[Might contain spoilers, many of them.]
The two discrete worlds of Anubhav Sinha’s new film “Article 15” come alive through songs. As the opening credits roll, a Dailt woman (played by Sayani Gupta) croons “Kahab Toh,” an earthy folk song, amidst a downpour. Somewhere close by, two teenage Dalit girls get assaulted inside a bus gliding along the road against the overcast sky. We then jump to a jeep coasting along the highway, under the golden glow of the sun, while Bob Dylan’s “Blowin’ In The Wind” plays. The juxtaposition isn’t exactly understated, but the details and colors used to render these two worlds convey a clear message: we are travelling into the heart of darkness and leaving behind the comfort of blissful ignorance. But this also momentarily conveys something far more interesting: the filmmaking is thoughtful, if not subtle. Sinha, who last made “Mulk,” a sharp drama about a Muslim family facing ostracism and a lengthy legal battle when one of their own goes rogue, is staging a comeback of sorts after spending years making underwhelming films. His affinity for the underdog parallels his keenness for uncomfortable truths. In “Article 15” we get both: an underdog battles the centuries-old caste system; one that has a small village (and we have no clue how many other villages and cities) in its stranglehold, one that compels institutions to look the other way when two of the three girls are found hung from a tree the next morning.
Twenty minutes in, I thought the striking similarities between “Article 15” and Alan Parker’s 1986 drama “Mississippi Burning” couldn't possibly be mere coincidence. In Parker’s film, three Civil Rights activists go missing one night in Mississippi, which prompts the Federal Bureau of Investigation to send two agents, Ward and Anderson, to investigate their disappearance. It studied the coming apart of a small town plagued by racial violence, and in doing so, captured quite vividly how hate stays ingrained through little but significant everyday things; segregation in restaurants being one, for example.
“Article 15” borrows loosely from the Badaun gang rape and murder from 2014, an incident of unspeakable horror, to make its observations on caste privilege in small-town India. By the time the newly minted IPS officer Ayan Ranjan (played by Ayushmann Khurrana) arrives in Lalgaon, somewhere in Uttar Pradesh, a cover-up has begun taking shape. He instantly guesses something is amiss. Whispers follow him everywhere, and an old acquaintance behaves strangely, almost as if he were keeping himself from blurting out secrets. The village is drenched in uneasiness. A senior police officer fills him in: three Dalit girls have disappeared. He goes on to talk about “their people” with an airiness that seems to suggest it is a common occurrence within their community. The police is pushing a casteist narrative, one that is far too convenient for Ayan’s shrewd ears. The bodies of two of the girls are discovered the next morning, hanging from a tree. There is an unconvincing explanation to the events that the cops seem eager to pursue, but Ayan is not sold on it.
Hindi cinema has long been averse to the idea of having two protagonists and so we get one. Ayan is the product of the clubbing together of Ward and Anderson's personalities, retaining their virtues while slyly leaving out their inefficiencies. He is young, sort of brash, and his influences, like the liquor he prefers, are largely Western. He is city-bred, ignorant of the ways of the hinterlands, but has a knack for catching on quick. Within days of his arrival he has decoded what (or who) dictates the laws of this region, has singled out the powers that be, and has injected, to some degree, a new life into an indolent police force. This sort of hero, not uncommon in Hindi cinema, is someone we can easily place: one who doesn't take a step wrong, who nudges at the truth, who puts his country before himself, and who will, inevitably, have the last laugh.
This is where “Article 15” and “Mississippi Burning” diverge, albeit briefly. While "Mississippi Burning" explored the dynamic between Ward and Anderson, two contrasting characters who have perhaps been brought up in two very different worlds, "Article 15" appears content in letting Ayan hold the reins of the narrative. He charismatically strides, yells, and banishes; the others take a moment to catch up. “Talk only with me and nobody else,” he instructs a doctor who's been asked to falsify the autopsy report on the two girls. He knows his officers' loyalties have been compromised, for they fear fingering the powerful local politician and setting off a chain of events beyond their control. His inexperience never gets in the way of his unwavering pursuit of the truth, and there was a moment where I wished for a little more realism. There was hardly any.
Sinha was onto something meaningful there. “Article 15” quickly busies itself in its central mystery while calmly exploring several other strands, and occasionally, just occasionally, produces something truly incredible. When the girls’ bodies are discovered in the blue hues of the morning mist, the image of the crowd around the tree, where the bodies still hang, is unforgettable. (The film has been shot by Ewan Mulligan.) There is also a strand examining how the caste system has managed to worm its way into the force, when a police officer cowers in the company of an equal just because he is (and so often is he reminded) from a lower caste. But the most powerful of them all is that lingering image of a man emerging from filth. In what is a remarkable piece of filmmaking, Sinha uses the metaphor of an overflowing sewer to convey a rather bald truth in mere seconds. The sewer, leaky at first but then a hindrance, has to be “fixed” by someone willing to dive into it. Finally, a man is entrusted with the job, but he is of a lower caste. Sinha chooses to film his emergence from the filth in slow-motion, giving us ample time to flinch, and the impact is staggering; I lived with the image for the next few days.
However, it doesn’t take long for “Article 15” to succumb to the temptation of allocating simplistic solutions to pressing problems. Ayan’s chief adversary is Bhrahmadatt Singh (played by Manoj Pahwa), a veteran police officer under his command. Bhrahmadatt puts up a weak resistance, imploring Ayan to not disturb the santulan, the “balance.” But Ayan, like Sinha, is relentless; he does not stop to reason with Brahmadatt or anyone else standing in his way. The reason behind the longevity of caste politics is never touched upon, or why it continues to be a crucial issue during elections. When a haughty senior officer from the Central Bureau of Investigation decides to visit, he is less concerned with the abolishment of the caste system, which he is not entirely for; he is more amused by Ayan’s idealism and that he is far more comfortable speaking in English than Hindi. (He is put in his place later of course, as is decreed by the Hindi film gods.) This creates a dramatic void: it often feels as if Sinha uses his underdeveloped supporting characters to put across his views on the issue in plain, preachy terms, or to relay statistics, which is something the character of Aditi, Ayan’s romantic interest, mostly does.
But one thing is for certain: Sinha wholly deserves our applause and attention. It’s remarkable that he’s made a film of such spunk, of such anger and of such compassion, at a time when we are flaunting our prejudices so openly. His strokes may be broad (I am reasonably sure the fleeting tribute to Bhagat Singh in the climax was deliberate), his style blunt, but he forces us to think. Given all the things that have gone down in this country in the last few years, that is no minor accomplishment.
[Not For Reproduction]
The two discrete worlds of Anubhav Sinha’s new film “Article 15” come alive through songs. As the opening credits roll, a Dailt woman (played by Sayani Gupta) croons “Kahab Toh,” an earthy folk song, amidst a downpour. Somewhere close by, two teenage Dalit girls get assaulted inside a bus gliding along the road against the overcast sky. We then jump to a jeep coasting along the highway, under the golden glow of the sun, while Bob Dylan’s “Blowin’ In The Wind” plays. The juxtaposition isn’t exactly understated, but the details and colors used to render these two worlds convey a clear message: we are travelling into the heart of darkness and leaving behind the comfort of blissful ignorance. But this also momentarily conveys something far more interesting: the filmmaking is thoughtful, if not subtle. Sinha, who last made “Mulk,” a sharp drama about a Muslim family facing ostracism and a lengthy legal battle when one of their own goes rogue, is staging a comeback of sorts after spending years making underwhelming films. His affinity for the underdog parallels his keenness for uncomfortable truths. In “Article 15” we get both: an underdog battles the centuries-old caste system; one that has a small village (and we have no clue how many other villages and cities) in its stranglehold, one that compels institutions to look the other way when two of the three girls are found hung from a tree the next morning.
Twenty minutes in, I thought the striking similarities between “Article 15” and Alan Parker’s 1986 drama “Mississippi Burning” couldn't possibly be mere coincidence. In Parker’s film, three Civil Rights activists go missing one night in Mississippi, which prompts the Federal Bureau of Investigation to send two agents, Ward and Anderson, to investigate their disappearance. It studied the coming apart of a small town plagued by racial violence, and in doing so, captured quite vividly how hate stays ingrained through little but significant everyday things; segregation in restaurants being one, for example.
“Article 15” borrows loosely from the Badaun gang rape and murder from 2014, an incident of unspeakable horror, to make its observations on caste privilege in small-town India. By the time the newly minted IPS officer Ayan Ranjan (played by Ayushmann Khurrana) arrives in Lalgaon, somewhere in Uttar Pradesh, a cover-up has begun taking shape. He instantly guesses something is amiss. Whispers follow him everywhere, and an old acquaintance behaves strangely, almost as if he were keeping himself from blurting out secrets. The village is drenched in uneasiness. A senior police officer fills him in: three Dalit girls have disappeared. He goes on to talk about “their people” with an airiness that seems to suggest it is a common occurrence within their community. The police is pushing a casteist narrative, one that is far too convenient for Ayan’s shrewd ears. The bodies of two of the girls are discovered the next morning, hanging from a tree. There is an unconvincing explanation to the events that the cops seem eager to pursue, but Ayan is not sold on it.
Hindi cinema has long been averse to the idea of having two protagonists and so we get one. Ayan is the product of the clubbing together of Ward and Anderson's personalities, retaining their virtues while slyly leaving out their inefficiencies. He is young, sort of brash, and his influences, like the liquor he prefers, are largely Western. He is city-bred, ignorant of the ways of the hinterlands, but has a knack for catching on quick. Within days of his arrival he has decoded what (or who) dictates the laws of this region, has singled out the powers that be, and has injected, to some degree, a new life into an indolent police force. This sort of hero, not uncommon in Hindi cinema, is someone we can easily place: one who doesn't take a step wrong, who nudges at the truth, who puts his country before himself, and who will, inevitably, have the last laugh.
This is where “Article 15” and “Mississippi Burning” diverge, albeit briefly. While "Mississippi Burning" explored the dynamic between Ward and Anderson, two contrasting characters who have perhaps been brought up in two very different worlds, "Article 15" appears content in letting Ayan hold the reins of the narrative. He charismatically strides, yells, and banishes; the others take a moment to catch up. “Talk only with me and nobody else,” he instructs a doctor who's been asked to falsify the autopsy report on the two girls. He knows his officers' loyalties have been compromised, for they fear fingering the powerful local politician and setting off a chain of events beyond their control. His inexperience never gets in the way of his unwavering pursuit of the truth, and there was a moment where I wished for a little more realism. There was hardly any.
Sinha was onto something meaningful there. “Article 15” quickly busies itself in its central mystery while calmly exploring several other strands, and occasionally, just occasionally, produces something truly incredible. When the girls’ bodies are discovered in the blue hues of the morning mist, the image of the crowd around the tree, where the bodies still hang, is unforgettable. (The film has been shot by Ewan Mulligan.) There is also a strand examining how the caste system has managed to worm its way into the force, when a police officer cowers in the company of an equal just because he is (and so often is he reminded) from a lower caste. But the most powerful of them all is that lingering image of a man emerging from filth. In what is a remarkable piece of filmmaking, Sinha uses the metaphor of an overflowing sewer to convey a rather bald truth in mere seconds. The sewer, leaky at first but then a hindrance, has to be “fixed” by someone willing to dive into it. Finally, a man is entrusted with the job, but he is of a lower caste. Sinha chooses to film his emergence from the filth in slow-motion, giving us ample time to flinch, and the impact is staggering; I lived with the image for the next few days.
However, it doesn’t take long for “Article 15” to succumb to the temptation of allocating simplistic solutions to pressing problems. Ayan’s chief adversary is Bhrahmadatt Singh (played by Manoj Pahwa), a veteran police officer under his command. Bhrahmadatt puts up a weak resistance, imploring Ayan to not disturb the santulan, the “balance.” But Ayan, like Sinha, is relentless; he does not stop to reason with Brahmadatt or anyone else standing in his way. The reason behind the longevity of caste politics is never touched upon, or why it continues to be a crucial issue during elections. When a haughty senior officer from the Central Bureau of Investigation decides to visit, he is less concerned with the abolishment of the caste system, which he is not entirely for; he is more amused by Ayan’s idealism and that he is far more comfortable speaking in English than Hindi. (He is put in his place later of course, as is decreed by the Hindi film gods.) This creates a dramatic void: it often feels as if Sinha uses his underdeveloped supporting characters to put across his views on the issue in plain, preachy terms, or to relay statistics, which is something the character of Aditi, Ayan’s romantic interest, mostly does.
But one thing is for certain: Sinha wholly deserves our applause and attention. It’s remarkable that he’s made a film of such spunk, of such anger and of such compassion, at a time when we are flaunting our prejudices so openly. His strokes may be broad (I am reasonably sure the fleeting tribute to Bhagat Singh in the climax was deliberate), his style blunt, but he forces us to think. Given all the things that have gone down in this country in the last few years, that is no minor accomplishment.
[Not For Reproduction]
