile workers, embodied in the politically active yet defiant figure of his father.

As the film unfolds, witnessing his brother’s incarceration, his father’s loss of dignity, and the company’s malicious attempts to discredit the workers’ union and their right to strike, Pinto redirects his anger toward a more fitting target – the political and economic elite. This pivotal moment is captured in a cinema setting, with Pinto challenging the political address of the company management. Shouting at the cinema screen, Pinto faces opposition from a disgruntled audience, and Mirza subverts the concept of political acquiescence by implicating the broader society and empowering Pinto.

Characters like Albert Pinto and Vijay Khanna emerged as compelling figures, raising thought-provoking questions through their expressions of anger, which symbolically represented a more profound discontent. Their narratives served as a lens through which the audience could analyse and comment on the intricate social and political landscapes prevalent during the tumultuous decades of the 1970s and 80s.

Also read: K.G. George Was a Chronicler of Society’s Patriarchal Morality and Maker of Thoughtful Films

The present cinematic landscape

Fast-forward to the present cinematic landscape, and a disconcerting pattern reemerges – women are once again relegated to peripheral roles, their significance measured solely by their contributions to the male character’s storyline.

Film critic Anna M.M. Vetticad delves into this issue, particularly in the context of Pushpa, elucidating how, in a contemporary India marked by religious bigotry, language chauvinism, and caste divisions, potential unifying factors encompass misogyny, patriarchy, crass female objectification, and a pervasive desire to control or own women.

A historical examination of commercial cinema reveals a recurrent portrayal of women as objects of desire – depicted as helpless, conservative, and confined to stereotypical ‘domestic’ roles. Their primary function has often been to bolster the male protagonist’s narrative and personify an idealised femininity. In some instances, the female body becomes a tool for attracting male audiences, exploited through item songs and dances adorned with elaborate costumes.

Examining recent films such as RRR, Pushpa, Kabir Singh, or Animal, a common thematic thread emerges – the portrayal of an exaggerated form of masculinity that markedly deviates from reality. The violence and anger depicted in these films seem to function as an escapist outlet, prompting contemplation on the underlying reasons for the increasing appeal of such violently toxic masculine representations in contemporary Indian cinema. This phenomenon invites a broader conversation about societal norms, expectations, and the evolving dynamics of gender portrayal on the big screen.

Eshan Sharma is the founder of Karwaan: The Heritage Exploration Initiative.

Prasanth Vijay’s Film ‘Daayam’ Unravels Kerala’s Gender Paradox Amidst Grief and Patriarchy

The film’s immediate focus is Kamala Das’s famous Malayalam short story, ‘Neypaayasam’. It’s a heart-wrenching account of the sudden death of a woman and the sweet dish she leaves behind being relished by her unsuspecting young children, with the devastated father looking on.

Prasanth Vijay’s movie Daayam (‘Inheritance’), which is being screened at the ongoing 28th International Film Festival of Kerala, is about a teenage girl learning to cope with the loss of her mother. Her home, that of a typical upper middle-class nuclear family, is largely where the story takes place. But the film throws up some keen observations about the larger Malayali society.

Prasanth says that the film was planned during the COVID-19 pandemic, to be shot in the confines of a domestic space. He roped in filmmaker Indu Lakshmi – they both used to work for Infosys – to write the script and finish the shoot in a month. However, the making of the film got delayed. It was finally finished when he was already busy with his third film.

Daayam was selected in the National Film Development Corporation’s Film Bazaar Recommends 2022. It had its world premiere at the MAMI Mumbai Film Festival 2023. It has also been selected for the Chicago International Children’s Film Festival.

The immediate locus of the film is the famous Malayalam short story by Madhavikkutty aka Kamala Das, titled Neypaayasam (‘Ghee Kheer’). It’s a heart-wrenching account of the sudden death of a woman and the sweet dish she leaves behind being relished by her unsuspecting young children, with the devastated father looking on. A powerful motif for the Malayali literary public. But there is yet another story that is closer to Daayam’s inner trajectory: Ashitha’s Amma Ennodu Paranja Nunakal (‘The Lies Mother Told Me’).

The film has a Neypaayasam moment when Kalyani suddenly loses her mother, Renuka, to cerebral haemorrhage, and her recipe book is discovered from a kitchen shelf. The relatives wax eloquent about Renuka’s Neypaayasam, but its recipe is missing from the book. The movie has a deliberately slow pace, set to soulful music by Varkey, letting the shocking fact of the death sink in both for the individuals on screen and the audience watching them. But Daayam is not only about grief after profound loss, but a fly-on-the wall narrative of its aftermath, with elements of intrigue and drama.

Following the death of the woman and the exit of the extended family after the customary few days, the house falls into a disarray. Unwashed laundry and kitchen disasters rule the day, but Kalyani and her father find their rhythm in time (stellar performances by Aathira Rajeev and Pradeep Geedha). Yet, things go horribly wrong and Kalyani is ultimately forced to become the adult of the family almost overnight.

A still from the movie ‘Daayam’.

Prasanth’s 2017 debut movie, Athisayangalude Venal (‘Summer of Miracles’), was also about losing a parent. The protagonist, a young boy, struggles to cope with his father’s disappearance and Prasanth agrees that Daayam is a “spiritual sequel to my first work”. One might add that Kalyani, too, faces the disappearance of her father, all but physically.

From an understated tale of aching, the film gradually grows into a not-so-subtle study of patriarchy. While some of the plot-points feel forced and with the climax bordering on the regressive, it’s but an unfortunately accurate narrative of a Kerala entrenched in superstitions, casteism, and elitism; its convenient veneer of progressiveness ably concealing the rot inside. Daayam, in effect, is a provocative portrayal of the gender paradox of Kerala. Though the state consistently tops social indices, its homes reek of men’s entitlement. According to a national sample survey, Kerala ranks at the bottom among the larger states in South India in terms of the proportion of women in the overall workforce. This, despite having a larger share of enrolment in higher education than men.

Marriage and domestic responsibilities are still considered the ultimate virtue for women across classes which cost them their dreams and career plans, a fact backed by the Kerala Knowledge Economy Mission survey. Daayam holds a mirror to this reality when Renuka, a teacher, dies and nobody talks about her profession but only about her cooking.

“Having a female writer has helped the film in gaining perspectives that I would not have been able to explore otherwise,” says Prasanth. The unglamorous and unflattering aspects of homemaking are indeed shown with precision. In a house reverberating with Malayalam poetry from across ages and happy-family vibes, there are hints of a woman, Renuka, leading the life of a volcano, with sporadic releases of fire and ash, fated to eventually explode and die.

In the meantime, she treads the age-old paths from the “children’s room to the husband’s bedroom to the kitchen”, as recounted by Ashitha in her short story, which ends with the daughter realising that her mother was lying all along about the simple recipe for marital bliss. But by then, she had already learned the language of silence, like the umpteen women before her. In a striking continuity, Kalyani is seen silently inheriting (hence Daayam) her mother’s kitchen and her recipe book, oddly evoking memories of the 2021 film The Great Indian Kitchen that had the lead woman storm out of the kitchen, showing domestic drudgery for what it is.

But unlike such movies, Prasanth says his films are not looking to serve justice or provide closure to its protagonists. “Much has been left unsaid, expecting the viewers to fill in even as they walk out of the cinema and long after,” he adds.

Curiously enough, the filmmaker feels that the viewers outside Kerala did not read too much into the climax: “They were able to relate to Kalyani’s affinity to her mother’s kitchen, a safe space of happy memories. But many Malayali viewers living in Kerala complained about the ‘meek’ ending. What I have to tell them is, Kalyani is only holding onto whatever she can; it’s a teenager’s attempt to make sense of her world that got suddenly upended. The rest is for the viewer to interpret.”

Therefore, one hopes Kalyani gets the recipe right as she attempts to cook her mother’s Neypaayasam using a non-existent recipe. And power to break an inheritance of silence that could very well have killed her mother.