Category: Movies

‘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.  

Vidhu Vinod Chopra’s ’12th Fail’ Floors You with its Kindness and Sincerity

It could have been another humdrum film about the underdog, but the director avoids cheap and easy traps.

I’ll admit I kept my distance from Vidhu Vinod Chopra’s 12th Fail for a long time, thinking it would eventually deliver the same old spiel about India’s rat race, something we’ve been assaulted with in Chopra’s 2008 production 3 Idiots, and umpteen TVF shows on India’s many competitive entrance exams. Chopra’s middling work as a director in the last two decades post-Parinda also probably had something to do with it, ensuring my cynicism remained despite a promising start. I was almost confident that it was only a matter of time before the film’s graph would plummet. Hence, I was surprised to find myself holding my breath during the final stretch. It was around then that I realised that the film had me in its palm, and I was desperately rooting for the protagonist – Manoj Kumar Sharma (Vikrant Massey) – a boy out of a village in Chambal (Madhya Pradesh), preparing for his UPSC exams in Delhi. It was also during this very scene when I realised Chopra’s film had floored me.

12th Fail is a painfully old story of an underdog, built around India’s unforgiving and unequal education system. A boy living in a faraway village, sees an impossible dream. The first time we see him, he’s furiously making notes. A voiceover clarifies – he’s making chits on the day before his 12th board exams. We see a municipal school and callous teachers – the kind who write “borad exams” on the blackboard without a second thought. Manoj’s goal is to pass his boards so he can take up the job of an office peon. All he has to do is, replicate the answers from his chits into the answer sheet.

Unfortunately for Manoj and other students, an honest cop (Priyanshu Chatterjee) enters the picture. He won’t allow any cheating during boards, and as a result, the entire batch fails. It’s a wake-up call for the likes of Manoj, who haven’t had a role model in their lives until then. Almost starstruck by the cop and his aura, he makes up his mind – he will become a police officer, just like the DSP in his village.

Using the last savings of his grandmother (thanks to her monthly armed forces pension), Manoj makes his way to Gwalior first, and then eventually to Delhi. Training his eyes on the UPSC – arguably the toughest exam to crack in the world – Manoj’s life becomes a rollercoaster over the next 7-8 years, and we become a part of it.

There’s barely anything in 12th Fail that we haven’t seen before. A new boy in a strange city, having all his belongings stolen on the very first day – it used to be a staple scene in most Hindi films, especially when it involved the characters making their way to Bombay. And yet, it doesn’t feel repetitive in Chopra’s film, because we’re personally invested in Manoj’s journey. We’re in his shoes, as he makes the decision to not go back home until he’s made something of his life.

On paper, 12th Fail shouldn’t work like it does. It’s not the most novel story, and the obstacles are something we’re all acutely aware of, even possibly desensitised to. A boy from hinterland India, barely scraping through his 12th boards, living in a big city, someone who misreads ‘tourism in India’ as ‘terrorism in India’, someone who has to work 12-15 hours a day so he can study for six hours and then survive on three hours of sleep. The odds are so comprehensively stacked against him, no one would blame him for failing, or giving up. But he doesn’t – and that’s what becomes “inspirational” about this story.

It’s a journey we’ve been on in earlier films, but 12th Fail has a stellar ‘feel’ for authenticity. It makes a few surprising choices – Manoj’s lack of proficiency in English is never mocked, it’s a source for tragedy. The teacher at the coaching centre could’ve been someone with tics, which could be mined for humour. Instead, Chopra casts Vikas Divyakirti, who runs a coaching centre for UPSC exams in real life. Unlike the eccentric teachers we’ve seen in films, Divyakirti uses his tranquil voice to bring a thousand racing minds [in his class] to a pause. It’s only a small part of the world of 12th Fail, but it helps the audience fully immerse itself in Manoj’s journey.

He also surrounds his protagonist with a lovely bunch of actors – Anshuman Pushkar (who broke out in the Netflix show Jamtara) plays the ‘veteran’ in the Mukherjee Nagar area, who didn’t make it. So, he makes it his life’s mission to coach the next generation of hopefuls, especially those with limited means like Manoj. There’s Anantvijay Joshi as Pandey – the narrator of the film – who studies alongside Manoj, but is significantly more ‘well-settled’. Harish Khanna, playing Manoj’s father, undertakes his own journey of fighting a lengthy legal battle against his superiors in a government office and is handed the film’s finest scene, where he tells his son the uselessness of upright honesty in the world. It’s the voice of a man with a bitter awakening too late in his life – only to be reminded, by his own son, of the values he passed on to his son.

Above all, 12th Fail is a paean to Vikrant Massey’s astronomical amounts of sincerity. Manoj’s journey through all the obstacles could also serve as a parallel for Massey – a gifted young actor – charting his way through the jungle of a Bollywood career. Just like any other walk of life, the system benefits a certain kind of prospect, and rarely reciprocates hard work. He’s never been terrible even in the most questionable films of his career, and therefore, it feels like a personal victory to see a film doing justice to Massey’s dedication to throwing himself into a part. Seeing Manoj emerge from the darkest holes and greet people with a wide smile, despite going through the most trying phases, is an image from the film that I’ll carry with me for a long time.

Vidhu Vinod Chopra’s 12th Fail almost feels like an early Rajkumar Hirani film – when simplicity of thought didn’t necessarily culminate into contrived screenwriting. And where the story always knew how to play a delicate dance of good intentions and entertainment. Unlike most underdog films in mainstream Hindi cinema, where one eye is on the box office, the tears and catharsis in 12th Fail always feel earned. This could’ve very easily been a sappy, sentimental film – but Chopra never compromises the idealism in his story for an easier, cheaper way. 12th Fail is proof that crowd-pleasing films can find a way to be so, without losing sight of their integrity.

‘Kaala Paani’ Is a Well Mounted Thriller That Doesn’t Trust Itself Enough To Forgo the Melodrama

The acting is good across the board in this series about the outbreak of a strange disease in the near future.

I’d be surprised if showrunner Sameer Saxena and directors Biswapati Sarkar and Amit Golani didn’t come up with the idea of Kaala Paani (Netflix) during the lockdown imposed because of COVID-19. An uncertain time when many of us were sitting at home, watching films like Steven Soderbergh’s Contagion (2011), I’m assuming most filmmakers and writers saw possibilities for a pandemic thriller, especially with everything going on around us. But it’s one thing to brainstorm these ideas, and quite another to execute them. Kaala Paani is confidently mounted, and showcases an attribute that almost immediately makes one want to root for it: an ambitious scope of inquiry.

Set in December 2027 – as if to suggest a time in the near future, when human beings have forgotten about the horrors of COVID-19 and have become predictably lax about social distancing – the show begins in Port Blair in the Andaman and Nicobar Islands. The show’s name is derived from the local name for the Cellular Jail in the capital city that was built by the British for the most ‘notorious’ revolutionaries, chosen to serve particularly oppressive life sentences. The islands are pegged as a prison, surrounded by a wall no one could possibly scale – the endless sea.

The first episode does well to introduce the main players of the show and set up the central conflict. Dr Soudamini Singh (Mona Singh, as assured as ever) has discovered an increasing number of patients with black spots on the nape of their necks. All patients seem to exhibit similar symptoms: fever and hiccups, followed by death a few hours later. When Dr Singh brings this to the attention of her colleagues, they accuse her of being an alarmist. The island is going to be hosting a festival for tourists called Swaraj Mahotsav (eerily sounds like Azadi Ka Amrit Mahotsav) – and as one might be able to predict in such a show, there’s an outbreak on the island with the disease found to be spreading through a water pipeline, emerging from a lake. 

Much like Contagion (2011) – Soderbergh’s sharp and meticulous chronicling of an epidemic, right in the aftermath of the H1N1 breakout in 2009 – even Kaala Paani’s characters come from all walks of life. This includes doctors, nurses, local administrators, politicians, cops, mainland tourists, local tour guides, ecological activists, and indigenous communities. It results in at least half a dozen subplots, covering the beats of a survival drama – a puppy romance, a couple of tracks around generational trauma being passed down – all this, apart from the main conflict of these characters getting through a widespread disease in the time of lockdown, where the administration is controlling the information to prevent public hysteria or simply to manipulate the public view of how is handling the crisis. 

It’s a pleasure to see director Ashutosh Gowariker come back to acting after nearly two decades, as Lieutenant Governor (LG) Zibran Qadri – an admiral of the Indian Navy-turned-politician. As LG Qadri, Gowariker is precise – not giving his character unnecessary affectations and keeping it as uncluttered as possible – even though he seems conscious of the camera through a major chunk of his performance. Sukant Goel, as a slippery tour guide Chiranjeevi, is as potent as ever. His Tamil-inflected Hindi is consistent, and he gets one of the more interesting arcs in the show. Vikas Kumar – playing Santosh Savle, a working-class man from Bokaro visiting the island with his family, is another memorable character. Kumar has a disarming sincerity with the way he uses his big eyes, coarse body language and nothing-held-back approach during the big emotional scenes. Amey Wagh has fun playing Ketan Kamat – a corrupt cop, who acts as a liaison with the big corporate presence on the island, a company called Atom which wants to ‘develop’ the islands by resettling the indigenous tribes. Kaala Paani is well-acted for a large part.

However, a few things stick out. Things that feel like writers’ contrivance to take the show in a particular direction, rather than allowing it to take its own course. For example, in an early scene when a doctor argues with LG Qadri that the public should be informed about the disease amongst them, and therefore the need for social distancing and isolation – neither of them debates the panic that could be caused by the announcement. Qadri wants to control the information to his own advantage, while the doctor recklessly informs the media about the outbreak, without fully weighing the consequences of her actions. Similarly, Dr Soudamini Singh’s initiative in the first episode to track down her patients, putting herself in harm’s way for it, feels rushed for the sake of a cliffhanger at the end of the first episode. Several characters ‘coincidentally’ identify patterns of a flower or a water bottle to make the tracks intersect during key moments.

Also, there are too many tears. Kaala Paani – like most mainstream projects – seems to have a serious problem with showing restraint and does not leave anything unsaid. Themes about the ‘man vs nature’ conflict are verbalised through awkward lines like “nature always finds a way”. The show’s interest in human nature is clunkily explained through the frog and scorpion fable. One of the show’s core conflicts – whether one human life is more valuable than the other, and how one ascribes ‘value’ to life is spoon-fed in the second episode, where LG Qadri explains the ‘trolley problem’ with visual cues at a seminar. 

A certain kind of anxiety seems to underline these choices – that ‘the audience will not get it’ unless it’s all spelt out. It’s almost like the show doesn’t trust its merits enough to move the audience and thus injects decent scenes with exposition or melodrama. The show, which could have been leaner, also employs flashbacks that don’t necessarily work. Like the corrupt cop’s telling of how he got his ‘punishment posting’ in Andaman, or the trauma of a nurse played by Ayushi Sharma, which caused her to give up nursing. These flashbacks don’t add much to the characters, and are in retrospect wasteful, digressing from the show’s main narrative.  

Sameer Saxena’s show could have been more adventurous with its treatment of indigenous tribal characters – who are sadly, even here, shown to be mute, noble spectators. They don’t have much personality, apart from being respectful of nature, or being flogged by the city folk to show their ‘oppression’. At the same time, one of the show’s biggest strengths is also that it stresses on the cruelty of ‘civilised society’. At one point, a few men in a room don’t hesitate even once while discussing the possibility that they may have to wipe out the entire indigenous tribe for their own survival. It’s a stunningly cruel moment delivered minus a dramatic background score, making it that much more chilling. Genocide, as an order of business, to be ticked off during a meeting among the powerful – one assumes this is how it happens across the world. There’s also a superbly anti-climactic reveal about a secret project – designed in precisely that manner – to show capitalism’s reckless ways. 

The track featuring Vikas Kumar is the only arc that feels like it’s been allowed time to breathe. The climactic decision, and the horrific catharsis accompanying it, feel earned. The show’s commentary on ‘human desperation’ isn’t underlined, making it all the more effective. Kaala Paani is a competently made pandemic thriller, one that doesn’t show enough faith in itself in key moments. Hopefully, there will be fewer tears in the second season.

Bollywood and Dissent: Beyond Modi’s Love for Mangoes

For decades, Indian celebrities have had an unsaid rule of never critiquing politics or being anti-government.

At a recent event in Los Angeles, Priyanka Chopra was called out by Ayesha Malik, a Pakistani-American influencer, for posting pro-Indian army tweets in relation to the Pulwama attack in February despite having been a UN Goodwill Ambassador since 2016.

Thereafter, the Indian media immediately began portraying the new sansani khabar of how Chopra “shut down a Pakistani troll”.

Yet even as some cheered, her reply to Malik came as a shocker for many of her fans – it wasn’t consistent with the millennial inclusive agenda she otherwise seems to support.

In fact, instead of respectfully disagreeing and addressing the question, she was dismissive, throwing around statements like “whenever you’re done venting” and “don’t yell, don’t embarrass yourself”.

The video also shows the microphone being snatched from Malik before she’s able to finish speaking. Courageously, she persevered, but was shamed for heckling.

This article doesn’t argue whether or not Chopra was justified to place patriotism above being an international humanitarian; neither does it attempt to engage in discussing the controversial “how does saying ‘Jai Hind’ encourage war?” question.

What it tries to address is a deeper, more intrinsic issue: the double standard of those in the spotlight who claim to be ‘pro-love’ and ‘anti-war’ when it suits them.

An unsaid rule

For decades, Indian celebrities have had an unsaid rule of never critiquing politics or being anti-government. This reflects in the questions they are asked by the domestic media as well – despite national ongoing crises, they fail to move beyond discussing rumoured love affairs and gossip.

However, it is was reprehensible to see Chopra replicate this much-abused model internationally – especially on issues that should very much be talked about by a UN Goodwill Ambassador.

Dismissing legitimate questions by branding people who dare ask questions as hecklers and trolls isn’t the answer – it’s gas lighting.

After all, isn’t productive dissent the essence of the millennial ‘woke’ regime? It is disappointing to see Indian actors limit their political participation to asking the prime minister if he likes mangoes and Instagramming pictures of forefingers on election day, but Chopra has managed to take this apparent ignorance to a whole new level by dismissing Malik as an insignificant hater and labelling issues of grave international importance as mere rants.

Also read: The Farce That Was PM Modi’s ‘Non-Political’ Interview With Akshay Kumar

More often than not, the uniform response that all celebrities mime when they’re required to choose sides on issues of political importance are “this isn’t the time or place for this” or “I’m not well-informed about this”. 

But when is a good time to talk about what’s happening in the country? Or the ongoing clampdown on Kashmir? Or the most dangerous parliamentary session India has ever witnessed?

Why can’t the people that post random selfies with the PM assent or dissent publicly?

In a recent interview, Sonam Kapoor, on being asked about the nullification of Article 370, dodged taking a stand, stating that she could “only give an opinion when she had complete information” and that “there is so much going on, it’s hard to find the truth”.

This is while a tense Kashmir is presently very much under lockdown.

“I think it’s very complicated and I don’t understand it as much because there is so much contrary news everywhere so I don’t really know what the truth is. I believe in having peaceful discourse and understanding what’s going on. So when I have the complete information is when I think I can give an opinion,” she said.

Following in Chopra’s footsteps, she, too, attempted to validate her statements by adding how she has two best friends who are Pakistani; akin to the ‘some of my best friends are black’ defense much parroted in the US that has become shorthand for weak denials of bigotry.

Kapoor, however, did make the time to express her grief about her film Neerja being banned in Pakistan.

In the aftermath of the episode, Kapoor tweeted:

For Bollywood, it seems as though vague words like peace, humanity and understanding are enough; in Hollywood, Meryl Streep gave an anti-Trump speeches at the Golden Globes.

We do have a few actors, from the likes of Swara Bhaskar, who has been very vocal in her stance against the Modi government and been trolled extensively for it, to Anupam Kher, Kangana Ranaut and Salman Khan who have let their admiration for the present regime show more than once. 

Also read: Sonam Kapoor and #EverydayPhenomenal: Should Celebrities Tone Down Their Extravagance?

And let’s not forget the recent back and forth of letters where first 49 celebrities, including Anurag Kashyap and Aparna Sen, wrote to the prime minister over ‘Jai Shri Ram’ becoming a “war cry”. Then, the 49 were sent a counter statement against their apparent “selective outrage and false narratives” by 61 celebrities that included actor Kangana Ranaut, lyricist Prasoon Joshi, dancer Sonal Mansingh and filmmakers Madhur Bhandarkar and Vivek Agnihotri among others.

The power of debate

Knowing the direct and extreme impact of popular actors on the masses, especially in India, how long can we sustain this neutral stance on everything of importance in the country and in the world?

If someone has the power of having a large audience they should have the responsibility to make the world a better place. It is every person’s duty to keep the needle moving in our society and celebrities have more power to do so than a regular citizen.

Dissent cannot be equated with hate. Saying “we’re all here for love” isn’t enough when the love extends only to those who agree with you. It’s 2019 – we all have the right to dissent and make our opinions heard.

Aabha Dixit is a student at Hidayatullah National Law University, Raipur.