(Contains gigantic spoilers, a lot of them.)
I don't remember the last time an Indian film left me dazed.
In February, Vetrimaaran's white-knuckled crime-drama Visaranai came close, but Sairat is a different kind of beast. It doesn't want to turn us into cynics right away. It takes its time, introduces us to its characters and its world, makes us fall and believe in true love. It is the kind of love that is rarely seen in Indian cinema: It blossoms from awkward glances and stares to letters and secret meetings. It thrives in its details and its optimism. Sairat treats love as a kind of delicate emotion, something that cannot be just expressed using a few words. Indian cinema has often simplified it through its modern 'rebel' version of love, where young guns profess their love for each other openly in an attempt to defy the social norms society has imposed upon them. Nagraj Manjule begs to differ. His version, the subtle one, is more relatable, overwhelming and joyous.
Sairat is, however, far from perfect.
It is a superbly written and decently acted romance that grabs you when it takes flight and then rams you into its stony realism. It is a bit of Qayamat Se Qayamat Tak, a bit of Alaipayuthey/Saathiya, and a bit of Ishaqzaade. And yet, with a lot working in its favor, Sairat doesn't quite manage to sweep one off their feet. It does manage to get its message across, courtesy a rare empathetic touch, and its treatment makes it different. I have always maintained that any director who has great empathy for his characters can never make a bad film, and Sairat is a prime example. Manjule, who often incorporates his observations growing up in a casteist society, has lived this story, has lived through these episodes, and now wants to tell us that story. It is a film that beautifully captures the details of small-town life, and of the hierarchy that exists within it. It begins with a young man running through the fields to catch a glimpse of the girl he likes, and when the canvas is expanded a bit after the story takes a turn, those fields are set fire to when he elopes with her. These fields hold a special significance. They begin with being an obstacle, something he has to cross to catch a glimpse of her, then become something of a comforting nest for them when they get involved. They can be themselves in the fields, and the fields shield them from the ire of the 'outer' world. It is a neat little detail. It helps develop their romance, and when the fields are set ablaze, a part of the romance ends. Now they have a world to face.
But till that moment arrives, Sairat, like Manjule's debut Fandry, seems content in being a charming love story. It has none of the occasional jabs of the former and none of its angst. It is hopeful, making us believe if only for a while that the world exists without the invisible barriers of caste. Fandry had this parallel, too. We see an ideal world of flourishing fields and radiant smiles, an ideal world, and then we see how casteism blots it. Fandry, where the lower-caste boy's anger at being made to face the hurdles of prejudice slowly builds till he finally snaps and lashes out, followed a similar trajectory. But here, Manjule does not want to make an out-and-out arthouse venture. Sairat is a decidedly mainstream film in comparison, with lush fields and blue waters glowing a bright yellow replacing the morose imagery of Fandry, and elevated by a terrific soundtrack from Ajay-Atul that throbs of energy. It is an interesting decision and a necessary one, for the second-half is the exact opposite of the first in its tone and treatment. The contrast has its own potent effect. Suddenly, the sheath of fantasy is lifted and what we get is a gripping story about two lovers on the run in a world that is a far cry from the one they chose to fall in love in. No more do the flowers blossom, no more does the sea shine golden. Tempers flare and the village is enveloped by fear and dread. We almost expect a gunshot to ring out somewhere or a knife to come flying out of a pocket. But Manjule shows us nothing of that sort. He milks the tension and leaves us with clammy hands.
So, in a way, Sairat emulates Fandry when it stops being a romance. There is simmering tension in every frame. It shakes us out of our reverie as we plunge into the grimness of the 'real' world. And here, we see in shrewdly placed details how different they had grown up to be. Take, for instance, the scene where they eat at a roadside stall. The boy drinks out of a tumbler spotted with dirt, enough to revolt the girl he loves. He has to buy her a water bottle and he still doesn't sip from it once she's done. He prefers the tumbler. It is a fairly obvious detail that suggests how their respective backgrounds have divided them over something as simple as a drink of water. In another scene, when they are shown a grimy shanty by a kindly woman, he sets to work immediately and silently to make it livable while she doesn't move. She complains of a pungent smell and the dust while he doesn't say a word. He has grown up and grown into a world of grimy shanties, and has fought for himself all his life. This is no different. He even cooks for them because she doesn't know how to. When she finally does, he doesn't approve of her efforts. The cracks in their relationship deepen.
That is the beauty of Sairat. While Hindi films often tend to show two lovers escaping the castle and from the clutches of the monster inside it, here is one that is more interested in what happens next. They have accepted each other, but will they accept the flawed versions of each other?
It is over this thought that the film's most masterful sequence is built. A petty rift between the two turns into a major argument when jealousy and mistrust circle their love. He strikes her suddenly, in full view of the public. It is their first real fight, we find, and it takes a lot out of both of them. They weep separately later. She leaves, but returns soon after to find him inconsolable and contemplating suicide. The scene's subdued emotional power is enough to reduce a stony viewer to a blubbering mess. It also does a great job of representing the film's chief triumph: We are watching something familiar but our reactions are exactly what the director intended to arouse. We just know she will come back to him. And she does. We feel inexplicably relieved. Since we have seen them go from strangers to soul mates, every moment they share has become ours, too. We feel responsible.
I will digress a bit here. Because when my thoughts go back to the film's shocking conclusion that springs up rather abruptly, I feel both sad and confused. There's no doubt about how effective it was, considering how carefully and deliberately it had been constructed for maximum impact. (In fact, I couldn't help feeling the conclusion had been written first and the story was built around it once it was firmly in place.) It is cut from the same fabric as that of Fandry, only more cynical. The sight of bloody footprints signify a forlorn future. A life has been wrecked, and it had barely begun. Manjule wants us to know that the seed has been sown. And it all began when two people 'dared' to fall in love.
Sairat was arguably intended to stir up a fiery debate on how love is accepted -- or unaccepted -- in the modern society. And it does a remarkable job of provoking horror when all we did at first was revel in its vibrancy. The occasional unnecessary scenes aside, it is a brave film that deals with a touchy subject and tries just as bravely to be a commercial film. Let's just hope there's more to come while we relish this one.
(Not For Reproduction)
I don't remember the last time an Indian film left me dazed.
In February, Vetrimaaran's white-knuckled crime-drama Visaranai came close, but Sairat is a different kind of beast. It doesn't want to turn us into cynics right away. It takes its time, introduces us to its characters and its world, makes us fall and believe in true love. It is the kind of love that is rarely seen in Indian cinema: It blossoms from awkward glances and stares to letters and secret meetings. It thrives in its details and its optimism. Sairat treats love as a kind of delicate emotion, something that cannot be just expressed using a few words. Indian cinema has often simplified it through its modern 'rebel' version of love, where young guns profess their love for each other openly in an attempt to defy the social norms society has imposed upon them. Nagraj Manjule begs to differ. His version, the subtle one, is more relatable, overwhelming and joyous.
Sairat is, however, far from perfect.
It is a superbly written and decently acted romance that grabs you when it takes flight and then rams you into its stony realism. It is a bit of Qayamat Se Qayamat Tak, a bit of Alaipayuthey/Saathiya, and a bit of Ishaqzaade. And yet, with a lot working in its favor, Sairat doesn't quite manage to sweep one off their feet. It does manage to get its message across, courtesy a rare empathetic touch, and its treatment makes it different. I have always maintained that any director who has great empathy for his characters can never make a bad film, and Sairat is a prime example. Manjule, who often incorporates his observations growing up in a casteist society, has lived this story, has lived through these episodes, and now wants to tell us that story. It is a film that beautifully captures the details of small-town life, and of the hierarchy that exists within it. It begins with a young man running through the fields to catch a glimpse of the girl he likes, and when the canvas is expanded a bit after the story takes a turn, those fields are set fire to when he elopes with her. These fields hold a special significance. They begin with being an obstacle, something he has to cross to catch a glimpse of her, then become something of a comforting nest for them when they get involved. They can be themselves in the fields, and the fields shield them from the ire of the 'outer' world. It is a neat little detail. It helps develop their romance, and when the fields are set ablaze, a part of the romance ends. Now they have a world to face.
But till that moment arrives, Sairat, like Manjule's debut Fandry, seems content in being a charming love story. It has none of the occasional jabs of the former and none of its angst. It is hopeful, making us believe if only for a while that the world exists without the invisible barriers of caste. Fandry had this parallel, too. We see an ideal world of flourishing fields and radiant smiles, an ideal world, and then we see how casteism blots it. Fandry, where the lower-caste boy's anger at being made to face the hurdles of prejudice slowly builds till he finally snaps and lashes out, followed a similar trajectory. But here, Manjule does not want to make an out-and-out arthouse venture. Sairat is a decidedly mainstream film in comparison, with lush fields and blue waters glowing a bright yellow replacing the morose imagery of Fandry, and elevated by a terrific soundtrack from Ajay-Atul that throbs of energy. It is an interesting decision and a necessary one, for the second-half is the exact opposite of the first in its tone and treatment. The contrast has its own potent effect. Suddenly, the sheath of fantasy is lifted and what we get is a gripping story about two lovers on the run in a world that is a far cry from the one they chose to fall in love in. No more do the flowers blossom, no more does the sea shine golden. Tempers flare and the village is enveloped by fear and dread. We almost expect a gunshot to ring out somewhere or a knife to come flying out of a pocket. But Manjule shows us nothing of that sort. He milks the tension and leaves us with clammy hands.
So, in a way, Sairat emulates Fandry when it stops being a romance. There is simmering tension in every frame. It shakes us out of our reverie as we plunge into the grimness of the 'real' world. And here, we see in shrewdly placed details how different they had grown up to be. Take, for instance, the scene where they eat at a roadside stall. The boy drinks out of a tumbler spotted with dirt, enough to revolt the girl he loves. He has to buy her a water bottle and he still doesn't sip from it once she's done. He prefers the tumbler. It is a fairly obvious detail that suggests how their respective backgrounds have divided them over something as simple as a drink of water. In another scene, when they are shown a grimy shanty by a kindly woman, he sets to work immediately and silently to make it livable while she doesn't move. She complains of a pungent smell and the dust while he doesn't say a word. He has grown up and grown into a world of grimy shanties, and has fought for himself all his life. This is no different. He even cooks for them because she doesn't know how to. When she finally does, he doesn't approve of her efforts. The cracks in their relationship deepen.
That is the beauty of Sairat. While Hindi films often tend to show two lovers escaping the castle and from the clutches of the monster inside it, here is one that is more interested in what happens next. They have accepted each other, but will they accept the flawed versions of each other?
It is over this thought that the film's most masterful sequence is built. A petty rift between the two turns into a major argument when jealousy and mistrust circle their love. He strikes her suddenly, in full view of the public. It is their first real fight, we find, and it takes a lot out of both of them. They weep separately later. She leaves, but returns soon after to find him inconsolable and contemplating suicide. The scene's subdued emotional power is enough to reduce a stony viewer to a blubbering mess. It also does a great job of representing the film's chief triumph: We are watching something familiar but our reactions are exactly what the director intended to arouse. We just know she will come back to him. And she does. We feel inexplicably relieved. Since we have seen them go from strangers to soul mates, every moment they share has become ours, too. We feel responsible.
I will digress a bit here. Because when my thoughts go back to the film's shocking conclusion that springs up rather abruptly, I feel both sad and confused. There's no doubt about how effective it was, considering how carefully and deliberately it had been constructed for maximum impact. (In fact, I couldn't help feeling the conclusion had been written first and the story was built around it once it was firmly in place.) It is cut from the same fabric as that of Fandry, only more cynical. The sight of bloody footprints signify a forlorn future. A life has been wrecked, and it had barely begun. Manjule wants us to know that the seed has been sown. And it all began when two people 'dared' to fall in love.
Sairat was arguably intended to stir up a fiery debate on how love is accepted -- or unaccepted -- in the modern society. And it does a remarkable job of provoking horror when all we did at first was revel in its vibrancy. The occasional unnecessary scenes aside, it is a brave film that deals with a touchy subject and tries just as bravely to be a commercial film. Let's just hope there's more to come while we relish this one.
(Not For Reproduction)
