Member Reviews

When we first met Hathiram Chaudhary in the summer of 2020, humanity was in the grip of a severe pandemic, and ‘paatal lok’ — to now put it lightly — didn’t seem to be too much of an alien word (or world) at that moment. The show provided a much-needed distraction, and was a rare watch that gave us food for thought, metamorphosing from a police procedural to a tightly-knit thriller that compelled us to examine the fault lines of caste, social prejudice, marginalisation, vote-bank politics, fake news and religious divide. Five years later, Hathiram — played like second skin by the irrepressible Jaideep Ahlawat — is back. In Season 2, the stakes may be higher, the socio-political environment more tense and the cocktail of betrayal, deceit, double-cross and revenge more tricky and tenuous… but Hathiram has remained the same. A man still world-weary and honest to a fault. But if angst defined Chaudhary in the first season — a sincere if bullheaded cop thirsting for one challenging case in his predominantly unremarkable career — it is acceptance that forms his core this time. Hathiram hasn’t made any significant strides in his career, but as a man he seems content. ‘Seems’ is the operative word here.

Azaad is fit, handsome, muscular and agile. His flowy hair is the talk of the town. He plays hard to get. He looks away and sighs if he isn’t interested. He loves his whisky neat — and straight from the bottle. He sits on a bed when he’s tired. He loses his appetite when he’s sad; he eats only if his food is spiked with alcohol. He has expensive taste. He farts in a closed room. He isn’t afraid to defy outdated perceptions of masculinity: his eyes go glassy when he gets a whiff of his late companion’s scent from a turban. He remembers the day they met and necked. He remembers their adolescent-love song together: “Ab jeene ki koi wajah toh hai” (I now have a reason to live). He isn’t ashamed of weeping. He likes dancing. He loves racing, too. Azaad is an expressive action hero; this film is his big-budget launch vehicle. There’s only one problem though: Azaad is a horse.

The much-delayed, riding-on-controversies ‘Emergency’, written and directed by Kangana Ranaut, is finally out. The long disclaimer states that the biographical feature ‘draws information from the life and real life events of one of the most respected politicians and former prime ministers, Smt Indira Gandhi’. And then it follows up the standard caveat of ‘creative liberties’ having been taken in the dramatisation, with a most un-standard sentence: ‘the filmmakers fully acknowledge and respect other perspectives and viewpoints’. This unexpected dissonant note pretty much sets the tone of this film in which Ranaut has played the role of Indira Gandhi, which swings from showing her as a young woman growing into an autocratic leader, to a weak, vacillating mother under the influence of Sanjay, her ‘bigda hua beta’, and back again.

One well-crafted sequence can sometimes make a film worthwhile, even when the film in its totality hits a notch below where it could have. These sequences tell us of the possibilities that a filmmaker holds, and serve as a showreel of someone whose work is worth looking forward to. Such sequences are galore in debutant Sreeraj Sreenivasan’s Pravinkoodu Shappu, partly thanks to cinematographer Shyju Khalid, who has shot some of the major Malayalam films of the past decade. To list out a few, there is a school bus chase sequence that sends chills down your spine due to its clever staging; there are thoughtfully lit night scenes inside a toddy shop, and one by a pond where a murder is taking place under the dim, reddish tail lamps of a vehicle; or like that of a masked man attacking a house at night, seen from the point of view of the woman facing it; or even the opening sequence which juxtaposes a classic nostalgic song with a shocking visual.

You’ve heard of “Prestige TV”: the term for quality long-form film-making, cinematic production values, A-list acting and complex screenwriting. But in the Netflix non-fiction universe, Prestige TV is a far more literal term. It stands for self-produced and self-congratulatory celebrity documentaries with infinite access that explore the sanitised prestige of fame. The symptoms: prestigious movie and music legacies, prestigious anecdotes, prestigious lives, prestigious prestige. You get the gist. Or maybe you didn’t. Think of the line from Christopher Nolan’s The Prestige (2006): “Making something disappear isn’t enough, you have to bring it back”. This hagiographic genre is all about bringing things back. Some call it the magic of movies, others call it a nostalgia grab.

At the end of nearly two-and-a-half hours, you want to ask director Abhishek Kapoor and his writing team that includes Ritesh Shah and Suresh Nair, just one question. What was the story you ventured to tell? Was it about a magnificent, Chetak-like horse that could give its life to his master? If yes, then the most-loved animal film remains Rajesh Khanna and Chinnappa Devar’s Haathi Mere Saathi (1971) where entire families had a jumbo-size crush on Ramu, the hero’s pet elephant. But Abhishek and company treat Azaad like a backdrop, never letting the viewer warm up to the animal who is shown throwing off, neighing noisily and kicking the hero, most of the time. Oh, yes, he also likes liquor and breaks wind loudly (humour alert).

It is a misleading title. When it takes off with little Indira in her grandfather’s house at Anand Bhavan in 1929 where her early dislike for aunt Vijayalakshmi Pandit is established, and it tracks her until the day she was assassinated in 1984, it’s not just about the biggest mistake of her political life. What writer-director Kangana Ranaut has made is a full-fledged, political bio-documentary, detailing the defining moments of Indira Gandhi’s public life, before and after the Emergency that she infamously clamped on the country in 1975. In seeking to understand the person behind the Emergency, Ranaut and her writers Tanvi Kesari Pasumarthy, Ritesh Shah and Jayant Sinha, bring to the fore the vulnerabilities of the PM with the iron facade.

Kangana Ranaut’s much-talked-about film Emergency finally hits theatres across the country where Ranaut directs and acts as former Indian prime minister Indira Gandhi and retells an era considered one of the darkest phases in the Indian democracy. But re-telling the era of Emergency (1975-77) authentically, without bias, is not easy and Ranaut’s film slips ever so often, making Emergency the movie quite a passable affair. While the film primarily focuses on the 21-month-long emergency period, it also tries to showcase Indira Gandhi’s rise to power. From being termed as Gungi Gudiya (dumb doll) who grew out of her father, Pandit Nehru’s towering shadow to becoming the megalomaniac, despondent leader who saw nothing wrong in imposing arbitrary bans on the basic rights of citizens during the emergency, Indira Gandhi had quite a journey. Emergency tries to capture all this and tries to even humanise the authoritative leader, making her look flawed and even vulnerable at times- unsure of her own decisions. But Ranaut, who also serves as the writer of the film, never really delves deeper into the incidents and loosely strings important political events into a 2.5-hour-long film.