[Might contain spoilers, many of them.]
Reviewing a film like Pink can be tricky. It touches upon an issue so alarming you want to applaud it for doing so in a mainstream Hindi film. What it wants to say is absolutely essential and relevant and we must listen. And yet, how much you end up liking it depends largely on how you like your courtroom dramas, not how noble its intentions are. I like them to be understated. I would prefer if things weren’t spelt out for me. I enjoy the opaqueness. Hindi cinema has rarely produced such courtroom dramas, but I digress.
Aniruddha Roy Chowdhury’s Pink isn’t one, but it doesn’t aspire to be one either. In fact, it wants to make its points heard loud and clear at the cost of subtlety. It does manage to do that with some anger and some theatricality – the two are rarely part of the same scene – but it leaves a lot to be desired.
In the opening minutes, the setup is established neatly and with a considerable amount of mystery. Three girls return to the Delhi flat they share in silence, and there is an uneasiness about the way they go about doing everyday things. In another part of the city, a guy bleeding profusely through a gash above his left eyebrow is brought to a hospital by his friends. As the film progresses, a few more details emerge. One of the girls was the reason he almost lost an eye to the injury. There are conversations about forgetting what happened and moving on, but the men are not willing to let things be. They want an apology. There is open intimidation between the two parties and then a flagrant attack.
Chowdhury seems to be in complete control of the film till this point, allowing us enough details to work out what happened for ourselves. We gauge the power on both sides. We know the girls are underdogs, just ordinary workingwomen in Delhi. The men have political connections and come from money. They have no qualms about going to the law. And from how blatantly they molest one of the girls in a moving car in one of the film’s most horrifying sequences, we know the impending victory for the girls won’t be without difficulties.
On their side is Deepak Sehgal, a retired lawyer who was once popular and who feels obligated to represent the helpless girls in court. He is also their creepy neighbour, a cranky old man who wears a pollution mask that makes him seem more savage than the shadows on his face. (I can almost see him turning up in the nightmares of the kids from the neighbourhood.) He’s one of the two men who spend their evenings peeking into the girls’ home without reason. Sehgal, we find out, is concerned; he feels an inexplicable connection to them. He wants them to be safe. The other man’s intentions are obscure. Why does he do that? Is he one of those regressive people who think independent women are acting “against Indian culture” by living alone together or does he feel entitled? Either way, it’s extremely worrying. It’s not surprising when he turns up later in the film and attests to the girls being of “questionable character.”
When Sehgal readies his guns to defend the helpless and frightened girls in court, Pink enters a familiar territory. We were introduced to brave women who stood by what they believed in, who fought back, but here they are reduced to a stuttering mess. Now they need a protector, someone vigilant, who can help them fight the world. Sehgal becomes that person for them. He becomes their father figure. In some of the scenes where the actual father of one of the girls turns up, we barely register his presence. The character doesn’t get enough screen time to earn our sympathy.
But that is beside the point. Their transformation is unnerving. We desperately want them to stand up to the world, represented here by the prosecution lawyer who is regressive, strident and brutal in his approach to take them down. But they are right in the face of a society so oppressive that being brave can be foolish. There are exactly two moments when they do snap and stand up for themselves in the court of law, and Chowdhury milks those moments for their emotional power. The film’s chief arguments are presented with such bluntness that we are left a little dazed. They are that provocative. But, the heightened drama makes us cringe. The message is gotten across – or shouted across – at the exact moment when using subtlety would have made it a stronger scene, a stronger film.
Pink isn’t without a couple of nice touches, most of them sketching the character of Sehgal for more clarity. In possibly the best scene of the film, the lawyer and one of the women are taking a stroll in the park when they cross some young men who recognise her from the scandal. She is quick to cover her face with her hood, but the lawyer silently removes it. He knows there’s truth on their side. She has nothing to hide. She has to learn to live with dignity before the trial is even over. It’s a superb, superb scene that reiterates his new role of a father figure to her. In another scene, as the antagonist takes the stand and is about to testify, Sehgal objects and unexpectedly reads out the man’s enviable educational qualifications to show him that he’s aware of them. And then, with a deadpan expression, he concludes with: “Could you please take your hand out of your pocket?” It’s like he was delivering a joke just to relish the punchline. We sure do. It’s cathartic.
As the film wears on, however, it becomes increasingly predictable and winds up so neatly that I had a hard time accepting the ending. Any reasonable person would. The bad guy loses his mystique and starts acting like a regular villain in a Hindi film. He openly defies the defence lawyer in a critical scene, becoming the face of regression, and the defence lawyer finally gets the better of him like most heroes do in Hindi films. It’s a happy ending, that’s for sure. But why does a happy ending mean that the film must eschew realism? Maybe giving it a not-so-happy ending would have made a good case against the flimsy justice system, but Pink isn’t interested. Oh, well.
Finally, though, it leaves us with something to ponder over: If the film’s biggest flaw lies in its end credits, does it mean that it is its biggest triumph or failure? Triumph because many could have missed it. And failure because, well, many could have missed it. The sequence that the makers cleverly avoided showing, the one that formed the crux of the story, plays over the end credits before Amitabh Bachchan’s voice booms from the speakers with a poem. It’s almost as if the makers feared we had had trouble figuring out what happened or getting the film’s message. I don’t understand why it didn’t just end like it began: in silence. I don't understand the eagerness to not leave things a bit hazy. I just don’t.
(Not For Reproduction)
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