Handpicks: The Five Best Indian Films Of 2016.

[This list is not for reproduction.]

Five, because I could not watch all the films that I wanted to this year.

Two notable films that you won't find on this list but deserve to be on it are: Sairat, Nagraj Manjule's epic romantic musical that skilfully mixed ingredients of commercial cinema with social themes; and Aligarh, Hansal Mehta's compassionate film on Ramchandra Siras, a gay professor at the Aligarh Muslim University, who was found dead in 2010 under mysterious circumstances, questioned the invasion of privacy in his case.

5. “Chauthi Koot” (dir.: Gurvinder Singh; Punjabi)

In Chauthi Koot, there is silence of a unique kind. It is fraught with tension and suspicion, and when someone speaks, the words don’t diminish the tension it carries. This silence is masterfully maintained throughout the film. It is important, because Gurvinder Singh is trying to do something ambitious here: take us back to the Punjab of the ‘80’s, a time of widespread distrust and disorder, using atmosphere as a time-machine. He succeeds. Chauthi Koot, based on two short stories by Waryam Singh Sandhu, is a modest, profound film that adopts an ambiguous approach to tell a story of fear and paranoia, and how innocents are pulled into someone else’s fight. It prompts us to put ourselves in the shoes of its protagonists. There are no easy answers to be found here, but ample ideas to mull over.

4. “Ottaal” (dir.: Jayaraj; Malayalam)

Jayaraj’s Ottaal, a worthy adaptation of Anton Chekhov’s short story “Vanka,” is arguably the year’s most heartbreaking film. Taking place mostly in and around the marshlands of Kerala, it is the story of a recently orphaned boy’s attempts to start a new life with his aging grandfather, a duck farmer, while also trying to get himself accepted by society. Brought alive by empathetic direction, terrific writing, and gorgeous cinematography, Ottaal immerses us in its richly textured world. Although Jayaraj adds his own little touches to this neat adaptation to make it more accessible to the Indian viewer, he does little to mitigate the crushing power of the original. I will never be able to forget Kuttappayi of Ottaal like I haven’t forgotten Vanka of “Vanka.” What needs to be noted here is that “Vanka” was written in 1896, and more than a century later its message still stings.

3. “Visaranai” (dir.: Vetrimaaran; Tamil/Telugu)

I wasn’t familiar with the cinema of Vetrimaaran before I watched Visaranai, but that has changed. Or, if I had to put it in another way, it made me change that. A boldly political film, which is a rarity in Indian cinema these days because of a certain babu in the CBFC, it’s an immensely disturbing indictment of the country’s policing system. Sometimes the caretakers of the law are worse than those who break it. It’s a scary thought. In the end I was left thoroughly shaken. Maybe you will, too.

2. “Thithi” (dir.: Raam Reddy; Kannada)

There wasn’t a film I saw this year more Indian than Raam Reddy’s Thithi. It was reminiscent of the TV serials that used to be shown on Indian television a long, long time ago that mainly focused on a group of people in a quaint little place and chronicled their daily lives and interactions. It’s indeed marvellous how beautifully it observes its characters without making it look heavy-handed, and how the light humour is woven into its thoughtful story. It’s the kind of film that offers little food for conversation but much for thought. We just soak it up.

1. “Kaul” (dir.: Aadish Keluskar; Marathi)

Aadish Keluskar’s remarkable debut was made on a shoestring budget, but that doesn’t deter it from being one of the most original and brave Indian indie films in years. I caught it at a free screening in March, and I consider commuting for nearly an hour in peak Mumbai traffic one of the better decisions I took last year. It’s hard to describe what Kaul is about. It’s also hard to describe how it engages us with its stark visuals and soundscape. It’s a carefully made film, and it often ventures into a territory we do not expect an Indian film to venture into. (People love to call it – and I believe the term is – “mindfuck.”) It’s ambiguous, philosophical and grim, and it requires a willingness on the viewers’ part to explore what it wants to say. It’s the quintessential nightmare of film distributors. There is so much to absorb, so many ideas to take note of that one viewing was never going to be enough. (I have not gotten a chance to watch it again yet.) The discussions are never going to end. The best we can do is applaud it for its guts and watch it again. And wait and see what the very talented Keluskar comes up with next.

Review: Jayaraj’s “Ottaal” is an excellent adaptation.

[Contains spoilers, many of them.]

My most vivid memory of watching Schindler’s List is the horror I felt while watching that sequence in it in which smiling and waving children are packed onto trucks to be carried to a place where they will be put to eternal rest. Their parents are on the other side of the field, celebrating another day of survival, realizing only too late what’s happening. Chaos follows. I watched with cold dread and a growing sense of numbness.

In Jayaraj’s Ottaal, winner of the Crystal Bear at the Berlin Film Festival in 2016, a recently orphaned five-year-old boy is about to be sent to a place that’s going to crush his spirit and ruin his childhood. But he is yet unaware of it. He blissfully celebrates going away to the city to ‘learn’, promising his wise grandfather, a duck farmer with whom he stays in the idyllic marshlands of Kuttanad in Kerala, that he will be back soon. The child’s innocence and simplistic view of the world is matched by our knowledge of it. We realize what’s going to happen to him. The happier he seems, the more heartbroken we become. His happiness is poisonous. I recalled the sequence from Schindler’s List when I felt a familiar pang of dread while watching it.

An adaptation – and a terrific one by Joshy Mangalath – of Anton Chekhov’s 1896 short story “Vanka,” Ottaal takes place mostly in and around the marshlands of Kerala. In these marshes lives a community of fishermen, away from the busy cities, building their own lives in their own little world. A postman, one of the many endearing characters in this film, laments everyday that there are no letters for anyone in Kuttanad, but his tone is hopeful. On the other side of the village, on the banks of a river sits a man with a fishing rod trying to catch fish. Whenever Kuttappayi, the boy, is passing by, he asks him with childlike curiosity whether he managed to hook any. No, he has not. But, the man says, it’s a pleasure just to sit there and hope. It’s a little detail, but a significative one: this is a place untouched by pessimism. This is a place free from worry, where everyone knows everyone, and everyone gives generously to everyone. This is a community that has learnt how to live peacefully.

Image source: www.berlinale.de

Ottaal is a film that reveals itself through little moments like this. Jayaraj’s direction is decidedly low-key but assured. Together with cinematographer MJ Radhakrishnan he paints a textured world of sounds and people, like a man who communicates with the others through a few peculiar calls and spends the rest of the time caroling without a care in the world. And Kuttappayi is at the center of this world, a character so tragic that your heart sinks at the very sight of him. His story is revealed through an exchange early on: his parents, deep in debt, committed suicide by poisoning their meal and even gave some to him, but he was saved. His life is far from easy. He’s happy living with his grandfather. His grandfather is secretly ailing but he loves and cares for the boy more than he lets on. He wants to be there for him. His closest friend is Tinku, whose well-off father disapproves of his friendship with ‘duck boy’ Kuttappayi. Tinku’s mother sympathizes with the boy but is unable to provide for him given her failed attempts at softening her dour husband. So Kuttappayi stays where he is, struggling to build his own little life, trying to find acceptance in a world that has been unrelenting to him.

Through these episodes, the film gently hints at how unfairly the world treats a young and poor orphan. Kuttappayi’s life seems to be defined by separation: separation from his parents because of debt, separation from Tinku because of class, and finally, separation from his grandfather because of an illness. He’s just a young lad who has much to offer to the world, but he’s living, both literally and metaphorically, in muddy waters.

Finally, when his helpless grandfather decides to send him away to the city to ‘learn’, the film inches closer to a devastating end. In a skillfully executed scene, the old man has a drink with Boss, his only link to the city. Boss suggests that Kuttappayi be sent to a factory where fireworks are made and half-heartedly adds that he will be happy there. The old man doesn’t dismiss the idea right away. He wants Kuttappayi to be in safe hands, but that seems to be a long shot. Now he just wants him to be under a roof. It’s a fine moment, and Kumarakom Vasudevan, who plays the old man, handles it with aplomb. He captures the turmoil the grandfather is going through and the courage it takes to break the heart of someone you love dearly through a few moments of brooding silence. He does not speak, and yet his eyes tell us all we need to know.

Ottaal is the kind of small film I find easy to love because it’s made with so much heart. It has an important message to impart, and, unlike most Indian films with social messages, this one does not force-feed it to us. We are left with a lasting image of Kuttappayi sleeping in darkness without a blanket with a few boys his age, his fate now uncertain. He has written to his grandfather using the light from a candle. For someone who has suffered so much, he remains optimistic. Come what may, we know he will always light a candle. It’s a thought that brings us much comfort.

(Not For Reproduction)

Review: Damien Chazelle’s “La La Land” is an early jewel in his filmography.

[Might contain spoilers, many of them.]

Boy meets girl. They are first a little aloof, but then keep bumping into each other. They are both struggling in their respective careers, and are stuck in jobs they do not like. They dream of bigger, better things. They fall in love. They support each other. And then comes that moment where they must decide whether they want to be together or pursue their dreams.

It’s a familiar template. And yet, in La La Land, the incredible new film by Damien Chazelle, each moment feels like a discovery. Not a ‘rediscovery’, mind you, but a discovery. It’s an old-fashioned romance told with so much imagination and style that none of it seems familiar. It makes us forget that we have seen bits of it before. Maybe in this film, maybe in that film – it doesn't matter. Here is a film that is going to take the familiar and turn it into something memorable. It promises as much in the first ten minutes. La La Land has us enthralled before it even gets going.

I am not big on musicals. It’s not a genre that appeals to me much. It’s difficult for me to find context when talking about them because I skipped watching them for the longest time. I have only seen a handful of them. And I cannot remember the last time a musical, from the very few I have seen, swept me off my feet the way La La Land did. (To think I grew up on Hindi films.) From its splashy opening number that plays out in a traffic jam in the middle of the day to its splendid final scene, it’s a film that made me want to sink my teeth into this genre. It’s an ode to a city, an era, and to those strugglers living out of suitcases who dare to dream. It captures the complexity of struggle and the beauty of wanting something so desperately that it drives you. It captures how love makes it seem, if only for a moment, that it's indeed possible to get anything that we want if we want it badly enough. Yes, it's nothing that we haven't seen before. Yet it is new, every moment of it.



It's in the aforementioned traffic jam that Sebastian and Mia cross paths for the first time, he a struggling musician and she a struggling actress. They lead dull, unsatisfying lives. They are always hunting for opportunities to break out of it, to pursue something that makes them happy. They fail, and get back to their old lives. But Chazelle does not allow them to become sorry characters; he focuses instead on the sparks that fly when they are alone. The world around them ceases to exist when they are allowed to do what they love. Mia’s audition for a role is impressive; she can obviously knock it out of the park. But she does not get it. Sebastian’s job demands that he play a few standard Christmas tunes on the piano at a restaurant where nobody is paying him any attention, and he gets fired for leaving a room breathless when he, feeling suddenly inspired, drifts away and plays what he wants. She’s there, passing by, and she is left astounded. Fates intertwine.

Although these two sequences end on a sad note – both don’t ‘make it’ – they leave us feeling hopeful for them. Our attention is drawn to their passion and determination. They’re likeable underdogs. They soon find each other. They see themselves in each other. When they take a walk after a party, they impulsively break into a joyful song-and-dance routine. Failure does not bog them down. They keep going. It’s a film that belongs as much to its director as it does to its actors, and the magic that we see is as much a creation of its director’s as it is its actors’.

This is extremely confident filmmaking. Chazelle, who last made Whiplash, is adept at creating lovely moments that stay with you. Some involve dance, the others drama. When Sebastian, a purist, joins a band and, in a concert that Mia attends, plays the kind of music he does not believe in, Mia gets disillusioned. He's not the same person she fell in love with. She slips out before the audience begins cheering wildly. This is Sebastian's first brush with real success. But she does not see herself in him anymore. It's a terrific moment, when his success becomes their failure.

It only helps that Emma Stone and Ryan Gosling play off each other wonderfully. They infuse Mia and Sebastian respectively with such charm and feeling that we can't help but fall for the pair. Chazelle recognises this, which is why he lets them command the film. Even when a certain scene demands that they work without music, they make the film soar. Surprisingly, though, their performances aren't extraordinary. It is not a film that requires them to be, really. All the elements work together without overpowering one another. Rare.

La La Land is one of the best films of the year and an early jewel in Chazelle's filmography. With three films to his credit now, this guy seems to be warming up. His little touches are exquisite. Sometimes, it's not a question of whether the story a filmmaker chooses to tell is new or not. It's about how it is told.

(Not For Reproduction)

Review: Gauri Shinde's “Dear Zindagi” is a major misfire.

[Might contain spoilers.]

In one of the many, many exchanges in Dear Zindagi, Gauri Shinde's glossy sophomore film after her delightful debut English Vinglish, Shah Rukh Khan, playing a renowned therapist called Dr. Jehangir “Jug” Khan (why does every character who is a somebody in a Hindi film has to be ‘renowned’?), says, “Genius is knowing when to stop.” It's ironic that the line finds a place in a film that's about forty minutes too long in addition to being meandering and indulgent.

There were signs. There were signs. A rich and somewhat successful urban woman, Kaira, has emotional problems. She is dealing with stress everyday. She snaps at a guy who accidentally bumps into her in the park. She is an exposed nerve in the company of her boyfriends. She is popping pills. She is trying to decide between two projects with work environments she knows she won’t be comfortable in. We don't think she will make it through either of them. She is like a castle of cards that would fall apart with a gust of wind. Vulnerable, clearly in need of help.

When a film is titled “Dear Zindagi” and it presents a character like this one, we somehow get the idea that it will be dosed with a healthy amount of optimism. And here the dose of optimism presents itself in the form of Jug, the ‘cool doc’. A ray of light in a dark, musty tunnel. Jug understands her, helps her open up and open her windows to a more hopeful world slowly, one session every week. 

It is a film that keeps its ambitions low. To Shinde’s credit, she manages to do two things unique to a Hindi film: Approach mental illness as a serious subject as opposed to an overexploited joke, and build a narrative around the conversations the doctor and patient have. She also tries to get rid of the stigma surrounding therapists. (In parts, the film did look like an overlong advertisement for therapists. I counted at least four instances where we are told that it's okay to sometimes see them.) But the problem here is Shinde’s forced dialogue that tries really hard to be free-flowing while also trying to sound profound, often failing in this regard. Its conscious, self-congratulatory tone creates a barrier between us and the characters. It goes on endlessly without purpose, without saying anything even when the characters are constantly speaking. When Jug gives an example of trying out many chairs before settling for the best one to analogise Kaira’s failure of finding the right guy, it comes across as stale. It’s the sort of theory that doesn’t work in a film anymore only because it’s hackneyed. But Dear Zindagi loves it.

Image credits: www.indianexpress.com

After a while, the pattern became clear: One life lesson per session. While Kaira looks forward to it, we don’t share her eagerness. These sessions are sermons where anecdotes are shared and the past is brought up. There is a nod to Good Will Hunting and even a really tiny one to Analyze This. But the more inspired and original bits are drowned by the long stretches of dialogue before and after them. We crave for more plot, something to break this pattern. As we expect, Kaira’s nervousness is because of a memory that has tainted her childhood. Her vulnerability stems from it. These vital pieces of information, our key to understanding Kaira, come far too late and all at once. By then we are long past caring. Or maybe just I was. 

What made English Vinglish so charming was its sharp writing that, for the most part, avoided preachiness. Dear Zindagi openly embraces it. There are snatches of dialogue that are sharp, reminiscent of the kind of writing we saw in English Vinglish, but they vanish after the character of Dr. Jehangir Khan is introduced. With him comes superficiality. And superficiality has no place in a film that revolves around conversations. It ebbs the actors' charms. The performances are very good, but it’s a shame I could not warm up to them due to this.

Dear Zindagi is a hit-or-miss proposition, really. Those who can relate to the character of Kaira might appreciate what Shinde is trying to do here, but those who can’t might find it hard to adapt to the film’s didactic approach. It might prove to be effective for some considering the film is about a woman opening up to a therapist and is meant to be talky, but this sort of approach lacks shrewdness. Even in its final moments, Dr. Jehangir Khan wasn’t done with his life lessons. I lost count of the number of times I sighed out of boredom and just wished that they had gotten Goa’s characterisation right at least. 

(Not For Reproduction)