Review: Raam Reddy's "Thithi" is an incredible debut.

[Might contain spoilers, many of them.]

In the opening scene of Raam Reddy's Thithi, an old grouch spares no one walking past him as he gibes at them. The men get yelled at, the women barely get more than a murmur. People ignore him, a detail that suggests that he has been doing this for quite some time, and a group of children giggle at his antics. And when he gets up to relieve himself, he slumps over and dies. In a matter of minutes a small group of people discover him lying in the dust and declare him dead.

This particular sequence tells us a lot about what is to follow, and marks the film's first triumph. A world is created, a world of sounds and sights, a lived-in world, within the first five minutes. Before we meet the folk of the village of Nodekoplu, we are already familiar with them and their milieu. We don't need the introductions, really. They can be skipped. But they are not. We are introduced to them again but in a different, more delightful way. Now the news of the centenarian's death has to travel and reach his son, grandson and great-grandson. We see their apathetic reactions to it and then, understatedly, the people's. They begin talking about a grand farewell, grand because the man lived to be a hundred, and getting the rituals done properly, their eagerness to do so not being shared by any of the dead man's kin. But most of all they talk about the feast.

Thithi captures the flavor and the color of rural India quite unlike any other film in recent memory. Like all films set in Indian villages, fictitious or otherwise, it is a busy one, bursting with characters and situations, seamlessly jumping from one to the other. It's like watching one of those old Hindi television programs that revolved around a bunch of likable characters picked out from everyday life and their repartees. (I wouldn't have been noticed if Thithi played with the Doordarshan logo on the top-right of the screen.) But it is a film with its own wit, its own characters, its own world, and its own identity. For someone like me who isn’t clued in to Kannada cinema, it comes across as a breath of fresh air. A more distinctly Indian film has not found its way to the theaters this year, and I reckon there will not be.

The old man owned a piece of land that should be inherited by his son now that he is dead. But the old drunkard with a lion-like mane of white hair who loafs around all day clearly isn’t the ideal candidate to be declared its owner. He would probably sell it off for a small sum to buy more hooch. His son, a responsible individual with a family to feed, instantly tries to get his hands on it. It’s not greed, we find out; it’s a reasonable decision. But the father and his son have had a falling out. Working from a wonderfully layered script he co-wrote with Eregowda, Reddy communicates the stiffness the father-son duo share through a terrific scene. The son is disgusted by his father’s habit of wandering aimlessly armed with a tiny bottle of rum all day. The father is still somewhat tender towards his son although there is cautiousness in the way he deals with him, and the son can only broach the topic of the piece of land. No pleasantries are exchanged. The argument is heated on the son’s part but diplomatic on the father’s. Reddy’s talent is evident in the way he handles the scene, saving us a flashback where we would have seen them having the argument that led to their fallout for the sake of a little more clarity. A lesser filmmaker would have settled for it. We don’t get the flashback, of course, because we don’t need it. The actors, both non-professionals like the rest of the cast, shine. And when we are in such good hands, we need not worry.

For me the greatest films have many memorable moments but no standout scenes. There’s consistency found in them. I have always believed that the best scenes in any film hog our attention and deny us the pleasure of experiencing the film as a whole. We always look forward to the next few scenes to measure up to the finer ones, only to be disappointed when they don’t. Consistency eternalizes them, because we remember the impact the film had on us as a whole, not the sum of its strongest parts. Thithi is one such film. One will talk about this moment in it or that moment in it, savor it repeatedly as they discuss it, but would be at a loss for words when asked to talk about its strongest scene. Each sequence comes with its own magical bits, its own moments.

But the film is all about its characters. Whatever little plot this film has is only a backdrop for us to observe them, observe how situations define people and how they change them, bringing out the best and worst in them. In this case, the dead man’s thithi ceremony serves as one, and in the busyness and small-scale chaos that follows, we get to see how it has influenced the characters to be different people. The son has no qualms about bribing his father to disappear for a few months so that he can usurp the land owned by him, and his son has no qualms about stealing from the naïve girl he has taken a liking to. Their villainy, if we could call it that, is not lingered on for long because circumstances have dictated their behavior. They may be likable people but that cannot keep them from committing bad deeds, even if the people they stand to hurt are related by heart or worse, by blood.

In its third act, Thithi is at its busiest. Threads need to be tied up, stories need to be concluded. It’s a bit overwhelming to keep track of everything, and in some places it feels like too much is happening. But till its pensive final shot, it remains both playful and thoughtful. In pitch darkness, the righteous old inebriate who has infuriated his son by unknowingly spoiling the land deal sits in front of a fire, away from the ceremony now in its last stage. The village readies itself for a performance. He doesn’t want to join in the fun. He would much rather light a fire in the darkness.

(Not For Reproduction)

Review: Gurvinder Singh's "Chauthi Koot" is a fine but slightly inconsistent study of paranoia and fear.

[Contains spoilers, a lot of them.]

The first thing I noticed about Chauthi Koot as I took my seat in the blacked-out movie auditorium was that it didn't take more than a few seconds to engage me. I had rushed in a bit late, and ferreted around for my seat in the dark. But the sound of train screeching as it pulled into the station drew me into the world of Chauthi Koot even before I had the chance to look at the screen. The sound design was excellent. I had walked into a film late on many occasions in the past, but I used to always try to not take my eyes off the screen even as I searched for my seat so as not to miss much. Since a majority of these films had dialogue-heavy opening scenes, it was difficult for me to bother with something as trivial as being seated for them. But Chauthi Koot opens with silence, followed by more silence. It opens with hurried footsteps and commonplace sounds. The only telling visual detail in its first scene is the anxious look on the faces of the two men we are introduced to. 

Indian filmmakers have two ways of approaching historic events that have violence attached to them. They either lead us directly into the heart of them, like Gulzar did with Maachis and Anurag Kashyap did with Black Friday, or they merely inspect the consequences of the violence caused as a result. This is the path less taken but, I believe, the more cinematic one. (But that remains to be argued.) Satyajit Ray did it memorably in Shatranj Ke Khiladi, where the bloodless battle on the chessboard was far more important than the actual battle happening miles away. By implying bloodshed, the suspense is amplified by a few notches, because it uses the viewer's imagination to tell a tale. Chauthi Koot is the kind of film that relies heavily on that technique. There is palpable tension in the proceedings, and this tension translates the implied violence into something far bloodier and terrorizing in the imagination. When a shot is fired, punctuating the stillness of the village, we sit up. To see any act of violence would have surely lessened the visceral experience. Thankfully, Singh knows this and all too well.

The opening half-hour of Chauthi Koot is great, great filmmaking. After missing the last train to Amritsar, two Hindu men desperately begin asking a few indifferent policemen patrolling the station for help. They are joined by a Sikh gent, also keen to get to Amritsar as soon as possible, in their attempts to convince the guard of a train headed there to let them in. The problem is, the train is supposed to leave the station and reach Amritsar empty. The guard's answer is a stern no. Neither of them wants to sit in one place or spend the night at the station for they fear they would be picked up on suspicion. It's never said out loud, but the shifty glances are informing. As the train begins to chug, buckling under despair, they force their way into the guard's cabin, ignoring his weak protests, only to find themselves in the company of two Sikh strangers and a few others. This sequence unfolds languidly over the course of twenty-five minutes, but so smooth is its execution that each moment of it feels like an opportunity to immerse ourselves in that world. I felt incredibly lucky.

One thing I acknowledge now that I have seen both Chauthi Koot and Anhe Ghore Da Daan, Singh’s National Award-winning debut, is that he can’t be faulted for his filmmaking. His style is reminiscent of Mani Kaul, his mentor, and is quite effective. The first half of the film is well crafted (although some people may have some problems with how he merges the two stories namely "Chauthi Koot" and "Hun Main Theek Thaak Haan" by Waryam Singh Sandhu the film is adapted from) but that is only a slight wrinkle. Perhaps Singh wants us to know how the turmoil touched so many lives in Punjab back then, even two people who meet quite by accident have their lives disrupted by it. We move to the other story, where a Sikh farmer and his family are pestered every night by Khalistani militants who want him to kill his beloved dog to stop its incessant barking that may alert unwanted passersby. When the military comes knocking the next day and ransacks his house, he doesn’t know which side to take, for both sides cause mental turmoil in their own ways. 

This particular chapter is marked by a few lows, notably in the way the mood is dealt with, but it does manage to get under our skin. The information is also dealt with in a manner that makes the opening sequence look comparatively stronger in comparison, with characters launching into lengthy stories about the acts of violence in other parts of the state as opposed to the opening sequence, which left it to us to imagine what it felt like to live in those times. But even when things are a little too simplified for them to have a powerful impact, Singh makes this portion look impressive. There is a moment when the terrorists are about to leave, promising menacingly to return, and the dog begins barking from the barn. The terrorists only look at each other, then at the farmer, who looks down. It’s a marvelous moment that is at once funny and frightening. The barking dog symbolises the human spirit, the courage of those who lived through difficult circumstances, and its placement in that scene captures it beautifully.

A storm indicates the end of the first half, suggesting, perhaps, what is about to come. But in the second half, the film meanders for a long time, thinning out some of the film’s carefully built-up intrigue. We hear about Operation Bluestar on the radio in one scene. We see how the farmer finally lashes out violently at his dog, unable to stand its barking any longer. The circumstances he has found himself in have turned him into someone who would now hurt his beloved. They have caused him long-term mental trauma. They have put fear in his heart. It’s not immediately affecting, but the more we think about it, the more we comprehend its impact. But one can’t help but feel slightly disappointed. The deviation from the central story feels unnecessary and forced. A tighter second half would have made the film more moving.

As the film nears its conclusion, we return to the people in the guard’s cabin, now closer to Amritsar. Upon the guard’s insistence, they alight before reaching the station, where the two Hindu gentlemen hurry away into the darkness so as not to be seen with their Sikh companions. The Sikhs catch up with them, requesting them to proceed as one for they fear getting shot if seen alone, and the Hindu men agree out of compassion. The group then navigates the metaphorical darkness as one. Ending on a hopeful and humanistic note is Chauthi Koot’s quietest – and biggest – triumph. There’s humanity to be found in times of fear and paranoia. Here is a film that celebrates that.

(Not For Reproduction)

Review: Anurag Kashyap's "Raman Raghav 2.0" is bland.

[Might contain spoilers, a lot of them.]

There is a little detail from Home Alone that I recalled quite suddenly when I was watching Anurag Kashyap’s new film, a detail that gave me much amusement. It was insignificant, really, but I am puzzled by why it came to me out of the blue, and why it seemed to be relevant. In Home Alone, Kevin watches a grim and violent gangster film that terrifies him, and the film is titled – believe it or not – “Angels With Filthy Souls.” By the end of this film I couldn’t help but chuckle at the irony. Oh, how wonderfully the title would have worked here! But I digress.

Early in Raman Raghav 2.0, we see a madman who has just surrendered to the police describing one of the murders he committed. Quite suddenly – significative of his nature, perhaps – a casual story becomes a confession, and it indicates that he is not of sound mind. We are entranced by the acting on display, but here’s the problem: As much as we would have liked to soak it up, we cannot. The music is terribly distracting. This sequence needed silence. This actor needed to be left alone to do his job. The music accentuates the character’s unstable mind, our first glimpse of it, but it doesn’t need to. Take the music out of the sequence and we have a truly spectacular one, where the actor in question effortlessly displays his potential and his ability to take a standard scene and do something extraordinary with it for the umpteenth time.

And it doesn’t end here. Very little in the film works and it is such a shame. Kashyap is back in familiar territory here, working with a small cast and largely driving the plot using atmospherics, juxtaposing the murkiness of Mumbai’s underbelly against the murkiness of the human conscience. It is an idea that looks intriguing on paper. However, when it takes shape on the big screen, it becomes a muddled mess of man chasing man, of man killing man. It’s ugly. In his previous films, this sort of ugliness had a way of keeping us hooked. Gangs of Wasseypur found mood in its violence. Raman Raghav 2.0 tries to find a footing. It is a story of two men on either side of the law united by a penchant for violence, emotional and physical, but the violence here has little meaning. Most of it is carried out without emotion, like an everyday activity. Scene after scene of an iron rod being dragged around, of it splitting a skull open, of blood spilling does little to tell us more about the character perpetrating it except he’s a psychopath who does not seem to care. And scene after scene of the junkie policeman ill-treating his woman tells us that he’s perpetrating a violence that is not physical, that does not leave a bloody trail. It’s an interesting concept that needed more ironing out. Because Raman Raghav 2.0, miraculously, is flat. And “flat” is an adjective one would never have associated with a film helmed by Kashyap until now. At least I would not have done so.

One thing I have consistently admired about Kashyap’s cinema is how he manages to make his characters seem like people who have inhabited the world he creates for a long time. They seem born into it. It lends so much credibility to the film, lends it an energy that he uses so well. But I did not get the same feeling as I watched Raman Raghav 2.0. These characters never commanded my attention nor were successful in upholding it when they had it. The lines they uttered lacked the characteristic sharpness of his writing. Gone are the days when his ear for Mumbai’s street lingo (Satya; co-written with Saurabh Shukla) made us marvel. Gone are the days when the city’s colors and sounds (Black Friday) he captured made us sit up and take notice. He still has a wonderful ear for the lingo and an eye for locales, but Raman Raghav 2.0 is not a creature of the city. That the city does not play a major part in this film is its undoing. It really puzzled me why Kashyap, who captures Mumbai in all its grime and glory quite unlike his peers, didn’t use it more.

However, there are some redeemable moments. Kashyap really shows a flair for infusing a seemingly ordinary sequence with dark humor in a chapter titled “The Sister.” What if your psychotic sibling turns up at your doorstep one day after many years and asks for a little harmless help? The creative possibilities are endless. It could make for a tense story that allows the audience a sigh of relief in the end or a more casual one but with a terrific twist. Kashyap goes for both here. It’s a superbly controlled chapter, where each line carries weight and each expression adds to the tension. We are allowed a little relief before it bounces back with a bite. We recoil but not without a small chuckle. Now, that is some sequence! Nawazuddin Siddiqui is reliably brilliant here, bringing fury and menace to his role with aplomb. Vicky Kaushal and newcomer Sobhita Dhulipala do extremely well in their respective roles, adding layers to their drearily written characters. I was particularly impressed by a scene of theirs where he waves a gun at her, threatening her without bothering to mince words, evidently proud of his masculinity and his ability to not care for a fellow human being. His aggressiveness stems from his addiction to coke. In the middle of his threat, she casually answers a call from her mother, leaving him dazed and speechless. After the call ends, she returns to the conversation almost lazily with “So, what were you saying?” It’s a line that swiftly reduces him to a nobody. It underlines his vulnerability and hollowness. The masculinity is only a façade. We discover who the stronger person is here, and we don’t need someone who flexes their muscles for that.

Some months ago, I watched a 1997 Japanese horror-thriller called Cure, about a policeman with some domestic troubles on the trail of a most unusual serial killer. It was a slow and complex film that went places, explored many ideas and ended on a high. The patient viewer was rewarded. It did not explore the fascination a serial killer has for someone out to hunt him, but it did a splendid job of exploring his demented mind. The pattern of violence in that film had meaning. It was integral to the story. Its inclusion in the film wasn’t purely for shock value. Raman Raghav 2.0 is no Cure, but it had potential if only it wasn’t so repetitive. We know how it is going to end, and it disappoints us by taking the safest route there. And the safest route is usually the most predictable. Such a letdown.

(Not For Reproduction)