It is Hindi cinema’s oldest story: The girl chooses love over riches. It is also the story of Ram Gopal Varma’s “Rangeela,” which turned twenty-five a couple of weeks ago. I desist from saying it has ‘aged like fine wine’, for it hasn’t aged a day. If anything, it achieves a rare feat, a hallmark of a great film: with each viewing, one gets to see a different film. A recent rewatch made it plain that this was no longer the fairytale I believed it was. “Rangeela” is far richer than it is made out to be, far more melancholic. Beneath its buoyancy is a tale of loss and discovery, an ode to a city that has time and time again taught people more about themselves than anything ever will, and to the city's cinema that has a say in not just what we dream about but also how we dream.
“Rangeela” arrived in 1995, when India, its mind fixed on globalisation, had opened its doors for the world to peek in; when Hindi cinema, resurrected after a bad run in the 1980s, delivered its most beloved romance with “Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge”; and when a young filmmaker, Varma, who had not made an out-and-out romance until then, decided to take on a fairytale set in Mumbai. And the approach he chose for his first romance was daringly novel: he recruited a music director who had not scored a Hindi film before; a young actress, while not new, had yet to get her big break; and a young actor, who was actively resisting getting typecast, was picked to play a street cookie. These elements gave “Rangeela” its face: a flock of young talents, eager to prove themselves, conduce to deliver a film that is, at its core, a crowdpleaser, but not in the way most Hindi films tended to be at the time. It didn’t have heroes and villains or even traditional action sequences. Even its love-triangle (if it was indeed one) was atypical: the two men never fight for the affections of the girl. They brood privately, hurt privately; there isn’t a grain of machismo in them. The two men, Munna and Kamal, are broken. Munna is an orphan and Kamal a widower, their shot at a happy life cruelly obliterated by fate. Mili, the woman they both love, is their best shot at happiness. They cling on to it, unwilling to let go.
The essence of “Rangeela”—and of Mumbai—is captured by this love-triangle. Mili, young and vivacious, dreams of becoming an actress. The fact that she is one of hundreds of thousands of hopefuls doesn’t cross her mind. Her naïvety is offset by the men who love her. Munna is a small-time black marketeer of movie tickets, dealing with life one day at a time, one problem at a time, with no idea of what his future looks like. But even his aimlessness is measured. He has had a rough childhood, one that may have involved a trip too many to the police station. A single scene in which Munna deals with a cop who comes sniffing without any trace of fear slickly establishes this.
On the other side is Kamal, a withdrawn and lonely movie star yet to get over the death of his wife in a car accident. The incident haunts him, stings him: one gets the impression that he blames himself for it. When narrating the incident to Mili, Kamal, brave at first, is soon overcome by remorse. For a moment, just a moment, his vulnerability is for all to see. Only Mili does, her face drained of all colour at the sight. It’s the first time she sees him for who he is, without the curtain of stardom to shield him from the lies that movies feed us.
The two Mumbais of “Rangeela” clash constantly—Mili’s fanciful, Munna and Kamal’s grounded. Cinematographer W. B. Rao uses light to great effect. When alone, Munna and Kamal are cloaked by darkness. For Mili, Rao chooses bright frames. When Mili is with either man, the frames are lit well, reinforcing how important she is to them. Disguised to appear as throwaway details, they colour this tale in their own little ways. But the film derives much of its magic from A.R. Rahman’s sublime soundtrack. What of it? The film just wouldn’t have been the same without it. My childhood wouldn’t have been the same, either. Nor would Hindi film music.
A sombre tale this is not. “Rangeela” is pure, unbridled joy. Any implication otherwise is put to rest by its upbeat opening number. The dialogue is rapid but witty, specked with wisdom. The relationships are carved beautifully. When Munna and Kamal first meet, Munna is aloof but Kamal is polite, not threatened by this man because he does not care to know him. At an amusement park, Mili’s father gets ice-cream for his family but not for Munna. Munna may be ‘like a son’ to him but he is still only a tenant. (An example of how “Rangeela” consciously avoids being goody-goody.) This is Mumbai’s middle-class: Amiable but not overly so, keeping one eye on their money at all times. And although Munna doesn’t try to hide what he does for a living, this law-abiding family couldn’t care less. He is still welcome to dine with them. Believing in the inherent goodness of people is one of the city’s many characteristics, and that Varma not only recognises this but understands it well enough to use it to lift the film puts him in a class of his own.
As with any great film set in Mumbai, “Rangeela” works the far-reaching impact of ‘Bollywood’ into the film. The lead characters’ fantasies and dreams are often based on the movies they watch. An extra movie ticket becomes an instrument to show you care about someone. When Mili asks Munna if he has an extra ticket to a new film starring Kamal, Munna wields it as if it were a slice of gold. A closer reading tells us why—it’s the only thing he can afford to give her. And it is from a cinema hall that Mili flees in the film’s charming climax to stop him from going so far away that they would never meet again. Varma plays to the gallery here; of course he couldn’t resist. And neither could we. Here is a film that laughs at ‘Bollywood’ (Gulshan Grover, as the Steven-Spielberg-worshipping Steven Kapoor, is a hoot) but cheekily slips in a final scene at dusk where Munna and Mili squabble, having just professed their love for each other. Once the tricky business of confessing one’s true feelings is over, there’s still a life to lead. But we need not worry. We leave assured that no matter what the world throws at them, these two will be all right.
[Not For Reproduction.]
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