Member Reviews

Yo Yo Honey Singh: Famous follows, fusses over and indulges Indian rapper Honey Singh on his comeback trail in 2023. He declares that he has returned from the dead for his fans. He looks rejuvenated. On cue, two young ragpickers at a traffic signal recognise and laud him for losing weight. The brief is simple: new body, new mind, new music videos after years of substance abuse, mental health issues and rehabilitation. Drugs are never mentioned, but the camera focuses on his physical tics and foot tapping enough to hint at it. This part is interspersed with his up-and-down journey up till this point: bits of his childhood, his early talent, his fame and fandom, and his widely chronicled collapse. The treatment is all too familiar. The lens becomes his mouthpiece. At some point, he stops being a person. He morphs into a neatly segregated storyline, an impenetrable idea that’s at once marketed and sold.

In Aashiq Abu’s Rifle Club, manliness is next to godliness. It’s set in a hyper-violent world with no room for peaceful resolutions or around-the-table diplomacy. An eye for an eye is the only diktat, and it’s the meanest, most frenetic Western you’re likely to see from one of our Southern-most states. It takes place in 1991 and this gives the film a pre-woke recklessness that’s rare in a film set in today’s time. Instead, the film’s allegiance to machismo is so on-the-nose that it doesn’t even try to hide the many phallic symbols that “rise” from subtext to text. In a chilling scene, when an outsider asks Itty (a killer Vani Vishwanath) if he can speak to the man of the house, she forces him to look down, pointing at her loaded pistol. This is not your average household in which women are valued based on their looks or their ability to cook. For members of the Rifle Club, what matters most is the ability to shoot, gender notwithstanding.

From the times of black-and-white, we have often seen a wife act coyly around her husband when sharing the news of their impending pregnancy. There is the bashful eyes, shy demeanour, and lines like the veiled “Now, I have to eat for two people” or the direct “There is a new entrant coming to the family” before breaking into a smile and a hug. In Aashiq Abu’s insanely entertaining Rifle Club, the sassy Sicily tells her husband Avaran, “Bring me the liver of the wild boar you are going to hunt. I heard it is good for pregnant women.” These are the kind of characters that inhabit the world created by Syam Pushkaran, Dileesh Karunakaran and Suhas. Characters who might seem like a weapon-wielding Addams Family to the rest of the world, but within their self-sufficient existence, this is the normal.

If the 2019 reboot of The Lion King, that came out 25 years after the original, also called The Lion King, taught us anything, it is that one should never tamper with anything that has made a place for itself not only in the hearts of the audience but also in cinema history. Mufasa: The Lion King, though not a reboot or remake, can be added to that list. Serving as a prequel to the 2019 film, it takes us back in time to when Mufasa and Taka — as Scar was once known — were young cubs roaming the plains together.

Dead wild boars and gun-toting humans floating down a zip line from inside a forest to a bungalow, dinner conversations replete with tall tales of hunting and backhanded compliments, residents for whom the gun is the one, and probably only, thing that matters in their lives — this is the world in which Aashiq Abu’s Rifle Club is set. It is a closed world with strict honour codes, which doesn’t bar the characters from mercilessly lampooning the incompetence of someone else in the club. And, almost all of them belong to the same family.

Weeks after Lucky Bhaskar, a tale of a bank employee whose greed nearly leads to his downfall, another film centred on financial fraud in the banking sector, Zebra, is out in theatres. Incidentally, Zebra also begins with a bank official instructing his subordinates, “We don’t want another Harshad Mehta.” However, the similarities between the films more or less end there.

In an unspecified North Indian hilltown boarding school, a girl comes of age. That overused phrase ‘coming-of-age’ is a misnomer when it comes to mainstream Hindi cinema: the years between thirteen and eighteen are those where contradictory impulses leap between synapses, with mind and body taking off in opposite directions, and explorations of both taking you into spaces where you’ve never been before.

When Dwayne Johnson succeeds, he takes hundreds of others along for the ride with him. But when he fails — and he has, in recent years — he doesn’t go down alone. After establishing himself as something of a B-movie auteur early in his career, director Jaume Collet-Serra, like so many others in his position, accepted Hollywood’s offer to level up to the big leagues. He was appointed by Johnson as his latest lackey, but found himself responsible for directing the star’s two biggest recent bombs. These were movies — Jungle Cruise, and more calamitously, Black Adam — that significantly derailed Johnson’s career. Collet-Serra became collateral damage. But as it turns out, being relegated to the relatively forgiving realm of streaming was exactly the jolt to the system that he needed. His latest film, Carry-On, is his best in years.

Oscar-winner Eddie Redmayne is at his slipperiest in The Day of the Jackal, the new mini-series based on the classic beach read by Frederick Forsyth. The book was previously adapted into a lithe (and largely faithful) movie back in 1973, but has been updated for a modern audience by series creator Ronan Bennett. The bones of the story — a cat-and-mouse chase between an assassin on a mission and a secret agent tasked with stopping him — remain the same, but Bennett’s attempts to flesh the narrative out are mostly unsuccessful.

In the almost criminally enjoyable new Netflix series Black Doves, Keira Knightley and Ben Whishaw play a chic housewife and her gay best friend who just happen to be covert operatives. They straddle dual identities, as does the show, which can often juggle tones with the deftness of a circus performer. Black Doves is at once a complex espionage thriller, a cheekily humorous dark comedy, and when it needs to be, a dreary domestic drama. It soars on the strength of its two central performances, and writing that is both self-aware and endearingly sincere.