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For the record, the dictionary defines maalik as: owner, master, lord, proprietor, husband. In the subtitles given in the trailer, the producers opt for “owner”. 

“We are the actual owners.” Never before has a Hindi film spelt out its proprietorial attitude towards Kashmir in such black-and-white terms.

Director Siddharth Anand’s Fighter – based on a story by Anand and Ramon Chhib, with a  screenplay by Chhib and dialogues by Hussain Dalal and Abbas Dalal – pretends to be a romance, the saga of an Indian Air Force (IAF) officer whose over-confidence cost him the life of someone dear to him as a result of which he denies himself the right to love and be loved again. Behind that emotive, humane camouflage though, Fighter is just another loud, jingoistic affair in which India and Pakistan battle over Kashmir while the voices of Kashmiris are entirely erased. 

That’s precisely what 2023’s Shah Rukh Khan starrer Pathaan (2023) did too, so what’s new with Fighter, you may ask? 

Not very much. For one, this abhorrent line on ownership in Fighter is delivered by an A-list star who has not overtly aligned himself with BJP-RSS off screen in the way so many of his Hindi film colleagues have. Pathaan played it safer on this front, to create the false impression of being a progressive film (read my review here) although it was just old wine in a bottle of deceptive dialogues, insidious and intentional ambiguity about the religious identity of the protagonist and the primary antagonist, cleverly disguised pandering to majoritarian sentiments and SRK’s charm. 

Second, Fighter is pegged on actual news developments: the suicide bombing in Jammu and Kashmir’s Pulwama district in 2019 that killed 40 members of the Central Reserve Police (CRPF), and the IAF’s retaliatory air strike on an alleged terrorist training camp in Balakot, Pakistan.

In tenor and spirit nevertheless, Fighter really does feel like Pathaan 2, while Pathaan itself felt like War 2. That Pathaanand War (2019) were also directed by Anand is no coincidence. Reminder: Roshan was the co-lead in War, which might have been nothing more than a noisy, slick action flick if it weren’t for its condescension towards the Muslim patriot played by Tiger Shroff.

In Fighter, Roshan is Shamsher Pathania a.k.a. Patty, an ace fighter pilot who is in the bad books of his boss (Anil Kapoor). The latter believes Patty is prone to prioritising personal glory over the interests of his team. Patty is part of a crack team of IAF pilots that includes Minal Rathore (Deepika Padukone) a.k.a. Mini. Obviously these two are drawn together like magnet to metal, but Patty’s past keeps him from openly expressing his feelings for her. 

In Chapter 1 we get hackneyed introductory scenes stressing Roshan’s sexiness in a white towel and in pilot’s uniform, and Padukone’s sexiness in uniform, followed by extensive passages of bonhomie between all the members of Patty and Mini’s team. There’s light-hearted teasing, songs, a couple gazing at each other across a space filled with people while music plays in the background, incremental revelations about the enigmatic hero’s painful back story that, as it turns out, lacks novelty, and other familiar elements that are often used in Indian films to superficially establish a sense of fraternity and a pivotal romance. In the background is the Pakistan government and a deadly terrorist – a snarling chap with a bloody red eye called Azhar Akhtar (Rishabh Sawhney) – who they recruit to target Kashmir.

Chapter 2 deals with Pulwama and Balakot. 

Despite the hyperbolic cartoonishness of Azhar Akhtar and the blatant cover-up that Fighter pulls off on behalf of the Indian government in Pulwama, despite the surfeit of clichés and decibels, the film until this point is carried on the shoulders of Roshan’s good looks, the sparks between him and Padukone, Satchith Paulose’s exquisite cinematography in stunning locales, the adrenaline high that comes from watching pilots in combat in skilfully executed action scenes and the sadness of knowing that those CRPF jawans were indeed murdered in real life. 

None of this is enough though to save Chapter 3 from its deafening volume, silliness, unoriginal storytelling, formulaic characterisation, inexorable length and the lies that begin in Chapter 2. 

First let’s deal with the cover-up. When the Pulwama terror strike occurred, corporate-owned news media largely avoided asking the obvious questions raised by the public on social media and some experts regarding the massive intelligence failure involved. Many have even ignored the statements by Satyapal Malik who was Jammu and Kashmir’s governor at the time of the Pulwama attack – Malik has said at multiple forums that the attack resulted from the “incompetence” of the Indian establishment, the Union Home Ministry in particular, and the CRPF, while also calling out the Prime Minister himself for his response. 

Obviously, Fighter does not have the guts to show any of this. Like every government-pleasing Hindi film since 2014, Fighter is disinterested in introspection, fixated on chest-thumping and backs the position that all acts of courage and all innovation in India have been initiated in the past 10 years. Mirroring the bombast of Uri: The Surgical Strike’s “Hindustan ab chup nahi baithega. Yeh naya Hindustan hai. Yeh ghar mein ghusega bhi, aur maarega bhi (India will no longer remain silent. This is a new India – it will not only enter your house, but it will kill you there),” in Fighter we get a politician, one assumes the PM, surveying the coffins of dead CRPF jawans and saying: “Picchle pachaas saalon mein kisi sarkar ne unki inn harkaton ka muh-thod jawaab nahin diya. Lekin ab bas. Unhe dikhana padega ke baap kaun hai (For the past 50 years, no government has given them a befitting reply. But now…enough. It’s time to show them who’s the boss).” 

Fighter kills whatever emotional resonance it had until the Balakot episode by following it up with endless screaming, ridiculously conceived confrontations between the IAF and Pakistani terrorists, and dialoguebaazi that peaks with the “maalik hum hai” line and Patty yelling a threat at the top of his voice that India will turn Pakistan into – wait for it, it’s every aggressive nationalist’s wet dream – “India Occupied Pakistan”. It’s not that Hindi filmdom is incapable of delivering credible battlefield sequences involving India and Pakistan. For a recent example within the commercial Hindi space, refer to Vishnu Varadhan’s Shershaah starring Siddharth Malhotra. 

In this segment, the sole Muslim on Patty and Mini’s team, Basheer Khan (Akshay Oberoi), has that inevitable conversation about Islam with a terrorist that has by now been made mandatory for loyal-to-the-vatan Muslims in propagandist Hindi films. 

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Like the entire ensemble cast, Roshan’s acting in Fighter is as okay as it can be in such a film, barring a scene in which, while shouting something like “Main aa raha hoon” in a life-and-death situation, he adopts a trademark tone reminiscent of his character in Koi... Mil Gaya – a tone that few directors have managed to completely control in his dialogue delivery. 

Padukone does better but make no mistake about this: she plays an ordinarily written supporting character who ultimately amounts to little more than the leading man’s romantic sidekick and sensual drapery, in a film designed as a showcase for Roshan. 

Uri was dangerous because it peddled its agenda with a blend of originality, finesse and craft. War, Pathaan and Fighter are recycled versions of each other and of the entire multitude of war-mongering deshbhakt films of the present era. Fighter actually has some good things going for it to begin with, but gradually squanders those positives by resorting to lazy storytelling to fulfil its agenda. Yawn.

Rating (out of 5 stars): 2   

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It is an intriguing concept, and with Jeethu Joseph directing Mohanlal in the role of Sara’s lawyer Vijayamohan, it is hard not to have sky-high expectations after their team-ups for Drishyam 1&2. 

Neru (Truth) is not in the league of the Drishyams – its writing is not as refined. It also does not match up to the naturalistic genius or finely tuned politics of that other fantastic recent Malayalam legal saga, Ratheesh Balakrishnan Poduval’s Nna, Thaan Case Kodu (2022). And its courtroom drama dips into several tropes of the genre – a down-and-out lawyer re-donning his robes for what seems like a lost cause, a bumbling lawyer (Nandhu) whose clumsiness serves to underline the leading man’s skills, and so on. Still, the question of whether Vijayamohan will ultimately trump his insecurities and triumph over his rivals, the pleasure of seeing Mohanlal in a part shorn of macho posturing, Sara’s resilience, her parents’ supportive attitude and Anaswara’s measured performance make this a special film in its own right. 

Mohanlal’s filmography has for decades been dominated by hyper-masculinity and omnipotent heroes. So when he chooses to play a man who wears his vulnerability on his sleeve, the character’s significance extends beyond the boundaries of this storyline. 

Neru is about a system teetering on the precipice of letting a woman down, a system redeemed by a few good souls. Vijayamohan had withdrawn from practising law after a setback years back. He remains a respected legal expert. The rapist, Michael Joseph, is the son of a Mumbai-based industrialist. Realising that the public prosecutor is messing up the case and that the accused’s wealth can buy almost anyone, the senior policeman Paul Varghese (K.B. Ganeshkumar) goes out of his way to help Sara. Paul and a zealous young advocate, Ahaana (Santhi Maya Devi), persuade Vijayamohan to don his robes again, thus setting up a confrontation between him and the reputed, unethical defence lawyers Rajashekhar (Siddique) and his daughter Poornima (Priyamani).

Written by Santhi Mayadevi and Jeethu, Neru benefits from the duo’s background. Santhi is a lawyer in addition to being an actor-writer, Jeethu has a knack of getting the best out of one of Malayalam cinema’s biggest ever stars. Their joint effort results in a film that remains engaging till the end even though the culprit is revealed at the start. The suspense in the script lies elsewhere. 

Neru is a showcase primarily for Mohanlal, as such films tend to be, but the writers have had the good sense not to entirely neglect the other actors and characters. Though Sara is not developed as fully as Vijayamohan, she is for a change conceived as a regular person, not a helpless simpering woman nor a warrior queen avenging her rape in the way women survivors do in fantastical worlds routinely created by men writers. She is tough even if hurting, spirited even if traumatised. She is also an illuminating example of a survivor who is doubted because she kept her cool, although if she had not she would undoubtedly have been asked, “Well, where’s the proof?”

It is a relief to see Mohanlal in a part that allows him to focus on his craft instead of a swagger. He gives a moving rendition of a lawyer who acknowledges his courtroom phobia and ultimately comes into his own. When Vijayamohan says, “I lost that touch. I am not confident anymore,” the actor ensures that the pain in his character’s voice is under-played yet palpable. Mohanlal makes Vijayamohan’stransformation almost indiscernible in the way only he can when at his best. 

Priyamani’s character is just outlined, but her striking personality leaves a mark on Neru. It is nice to see her given visibility in this narrative, but she deserves a better-written role. 

Surrounded by accomplished and charismatic veterans, the seven-year-old-in-films Anaswara not only holds her own but lends tremendous maturity to Sara. 

Obviously it is essential to ask why Indian cinema routinely gives centrality to Vijayamohans and not Saras, to men who are allies of women rather than to women survivors themselves. Usually, male leads in these films become saviours and the films themselves are guilty of a condescending gaze on the woman. The reason why Neru escapes that label is that it views Sara through a lens of empathy and solidarity, not pity, and gives space to her story and her strength – even if not primacy. The film also gives her greater interiority than most such films do and does not patronise her.

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Symbolism is crucial to cinema. In Indian culture, a Namaskaram/ Namaste/ Namaskar/ Namaskara is a traditional greeting, but the physical gesture with palms meeting has various meanings here and elsewhere – humility, resignation, supplication, worship or gratitude. In a cinematic universe replete with male saviours, in an industry that routinely marginalises women in stories and discards women actors while creating circumstances conducive to megastardom and longevity for men like Mohanlal, Sara pressing her palms together and lowering her head is more than a thank you.

To avoid even a hint of a saviour vibe it was vital for Vijayamohan and Sara to be shown as equals, and for Mohanlal-Anaswara to stand shoulder to shoulder at all times. In that moment, they do not. 

The bow in Neru harks back to a Dalit folding her hands before a Brahmin ally, a policeman, in Article 15 (Hindi, 2019) or another Dalit folding her hands before an upper-caste ally, a lawyer, in Jai Bhim (Tamil, 2021). Both were empathetic films. In each case, the gesture – a fleeting one – was made by a member of a subjugated group, aimed at a member of a dominant group played by the marquee name in the cast, and when juxtaposed against the larger socio-political context in which these films were made, subtracted, even if marginally, from their anti-dominance messaging.

Just like the passing mention of a past relationship between Vijayamohan and Poornima. Their link is superfluous to Neru’s plot, and is yet another example of a standard practice among male stars in India who seek to prove their eternal magnetism by ensuring that a woman partner is featured in every story to be played by an actor vastly younger than they are rather than a woman of their own generation. In this case, Priyamani is almost a quarter century younger than Mohanlal. 

These asides are completely unnecessary in an otherwise entertaining, sensible film. 

Neru approaches the theme of rape largely with understanding, although it could have done without the heightened maudlin music and repeated – albeit brief and not titillating – flashbacks to the assault on Sara. One scene sticks out like a sore thumb: the one in which Vijayamohan greenlights an idea that allows the unscrupulous Rajashekhar to be alone in a room with Sara, thus leaving him free to taunt and re-traumatise her. This decision is inconsistent with Vijayamohan’s sensitivity towards his client in the rest of Neru and his progressively improving presence of mind up to that point. The episode is obviously written for theatric effect, and is thoughtless considering that real-life activist lawyers lay considerable emphasis on prioritising a survivor’s mental well-being over all else whereas Vijayamohan’s move is viewed with an uncritical eye by the script. The scene took me back to an even worse one in Pink (Hindi, 2016) in which Amitabh Bachchan’s character badgers his own client, a sexual assault survivor, in the witness stand to make a point in court. 

Malayalam cinema tends to do language mixes well, epitomised by last year’s Thankam and Ariyippu in 2022. Neru is not brilliant like them, its dialogues in the courtroom are sometimes stilted, but the Malayalam-English blend at least fits the setting, characters and actors perfectly, barring the English lines written for Rajashekhar that don’t sit well at all with Siddique. 

Legal wranglings, extra-legal machinations and the surprises thrown up by Vijayamohan’s probe sustain interest in Nerueven with its flaws. This film is not Jeethu’s best, but may turn out to be his most important if it heralds a new phase in Mohanlal’s career. Neru is hopefully an indicator that after cringe-worthy outings arguably epitomised by Monster (2022) and Alone (2023) the actor has finally sensed the winds of change blowing through Malayalam cinema, as the other Big M did some years back. If my reading of his participation in this film is accurate, then it’s a turning point not just for his career but for his industry too, more so because Neru follows close on the heels of the excellent Kaathal in which Mammootty played a gay man in a heterosexual marriage. 

The two M’s are as mainstream as mainstream can be. It’s a joy to see them join hands with filmmakers who are resisting the wave of male fury currently sweeping across commercial Indian cinema of most languages. Neru belongs on the list of Malayalam films defying the national trend. 

Rating (out of 5 stars): 2.75   

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Still of Anaswara courtesy: Neru’s trailer 

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Starring Mohanlal as the eponymous protagonist, Malaikottai Vaaliban is a tale of a legendary warrior in an unspecified age gone by. Vaaliban travels across the land in an unassuming bullock cart with his foster parent, Ayyanar (Hareesh Peradi), and the latter’s son, Chinnappaiyyan (Manoj Moses). When they reach a village or town, Chinnappaiyyan announces their arrival with loud proclamations about Vaaliban’s past exploits. At the first stop that we see, Vaaliban vanquishes a local muscle man with more ease than Sunny Deol uprooting a handpump from the ground or Superman stopping a speeding train with bare hands. His confrontations get increasingly more challenging, but none equal an enemy he encounters who combats him through underhand means. 

With deliberate ambiguity about the time and place in which this story unfolds and the ethnicity of those among whom it is set, Pellissery makes it clear that he wishes to transport us to a mythical world where cultures, races and even geography cannot be pinned down. Most of the characters speak Malayalam, but at at least one arid location, there are faces in the crowd that look more like the weather-beaten visages found in the Thar or Kutch or in the dustbowls of Haryana. The dancer Rangapattinam Rangarani has a Tamil-sounding name but facial features more familiar in west or north India, her attire and jewels seem inspired by Maharashtra, and she is played by the Marathi film star Sonalee Kulkarni. Katha Nandi who is cast as Chinnappaiyyan’s lover Jamanthipoova is Bengali and looks it, while the Kannada cinema actor Danish Sait steps into the role of Vaaliban’s foe Chamathakan. In most films, this mix ‘n’ match might have been random, but in Malaikottai Vaaliban it feels deliberate considering everything else going on here.   

At one point in this Malayalam language ecosystem, characters break into a Hindi song. The story also includes a brutal European coloniser king with a name rooted in present-day UK but speaking a language from mainland Europe. 

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Malaikottai Vaaliban’s soundscape – with sound design by Renganaath Ravee and music by Prashant Pillai – is just as fabulous. Its signature refrain resembles a male mob letting out their breath in a collective whoosh. 

Each of these elements is spectacular as an independent entity, but when woven together, the overall package feels self-indulgent after a while with too much use of slow motion, too many aerial shots and too little substance in the script written by P.S. Rafeeque and Pellissery. People here are treated less like people and more like props, epitomised by the sinful under-utilisation of Manikandan R. Achari in a bit part as a jailed slave.

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Like Deepak D. Menon’s painterly portraits of scenery, including one that “should be framed for museum display” as I wrote in my review of Padavettu (2022), a zillion moments in Malaikottai Vaaliban ought to be frozen as stills for the walls of prestigious galleries. A shot of concentric circles of humans in this film is surpassed in its beauty in recent Malayalam cinema only by Rajeev Ravi’s compositions for Thuramukham (2023). Malayalam films are known for delivering world-class camerawork even on tiny budgets, but these three films, regrettably, prioritise/d visual appeal over characterisation. Malaikottai Vaaliban is the cinematic equivalent of a gorgeous mannequin rather than the pulsating life form that a quality film always is.

Pellissery has created abstract art earlier too, but unlike the seminal Nanpakal Nerathu Mayakam (2023), here we get abstractness for the heck of it. His influences and references in Malaikottai Vaaliban are as disparate as they come, ranging from Westerns to samurai cinema, conventional Indian action drama – the sort with outlandish stunts performed by omnipotent heroes exemplified by Rajinikanth – and even Tinkle Comics. The predatory Chamathakan, for one, comes across as a human cousin of the jackal Chamataka from my favourite Tinkle series, Kalia the Crow. Pellissery also replicates a scene from that most famous of Spaghetti Western-inspired Indian films, Sholay: the one in which Gabbar forces Basanti to dance on shards of glass to save Veeru. 

A game of Spot The Cultural References is not stimulus enough to stay awake through Malaikottai Vaaliban though. The only character whose skin we are allowed to look past is Ayyanar, but by the time that happens, the film is in its finale. 

Vaaliban says at one point: “What the eye has seen is the truth. What has not been seen is a lie.” The lines that ensue and a disclosure by a prominent character indicate a Rashomon Effect not visible within the space of this single film but over a span of at least two. Yes, there’s a sequel (the announcement comes in Malaikottai Vaaliban itself). I’ll explain vaguely to avoid spoilers: until the point in his life at which this film ends, Vaaliban had believed a certain something that he was told; we believed what he believed; but the events in this film are being recounted after he learnt the truth, which will now be revealed to us in Malaikottai Vaaliban 2. Sort of. I think.

Rating (out of 5 stars): 2   

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Rahul Sadasivan’s Bramayugam comes to theatres two years after Bhoothakaalam in which he deftly wove themes of mental health, care giving, substance abuse and other pressing concerns into a supernatural/psychological horror drama. Bhoothakaalam starring Revathy and Shane Nigam was terrifying and thoughtful in equal measure, but the burden of expectations is not the reason why Bramayugam does not match up to it. The reasons are simpler.

Behind the gloss and beyond an in-form Mammootty, Bramayugam is not scary despite its promising atmospherics. It is also flimsy for a considerable stretch of time until it begins to lay out its caste politics. The film’s allegorical take on caste proves to be muddled and insensitive.

Bramayugam (The Age of Madness) is set in 17^th century Malabar where Thevan (Arjun Ashokan), a starving folk singer, chances upon a decrepit mansion belonging to a Brahmin family. The grouchy caretaker (Sidharth Bharathan) is unwelcoming. Both are placed low on the ladder of the caste system, and the elderly master of the house Kodumon Potti (Mammootty) belittles the latter for being disdainful towards the visitor, welcoming the young man warmly instead. 

Kodumon Potti rarely has guests. This could be because his home is in what appears to be a land far far away. Or perhaps not. Thevan soon realises that all is not as it seems in this decaying homestead where mysterious sounds are heard from areas declared off limits for him. It is not long before we learn that he is a pawn in a game in which the dice is controlled by an unexplained force. 

Sadasivan gets Bramayugam off to a good start by creating a sense of mystery in the forest where we meet Thevan. This tone is sustained till the end with the aid of Shehnad Jalal’s camerawork, Jothish Shankar’s art direction and Jayadevan Chakkadath’s low-key sound design. 

Bramayugam is defined by its magnificence, ranging from scenes of desolate natural beauty to the eerie innards of Kodumon Potti’s home. Even shots of a man cooking in a darkened kitchen look ominous here, as are close-ups of the handful of characters in this saga. The decision to make this a black-and-white film further enriches the imagery and adds to its folklorish feel. 

Giant landscapes are framed in Bramayugam in such a manner as to dwarf the people in the story and intimidate the viewer, in a style I’ve come to love in recent years in chilling Scandinavian thrillers. The resemblance is confined to the look. Bramayugam threatens to turn frightening, but never actually does. After a while, the spectacle is window dressing for a thin story that picks elements from Indian mythology– a yakshi here, a chaathan there – without saying anything novel until it reveals its flawed hand in the matter of caste. 

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Initially, Sadasivan makes an insightful point when he shows Kodumon Potti luring Thevan with a pretence of egalitarianism before entrapping him. However, with this episode of truth telling, the film is being as deceptive as Kodumon Potti himself, because Sadasivan’s larger point turns out to be that dominant communities are no more power hungry than those they’ve historically oppressed, and the sole difference between them is that one lot hold the reins in a social system while the others are its victims for now. This is an uninformed blanket statement. On the one hand, it’s true we’re currently witnessing the outcome of a once-oppressed people transforming into oppressors – read: the genocide in Gaza being committed by Israel, the country formed in the 1940s as a homeland for white European Jews after the Holocaust. It is just as true though that this has not been the journey of all persecuted communities. Notice how countries formerly colonised by Europeans have not run around the world colonising other countries since they themselves got Independence. Notice that post-apartheid South Africa is vocally advocating for Palestinians. Notice the scores of white Jewish people, including Holocaust survivors, protesting against the genocide. Know too that Israel’s conduct is a result of numerous factors including but not confined to white racism that prompted post World War II Europe to consider the brown people of Palestine dispensable, and Europe and North America’s oil interests in the Middle East. 

Bramayugam’s script does not explore the theme of oppression with depth. Instead it chooses to whitewash oppressors. The writing also betrays a troubling upper-caste view of caste on two fronts. 

(Spoiler alert) The earliest clue that a certain character is not the Brahmin individual he claims to be comes from his food habits. It’s not that this person eats meat, but the savagery with which he eats it that is supposed to be a hint. Portraying meat-eaters as crude, equating meat-eating with animalism and associating unsophisticated meat consumption with Muslims and ‘the other’ has become a hallmark of the right-wing ecosystem and right-wing Hindi cinema in the Modi era (Padmaavat, Panipat, Tanhaji, Adipurush, Animal). Bramayugam employs the same symbolism in the context of caste in the Malayalam language. 

Bramayugam’s thesis seems to be that Europeans were able to colonise India due to power struggles among Indians. While disunity in the subcontinent did help Europeans, the problem with Bramayugam is that it implies an equivalence between Brahmins and Dalits in this regard, and trains its accusatory finger primarily – metaphorically – at the downtrodden. For a metaphor to work, it must work all the way, but in Bramayugam what we are shown, literally, is white intruders taking advantage of  a ‘half caste’ and a lower caste person being at loggerheads after escaping a demonic tyranny, while the first victim of the battle among Indians in the narrative was a Brahmin. More to the point, a Brahmin we don’t meet at all, as a result of which we don’t get to determine whether he was good, bad or evil, while we get to see the evil in the rest of the social order. 

It’s also strange that in the almost-all-male world that Sadasivan builds in Bramayugam, the only female presence is a beautiful, blood-sucking seductress.

Amalda Liz as the yakshi is just an eye-catching body and face on display. Manikandan R. Achari gets similar dismissive treatment in the opening scenes. This is the second film in three weeks to reduce this gifted actor to a prop. The other was Malaikottai Vaaliban. Women are objectified in cinema worldwide, Malayalam cinema is objectifying this man probably because most writers are unable or unwilling to envision a black-skinned actor as anything but exotica. 

Only three roles count in Bramayugam. Mammootty and Sidharth Bharathan deserve as much credit for the film’s menacing air as its visual landscape does. In the Indian arena, it takes courage for a star as big as Mammootty to take on a role that is meant to be as repugnant as this character is, but he does it with evident relish. Both actors also benefit immensely from the embrace of Shehnad Jalal’s camera. Arjun Ashokan’s performance is not quite as immersive as theirs here, but he does a fair job. 

Bramayugam is a great-looking film based on a script that quickly runs out of steam, until it revs itself up to take a terribly skewed stand on caste and colonialism.

Rating (out of 5 stars): 1.5   

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In the higher reaches of the mountains of Idukki, in a village thick with verdure and hypocrisy, a man called Sony makes everyone’s business his own. This magnificent, densely forested region with its contemplative atmosphere is ideal for a story in which a lot transpires below the surface but an entire community noiselessly conspires to sweep its skeletons under a carpet.

Sony (Vinay Forrt) is the heart of the local populace. It would not be accurate to describe him as a busybody since the people rely on his help. He is always around in good times and in bad – attending weddings and funerals, chipping in with household chores, counselling the youth, drawing them into community service, supporting a bereaved family, volunteering when the parish priest asks – which is all so great that it’s hard to pin down the reason why it is so acutely discomfiting right from the start to watch this man roam among them.

When Sony sees a pregnant woman (Divya Prabha) executing a physical task in her courtyard, he rushes over to take over from her. When another woman (Abhija Sivakala) needs to pluck the fruit off a tree on her grounds, she does not hire workers – Sony does the job. If your kid is struggling at school, who do you turn to for tuitions? Answer: Sony. If you suffer a tragedy, who walks an extra mile for you? Sony. Genial, solicitous Sony whose actions go above and beyond the community spirit that is the norm here.

A gnawing suspicion soon arises though. Is Sony helpful because he is genuinely kind-hearted? Or are there other possibilities? Perhaps his concern and consideration are excuses to gain proximity to you. Perhaps he is that guy who strategically earns your trust so that you won’t notice when you glimpse questionable conduct, but if you do, you will be bullied into shutting up by those who prefer to look the other way. Family is not, however, about him alone.

Written by Don Palathara and Sherin Catherine, directed and edited by Don, Family in its entirety is a portrait of a repressed, conservative society. The location, blanketed with thick greenery and a resounding quiet, is in itself a metaphor for the silences that blanket uncomfortable truths. The film also engages with the very different reactions to a man and a woman who are deemed to have brought shame on the kutumbam. It is purportedly about one place at a certain time, but it’s really about Everyplace Everytime, whenever and wherever in the world folks have colluded to keep the secrets they are ashamed of “in the family”.

In the very first scene, an important character tells a boy that a leopard won’t attack a person unless threatened. The wild feline in the forest instinctively follows a code that Homo sapiens themselves do not. Family spotlights a very human penchant for attacking to oppress rather than for nourishment or self-defence, and a community’s willingness to provide camouflage even if it means endangering its own by letting the predator run free. 

Family’s writer-director team choose to mirror their characters’ mindset and behaviour by leaving most things unsaid and unseen. Renganaath Ravee’s sound design and Basil C.J’s music exemplify their vision. When the latter’s score initially floats in, it takes a minute to distinguish it from the sounds of nature that dominate most of the film.

The poetry in its minimalism and unbelievably perceptive observations make Family a breath-taking experience.

Given one of the most beautiful locations on Earth, DoP Jaleel Badusha mines it for maximum effect even while employing a subdued palette. The exquisite shots emerging from his explorations of the area (in addition to an unexpected scene boasting of some rather impressive CGI) elevate Family to a meditational experience.

The spare narrative caused me some confusion in the opening half as I tried to figure out who is who and related how to whom among the smaller roles. In those moments, I wished the camera had spent just a bit more time with each one and had looked squarely at them – instead of the angles from which they were shot – so that their faces were imprinted on my memory, but even through those passages, my sense of disquiet about the bigger picture remained.

The camera in the film gives off a vibe of being both an aloof bystander and a knowing insider. It rarely moves close to an individual and some of the most horrific acts in the storyline occur off screen, but what happens in the viewer’s line of sight consistently serves as a warning bell. Note the vantage point in a scene in which a man is shown in conversation with another. There is a certain type of man every woman has met: the fellow who invades your space without actually touching you, his hands hovering too close to the area around your chest or thighs as he speaks, all the while maintaining a pretence that he is unaware of your unease and hyper-alertness. As a woman, it chilled me to the bone that I was witnessing the exact same scenario on screen here, with one crucial difference: in place of a woman was a boy.

It is clear from Don’s filmography that he is fascinated by and immensely knowledgeable about both Christianity and his native Idukki. Christian rituals, customs and imagery are everywhere in Family. The film’s  account of local Malayali Christian practices is as educational as it is entertaining. Of particular interest is a pre-wedding function that features an older man on stage play-acting dressing up the young husband-to-be. At one such event I recently attended in Kerala, the groom’s uncle was such a lively, funny guy who kept us, his audience, in splits, that the moroseness of the guests at the ceremony in Family seems hilarious in contrast.

In his most prominent film roles so far, Vinay Forrt has played characters whose shortcomings were tempered by a layer of innocence bordering on naiveté. Vimal Sir in Premam, Sreenivasan Masha in Thamaasha and David Christudas in Malik were all flawed, not terrible. In Kismath, on the other hand, his character aimed an aggressive nastiness at the hapless leads. Vinay’s challenge in Family is to steer clear of both these spaces. Sony masks his worst side in a package of affability and thoughtfulness, although no one can be sure that that is what he does. Vinay is pitch perfect in giving Sony a barely discernible unsettling presence without being in-your-face repulsive. This is a deeply involved actor acing his most difficult role yet.   

Divya Prabha is just emerging from a year in which she won all-round acclaim playing the beleaguered Reshmi in Ariyippu (Declaration) that was premiered at Locarno. She joins an ensemble cast of wonderfully naturalistic artistes to play the conflicted and hesitant Rani who is yet brave enough to articulate a prickly question that no one has asked so far in Family. 

Don Palathara has built his career on making films on his own terms, giving mainstream clichés a wide berth yet not fitting entirely into the middle-of-the-road nature of the new Malayalam New Wave. His Santhoshathinte Onnam Rahasyam a.k.a. The Joyful Mystery has been his most high-profile work among Indian film-goers so far. In terms of cinematic idiom, Family more closely resembles his fable-like 1956, Madhyathiruvithamkoor (1956, Central Travancore). Along with his co-writer, he gives this film a lived-in feel, an air of: we have been here, met these people and know what they hide in their closeted minds. The director is present in this village, making mental notes, enabling viewers to drink it all in, not as outsiders staring at a screen but as co-travellers standing beside him and seeing through his eyes. He is not looking in on alien beings to tell an exotic tale in Family. He is not othering the minority community whose story he chronicles, he is normalising them, using the specifics of their culture and conservatism to drive home a universal point.

Family does not follow the revved-up beats conventionally demanded by commercial cinema, it follows the rhythms of life. And it’s a masterpiece.

Rating (out of 5 stars): 4.5   

Visual courtesy: IMDB 

This review was originally published under the headline “Poetic minimalism brilliantly used to capture a society sweeping its skeletons under a carpet” on Firstpost in February 2023

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Manjummel Boys features an ensemble of boisterous buddies – all of them men, all barring one of them young, all of them old enough to be deemed terribly immature for their age – in a decade before cellphones and social media had flooded our world. Manjummel is the name of a locality in Kochi with which the ‘boys’ christen themselves. Their wayward existence is disrupted by a tragic turn of events during their hill station sojourn that tests their spirit and their relationships. 

The film is written and directed by Chidambaram who notched up a hit with his directorial debut Jan-E-Man. The latter smoothly and effectively combined a sense of humour with grim themes such as depression, separation and death. Manjummel Boys aims at a drastic shift in mood from light-heartedness at first to utter gloom tempered by hope, but without the same finesse.

The narrative kicks off by introducing us to the rambunctiousness and camaraderie of these men-who-are-still-boys. The friends are captured making merry at a wedding, engaged in fun and games including a bout of tug of war, hanging out, planning an out-station trip, and at last, actually making that trip. This goes on for what feels like an endless stretch replete with clichés that are rampant in Malayalam male bonding chronicles. In these passages, they shout at rather than speak to each other, noise is used as a substitute for substance and storytelling verve, and precious length that could have been spent on character development is squandered away. 

For the record, it is not essential for survival flicks to create character arcs before the high drama of the central plot takes over. The point here is that Chidambaram does spend a lot of time with the ‘boys’ before disaster strikes, but does not make effective use of that period. Later, it becomes clear that their activities in that portion foreshadowed their actions in the second half, and showcasing their layaboutery early on was a way of stressing their strength of character later on. Too bad that this was done through repetitive, formulaic scenes shorn of depth. 

There are lots of familiar faces and names in this crowd: Sreenath Bhasi, Soubin Shahir (who is also one of the producers), Deepak Parambol, Ganapathi S. Poduval, Arun Kurian, Balu Varghese and Abhiram Radhakrishnan among them. Half these characters would have been indistinguishable from each other if they weren’t played by recognisable actors.  

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After much yelling and posing around at scenic spots, towards the end of their stay in Kodaikanal the group decide on a last-minute stop before heading home. Their destination is Devil’s Kitchen a.k.a. Guna Cave, nicknamed after the Tamil cult classic Gunaa (1991) starring Kamal Haasan and Roshni that was shot there. The men continue to act idiotically, but now Chidambaram thankfully also finds space for calm as Shyju Khalid’s camera roams around in awe of the mountains, running its eye over and between rock faces, deep into caves and high above the land, examining the dramatic arrangements of trees and rocks engineered by natural forces. 

The tiresome scenes that preceded Manjummel Boys’ arrival at Guna Cave become a distant memory when an accident caused by the men’s irresponsible conduct turns their holiday into a nightmare. The shock of that turning point, the suspense and technical accomplishments of the film from then on – intelligent sound design by Shijin Hutton and Abhishek Nair, and intelligent use of Sushin Shyam’s music complementing the cinematographer’s imaginative exploration of the location – compensate for the continuing limitations in the writing. 

In short, Manjummel Boys is an uneven experience. On the one hand, the shooting of the Guna Cave area and the treatment of the twist are impeccable. On the other hand, the scripting continues to be patchy and unsophisticated. The first flashback to the characters’ childhood leading into their  behaviour in desperate circumstances in Kodaikanal is well done. But it gets predictable when it happens again, and then again when their seemingly purposeless shenanigans before the interval come of use in rescue operations. 

The last half hour is packed with nail-biting tension despite this. 

Manjummel Boys is challenging for another reason. Malayalam and Tamil are fitted naturally into the script, but there were no subtitles played in the hall in Delhi where I watched it. While this could have been the multiplex management’s mess-up (even when producers subtitle their films, theatres in Delhi very often don’t bother to play the subs), a question remains for the makers themselves: since Manjummel Boys’ primary language is Malayalam, why are Malayalam subtitles not embedded in the print itself throughout the Tamil dialogues (in the way they are in one portion depicting characters in Tamil Nadu regaling the visitors from Kerala with lore surrounding Guna Cave, its recent history and mythology)? In its present shape, the film is inaccessible not only to non-Malayalam speakers in that particular hall, it is tough even for Malayalam speakers who do not know Tamil.

The Malayalam film industry does not often visit the survival genre, and on those rare outings it has a mixed tracked record. Helen (2019) and Malayankunju (2018) are recent examples that got it right. Like these two, most survival films tend to be intense studies of human nature. They need not be. Manjummel Boys’ problem is that it is not satisfied with action and suspense alone. It wants to be profound but can only partially pull it off. For one, the tribute to Gunaa has not been thought through. If the iconic Tamil film was merely the motivation that spurs the ‘boys’ of Manjummel to visit Guna Cave it would have made sense. However, pointed references are made to Gunaa through song and dialogue that gradually draws a parallel between the pivotal relationship in the earlier film and the willingness of the ‘boys’ here to give up their lives for each other in the end. But Gunaa was not about a healthy love or friendship, it was about unhealthy obsession and delusion. Kamal’s character in that film was mentally unwell, he abducted a woman with whom he believed he had a divine connection, and ultimately preferred death over life without her. To evoke nostalgia for the lovely music of that film is all very well, but the concerted mindless effort to evoke nostalgia for the ‘love’ and ‘sacrifice’ in Gunaa makes Manjummel Boys both intellectually pretentious and intellectually lightweight.

Text on screen post-climax reveals that Manjummel Boys is based on the true story of a bravery award winner called Siju David. Knowing that what happened at Guna Cave in Manjummel Boys actually happened in real life adds a layer of chills to the better half of this flawed, partly rewarding film. 

Rating (out of 5 stars): 2.5   

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The ease with which Sarika slips phaphoond into the right context makes it my word of the week, though nasudda hogs the limelight in All India Rank since Vivek is asked the meaning at one point. (I won’t tell you his answer.) 

It is no surprise that All India Rank has the feel of a film written by someone who takes pleasure in language. It is after all the directorial debut of Varun Grover who rose to fame and acclaim with his lyrics for Anurag Kashyap’s Gangs of Wasseypur (2012), then sealed his reputation by writing Neeraj Ghaywan’s Masaan (2015). Grover has also written this film, which was premiered last February at the International Film Festival of Rotterdam and is now in Indian theatres. 

Sarika (Samta Sudiksha) in All India Rank is one of the foremost supporting players in the story of Vivek (Bodhisattva Sharma), a teenager from Lucknow who arrives in Kota in 1997 to prepare for the IIT entrance test. Kota is the Mecca of coaching classes for IIT aspirants or, as Vivek’s father R.K. Singh (Shashi Bhushan) puts it, it is “coaching ka Haridwar”. 

Vivek has been dragged by Singh Senior into a race he does not care for, while Sarika runs with passion and for herself. A parent forcing his dreams on a child and the pressure to gain admission to one of India’s most sought after educational institutions are only the backdrop against which All India Rank unfolds as an observational, almost meditative portrait of what can best be summarised as “a year in the life of Vivek from 1990s India”. 

The desperation and despondency of some of the leads in other Hindi films dealing with career choices, India’s education system and so on are not to be found here. All India Rank is not 3 Idiots, Tamasha or 12^th Fail. The pressure-cooker existence of the impoverished Manoj from All India Rank is a far cry from Vivek’s situation – the latter has relative privilege as the only child of lower-middle-income parents. Vivek is unhappy at being pushed into a profession he does not want, but he does not get depressed, unlike Ranbir Kapoor’s character from Tamasha. Viveks exist too. 

All India Rank is semi-autobiographical. Grover himself is an IITian, but the film is left open-ended, perhaps to make a point that it can hardly be viewed as a climax if a disinterested kid gets into a coveted college. All India Rank is not about a triumph, it is about a journey. 

Grover’s film, edited by Sanyukta Kaza, has a calm vibe and an air of innocence. Its low-key sense of humour is written into both the conversations and the pleasant music (lyrics by Grover, original songs and background score by Mayukh-Mainak). The unhurried demeanour and unmelodramatic presentation of even its most dramatic moments convey an impression that little happens here. In truth, it is packed with thoughtful character development and discreet socio-political commentary. 

In a sense, Vivek is an unlikely protagonist. He is unexcited by IITs but he doesn’t fight his Dad too much, he dabbles in rebellion but soon gets back on track, he’s nice but slightly bland. He grows in his own way though. In any case, even a seemingly bland individual is the hero of their own story, and even such a person has his moments, as we see with Vivek. 

Besides, the boy is surrounded by interesting people – the feisty Sarika, their friend who pretends he’s not studying when in fact he does, parents who evolve, an easygoing mother (Geeta Agarwal) and a man who sees his son’s entry into IIT as a passport to elevating his own social stature. 

The newcomers and veterans in the cast are uniformly endearing and real. Geeta Agarwal and Shashi Bhushan infuse warmth into Vivek’s parents’ close bond. Sheeba Chaddha is capable of being harsh as spikes on screen, but in All India Rank she brings an unexpected softness to Kalpana Bundela, the queen of IIT coaching in Kota, who keeps the mood light in class.  

Among the film’s winning qualities is the authenticity in the recreation of the era in which it is set, through dialogues, Prachi Deshpande’s meticulous production design and revisitations of old songs. In 1997, telephones with whirring dials were the norm and the Nirma detergent powder advertisement was a reigning pop culture reference. The detailing of the time is charming. 

This was the decade in which economic liberalisation, Mandal and the Babri Masjid demolition permanently altered India’s DNA. The script does not spell out any of this, but slivers of the politics of that era and of the present are an unobtrusive presence in the writing. 

“Azaadi” in the 1990s was not yet a word that could land you in jail, but as we see in the film, queasiness over Urdu was very much the norm and Indian was already a country that valued its national symbols more than its people. 

I’ll leave you to spot the messaging that dots the film, including the manner in which the writer-director tests the liberal viewers’ obliviousness to anti-minority stereotyping in Hindi cinema by seeming to present a stereotype, then turning it on its head. No spoilers here – you will hopefully recognise that episode when you see it. Compare it to the mischief played by the writer-director of last year’s OMG 2, who placed three minority community members in his all-Hindu universe in a north Indian temple town, wrote all three of them as jerks, and picked one of them to torment a schoolmate over his penis size, thus setting off a chain of events that almost destroyed the boy. 

In the past 10 years, much of Hindi filmdom has bowed and scraped before the right-wing through works that demonise religious minorities, marginalise the influence of minority cultures on India, and erase every achievement of non-BJP governments and prime ministers. All India Rank stands out from this obeisant crowd with almost indiscernible defiance. Don’t go looking for a sermon or lengthy exposition. What we get instead is a word here, a brief chat there, a quote on a wall, a passing image on TV – Grover worships at the altar of the God of small things in All India Rank. 

The film is not about any of this though, just as it is not about IIT. Grover leaves us free to note his politics if we wish, or to enjoy All India Rank as a sweet little film about “a time of innocence, a time of confidences”, to borrow from the American songwriter Paul Simon’s Bookends (1968). 

Unlike most coming-of-age sagas, All India Rank does not feature any grand awakening or drastic change in the central character’s plans by the close. Yet, it tugs at the heart. The film is like photographs we take of regular days, pictures that don’t commemorate a birth, death, graduation or anniversary but instead freeze frame the spaces in between when most of life occurs. Those are the days that get us to our milestones, and our stories are incomplete without them. 

In choosing to make All India Rank – and make it in precisely the way he does – Grover subscribes to the Paul Simon school of thought. “Preserve your memories, they’re all that’s left you.” (Bookends again)

Rating (out of 5 stars): 3   

Visual courtesy: IMDB 

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“Who was at fault?” is usually the question asked when we hear stories of marital infidelity. While this black-and-white approach may work in cases where the power balance completely favours one partner, sometimes it makes more sense to ask: what went wrong? 

Debutant director Shirsha Guha Thakurta’s Do Aur Do Pyaar starring Vidya Balan and Pratik Gandhi is not in the business of finding villains. Instead it examines the circumstances that cause its protagonists to cheat on each other. 

Balan here plays Kavya Ganeshan, a Mumbai-based dentist whose husband Aniruddha Banerjee (Gandhi) runs his family enterprise. Kavya married Ani without the blessings of her conservative Tamilian parents. Over a decade later, her father (Thalaivasal Vijay) still disapproves of the man that the extended family continues to describe as his “Bengali son-in-law”. 

Unknown to Kavya’s folks in Ooty, the couple have drifted apart although they live in the same house. They have both been having long-term affairs with other people, except that the word “affair” sounds casual and sordid, whereas Kavya and Ani seem committed to their respective extra-marital partners: Vikram played by Sendhil Ramamurthy, who is a respected photographer, and Nora (Ileana D’Cruz), a talented artiste whose acting career is just taking off. 

A turn of events on a visit to Ooty takes the quartet in an unplanned direction. 

The Hindi film industry has so far favoured either maudlin hyperbole or ribald comedy while portraying unfaithful spouses. Comedy has been a route adopted for adulterous husbands (cases in point: No Entry, the Masti franchise) – adulterous wives, it seems, are serious business (Kabhi Alvida Naa Kehna). Do Aur Do Pyaar is neither trivial and sexist like the former bunch, nor weepie like the latter. It is a slice-of-life exploration of infidelity and love, that is never heavy-handed in its approach to these themes and in considerable stretches, is light-hearted, even funny. 

Do Aur Do Pyaar is a remake of the American film The Lovers, written and directed by Azazel Jacobs. I do not understand why Bollywood requires inspiration from abroad when every nook and cranny of this massive, complex country is teeming with original stories, but given that a decision was taken to remake this ordinary (albeit domestically acclaimed) American film, I am happy to report that Do Aur Do Pyaar is a vastly superior work. The Lovers provides just a skeletal premise that writers Suprotim Sengupta and Eisha Chopra have expanded into a substantial script featuring dialogues co-written with Amrita Bagchi. 

The Lovers was solely focused on the excitement that subterfuge brings to relationships. The leads were dull characters. Their feelings changed abruptly and inexplicably. Their partners were poorly developed, charmless creatures. The husband’s lover in particular was hysterical, possessive and unlikeable. In contrast, Do Aur Do Pyaar is a wistful and layered study of the human psyche. There is a plausible progression in Kavya and Ani’s feelings for each other and their lovers. In fact, if it weren’t for the prominent acknowledgement of the original in the opening credits, I doubt I would have noticed the sole similarity between the two storylines. 

One point that gives me pause is that the Indian film has lowered the ages of its protagonists by at least a generation. The Lovers is about an elderly couple with a college-going son, whereas Kavya and Ani are young. Whatever the excuse may be for the edit, it is a sad reminder that the Hindi industry is by and large disinterested in seniors as leads. 

Do Aur Do Pyaar is defined by its non-judgemental attitude towards its four main characters. Each is loveable in their own way. The prevalent social stereotype of the evil doosri aurat is discarded here in favour of compassion. I wish Nora had been given as much maturity and calm as Vikram, but at least she is never viewed with anything but empathy through Guha Thakurta’s lens.

Most conversations in Do Aur Do Pyaar sound natural, barring one crucial lengthy exchange between Kavya and her Dad in which he dispenses simplistic wisdom and she psycho-analyses her relationships in a vocabulary that borrows American cinema’s pop psychology clichés. That discussion disregards some of what went before and what follows. While I understand that the writers felt the need to resolve Kavya’s stormy ties with her father, it does not make logical sense that this feisty woman who had accused him of being cold and expressed the belief that her mother was scared of him, would in the climax turn to him for relationship advice. 

Kavya in that scene asks how he and her Mum have lasted so long. You just keep showing up every day, he replies glibly. Really? Did the frightened Mrs Ganeshan have a choice to not show up? Was she financially secure enough to leave him? If she had done so, would the family have supported her? The Kavya we have known until then would have challenged him on these points, would not have deemed the longevity of a joyless marriage an achievement, and is more likely to have asked Mom (Rekha Kudlig), “Why on earth did you not dump him?” – the response would, in all probability, have been far more illuminating. 

The scene as it stands feels like a cop-out, and a bid to reassure conservatives in the audience that although the hero and heroine strayed, the film itself favours socially prescribed territory. Do Aur Do Pyaar challenges traditionalism and many patriarchal norms until then and thereafter, but disappoints in this incongruous passage by batting for marriage over happiness. 

(No spoilers ahead, but some people may disagree) 

If this had been the finale, the film would have been ruined. Thankfully there is more to come. 

Romantic dramas across the world have stereotypical notions of “happily ever after”. Guha Thakurta and team skip that trap, leaving us with a rare – and rewarding – open-ended climax. 

A lot is said without being said in Do Aur Do Pyaar. Kavya’s adaptable food habits, for instance are as much an instrument of flirtation as a comment on the person she is below the feisty demeanour. Ani’s begun poshto is a metaphor both for affection and for the mundanity that replaces the early sparks in a romance. Beneath the quiet surface are roiling sentiments and resentments. And anything, yes everything, in Do Aur Do Pyaar can transform into fuel for a sense of humour when you least expect it. 

Guha Thakurta and her editor, Bardroy Barretto, keep the shifts in mood flowing smoothly. 

DoP Kartik Vijay’s pale palette lends a coldness to his frames irrespective of the habitat in which the couples wander. His camera miraculously manages to make grimy Mumbai come off as a sister locale of stunning Ooty, with both places reflecting the moods of their inhabitants as much as the beauty that nature has bestowed on at least one of them. 

Subhajit Mukherjee’s background score reminded me a teensy bit of Brokeback Mountain’s music – and I’m not complaining. I don’t see myself seeking out the soundtrack outside the four walls of this film, but within the span of the narrative they serve their purpose well. 

The Hindi industry is a long way away from acknowledging India’s language diversity in a script that truly reflects reality, but considering how insular Hindi filmmakers tend to be, Do Aur Do Pyaar is a baby step forward. The mere smattering of Tamil dialogues while the leads are in Ooty is not enough, but is still better than Hindi films set outside the Hindi belt that feature characters speaking in Hindi alone. For shining recent samples of the language authenticity found in scripts from the country’s other film industries, watch Thankam and Ariyippu.

Balan is delightful in Do Aur Do Pyaar, mutating from flirtatious to fiery to pained and conflicted in a matter of seconds. Her fluid expressions power the fluidity of the plot. 

Gandhi does hesitation and diffidence to perfection. He is so adorable that it’s easy to imagine why a distant wife may still reflexively reach out to fix the glasses sliding down Ani’s nose. 

D’Cruz and Ramamurthy never allow their gorgeousness to distract from Nora and Vikram’s vulnerability. When they hurt in Do Aur Do Pyaar, I did too. 

The title of this film translates to Two Plus Two Equals Love. Now don’t be a wet blanket and go looking for mathematical precision in that equation, because Do Aur Do Pyaar does add up. This is a consistently engaging, often amusing, always thoughtful, low-noise account of the ebbing tide in a waning marriage.

Rating (out of 5 stars): 3   

Visual courtesy: IMDB 

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When a song overlaying a film’s opening credits describes the hero in deliciously mischievous terms – as “sexeela, ttharkeela Chamkila” (sexy, horny Chamkila) – the promise of an unapologetic sense of humour with a distinctive earthy flavour is unmistakable.

This lively number lifts the curtain on director Imtiaz Ali’s Amar Singh Chamkila, an eponymous biopic of the iconic Dalit folk-pop singer from rural Punjab whose murder in 1988 was never solved. The film platforms career-defining performances by the actor-singer Diljit Dosanjh as Chamkila and Parineeti Chopra as his wife and singing partner, Amarjot Kaur, alongside a fabulous soundtrack combining A.R. Rahman originals and Chamkila’s works. 

Delightful though the musical prologue is in many ways, it also briefly signals a troubling element that recurs later in the narrative, by casually clubbing instances of harassment with the amusing albeit crude eroticism that runs through the film. Shots of men and boys watching bathing women without their consent and peeking into rooms where women are changing their clothes roll out on screen in a manner that suggests an equivalence between such male voyeurism and the consensual, clandestine sexual liaisons also depicted during that early audio-visual montage. 

This mindless, poorly developed take on Peeping Toms and consent diminishes an otherwise well-crafted, mostly thoughtful, entertaining film on a man whose raunchy music enraged religious bigots and terrorists in Punjab, until he was assassinated at the age of 27. 

Too many biopics by filmmakers worldwide are PR exercises for their subjects. Amar Singh Chamkila is not one of those. Imtiaz Ali and his co-writer Sajid Ali along with their editor Aarti Bajaj present Chamkila as an enterprising, canny, courageous, yet sometimes dubious man.

Chamkila in this narrative stands up to caste chauvinism, strives hard to rise above his poverty, calls out the hypocrisy of conservatives when confronted about his no-holds-barred compositions, and in the long run, snubs his nose at censorious religious fundamentalists and extremists. The same Chamkila also lies, deceives more than one woman, and rationalises his lies. 

Sometimes writers gloss over such discomfiting aspects of a protagonist’s personality or journey in a bid to further a political agenda or to safeguard their financial interests, sometimes they do it to pander to fans or extra-Constitutional censors, very often they do so because it is simply too challenging to write a script that neither canonises nor vilifies an icon but portrays them as is. What sets Amar Singh Chamkila apart from most biopics is that the Alis don’t bury or sidestep the leading man’s flaws. It is what it is. 

This is a risk and one that ends up giving the film its layers and credibility. 

The script also risks spotlighting pro-Khalistan violence. Hindi films set in 1980s Punjab tend to confine themselves to police atrocities against Sikh civilians, Operation Bluestar and the pogrom that followed Indira Gandhi’s assassination in Delhi. This partial picture ultimately does a disservice to the minority group that it seeks to protect. 

As I wrote recently in my column in The Economic Times about liberal filmmakers largely avoiding a scrutiny of members of oppressed communities: “The fear is not only that one might be misunderstood, cause offence and hurt, but also that irrespective of the chronicler’s intentions, such stories could be misused by hate-mongers to further demonise an already beleaguered people.” However, “The counter to demonisation is not deification, or whitewashing. The counter is normalisation and unprejudiced truth-telling.” Amar Singh Chamkila provides a much-needed illustration of how this can be done – it recounts a passage from actual history in which members of the Sikh community themselves suffered at the hands of the enemy within, while doing so it does not stereotype Sikhs, it does not over-stress or de-emphasise any character’s religious identity, and it does not tar the entire community with one brush.

This, to my mind, is the film’s most noteworthy achievement.  

It is because of the gutsy, quality writing in these areas that the Alis’ take on Chamkila’s lyrics is disappointing. The bulk of the songs he’s shown singing with successive women collaborators and, finally, Amarjot, are hilarious in-your-face accounts of sexual encounters in conservative societies. There are endless stories of men lusting after their brothers’ wives and those wives surreptitiously hooking up with their brothers-in-law. I had a good laugh listening to them because of their frankness, their impish tone, the articulation of women’s sexual desires, and the way they blow the lid off the pretence and propriety that our country values above the truth. However, the film also fleetingly refers to songs humourising voyeuristic men. The former are fun, the latter are creepy – if this is indeed Chamkila’s body of work in its entirety, then well, it should not be brushed under the carpet. The issue is that the Alis’ own confused gaze enters the picture here.

In the film’s weakest portions, the script conflates Chamkila’s funny, audacious material with lyrics about intrusive, non-consensual, criminal male conduct. Women in rural Punjab are shown celebrating Chamkila through the joyously wicked number Naram Kaalja complete with sexually assertive lyrics and suggestive dance moves. That they would endorse his songs about covert, consensual sex in a society that demands coyness from women is believable, but the script does not stop to ask if they also approve of him making light of unwanted men peering into women’s bedrooms and bathrooms, nor do they touch upon legitimate concerns about such works. 

Instead, that task is left to an English-speaking woman journalist in Western clothing, the conceptualisation of whom indicates the writers’ disdainful, uninformed, clichéd definition of feminism. It is even implied that this stereotypical character was an instrument of Chamkila’s jealous rivals.

There’s a technique that storytellers employ when they wish to feign neutrality while taking a stand: they depict a confrontation between two people, ensure that the one they are batting for is a sympathetic character, and write more convincing arguments for this person in debates unfolding on screen. The American sitcom Last Man Standing is one of the wiliest examples of this cinematic device. Actor Tim Allen on the show plays a conservative who upholds Republican Party values that his wife (Nancy Travis) opposes. Each time they clash, the writers write weak political arguments into her lines that make his views – and conservatives at large – come off as smarter and more credible than progressives, as exemplified by her woolliness. Last Man Standing does this while appearing to give both of them equal room and strength. It is no coincidence that Allen, who is one of the show’s executive producers, is a Republican Party supporter in real life. 

The charmless, confrontational, joyless, jeans-wearing feminist with fuzzy logic using big words like “objectify” in a conversation with a guileless, rustic singer is Amar Singh Chamkila’s Nancy Travis. Chamkila himself is the film’s Tim Allen.  

Chamkila and his oeuvre are undoubtedly complicated. By simplistically positing feminists, terrorists and Sikh conservatives on one side, ranged against him, the script loses the opportunity to address certain questions that struck me while watching his female admirers in this film. Did the religious establishment target Chamkila because he wrote of women as sexual beings with wants and needs? Was the patriarchal clergy rattled by his popularity among women and afraid it could spark a female sexual Rennaissance in rural Punjab? 

Caste too is not examined with any depth here. Amar Singh Chamkila assumes significance as a rare Hindi film with a Dalit protagonist, but the script does not even look into the possibility that at least some of the resentment towards Chamkila may have come from members of oppressor castes unable to digest the rise of a Dalit. 

Multimedia packaging is used throughout to remind us that Chamkila and Amarjot were living breathing creatures who once walked this earth. Scenes with Dosanjh and Chopra sometimes turn grainy, and sometimes transition into or share space with footage of the real Chamkila and Amarjot, interspersed with watercolours, animation, old newspaper clippings, graphic-novel-like illustrations, photos of the actual couple and stills of the stars playing them. This mosaic of images adds to the period feel and gives the film the air of a docudrama. They complement Sylvester Fonseca’s restrained camerawork and production designer Suman Roy Mahapatra’s recreation of 1980s Punjab to make Amar Singh Chamkila a rich and varied visual experience. 

Two components of this mix are superfluous. English transliterations – sometimes of Punjabi lyrics, sometimes of Hindi translations of Punjabi lyrics – repeatedly flash on screen. They are terribly distracting. I had to force myself to ignore them so as to catch the English subtitles. And the captions that pop up at regular intervals serve no purpose at all. 

Chamkila and Amarjot dominate the plot, but satellite figures too are meticulously characterised. One of my favourite scenes involves Surinder Sonia, the artiste with whom Chamkila performs his first duet. The attitude she throws as a star of the stage in rural Punjab, her contempt for this unknown man, the high ground she takes about his lyrics, and the lightning-speed change of heart when the audience reacts positively to him are captured impeccably by the lovely Nisha Bano. 

I wish this film had been as much about Amarjot as it is about Chamkila, but given that she is a supporting character, Chopra invests her everything in the diffident young woman who blossomed on stage. In her hands, Amarjot exudes shyness belying a steely will and an occasional roguish grin. Chopra adapts her body and body language to the role. Most astonishingly, she has also sung for Amarjot in the film, holding her own against her co-star who is a superstar singer. 

Dosanjh was born to play Chamkila. He displays incredible range and immaculate timing here. He knows he is likeable and releases that charm in measured doses to jostle with his character’s lowest ebbs, even as he embodies the determination, desperation and savvy that made Chamkila a legend. 

Imtiaz Ali’s film, like the man it seeks to immortalise on screen, is a melange of black, white and grey: brave in its stand on religious despots, lazy when it clubs harassment with fun and equates censorship with all criticism. It is also beautifully acted and uses music in the best way a film can, making it a memorable tribute to a folk hero who had so much more to give the world. 

Rating (out of 5 stars): 3.5   

Visual courtesy: IMDB 

RELATED LINK: Read my column in The Economic Times on minority representation in cinema published on April 13, 2024

https://economictimes.indiatimes.com/opinion/et-commentary/challenging-stereotypes-a-fresh-perspective-on-minority-representation-in-film/articleshow/109274630.cms

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Why are women-centric films always about serious issues? Why don’t we get to act in crazy comedies of the kind routinely made for guys? I remember Madhuri Dixit Nene raising these questions in an interview she gave me about 20 years back while I was with The Indian Express. Back then, blue moons would pass between goofy, fun flicks revolving around women, such as Seeta aur Geeta (1972) starring Hema Malini, Khoobsurat (1980) with Rekha, Chaalbaaz (1989) headlined by the great Sridevi, and Dixit’s own Raja (1995). The Hindi film industry’s approach to comedies is still unfair to women, but it has improved in recent years, owing considerably to the producer Rhea Kapoor whose latest screen adventure is Crew, jointly produced by Ektaa Kapoor, directed by Rajesh A. Krishnan, written by Nidhi Mehra and Mehul Suri.     

Starring Tabu, Kareena Kapoor Khan and Kriti Sanon, Crew comes not far behind 2023’s Thank You for Coming! in which Bhumi Pednekar’s character (spoiler alert, hehe) attained sexual nirvana at her own hands after years of trial and error in bed with men. In Crew, Geeta Sethi (Tabu), Jasmine (Kapoor Khan) and Divya Rana (Sanon) have settled for their respective Plan Bs because Plan A has not (or not yet) worked out. They are flight attendants on a sinking ship called Kohinoor Airlines run by the stinking rich and corrupt Vijay Walia. The minimal effort invested in disguising the real-life entities referenced here is just one of the sources of amusement coming at us from all directions in Crew.  

Geeta has long wanted to use her PF to start an eatery in Goa with her husband (Kapil Sharma), but Kohinoor is not paying up. Jasmine is waiting for her business idea to find takers. Divya was an academic achiever and ace athlete in school whose actual aim was to be a pilot. As Kohinoor gradually goes under and the friends see their dreams receding further into the distance, they decide to break the law in a bid to improve their bank balances and ultimately, to also get back at the unscrupulous Walia. Their mini scams culminate in one big fat heist.  

Crew has no pretensions to being intellectual. The tone is determinedly flip for the most part. To dismiss it as mindless would be wrong though. In a cinematic universe where Dixit Nene’s hope for women is still only being fulfilled in baby steps, Crew’s significance lies in the way it defies the industry’s tradition of equating “women-centric” with “grave” and “weepie”.  

Discrimination, harassment and violence are intrinsic to the experience of being female in most cultures, but laughter is one of the tools that helps us survive – and finally, finally, the Hindi film industry seems to be getting it. Crew is part of the emerging trend sparked by this realisation. The bonus here is that, as with other women-led Hindi film comedies so far, the director and writers of Crew too demonstrate that it is possible to elicit laughs without being sexist in the way makers of mass-targeted men-centric comedies usually are.  

After years of crass quips about women’s bodies and rape jokes in men-centric comedies, it is a pleasure to see the agency in a film’s humour being handed to its women characters, and to watch these women crack up as they toss double entendre about themselves at each other without trivialising violence or themselves or women at large. When a passenger gets handsy with one of the trio in Crew, his conduct is not humourised. What is humourised is his shock at a woman striking back. And guess what, Dudes Who Write Sexist Comedy? Team Mehra & Suri have written an entire women-centred comedy film without a single wisecrack about the rape of men. 

The lesson from Crew for the likes of Indra Kumar (the Masti series) and Sajid Khan (Housefull 2) is this: you can joke about sex without demeaning other genders, without making light of violence, and without lazily aiming at the oppressed and their oppression. 

The film is high on energy owing to its unrelenting plot developments and infectious music, in particular the reboot of the blockbuster number Choli ke peeche from Subhash Ghai’s Khalnayak (1993) and Sona kitna sona hai remixed from David Dhawan’s Hero No. 1 (1997). Geeta, Jasmine and Divya are spunky, funny and flawed. Though they have a mountain of troubles on their plates, their ruminative and sorrowful moments are never maudlin.  

Crew’s script and craft could have done with some polishing up though. There is, for instance, an awkwardly shot post-interval scene in which the three women hide behind a luggage trolley, and for some seconds, it looks like a decapitated Kapoor Khan’s head is on top of a suitcase. Sanon does not come off much better in that frame. If this was intentional, it would have been a hoot, but it comes across as unwitting. Greater finesse would have made Crew a better film and a different film but as things stand, it is both entertaining and thoughtful, despite its rough edges.  

I want to believe that Crew’s and Laapataa Ladies’ simultaneous success at the box office marks an important turning point for the representation of women in mainstream Hindi cinema. For the record, both are very different. Laapataa Ladies is sublime and finessed. Crew is rambunctious (in a good way) but some of the writing also feels hurried. The heist, for instance, is simplistic. What makes it work nevertheless is that the narrative pace and the cast’s conviction leave little time for analysis. Frankly, I have felt no differently about most heist films I have watched. This genre tends to demand a suspension of disbelief. A filmmaker’s challenge is to convince the audience that the film is worth that effort. Krishnan is very much up to the task. 

Geeta, Jasmine and Divya get equal treatment and space in Crew’s screenplay. Cinematographer Anuj Rakesh Dhawan has also shot them without celebrating one body over the other, without being sheepish about any one’s girth or complexion, without de-emphasising any one’s age.  

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Tabu is now reportedly 52, Kapoor Khan is 43, Sanon is 33. The camera does not make any visible distinction between them. Any concessions made have been made unobtrusively.  

Dhawan’s work in Crew, no doubt in keeping with Krishnan’s vision, is a reminder that, as I wrote in The Economic Times in the context of Laapataa Ladies, “‘The male gaze’ is not merely ‘the gaze of a man’. It is the gaze of a man who lacks empathy... Likewise, ‘the female gaze’ is not merely ‘the gaze of a woman’. It is the gaze of a woman who possesses empathy.” Illustrating this premise, the women in Crew are treated as people, not mere bodies. That each in her own way has a fabulous body is a bonus, which too is celebrated unapologetically. 

Given the care that has gone into these choices, I do not see why Crew’s soundtrack is dominated by male voices or why the heroines are shown lip syncing to a male singer’s voice in the end.  

In an interview she gave me after Veere Di Wedding, Rhea Kapoor had explained why she got Badshah to sing Tareefanfor the central female quartet: “The idea came from this Beyonce-Jay Z video where Beyonce has kind of taken on Jay Z’s mantle and kind of raps for him – there’s something so f*cking empowering about that.” The problem is that a woman singing for a man has been used over time as a comical device in films, so describing the reverse – a man singing for a woman actor – as “empowering” comes from the same subconscious conditioning that has got even progressive women equating the “balls”, not the uterus or vagina, with courage. 

This discordant note particularly stands out because Kapoor, Krishnan & Co have got so much else right here. Quite unusually for an overtly commercial film, Crew’s scriptwriters do not view the presence of a male romantic partner as mandatory to complete a woman. The leads don’t measure their self-worth in such terms either. Geeta has a warm relationship with her spouse that is unconventional going by society’s expectations of who ought to be the income provider in a family. Without batting an eyelid, the writers write Jasmine as a single woman, while Divya bumps into an old flame (Diljit Dosanjh).  

There is so much that Crew does unobtrusively while doggedly entertaining us, that its politics could easily be underrated. Its attitude to women apart, note how a turbanned Sikh is not only the romantic interest of a glamorous woman, Dhawan’s camerawork and Dosanjh’s vibe in the role purposefully make the man sexy. This is not a lens that usually falls on Sikh men in Hindi cinema who have for decades been positioned variously as boisterous, patriotic, dutiful, loyal, comical, buffoonish, innocent and loveable, but rarely as hotties. Nice touch.  

Krishnan’s first film, Lootcase (2020), too dealt with a primary character’s questionable morality and ill-gotten wealth. It was well begun but half done. In Crew, he lives up to the initial promise of a lark right till the end without once treating the audience like idiots or insensitive jerks.  

The smart script is elevated by Tabu, Kapoor Khan and Sanon’s crackling chemistry. The casting coup goes well beyond their stardom. The three come across as real-life friends who had a blast while shooting this film. Their enjoyment is contagious and makes for a cracking combination with their natural affinity for comedy, adding yet another feather to Rhea Kapoor’s expanding filmography of resolutely women-centric, resolutely hilarious-not-stupid Hindi cinema.  

Rating (out of 5 stars): 3.5    

Visual courtesy: IMDB 

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The title is the Malayalam word for undercurrent. Kuttanad in the monsoons, with its vast, often intimidating expanses of water punctuated by thick greens and islands of human habitation, is home to many such hidden tides.   

The placid liquid terrain on which Ullozhukku unfolds is a metaphor for the outward calm of conservative societies. In these circles, silent suffering to keep up a façade of ‘respectability’ is valued over the truth, and the floodwaters of social conformity often drown happiness.   

The protagonists in this story are Anju (Parvathy Thiruvothu) and Leelamma (Urvashi). Anju had an arranged marriage with Leelamma’s son Thomaskutty (Prasanth Murali). Rains are lashing Kuttanad, and the swollen backwaters have covered the grounds of their home when he dies following a grave illness. With preparations underway for Thomaskutty’s burial, long-submerged secrets rise to the surface and lies are unexpectedly exposed.  

Ullozhukku is written and directed by Christo Tomy whose firm hold on the material at hand, aided by Kiran Das’ editing, complements the casting coup of the season. The joy of seeing Urvashi, a giant of her craft, share the screen with Parvathy Thiruvothu, one of the finest actors of her generation, is enough to make a cinephile dizzy. When the gripping narrative culminates in a satisfying climax, there is reason for even greater euphoria: because here at last is a script worthy of these wonderful women who have snatched stardom from the jaws of patriarchy but deserve far more than they’ve got in India’s men-obsessed film industries.  

From the moment we first meet Anju and Leelamma, it is evident that they care for each other. Gradually though, we see that nothing is as it should be in this tharavad.   

Mainstream Indian cinema rarely explores relationships between women at length or sans  stereotyping. Jeo Baby’s The Great Indian Kitchen (2020) showcased female allyship for a change when it defied the social stereotype that daughters-in-law and mothers-in-law are forever at war. While that was just an aside in that film, albeit an important one, Ullozhukku in its entirety is devoted to a complex ammaayiyamma-marumakal bond written without pre-conceived notions.  

Anju and Leelamma’s sense of desolation is mirrored by their desolate surroundings.   

Shehnad Jalal’s exquisite panoramic views of the scenery in Ullozhukku hark back to M.J. Radhakrishnan’s glorious frames in Jayaraj’s Ottaal (2015) which, to my mind, featured arguably the best use of the camera ever in Kuttanad. When Shehnad’s lens is trained on people, he seems to shadow rather than just observe them. The effect, when teamed with Sushin Shyam’s music and Jayadevan Chakkadath and Anil Radhakrishnan’s sound design, gives the film a brooding thriller-like air, although it is more social drama than mystery.  

The quiet of the countryside belies the churn in and around this extended family. The elders among them presume the right to decide their offspring’s future. One man grants himself the right to violently subjugate an ‘errant’ woman. Society grants another the right to use her without a care for her wishes. And a seeming progressive momentarily reveals a regressive mindset. 

Ullozhukku features a disturbing scene of spousal violence, but not of the sort one is accustomed to. Physical abuse is not normalised here in the way abuse by husbands often is in mainstream Malayalam cinema (Exhibit A: Ayyappanum Koshiyum). Instead, the implication is that domestic violence is the stuff a woman’s nightmares are made of possibly because it has been her reality. Over the course of the narrative, the film also invites us to reflect on a husband’s disregard for his wife’s reluctance to have sex with him on a particular occasion.  

Christo’s script has an interesting take on the manner in which society and family lay claim to the female body, more so a pregnant woman’s body. Malayalam cinema has already engaged in depth with the pro-choice debate in Jude Anthony Joseph’s Sara’s (2021) – a theme that the rest of India’s cinemas largely avoid. Ullozhukku nudges us to ponder over maternal rights instead through characters aggressively describing a foetus to its mother as “my son’s baby” and “my child” rather than hers. Their attitude is reflected in a woman clinging creepily to the belly of an expectant mother despite the latter’s obvious discomfort at being touched in this fashion.  

For the record, Anju and Leelamma’s families are Christian, a fact that’s there for all to see but becomes a point only in a fleeting flash of sectarianism in their midst. Ullozhukku’s representation of the community is different from the cinema of Lijo Jose Pellissery and Don Palathara that are packed with Christian symbolism and customs. This spectrum of portrayals is in keeping with the normalisation of Muslims and Christians as a whole in Malayalam cinema, and a divergence from Hindi cinema’s idea of Muslims as a homogeneous bloc to be featured in scripts if their religious identity plays a part in the plot, while Christians are more or less invisible these days. Normalisation makes space for depictions of class and caste hierarchies within a minority group. In the case of Ullozhukku, the starting point of Anju’s troubles is that her parents wanted to marry her into a wealthy, reputed family, unlike theirs, irrespective of the emotional cost to her.

Because of the maturity and nuance on display almost throughout Ullozhukku, two elements stick out for suggesting that all parties here are equally culpable in the goings-on. No, they are not. Some deserve to be held to account more than others. The first instance of this balancing act is a conversation between Anju’s mother-in-law and her sister who is a nun – it is jarring but excusable. The second is Anju’s father George (Alancier).  

(Minor spoilers in this paragraph) Hypocrisy can be debated. Beating a woman cannot. The glint of peace in George’s eyes as the camera rests on his face one last time in the finale is unearned. Every other individual in this saga may merit redemption, not he who assaulted his daughter. The script, however, finds another lying relative to blame for Anju’s present misery.

This absolution for a fictional man is a glaring contrast to the eagerness with which a real-life woman was convicted on screen by Christo’s true crime series, Curry and Cyanide: The Jolly Joseph Case (2023) on Netflix. That show was beset with loopholes and unaddressed questions, while it damned an alleged serial killer whose trial is still on in a lower court in Kerala.

The indulgence towards George in Ullozhukku parallels the long rope that the film industry has given Alancier himself for his transgressions including sexual misconduct, while women like Parvathy have faced consequences for speaking out against patriarchy and violence in the industry. Before anyone brings it up, I’ll add: no viewer is obliged to separate the art from the artist, more so when the art mirrors the artist (in this case, when a writer’s sympathy for an undeserving character mirrors society’s high tolerance levels for the wrongdoings of the actor playing that part).

Unwittingly then, the leniency shown towards a man in the script underlines Parvathy’s brilliance alongside Urvashi’s towering performance.  

It has been too long since we last saw Parvathy as a well-written lead. Anju’s trauma and anger are the pivotal ullozhukku in this film. Aided by excellent characterisation, Parvathy gives Anju a compelling interiority that pulls us along as she oscillates between kindness and deception, fear, desperation, indecision, barely controlled rage and assertiveness in rapid succession.  

In a sense, Leelamma is the most challenging role in this script because she is not always likeable but it is crucial that the audience does not outrightly reject her. In Urvashi’s hands, she becomes a person towards whom one feels anger, even irritation, yet also, empathy. Her vulnerability is a constant. Unlike George, Leelamma’s redemption is well-earned. 

Men-centric cinema routinely treats women as dispensable addendums in a world that is rightfully male. Ullozhukku’sclearly delineated supporting characters are the nth example of how women-centric cinema is never similarly dismissive of men. My reservations about Anju’s father are to do with the politics of the writing, not its rigour. The most comprehensively written man in the story is Arjun Radhakrishnan’s Rajeev. Arjun is a perfect pick to play a person who automatically invites warmth, and when he attracts disgust, is not completely diminished by it. 

Ullozhukku marks the Malayalam debut of the Hindi film major RSVP (producer Ronnie Screwvala’s company) along with Honey Trehan and Abhishek Chaubey’s MacGuffin Pictures. They have chosen well. In a year in which the biggest Malayalam blockbusters have either sidelined women or failed to acknowledge their existence, Ullozhukku – like the exceptional Aattam before it – spells hope. Powered by Urvashi, Parvathy and consistent direction, Ullozhukku is everything that is precious about the best of Malayalam cinema: naturalistic, realistic, and an illustration of how both qualities could be a source of edge-of-the-seat entertainment, contrary to conventional wisdom in commercial cinema elsewhere.  

Rating (out of 5 stars): 4   

Visuals courtesy: IMDB 

RELATED LINK: Read my column in The Economic Times on Premalu and the sidelining of women in films that claim to represent us, published on March 2, 2024

https://economictimes.indiatimes.com/opinion/et-commentary/view-not-waxing-too-eloquent-about-waning-reenu/articleshow/108167230.cms 

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In my review published on Firstpost in 2022, I had written: 

“Zwigato might appear non-political in comparison with Nandita’s Hindi-Urdu-Gujarati Firaaq (2008), which was set shortly after the 2002 Gujarat riots began, and the Hindi-Urdu Manto (2018), a biopic of the Pakistani writer Saadat Hasan Manto, but that would be a superficial reading of this film. Below the surface of the seemingly placid tale it tells is…the roiling mud of India’s caste, class, religious and gender divisions.”

(You can read the complete review here.)

To get Das’ take on some of the points raised in my review, I reached out to her for an interview, which I’m featuring here as part of Director’s Cut, an ongoing series that I began in 2016. In this series, I speak to a director after watching their new film, and dissect its script, production and politics with them. (Click here for my first Director’s Cut – it was published in June 2016. The interviewee was Anurag Kashyap.) 

Eight years since I started this series, unfortunately the norm in India continues to be that during a film’s promotional period, the crew and cast give a spate of interviews without previewing the film for the press they’re meeting. After the release, most of them become unavailable to journalists who, having watched the film, wish to ask specific questions. That’s because unlike generic Q&As, pointed questions can be challenging. 

Nandita Das does not shy away from the challenge of a conversation. In this in-depth interview, we discuss Zwigato, her body of work as a director, and her personal journey so far. Excerpts:  

Q: It’s interesting that you chose to set Zwigato in a location where we don’t often see Hindi cinema set. 

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I’m half Odia, and Bhubaneswar is a lovely city, so I’ve always wondered why we haven’t shot there. It’s a quintessential 2-tier city because it’s got narrow lanes and ancient temples – you know, the old town. Then you have these big wide roads lined with trees, roundabouts, malls and high-rises. In some ways it represents our country, which has one foot in tradition and one in modernity. So, I thought, why not Bhubaneswar? 

For me, the language in the film is also very important when you shoot in a place. Depending on the class and region, people speak different languages. So just as in Firaaq I had Gujarati, in Zwigato I have Odia.  

Q: What drew you to the life of a deliveryman for an app-based service provider?

A: During the pandemic, we were all using apps, whether to get things delivered or book cabs. We were trapped in our phones. There was contactless delivery, even tipping was on the phone, so gig workers were invisible to us. 

The gig economy was almost seen as a saviour during the pandemic. They are such a big part of the new urban India, yet we were ignorant of the challenges these people face. They were used to a traditional work environment with co-workers and an employer you can talk to if there’s a problem. In a country like ours with low literacy levels, figuring out everything on an app, that too all by yourself, is tough. You feel isolated. The only thing linking you to other delivery persons is that they’re all wearing the same T-shirt. Imagine how challenging it is.

Actually this film was supposed to be a short film. I was putting an anthology together with four directors on what modern India is about, and this was the story I was working on. The anthology fell apart because two directors backed out when their other projects got greenlit. But Sameer Nair, who was to produce the anthology, said, ‘I really like your story. Why don’t you make it into a feature film?’ And I said, no, it’s a day’s story, I don’t think I’m invested enough, I don’t understand the world of incentives, algorithms, ratings, and I don’t think I’ll enjoy the research process. But I’m glad he nudged me to do it. When I started writing, I began developing the woman’s character. And the story also became about how we’ve normalised class, caste, religion and gender disparities.

When I started bringing out those layers, I began embracing it as a feature film. And it expanded into a four-day story, not just about this character, but also his family and the larger context in which they lived. 

Showing other working-class people like daily-wagers, construction workers, house help etc is almost a motif in Zwigato. They are so much a part of our lives. Like when Manas brings the groceries, immediately the woman of the house calls out to her house help to take the package inside. When he enters the cafe, someone’s cleaning the window. You see daily-wagers throughout the film waiting every day to be taken for work. In a way, gig work is a modern version of the daily-wager’s work. Both sets of people face the same worries. Both have no employee benefits. Both deal with everyday anxieties about their next meal.

Q: Zwigato is the least obviously political of your three films. With Firaaq and Manto, there was clarity that they are political…

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A: I think it’s all a perception. I mean, Firaaq was probably the most political in that sense, but it still remains a human story. There is no direct blame game. I actually do not believe that serves a purpose in a film. I want to subliminally go into the subconscious of the viewer. You will not even be aware of it, but next time you see a delivery person, will you perhaps notice him a little more? Will you make the effort to go into your app and give him a 5-star rating?

For me, everything is personal and political. Overtly political anyway is too didactic for me. None of my films were conscious choices in that sense. Firaaq happened because I felt compelled to tell that story after what happened in Gujarat. Manto happened because I read about him in 2012 during his centenary celebration. I felt a deep connect with him and his work. I also felt my father was very Manto-esque, so I felt like I know Manto. And Zwigato happened because of what I saw in the pandemic. Everything has been an organic response. It’s not like I said to myself, ‘Okay, which story should I tell?’ or ‘I do not want to make this as political as that one.’ If you look for it, Zwigato is about gender as well although...

Q: No, actually, that was my question: You talk about gender, class, religion and caste in Zwigato. It’s a political film despite not being obviously so…

A: That’s reflective of my own journey. Like I said earlier, I don’t want to make anything too obvious, because then it gets polarised. When something is more human, it touches your head and heart, without you consciously even knowing it. Also different people connect with different things. Some will notice the motifs of the working class more than others. Some people outside India may not understand the Babasaheb reference. But  I don’t think of anybody when I’m doing the film. I’m driven by my desire to tell the story that I feel needs to be told. 

For instance the way I approach gender. Both Zwigato and Manto have male protagonists, but the relationship with the woman is extremely important. While I want to create empathy for the protagonist – in these cases, the man – many a times I want to evoke greater empathy for the woman, because it’s still a patriarchal world and he’s still responding from that conditioning. I don’t want to over-simplify these complex matters, and make them simplistic. 

It’s easier to make a didactic, black-and-white film. Sometimes, when dealing with nuances, there is a fear that people won’t fully understand. Mainstream cinema is so dramatic that the audience is used to big twists and turns. But life is not so dramatic every day. Small losses of dignity and compromises that so many people have to make daily – these interest me. I don’t like to spoonfeed or manipulate emotions or feel the burden to please many people. A film has to reflect your own personal journey, and how you see things around yourself.

Q: Zwigato references the common phenomenon of housing complexes having separate lifts for household help. Many people who consider themselves liberal, vehemently argue that this is a class issue, not a caste issue. How would you address them?

A: If anyone says they don’t really care about caste, it’s because they are from the upper caste, and caste has not mattered to them in their life. How many people from a Dalit community were in the schools or colleges we went to, or are in our workspaces? Ask a person who is reminded of it every day. They will tell you about the discrimination they suffer. And most often, caste and class are deeply intertwined. When you are marginalised, you remain underprivileged on all accounts. Upward mobility is almost impossible. 

People often ask, ‘Oh, should we employ a Dalit or a woman even if they are not good enough?’ Everybody wants black-and-white answers. Meritocracy is at the cost of wanting to correct historical wrongs. That’s why we’re uncomfortable with affirmative action or don’t look harder for genuine representation. These are complex things and in a less-than-two-hour film, not all aspects of society can be shown with the same depth, but there are layers for those who are open to ‘seeing’ it. So in the film, when a woman asks Pratima, Shahana’s character, to take the other lift, ‘Voh service lift,’ I’m just holding up a mirror to everyday discrimination that we’ve normalised. Anyone who’s felt disturbed by it in real life will notice it in the film. Someone who hasn’t spotted it yet in real life might do so after seeing this film. But that scene will also make sense to those who view it only on the surface. 

Q: You spoke of the fear that people may not understand a point you are trying to make. Was this scene in Zwigato one of those moments?

A: Sometimes people ask, ‘I understood, but will others understand it?’ When one believes in subtlety and nuance, there is always a possibility that some may not get it. But I’m not here to explain every little thing and undermine the audience. Also, I have to be true to my context, and if some don’t see it, then so be it. That’s a challenge filmmakers like us will always face. But then that’s the kind of cinema we like to watch and make. 

When I watch a Malayalam or Spanish or Japanese film, I may not get 100 per cent of every nuance, but if there is a universality of emotions, it will move me. Then it doesn’t matter whether or not you understand every reference. That’s why we say, the more local a film is, the more global it is. You have to be honest to your context, and it’s almost magical how people actually get it. At festivals in Africa, Russia, Korea etc, where people may know less about our socio-economic culture, the post-screening Q&A always reveals to me that they understand the layers with far more depth than even those who may be more familiar with the context. 

I don’t let the fear of not being fully understood overshadow my creative choices. It’s just the nature of the beast, if you want to be true to your context. Like some asked, ‘Why do you have Odia in Zwigato, and not just Hindi?’ But why would two Odia people talk in Hindi?! If a third person comes, who is Hindi-speaking like my main characters, then they will. And that’s what happens in the film. It makes the place look more authentic. It will be good if we all make the effort to know about different parts of India and not try to homogenise it. And thanks to OTTs, we’re anyway learning to read subtitles.

Q: You’ve neither demonised the upper classes nor deified the disadvantaged in Zwigato. You’ve not romanticised Manas or made him flawless. But filmmakers tend to do that. 

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For me, it’s not interesting to take the easier route of saying this is good or this is bad. Who, after all, is the villain in Zwigato? The company? The consumer? Society at large? It’s a bit of many things, right? And that’s the complexity you want to bring in: that we are all complicit. I want to show a mirror to all of us, to our prejudices, our fears, and shed light on people who are hidden in plain sight. 

Q: You’ve made three feature films so far, and the women in them are very important. All filmmakers say, ‘I must make a film that comes naturally to me.’ When will a film that comes naturally to you have a female protagonist?

A: The one I am working on! It’s a relationship film, so the man and the woman, both are important. But it does sort of lean towards the woman a little more and I am not apologetic about it. If the reality is skewed, then its representation also has to be.

But like I said, everything has been organic for me. Firaaq did not have any male protagonist. It was an ensemble cast and all the women, whether it was Deepti Naval’s or Shahana’s or Amruta’s or Tisca’s character, were all layered, vulnerable and at the same time strong characters. No less than any male characters. The second one was because it was Manto. His gender, or even his nationality and religion, were just a context. I’ve already explained my personal connect with him, and also how Zwigato organically happened. I write only when I clearly know what I want to communicate. 

Also, for too long, men have controlled all narratives, as to how men and women should be portrayed, so I think my female gaze on men is important.

(Minor spoilers ahead)

And just because I’m a woman director, I don’t have to make only a certain kind of film. My life experiences must be impacting my writing or how I visualise a film. It is all that I see and internalise. For instance, when Pratima goes out to earn for the first time, at the age of 35, she’s experiencing that mixed feeling that women have when they step out of the house, both the excitement and the fear of the unknown, and Manas says, “Haan haan, pata hai, tum humse zyaada kamaaogi’ – where does that come from?  

(Spoiler alert ends)

Besides, not every woman-centric film is necessarily feminist or has a female gaze. We have enough examples of that – let’s not name them! Some have been touted as feminist, but they really aren’t. I think my instinctive and inherent gaze is that of a woman and it is bound to be on, not just women, but men, children, stories, everything around us. 

Q: Okay, but I did not bring up the fact that you’re a woman director. I’ll repeat the question. When I ask filmmakers – and of course most Indian filmmakers are men – why their protagonists are always men, they get defensive and say, ‘Shouldn’t I write the stories that come naturally to me?’ My response always is: would you ask yourself why the stories that come naturally to you are stories of men? With regard to yourself, you make an interesting point, which is that a female gaze on men is important. I take that. But could I still ask, setting aside Firaaq, why is it the stories that have come to you naturally…

A: But I’ve only made three films! 

Q: Yes, of course, but I’m going to give you a hard time. C’mon! (we both laugh)

A: But I’m just saying, Anna, I’ve only done three films… 

Q: I totally get that, but still...

A: …of which one-third is an ensemble... 

Q: Yes, so let’s set Firaaq aside, but…

A: ...and in both Manto and this one, the women characters are very layered. 

Q: We’re setting Firaaq aside. The women in Manto and Zwigato are important, and I realise some filmmakers would make the same story with women unimportant or erased. I respect that, but I still wondered. Manto was a writer. This world is full of fantastic women writers, some of whom I’m sure you love. A whole new dynamic would have come in if the delivery person in Zwigato was a woman…

A: But there aren’t that many. I wasn’t trying to make a unique...

Q: …so why is it the stories that came naturally to you in both cases were stories of men?

A: Because I didn’t look at it as: this person is a man! It is only after Zwigato, for the first time I felt, filmmaking is what I want to do. What I’m saying is that for me to make that conscious choice is a recent turn in my journey. When you talk to other filmmakers, they’re professional filmmakers. I’ve been a hesitant actor. I lived in Delhi when I was acting. I always felt specialisation is overrated and an imposition. What if you have varied interests? I don’t want to specialise in anything, I don’t want to excel, I just want to do things that speak to me and I like doing. 

Q: But you understand, I’m not asking: Nandita, why didn’t you consciously choose to make films on women? 

A: Yes, I understand where you’re coming from. You’re asking about what I’ve been naturally drawn to. And my answer is, I was naturally drawn to life and its complexities, irrespective of the narrow identity of the protagonist. Who are they really, what about their story grabs me and why? For instance, in Manto, I instinctively wanted to make his wife Safia’s character stronger than what the family kept telling me, ‘Ammi toh bahut hi gentle thhi.’ But I thought, living with a man like Manto must have been tough, don’t tell me she never protested. They would say, ‘Nahin, she never.’ Then her sister told me she had this skin allergy all over her body in the last couple of years that vanished after he died. That gave me a clue to her suppressed emotions, so I told myself I’m going to give a voice to what she must be thinking, feeling, going through. And I told the daughter, I’m sorry what you see on screen may not be the mother that you described to me, I have given her a little more agency. When they saw the film at the premiere, I was nervous. But the first thing they said was that they loved how their mother was portrayed. They felt finally they could hear what she must have felt. I felt vindicated. 

Even in Zwigato, though it is a kind of a love story, it has its edges. A woman can love someone and yet rebel in her own way if she is wronged. 

Q: You’ve spoken about your personal journey while making these films. What did you learn about yourself while making Zwigato?

A: This is a very personal journey we’re talking about! I don’t think I’ve spoken about it. I realise there’s a ruthless side to filmmaking, where it is justified to do many things for the sake of art. One is often confronted with a choice of film versus people – the dilemma when you need something for a film, but it would make things difficult or uncomfortable for someone involved. It’s almost a choice between life and work! And I find myself increasingly choosing life. I choose people’s well-being over what may seem necessary for a shot in a film. 

I don’t know if it’s a gender thing, but I’ve worked with many, especially male, directors who’d go to any length for a film. Maybe film requires that level of passion since it’s very demanding work. After all, no one hears the backstory about how you made it and will judge only by what is seen on screen. And you hear horror stories of directors, where for their film they’ve gone to crazy lengths, even compromising on the lives of people. I cannot relate to that anymore.

Not that I was ever going to that extent, but sometimes I wonder if I am less passionate as a filmmaker. I’m still anal about every little detail of the filmmaking process and I am fully hands-on in every aspect of it, but when I’m confronted with that dilemma, I feel that no film is greater than anyone’s life. And I want to continue being mindful of that. 

For example, an old lady in Zwigato, the one who plays Kapil’s mother, had to travel one-and-a-half hours to reach the shoot from her home in Cuttack. One day we were shooting till really late. She was very spirited and was happy to stay back, but I could see she was tired and was anyway rather frail. So I let her go, because anyway she was sleeping in that scene, so we put pillows and managed. But when I was shooting, I thought to myself, actually, if her legs were showing in this one it would have been nice…but it’s okay. Not the end of the world!

You know, small things like this. We shifted a shoot because of a child actor’s exam. Now, I don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing, because it might harm my films, but I can feel this personal shift more and more. At the same time, this is the first time I’m saying, filmmaking is what I’m going to do. It’s strange that both are happening simultaneously. We’ll see what really comes out in the next film. 

All Photos Courtesy Wikipedia

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P.K. Rosy represented in the International Film Festival of Kerala 2024's video (Screengrabs courtesy: IFFK on Instagram)

“Ahankararoopini” (embodiment of arrogance) ... “sinner” ... “prostitute” ... “the despicable one who subverted the Manusmriti” ... “yakshi” – these epithets in the Malayalam poet Kureepuzha Sreekumar’s Nadiyude Rathri (The Night of the Actress) encapsulate the sentiments of casteist members of the audience towards Malayalam cinema’s first woman actor, P.K. Rosy, at the premiere of her only film about a century back.

Rosy, who was Dalit, was the heroine of the silent film Vigathakumaran (The Lost Child), produced and directed by J.C. Daniel. According to multiple accounts of Vigathakumaran’s premiere in November 1928 (a year disputed by some), in Thiruvananthapuram in the then princely state of Travancore, upper-caste viewers were so enraged at a Dalit  portraying a Nair woman in the story, that they vandalised the theatre, and chased Rosy and Daniel away. A murderous mob later burnt down Rosy’s house, forcing her to flee Thiruvananthapuram.  

Sreekumar’s poignant poem, released in 2003, is a retelling of the events that led to her disappearance from the public eye.  

Barring some basic information uncovered by historians and journalists over the years, most matters related to Rosy are a mystery. Google dedicated a doodle to her in February 2023, to mark what was purportedly her 120^th birth anniversary. The date was perhaps taken from Wikipedia. However, the article that the online encyclopedia cites – an archival profile of Rosy by the journalist Jose Kadavil in Mathrubhumi newspaper – in fact does not specify a date of birth and speculates that her year of birth was 1903.  

But as the writer Vinu Abraham, author of Nashtanayika (The Lost Heroine), a fictionalised account of her life, told me when I interviewed him for this article: “Rosy’s year of birth and death are not known. If you take an A4-sized sheet of paper, you would be able to fill only half of it with the concrete information available about her.” 

Even the photograph currently in circulation as Rosy’s is of questionable authenticity. There is no surviving copy of Vigathakumaran left, and only one known still from the film remains, but it does not feature Rosy. 

The little that has come to light about Rosy though is so dramatic, tragic, yet inspiring and illuminative, especially for those studying the intersectionalities of caste and gender in early 20th century India, that she has gradually risen to the stature of an icon of Malayalam cinema. 

Drawing on several sources, it can be concluded that Rosy was born approximately in the first decade of the 20th century into a family belonging to the Pulaya caste in Thiruvananthapuram. Pulayas were considered ‘untouchables’ by upper castes.  

Was her name originally Rajamma or Rosamma? Was the screen name Rosy derived from Rosamma, or did Daniel pull it out of thin air when he decided to give his heroine an Anglicised name? Was her family already Christian when she was born, or did her parents become Christian after her birth? Was she Christian at all? Did she ever return to the land of her birth after leaving due to the violence surrounding Vigathakumaran? Most of Rosy’s biographical details are debated by experts due to conflicting testimonies by those who knew her or claimed to know her. However, the following points are widely agreed upon by scholars: that she earned her living as a grass-cutter before Vigathakumaran, that she was an established stage artiste before she met Daniel, and that she was a practitioner of Kakkarassi Kali, a folk theatre form.  

In Kanjiramkulam Sanal’s 2011 documentary Ithu Rosiyude Katha (This Is Rosy’s Story), Kavalloor Krishnan, who identified himself as Rosy’s relative, said that when he met her years after she left Thiruvananthapuram, she told him her maternal uncle was the person who encouraged her artistic inclinations.  

Women were not permitted on the Kakkarassi stage, and female parts were enacted by men in women’s costume, according to an essay by the Malayalam playwright and director Kavalam Narayana Panikkar in The Oxford Companion to Indian Theatre. Rosy tore down that wall of discrimination, becoming the first woman to act in Kakkarassi plays, as reported by the aforementioned Mathrubhumi article that relies on the research of the historian Kunnukuzhi S. Mani, who is widely credited as the first person to dig up information on her.   

Rosy was spotted on stage by the actor Johnson who introduced her to Daniel, a wealthy fellow resident of Thiruvananthapuram. Mumbai and Chennai were already thriving film production centres by the time Vigathakumaran was released in 1928. But the caste-related aggression in Thiruvananthapuram followed by the film’s financial failure and Daniel’s continuing obsession with cinema ultimately ruined him. It would be many decades before he was resurrected from oblivion through the efforts of the late historian and journalist Chelangatt Gopalakrishnan who began writing about him from the 1960s onwards. Daniel died in 1975. A Kerala state government award was instituted in his name in 1992, and he is now acknowledged as the Father of Malayalam Cinema. 

Before Daniel passed away, Gopalakrishnan managed to locate him in Agastheeswaram, a town in present-day Tamil Nadu, and interviewed him. However, neither Gopalakrishnan nor any of the other journalists and historians who have written about Rosy in passing or in depth, got to meet or speak to her. While the available details about her are sketchy as a result, there appears to be a consensus among their sources – Daniel being one – that after Vigathakumaran’s opening night mayhem, she escaped to Nagercoil either that very night or just days later, in a passing truck driven by a man called Keshava Pillai, who she later married. She is said to have gone by the name Rajamma – or Rajammal, according to some accounts – ever since. 

A great irony of this saga is that Rosamma/Rosy/Rajamma/Rajammal’s husband was a Nair, and the couple did not disclose her caste identity to his community, thus enabling her, as his wife, to live the rest of her life as a Nair, the very caste whose members reportedly turned violent and refused to accept her even playing one of them on screen. She is believed to have passed away in the 1980s (this date too is disputed). 

Kunnukuzhi S. Mani began writing about Rosy in the 1970s. It is perhaps a measure of the persistence of caste oppression in contemporary India that Rosy’s two surviving children, Nagappan and Padma, deny any knowledge of their mother’s caste identity, her acting background or the circumstances that ended her career. A 2013 article on The Big Indian Picture by journalist Meryl Mary Sebastian quoted Mani as saying that he once spoke to Nagappan who “lives as a Nair so he doesn’t talk about this too much. I have talked with him on phone. Then he had agreed to everything. But now he won’t talk. Because he says it causes family problems.” 

The same article quoted Rosy’s nephew Kavalloor Madhu as saying that Nagappan “has married into a big Nair family from Alappuzha. If he says that his mother was a Dalit, then the marriage would be in trouble. That is why he won’t talk about this. He doesn’t want to have anything to do with this.” 

For a programme to mark 100 years of Indian cinema in 2013, Asianet tracked down Padma in Madurai. In contrast to her brother, she lives in poverty. Padma told the TV channel that she knew nothing of her mother’s past before her marriage. 

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The P.K. Rosy Film Society’s logo (Courtesy: Women in Cinema Collective on Facebook)

Though pan-India awareness of Rosy is a long way away, there have been efforts in Kerala in the 21st century to highlight the wrong that was done to her and to give her her due. Vinu Abraham, for instance, first got to know about Rosy “one evening at the International Film Festival of Kerala 2005, when I was handed a protest leaflet issued by a Dalit writers’ collective demanding a redressal of the injustice done to The Mother of Malayalam Cinema, the first heroine of Malayalam cinema, P.K.  Rosy, since she was pushed into oblivion by the forces that be, erased from mainstream history and film history, and her name is nowhere to be found”. The leaflet featured Kureepuzha Sreekumar’s poem that had been printed two years earlier in Kala Kaumudi magazine. Vinu’s quest for more information birthed Nashtanayika, which came out in 2008.  

In 2013, director Kamal released the Malayalam film Celluloid starring Prithviraj Sukumaran as Daniel, Mamta Mohandas as his wife Janet Daniel, the newcomer Chandni Geetha as Rosy and Sreenivasan as Chelangatt Gopalakrishnan. Though the opening credits of Celluloid stated that it is “based on Nashta Nayika, a novel by Sri Vinu Abraham”, the film ended on the words “a tribute to Dr J.C. Daniel.” This dichotomy was also evident in the narrative. 

Kamal faced some criticism in Kerala for marginalising Rosy after a point in the film and for viewing her through an upper-caste lens. When I asked him about this, he said though he considers Celluloid “as much a biopic of P.K. Rosy as it is a biopic of J.C. Daniel”, he ended her part in the film at the point at which she leaves Thiruvananthapuram because everything that is known about her after that is unconfirmed, and he did not want to risk errors in his film. “Because in later years, in the absence of other information, people will take this as the truth – that’s the way it is with cinema and books, they become reference material. Then if at some point the real story comes out, ours will be proven wrong.” While this sounds reasonable, it does not explain the near-erasure of Rosy even from the conversation in Vigathakumaran after she exited Thiruvananthapuram. 

Besides, the film’s limitations extend also to the scripting of known aspects of Rosy’s life. For one, though Celluloid showed Rosy as a Kakkarassi performer before Vigathakumaran, it did not celebrate her feats in the way it celebrated Daniel’s vision and sacrifices. At no point did it capture the strength and questioning mind it would have taken to be the pioneer she already was by the time she was cast in a screen role. Celluloid depicted Rosy as a gifted but docile youngster who is uplifted, so to speak, by Daniel. Logic, however, suggests that she must have been assertive, since she had already rebelled against norms, demanding more than what social conventions permitted, and that in Daniel she would have found an ally, not a saviour. 

Its flawed politics notwithstanding, Celluloid’s artistic merit on various fronts, its star-laden credits, hit music, box-office success and slew of awards, makes it the most high-profile representation of Rosy till date. Kamal’s film sealed her place in Kerala’s popular discourse.  

In 2019, the Kerala-based Women in Cinema Collective (WCC) – a rights body formed after the sexual assault of a Malayalam star two years earlier – set up the P.K. Rosy Film Society to promote cinema by women and “streepaksha chalachitra soundaryashasthram” (feminist cinema aesthetics). The award-winning film editor Bina Paul, a founder member of WCC, explains that Rosy’s legacy is “mostly symbolic, because we don’t know very much about what happened to her, but symbolic in a very importantly intersectional way between caste and gender. So for us as a women’s organisation, she is an important sign of the kind of struggles we’re looking at, and symbolic of the many ways in which marginalisations work.” 

The signature video of the International Film Festival of Kerala, an annual state government-run fiesta, was a tribute to Rosy in 2024.  

In neighbouring Tamil Nadu, producer-director Pa Ranjith’s Neelam Cultural Centre organises an annual film festival named after Rosy to showcase the best of cinema about and by Dalits and other marginalised and oppressed communities. The P.K. Rosy Film Festival 2025 concludes today. 

Such recognition is important, but true reparation would be to ensure consistent representation of Dalits and women in films and in the filmmaking profession in Kerala and across India. As of now, the truth is, that Indian cinema with Dalit lead characters is uncommon in the country, and Dalit stars – or at least, stars whose Dalit identity is publicly known – are rare. This brings up the question: if P.K. Rosy were born today, that too as dark-skinned as she was shown to be in Celluloid, could she possibly thrive as a heroine, considering that casteism and colourism still prevail in India? Kamal admits that this is unlikely in Malayalam cinema, adding: “If Rosy was around in the present day, I imagine she would have been playing supporting roles. She’s unlikely to have been playing central characters.” 

He confirms that Geetha who played Rosy in Celluloid was non-Dalit.

Not that Rosy would have stood a better chance in the rest of India. Hindi cinema, for one, has more or less erased Dalits and Adivasis from scripts. Marathi and Tamil are the country’s only film industries routinely telling stories centered around Dalit individuals and communities, including in commercial formats yielding box-office blockbusters, but here too, Dalit-themed mainstream cinema tends to spotlight men. 

Almost a century after a brave Dalit woman called P.K. Rosy broke new ground in theatre and in cinema, India is yet to catch up with her. 

Visuals courtesy: 

(1)    Women In Cinema Collective’s Facebook page

(2)    The International Film Festival of Kerala’s Instagram page

RELATED LINK: Read my profile of P.K. Rosy on BBC Hindi, published on March 1, 2025

https://www.bbc.com/hindi/articles/c30mm0n1v0zo