Category: Film Reviews

Sitaare Zameen Par is original, progressive and empowering.

How is Sitaare Zameen Par an original film? Since this is an adapted film, the obvious burning question needs to be addressed first. The answer depends on how one defines originality for a film. The prism of originality need not be limited to the plot or the characters and what is at the surface, but rather what we find when we start looking within the layers — the filmmaker’s intent and core values, the process, the cultural rootedness and the effective use of film language. Also, the film’s significance goes beyond originality in the form of the creation itself but reflects in the outcome it creates. To examine the subject deeper, from a ‘von above view’ looking at the idea of originality, nothing really is created from a void, but everything builds on the foundation of someone else’s work as there is an interconnectedness to our living, and originality is relative.

Stating the basic facts, firstly there was a Spanish film titled Champions (Campeones) made in 2018 that was loosely inspired by the true story of Aderes, a Valencia based basketball team with special learning needs that won 12 Spanish Championships between 1994 and 2014. Secondly, Aamir Khan an Indian star as a producer acquired the legal rights for the original Spanish film and made his film Sitaare Zameen Par which was released in June 2025.

The film is very similar to the Spanish film in terms of its plot and characters at first glance but if we look beyond, its thematic exploration unfolds the common thread between its spiritual twin Tare Zameen Par (directed by Aamir Khan). In keeping with the close bond it’s important to note the title of this film is Sitaare Zameen Par and not Champions. The title of the discussed film has an endearing quality that is absent in the title of the original Spanish film. It is a small difference but could mean a shift in focus, from viewing the film through the prism of a sports genre to now a human drama. And the film is therefore relying less on cinematic devises of the sports genre but is in the playing field of emotions. If we can take this point further, the film is shaped by the Indian tradition of the Rasa theory of heightened emotions and a key scene that depicts that well is the victory of Guddu when he overcomes his fear and phobia of water(bathing) which is treated melodramatically, or rather I would say treated with a ‘larger than life’ aesthetic, beautifully retaining its core truth.

The filmmaker’s intentions feel rooted in Indian culture and alive with a personal struggle and commitment reflected in their own lives to the cause of seeking to understand oneself and growing to a larger consciousness with society. The makers are aware they might not be ideal human beings or ideal parents for that matter, but by accepting their human flaws and being vulnerable about it is portraying honesty on and off screen. The film utilises the same vulnerability to its full effect in the film with the choice of the comedy genre to highlight characters with their flaws, but they are not looked down upon, the weaknesses are either improved or celebrated. The film has been careful with the treatment of humour to connect to the audiences but has managed to maintain the fine balance between entertaining and critiquing and not laughing at but with the characters. In tune with the true spirit of the comedy genre the main stars of the film are the neurodivergent individuals who share the spirit of the character of the archetype of the clown being pure, honest and rebellious at the same time.  An important progressive outcome of the film is also in its casting of these actors; they are not only fun and authentic to watch but now are the leaders of their own cause and are empowered by the film.

The filmmaker and specifically Aamir through this film and his body of work as a human being is softly whispering beneath the veil of stardom, a voice seeking innocence and authenticity, a purity and acceptance of love in society. While Aamir, the star in the film is the protagonist taking the journey who we identify with no doubt, he hands over the reins of his growth this time to the rest of the cast to shine the light on him. His journey in the film is about realising that his intellectual capabilities might be normal, but his moral imperfections make him abnormal and miserable. And the film makes us reflect on – what we label as normal and our current state of existence as individuals and as a society. In the film’s silences, it yearns for utopia with a moral purity of heart. With the success at the Indian box office it probably seems like the audiences are smitten by the innocent fools who are more wise than clever men claiming to have wisdom.

As a Producer Aamir Khan has refused to release his film on any OTT (Over The Top) platform and dedicated it to a theatrical release which could have caused him a negative financial impact, but it seems he showed supreme confidence in his work and surrendered it to the audience. He also stayed loyal to cinema with this film as a format of exhibition where the audience with their volition visit the sacred space of the theatre to experience emotions, ideas and reflections of themselves. This bold step could revitalise the theatrical business and cause some filmmakers and the government to pause and reflect on the value of cinema viewing as an important tradition in society.

In India there are many films made each year as a product for entertainment or commerce, but there are only a few which can serve as a beacon for the community to heal and transform.

Photo courtesy of the clown: Firefly AI. The clown embodies innocence, deep wisdom, joy and sorrow and is something that I feel Aamir is reflecting in his body of work.

Aattam: Astonishingly tense chamber drama that rises above its influences to deliver an incisive, intricate, and nuanced story

The choice to focus the lens on a theatrical troupe feels very intentional: it provides a crucible wherein an assortment of characters from varied backgrounds of economic and social strata can accumulate under one roof, sharing a similar interest. The deliberate decision to also include a sole female within the theatrical troupe allows writer-director Anand Ekarshi to showcase the diversity of the male populace agglomerated under the explicit parameter of masculinity.

Aattam delves into the performative aspect of modern masculinity, which is fragile enough to be exposed or challenged by any form of change or provocation. Ekarshi’s writing stands out for its examination of misogyny. From the beginning of the film, male characters maintain a facade of acceptance and camaraderie, concealing underlying misogynistic attitudes that manifest through subtle microaggressions (for most) and blatant aggressions displayed by Vinay (Vinay Forrt). Vinay is engaged in an illicit relationship with Anjali (Zarin Shihab). His aggressive actions stem from feeling displaced from his central role due to newcomer movie star Hari (Kalabhavan Shajohn), whose presence brings attention and success to a theater group that operates independently but is still influenced by capitalism. This realization leaves Vinay disheartened, as he fears losing the spotlight.

However, when the inciting incident occurs (Anjali being groped at night by one of the members while she is sleeping), with Anjali strongly suggesting she knows the responsible party, Vinay decides to bring in the rest of the troupe to make a decision. Through this meeting, he carefully starts to manipulate so that his ends are met in the process. This is the moment where the movie segues into a chamber drama, and Ekarshi’s minimalistic treatment comes to the forefront.

The script showcases nuanced writing and an exploration of intricate relationships across different generations. As more of the true nature of the men is revealed under the garb of logically questioning the nooks and crannies of that incident, Ekarshi’s choice to sideline Anjali for over 40 minutes becomes remarkably intentional. He effectively makes the viewer feel uneasy as they witness a group of men determining the credibility of a traumatized woman’s account.

Sidney Lumet’s 12 Angry Men (1957; English) can be defined as the gold standard of how a chamber drama is constructed: multiple characters are forced to confront moral and existential questions when faced with an important decision. Unlike 12 Angry Men, where Juror No. 8 works as the conscience of the group, here Vinay works as the mirror image, a manipulator defending and trying to steer the conversation towards “justice,” which would ultimately serve his own selfish ends. But that doesn’t mean Ekarshi lets the other men off the hook. The conversations among all members are incisive without being overt or over-the-top, highlighting central characteristics resulting from class and economic divides within society. It manages to elicit moments of black humour amidst the discomfiture of the men, when faced with the decision to choose a better life or their performative self-righteousness.

Ekarshi also manages to write the character of Anjali and her strength and vulnerability with astonishing depth. Here is a woman severely affected by the events that have occurred, causing her to initially strive to ignore the occurrence. Aattam then delves into her character development, depicting how Anjali gradually lets go of the respect and friendships she had built with her colleagues over 15 years in the troupe. She realizes that male allyship has been replaced by opportunistic tendencies, hiding under a mask of convenience and diplomacy, that push for compromise instead of decisiveness. This depicts Ekarshi’s skillful navigation of societal critique and personal growth within the confines of the narrative. The pressure cooker of the situation threatens to boil over in a breathtaking climax, revealing the inherent flaws of all the men. It exposes all their laughable insecurities and chauvinism in one fell swoop.

Few films can boast of having nearly flawless performances from the entire cast. Aattam is one of those rare films, which also has impressive pacing, effective blocking and staging, and a minimal background score to allow the diegetic score to immerse the audience. One critique of this movie is its slow buildup; however, this deliberate approach ultimately enhances the tension and impact of subsequent dramatic moments. One can legitimately criticize the use of slow motion in some instances of the film, as well as some of the wrinkles introduced for some of the supporting characters, which don’t feed into the overall narrative.

Movies depicting and questioning the perspectives of one single incident and the conflict stemming from this questioning rely heavily on the execution of the climax and its subsequent denouement. The ending of Aattam not only circles back to the theater, where the movie began, but also to the theatrical nature of storytelling itself, where ambiguity could be expressed by the obvious nature of the performance (the white mask shielding all the faces of the men, making them all an agglomeration of the insecurity of masculinity). It allows the film to answer the question being raised without utilizing the obvious method of revelation inherent to a whodunnit.

Ekarshi makes the skillful choice to not dismiss or diminish the woman’s trauma in search of a revelation. It’s this renewed focus on addressing important issues and striving to maintain its complexity that elevates Aattam beyond simply being a product of its obvious 12 Angry Men influences and making it a standout movie of its own—at once modern and yet classical in its temerity.

At the perspective pith of Photo (Kannada, 2023) is an evocative parable of humanism and human foibles. Set in the time of, and shot during, the sudden and unexpected imposition of the nationwide lockdown, it is an ironic, touching tale of a boy in a village who wishes to go and take an up, close and personal view of the State’s seat of power, the magnificent and monumental Vidhana Soudha.

What’s so special one may ask? Especially, the city bred young and the fortunate denizens privileged to have found a home in the sprawling metropolis. After all, they pass by it almost every day in the course of reaching their respective destinations, without as much as a whit of a glance at it, given that it is registered in their psyche and collective memory. For the boy, a visit to the Vidhana Soudha, whose almost life size picture hangs in his classroom, is the equivalent of visiting and soaking in the beauty of that marvelous monument of love, the Taj Mahal in Agra. The film also makes a point about peer pressure/envy: since every other home in the neighbourhood proudly displays a family photo taken at the Vidhana Soudha, the boy too desires to possess one with his father and him in front of it. 

Debutant film maker Utsav Gonwar’s locked-down-in-the-pandemic experiment exhibits several thematic tracks. One, of a village boy and his dream, which has a political context. Two, of how skewed development has turned a placid, peaceful city into a monstrous, noisy and noxious metropolis with no soul. And three, of the mass exodus of rural folk to the big cities in search of the elusive El Dorado. Unlike Diwa Shah’s Bahadur – The Brave (Hindi-Nepali, 2023), made in the same genre but which sticks to the core subject of the struggles of the migrant labourers and how they come to terms with their rootless situation, Gonwar’s film is out and out political.

Using a cherubic boy with a curiosity chiseled chimera as the central character, Gonwar dons the hat of a political crusader and takes the audience on a neorealist realty-reality tour of a city with its locked in migrants with nowhere to either go or stay. The seat of power, Vidhana Soudha, itself provides on a platter the pivot to project a searing, searching and reflective prognosis on the absence of political will, and effective governance, to extend the fruits of economic growth and development to the lesser privileged and marginalised sections of society. Gonwar takes up cudgels with the government at the centre, and parodies the janta curfew that was announced in the course of the pandemic.

He focusses his lens on the ‘Government’s Work is God’s Work’ wordings inscribed on the entablature of the stately legislature structure, to drive in the point of the absolute power that the State holds over its powerless migrant population. The camerawork is mostly minimalist and static, despite its eponymous title. However, the long, panoramic, sweeping shots capturing the arid landscape bring back memories of another significant film. Whereas in P. Vinothraj’s Pebbles (Tamil, 2021), the son maintained a reasonable distance from his easily irritable dad, in Photo, the son trudges alongside his migrant labourer dad and sometimes sits on his shoulder as the two make their way in the scorching heat towards the faraway cocoon of safety and semblance of reality called home.

12th Fail: A done to death template elevated such that the cream rises from the crop, due to a distinctive directorial voice and a fantastic lead performance.

12th Fail belongs to a genre of films dealing with the underdog narrative. In a country as populated as ours, the sheer number of aspirants who are after a position in the government or any job that would vault them to the higher strata of society is paramount. Thus, in that regard, it isn’t surprising that the bestselling books in bookstores are preparatory books for competitive exams. The corollary also shows a similar number of stories being dramatized about this narrative in the web series space.

The web series space, especially ones dominated by TVF, has made a cottage industry out of creating these narratives, either based on a true story or based on a template and crafting an original tale. The pattern that arises as a result of the current overpopulation of these stories is stagnation and an apparent lack of heart. The story has become beholden to the formula, rather than the template’s formula serving as the beating heart of the story.

In a structural sense, 12th Fail is a typical underdog story, based on the eponymous non-fiction book about the life of IPS Officer Manoj Kumar Sharma and his struggles from extreme poverty to becoming an IPS officer. The difference in Vidhu Vinod Chopra’s film isn’t only the unique wrinkle of the story, because, truthfully, there isn’t much. It is the storytelling, especially the technical aspects, that stands out.

The camerawork is handheld, for the most part, giving the viewer a feeling of floating between perspectives. When required, it generates a feeling of solipsism such that the viewer is completely invested in the trials and tribulations of Manoj Kumar Sharma, played here with almost flawless sincerity by Vikrant Massey.

Chopra cleverly manages to skew the poverty-porn narrative that could be expected to elicit pity from a lesser film. There are moments where the camera knows how to show the extreme tribulations that Massey’s character undergoes while trying to sustain himself as well as studying for the UPSC. The camera, however, doesn’t luxuriate in these moments. It lingers on them just enough for the viewer to register and empathize before cutting away to the subsequent section of the narrative.

There are generic elements in the story that need to be addressed. The romance plot that Manoj has with Sraddha feels unnecessary and superficial at a glance, injected to satisfy the commercial needs of the audience. Having said that, all these moments exist as tropes because they have been effective in the past. One of the reasons well-worn tropes like these work in 12^th fail is because of the sound design employed in this film. There is a complete lack of background score underscoring any emotional sections, choosing only the diegetic score to ground the narrative. There are also moments of sharp cutting and completely removing the sound from one scene to the next to hone the impact of that scene as well as create a jarring dissonance. It is deliberately forcing the viewers to pay attention to the reality of the events occurring on the screen rather than registering them as checkpoints in a template-based narrative.

That is not to say that a background score or song is completely absent. Rather, they are used in montage sequences, utilizing a hagiographic mode of storytelling to move the film along.

12th Fail also has some wrinkles in its screenplay. Chopra being the screenwriter brings a somewhat personal touch to the whole storytelling. Some elements feel almost like his direct commentary, as if he is intentionally trying to remove the romanticism of poverty and being poor. He intentionally crafts the story in a fashion where Manoj’s tenacity and his proclivity to “manage” any situation become his pitfalls in achieving his true potential. He finally has to accept help from his well-wishers to understand his potential. Through this, Chopra also cleverly interweaves the character-arc progression of Shraddha. Her character doesn’t only exist at the service of Manoj’s character arc, but rather her own, which gives the world a lived-in and realistic feel. However, a few more scenes to develop these moments or even focus on Shraddha’s struggles in isolation would have been revealing.

However, that would be antithetical to the overall solipsism of the 12^th fail, which is a choice taken by the source material and also by Chopra himself. For narratives with inspirational stories as their backbone, a strong direction needs to work in conjunction with stronger performances. Vikrant Massey, as the titular “12^th Fail,” with dreams to live bigger than his circumstances would feasibly allow, brings a sense of belief and determination to his performance. The smile across Massey’s face even when faced with adversity remains consistent, such that when allowed to be vulnerable, the impact hits harder. He is also supported ably by strong supporting performances, giving flesh and blood to characters far more than what the page affords them. The character arc and its resultant study are compelling enough that some of the minute logical fallacies of the plot can be ignored, or contrivances could be taken in stride. Chopra deserves credit for keeping the suspense going throughout the film, even though the climax is unavoidable. “12^th Fail” proves that template-based storytelling doesn’t just have similar visual or aural cues. A directorial vision is sometimes the key difference in crafting a story that becomes universal, transcending the formula that has kept these stories consistent.

“Nostalgia is meant to give rise to an emotional connection between artist and consumer. The art itself being the canvas on which this connection can be heightened and explored. Sometimes, an artist will use traditional motifs and themes, as opposed to reinterpreted characters and stories, to communicate a sense of ease and familiarity.”
-Mike Burdge, Editor-in-chief /Founder, Story Screen.

“The great art of films does not consist of descriptive movement of face and body but in the movements of thought and soul transmitted in a kind of intense isolation.”
-Louise Brooks, Actress

In a film landscape dominated by grim and sensational narratives, Aachar and Co emerges as a purported oasis, offering a respite from mindless machismo. It presents a colourful kaleidoscopic canvas, and cajoles audiences to join in on a much-romanticised reminiscence trip, while vividly recreating the quintessential character of the olden days cosmopolitan Bangalore. Writer-director Sindhu Srinivasa Murthy joins the scroll of women directors of Kannada filmdom. However, the manner in which she attempts to invoke the old-world charm of the 1960s-70s period becomes her Achilles’ heel, and she ends up transforming her directorial debut, in which she also dons the lead role, into a derisive and frivolous production that falls way short of being a thoughtful exploration of the past.

The film tells the tale of domineering and disciplinarian no-nonsense, hide bound patriarch Madhusudhan Aachar, played by Ashok, who never really gets into the skin and psyche of his character. While the narrative ostensibly revolves around him, it inevitably pivots toward Suma, a 10th-grade graduate whose singular focus on matrimony is portrayed with a comedic undertone. Unfortunately, the film’s attempt to extract humor from familial dynamics lacks the necessary emotional depth to actively involve the audience in its proceedings. Every frame attempt to tease out as much mindless mirth in the goings-on between the panoply of characters of the large family that constitutes Aachar and Co. Their quirks, quibbles and idiosyncrasies, notwithstanding, the facetious film is rendered into a discomfiting and disquiet affair to indulgently wallow in.

Instead of an enterprising ensemble that dissects and deliberates on the age gone by, and providing a reflective mirror on how traditions and social etiquettes had a deleterious effect on the young ones in discipline-driven patriarchal households of the past, with men and women strenuously striving to confirm to traditional expectations, the filmmaker rather lampoons these very aspects to keep audiences’ rib tickling non-stop at the awkwardness of Aachar household inhabitant. And the characters are reduced to caricatures devoid of naturalism, and come across as cardboard cut outs.

Attempting to weave a tapestry of nostalgia, humor, and social commentary, the film falters primarily on the scripting level, and struggles to transcend the boundaries of its comfort zone. The visuals and music, though, add embellishments to this otherwise trite and tiresome tale of an era buried in the sands of time and the mind’s recess. Laudable too is the director’s attempt to address pertinent social issues such as domestic violence, patriarchal hegemony, and women’s empowerment, and institutively bring into play the political changes taking place across the state and national landscapes of that period.

A look at Ere Gowda’s directorial debut, Balekempa (The Bangle Seller), a Kannada film that received the FIPRESI Jury Award at the International Film Festival Rotterdam for its “subtle and delightful portrayal of a universal theme against the backdrop of a rich local culture.” The film was also recognized for “tackling patriarchy and feminism in a small South Indian village, using the lives of a childless couple as the entry into a world that is all too familiar, yet ultimately revealing.”

At the heart of Balekempa is Kempanna, a diligent bangle seller who tirelessly traverses the countryside, offering sought-after beauty and adornment products for women. While he remains oblivious to his marital responsibilities and his dutiful but unfulfilled wife, Kempanna goes about his daily duties in an unassuming manner, much to her dismay and stoic acceptance.

Balekempa transcends the story of a simple, quiet, and hardworking bangle seller. The supporting characters bring their own radiance to the narrative, illuminating the otherwise routine activities in the village, where the residents engage in their daily tasks with regimented regularity. Be it tending to cattle, selling vegetables, or engaging in gossip while aiding one another in a familial manner.

Ironically, Kempanna, as a bangle seller, goes the extra mile to adorn the hands and faces of the women who gather around him, yet he maintains an aloof and matter-of-fact demeanor towards his wife, who longs for companionship and, more profoundly, to bear a child. Ere Gowda skillfully captures the contrasting emotional dynamics of the couple through the visually vibrant camerawork of Saumyananda Sahi, who also serves as the film’s editor. The film’s minimal dialogue ensures that viewers are completely immersed in the characters’ daily lives, elevating Balekempa beyond a simple pastoral tale.

Minimalist, yet efficacious and evocative, the mis en scene creates the big picture of the languid village life and the couple’s existentialist existence, even as the underlying frisson of physical desire and an aching for conjugal companionship pulsates on the periphery.

As to the consciously cold relationship that the Kempanna couple keep up amidst pretenses of marital bliss, it is through the villagers’ familiar fodder of hearsay that one learns that the couple are still childless. Saubhagya, Kempanna’s wife, and her mother earnestly seek divine intervention to bless the couple with a child and awaken a sense of responsibility in Kempanna, despite his indifference to his wife’s desires. The reasons behind their situation are subtly and silently conveyed through carefully structured visual storytelling, unraveled at a deliberately unhurried pace.

Ere Gowda’s choice to cast non-professional actors like he did in Thithi transforms Balekempa into a powerful and poignant portrayal of family life, showcasing the discerning eye of a seasoned filmmaker. Balekempa becomes a lyrical lament for a marriage strained by the bangle seller’s asexual disposition, while his wife longs for physical intimacy and fulfillment. We witness how suppressed desires remain poised to erupt, like a smoldering volcano.

In summation, even as the enterprising and ensemble narrative vividly captures the vignettes of village life in all its vibrant detail, the film draws viewers subtly and sensuously into the interplay of human relationships, which forms the fulcrum of Balekempa and its resident deities, all caught in the thrall of their individual destinies.[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row]

Mahishasur Marddini

“So many years past being raped, I tell myself what happened is ‘in the past.’ This is only partly true. In too many ways, the past is still with me. The past is written on my body. I carry it every single day. The past sometimes feels like it might kill me. It is a very heavy burden.”
― Roxane Gay, ‘Hunger’

“Sometimes, watching a movie is a bit like being raped.”
― Luis Buñuel, ‘My Last Sigh’

Rape is the most heinous form of bestiality that humankind has been subjecting its womankind to since eons. It is also the fourth most common sexual crime committed against women. Rape, in myriad forms, under several situations―war, civil strife, domestic, social, public places―is perpetuated with impunity, despite stringent laws being enacted the world over. It is the most repugnant form of degenerate weapons used by man to subjugate and stifle any forms of dissent and demonstration of empowerment by women, and is akin to clipping the wings of a bird and its confinement in a gilded cage. And its perpetrators have no ethical, moral or human mores.

While rape as a social malaise has never been hotly debated and dissected in public save the occasional indulgence of tokenism, it is especially after the Nirbhaya incident that rape has come to the public discourse in civil society, striking at the civil conscience of the nation. Post Nirbhaya, legislations have been enacted and strengthened, but not a day goes by when a rape is not reported. To rephrase Shakespeare’s King Lear, using the voice of a woman, “As play toys to wanton boys, are we to the men; they rape us for their sport.”

In addition to rape in its physical abuse form, women are subjected to, and face, other ordeals in their race for survival in life. Victims are inflicted too through non-physical thoughts and actions against them when they seek their ilk’s help to fight it. It is this twin form of rape of women that Ranjan Ghosh brings to the fore in his latest visitation, Mahishasur Marddini. At the Bangalore International Film Festival, where the film had its world premiere, Ghosh declared, “My film is conceived as a letter of apology to women for all the wrongs done to her. It is unapologetically feminist and unapologetically political.

“Ever since a woman is conceived in the womb—from that stage till the point of time when she takes on the role of a sister, a daughter, a friend or a girlfriend or a mother or a wife—at various stages, she goes through torture or discrimination and this insult is heaped upon her not only by men but also by women. There is racism and class differences. I hold a mirror to all of us. The idea being to ensure each of us feel bruised and ashamed of our thoughts and actions. That precisely is the audience’s takeaway from the film. To reflect on what we do to our daughters, sisters, girlfriends, wives, mothers, day in and day out.”

However, while one cannot dispute Ghosh’s idea of engagement with the festering social issue and must appreciate his laudable initiative to do so, the exploration and device he has taken recourse to woefully falls way short of an engaging and enterprising cinema. Cobbling up a panoply of players drawn from different strata of society—students, politicians, activists, empowered go-getter women—to drive his homily, Ghosh, by taking recourse to a theatrical format as his narrative device has failed to make Mahishasur Marddini a much more hard hitting and haunting one.

The strategy of Ghosh to emphasize on the theatrical form rather than on cinema’s own narrative structure and needs weighs down the viewer from being effectively engaged in the ‘theatre of drama.’ It is somewhat Brechtian in nature, and gets to be a bit off-putting. By boxing in his film in the rather claustrophobic setting of a single stage, Ghosh has provided no freedom or space for his players and they have been denied the luxury of enacting their roles with much more felicity and facileness.

As the characters enter and exit the ‘theatre of performance’ in the dark, desolate, old mansion, with the metaphorically-erected figurine of Goddess Durga (Mahishasur Marddini) prepared for the following day’s festivity looming large over them, their performances come across as robotic. Each of the characters, including the lead actress Rituparna Sengupta, simply mouths a prepared text, in turns, and go about their assigned roles in a rote fashion. Saswata Chatterjee as a werewolf in a politician’s garb is loud. The overall acting is wooden.

That said, in the eponymously-titled Mahishasur Marddini, Ghosh draws upon the horrific Nirbhaya incident that had roused the collective conscience of the nation some years ago, for the kernel of this searing, social treatise. He takes upon this sliver of a tragic incident, and supplements it with other similar tragic tales, to focus the spotlight on the duplicitousness nature of society over such victims, the female gender in particular, who bear the brunt of this heinous crime.

The film comes to us at a time when we read daily, almost in a ritualistic and diurnal manner, of the heinous crimes being committed on women; of the culprits who roam about virtually scot free, despite their despicable acts, while the law takes its own time to render justice to the victims /survivors; and of the less fortunate victims who pay with their lives following the act.

Consciously set in a single location, the chorus of characters introspect and dissect the heart-rending incident whilst also looking back on their own past deeds vis-à-vis the female gender. Each of them—now acting as moral guardians of victims— is ridden by a guilty past of maltreating the respective women in their own lives; women whom they had shunned, spurned and shied away from.

Society may worship the feminine form as the venerated Durga Ma extolling her powers to rid evil from our society but when it comes to taking a similar decisive step in reality the truth is that a majority would much rather step back selfishly and sheepishly hide behind age-old prejudices and remain in their comfort zone. Ghosh bitingly portrays the falsehood of male exaltedness and puts to shame such behaviour toward women. In Mahishasur Marddini, the fiery and revered Goddess herself is allegorically a silent and mute witness to the goings on, thus, subconsciously slaying the hidden demons in the recess of the diaspora’s psyche that is yet to rise about the selfish and self-centred stoicism.

Rose McGowan in her book ‘Brave’ says that “The truth of it is, the shame was not mine, and for all victims in similar situations, it is not ours. The shame is reserved for every creep who has ever touched us inappropriately. The shame is on the abuser, not the victim, not the survivor. It is tragic that so many of us have to survive this kind of crap, and I’m so sorry if it has happened to you.” Her quote succinctly epitomises what Ghosh has sought to portray in this indictment of a society that still suffers predatory men and women.

Despite its inherent fault lines, Mahishasur Marddini still is a creditable creative film that draws audiences on a reflective sojourn in their subconscious failings and holds out a mirror to society’s ‘male’ficient mindset.

A tragedy in three parts, each separated by prolonged blackouts, The Disciple takes shape using the Indian classical music fraternity as one big metaphor to demonstrate how in today’s world of self-promotion and exaggerated marketing, degradation has occurred in almost every field, and how our blinded attitudes are responsible for the distortion of many of our long-standing, cherished values; politics and the social fabric being classic examples of such deformations.

This is a story of three ordinary singers, the protagonist Sharad Nerulkar (Aditya Modak) and his Guruji and father. Three men belonging to almost three different generations and who chance to be in the field of music. The protagonist is highly fascinated by, and wishes to live his life holding on to, an ideal — the secretly-taped philosophical discourses of a mystic singer, MAI, whose singing almost nobody existing today has ever heard. On being questioned about the kind of songs that MAI sang, Sharad’s father replies, “It cannot be described”; an answer that displays the level of unfortunate ignorance. Despite the protagonist’s desire for purity, though, he is compelled to make compromises at a performance sponsored by a wealthy builder; a similar attitude is also noticed in the other two.

In the contemporary world, the entirety /the purity /the sacrifice /the ideologies that MAI talks about have turned out to be mere words only worth listening to. One can ride high on those intoxicating words, dazzled by the brightness of it all, but only momentarily. Just as how the protagonist, wearing his earphones, shuts out all surrounding noises and moves in slow motion — lost within — but is jolted back to his senses on listening to MAI’s words, “It takes courage to face the truth, because the truth is often ugly.” Those words compel him to pull off his earphones, and as soon as he does so, he suddenly realizes the actuality of the motion, the noises, and the practicality of the situations that surround him.

The fundamental contradiction between two ideologies places the protagonist in a dilemma. MAI philosophizes, “Don’t get stuck in mere technicalities. Techniques can be taught, but not emotions,” whereas Guruji asks him, “Did you not practice enough?” On the one hand lies the attraction of MAI’s voice (ideal) of the past, whereas on the other is the mere mechanical adherence to the instructions in the meditation (yoga) classes. Both offer him superficial solace virtually equating masturbation.

Over time, a lot starts becoming extinct within the protagonist. When on the day of MAI’s birth anniversary, Guruji is unable to sing up to the mark (Guruji is unable to strike the right chord), the protagonist is reminded of his meeting with a critic. Angered at the critic’s views he had then splashed water at his face. But now, while Listening to his Guruji’s flawed live performance, the truth appears to dawn upon him and he becomes aware of a different reality. Later, he gives Guruji a bath, and as he dresses him up one gets a feeling that he is covering Guruji in a kafan(a death robe). One cannot stop from noticing that something within the protagonist, something very dear to him, is dying.

The Disciple poses the question of who should be held more responsible for the degradation of values — the audiences who come to concert halls reminiscing the taste of vada pav (a popular Indian junk food) and/or because the weather conditions seem favorable, or the classical musicians themselves who present their art to their audience with a non-committal attitude?

The film also makes a commentary on the fate of Classical Art falling prey in these modern times to the gigantic demons of Promotion & Marketing, and likens it to a case of mob lynching — a humble participant enters a substandard popular music show and wows the judges with a Hindustani Classical Music rendering, but by the time she reaches the final round, her attire and attitude are grossly westernized, and her face is hidden behind layers of gaudy makeup; it almost appears as if she is being lynched by the talent program.

A heartbreaking remnant of the teachings passed on from one generation to the other is displayed when the protagonist is seen teaching his daughter to catch hold of something distant, in a pinch. When a folk singer sings out the truth about how we who have evolved through indigenous traditions have today become alienated and flawed and thus turn a blind eye, the protagonist pretends not to see or hear him. And the film ends. Tamhane strongly brings upon us the realization of the losses we have suffered over the declivity of disciples through several generations.

See also — an analysis of The Disciple by Oorvazi Irani

https://filmcriticscircle.com/journal/the-disciple-a-love-story-of-the-artist-and-his-art/

The Disciple The Disciple

The Great Indian Kitchen

“Woman is shut up in a kitchen or in a boudoir,
and astonishment is expressed that her horizon is limited.
Her wings are clipped, and it is found deplorable that she cannot fly.”
-Simone de Beauvoir

A mere semblance of defiance suffices for a young bride in India to be slandered in the choicest of words making her very existence miserable and meaningless. It is therefore heartening that gender parity is now a raging topic of public discourse, and that male filmmakers are changing track and helming projects that provide the feminine perspective. The Great Indian Kitchen captures the quintessential dilemma that most Indian women face when their fond expectations of marital bliss are smashed to smithereens.

A sharp indictment of the traditional and given culture of oppression of the women of households, director Jeo Baby pugnaciously presses home the point to the oppressed sex to not take it lying down anymore. He propels the spectator to reflect on the indignity that men heap on their women in the name of accepted practices.

This brings to mind Anubhav Sinha’s Thappad, in which a wronged wife is made more angelic than is necessary: She fondly tends her mother-in-law who, like the rest of the family, believes that the girl should forgive her husband for slapping her publicly and take it in her stride. However, one cannot fault the likes of Baby or Sinha for adopting a more mundane approach. Inclined specifically to reaching out to larger masses, and never wanting to ruffle their constituents more than necessary, they water down their otherwise laudable attempts.

Of course, a fractured family cannot bring about the social change that one loves to witness in this age of gender equity and parity. Women have broken the glass ceiling. But this does not necessarily lead to fracturing of the sacred institution of marriage despite all its faults and fissures. One is reminded of another of Beauvoir’s axioms: The point is not for women simply to take power out of men’s hands, since that wouldn’t change anything about the world. It’s a question precisely of destroying that notion of power.

Where the film fails is in the closure. One wishes that the husband had not been painted in the darkest possible shade, and that, like the male protagonist in RJ Shaan’s Freedom @ Midnight, an equal case was made for the lead couple. Sure, men are squarely at fault. But that does not mean that, brought up in the patrilineal system since eons, they should not be given a chance at redemption.