When Words Fail to Deliver

O' Henry, one of the most prolific and celebrated short story writers of all time gained entrance into the glitzy world of Bollywood, courtesy Rituparno Ghosh's maiden Hindi directorial venture Raincoat (2004).

Based on one of the master's most popular short stories, 'Gift of the Magi', Raincoat deals primarily with two characters—Manu (Ajay Devgan) and Neeru (Aishwarya Rai). Once engaged, now estranged, they meet after a long period of separation at a time when both are undergoing emotional crises.

 What emerges is a tête-à-tête that lasts for the major part of an afternoon and the lion's share of the 117-minute running time of the film.

 A curtain of rain separates the couple from the rest of the world. Confined within the four walls of a room in a house in south Calcutta, they embark on a 'game of words'. Careful not to pry or delve deep into each other's lives, they find that although time has eroded their passion, an ember still glows deep within their hearts.

The film encapsulates the maxim that true love is all about selflessness, sacrifice, and sentiment. It is also about putting on a façade. That is precisely where the implication of the eponymous raincoat comes in.

Protected from the torrential rain, Manu enters the now married Neeru's world wearing a raincoat. He takes it off after he enters her home, but soon finds out that he has to wear a garb to face the harsh realities that stare him in the eye. Neeru realizes the same. The film is all about the mental makeup that we put on when faced with a reality that makes the heart grow fonder about the dreams that one once cherished and wished would one day be realized.

In the consumerist society we live in, the kind of emotion that Manu and Neeru have for each other is antiquated, and is amplified by the mise-en-scène of the room, filled with old clocks, ancient furniture, and similar bric-a-brac. It is as if both the characters are in a time warp, lamenting a past that they treasure, and a future that is as bleak as the weather outside.

It is a story-within-a-story format that Ghosh has implemented, but with little success. Considered by many as the best screenplay writer to have emerged from Bengal after Satyajit Ray, this is precisely where Ghosh falters in this venture. For a film that is solely dependent on dialogues, this is one department where Raincoat fails miserably. 

What could have emerged as an illustration of connotation is ultimately relegated to banality that at times precariously teeters on the verge of being branded inane. The spine of a screenplay is conflict, creation of tension, which keeps the viewer engrossed in the goings-on—aspects that are conspicuous by their absence in Raincoat.

With the single room setting a la Hitchcock's Rope, two-character interaction reminiscent of Gus Van Sant's  Gerry, Raincoat had a lot of potential in it. Deft art direction, mellifluous melodies—which, for once, do not hinder the progress of the film—and able performances by the two protagonists make one feel even sadder for the opportunity that has gone a-begging. 

One emerges out of the theatre after watching the film imagining what it could have been, rather than what it actually is. Add to all this a poster of Sophia Loren that the camera lingers on for quite sometime brings to one's mind Vittorio de Sica's Sunflower starring the legendary actress—a film that dealt similarly with unrequited love, but succeeded in eliciting a sigh of despair in a context diametrically opposite to that of Raincoat!

Watered Down Nationalism

What's the similarity between Sam Mendes, Farhan Akhtar, and Ashutosh Gowariker; apart from the fact that they are all acclaimed filmmakers of the current generation? Apparently, there is none, except the fact that all three made a film (debut in the cases of Mendes and Farhan, and Ashutosh’s fourth after Pehla Nasha, Izzat ki Roti, and Baazi) that wooed critics and the masses alike. The films were all box-office successes, swept the awards they were nominated for, and the trio faced the same expectations when they announced their next film. Add to this the fact that their second film was as different from the first as one could ever think of.

Swades (2004), much touted as Ashutosh Gowariker's second inning after Lagaan, holds on its own. In fact, in certain respects it is a much better film than the 2001 mega-success. True, it has its similarities with its predecessor, but it’s like a novelist using the same words in a different context and emerging with a totally different connotation to them.

It is said that to bring out the effect of light, one needs to know darkness. This basic contrast is used as a backbone in Swades. What can be more apt to bring out the fact of being rooted to reality than some one who as a profession aims for the sky? Mohan Bhargava (Shahrukh Khan) is a Project Manager at NASA working on Global Precipitation Measurement—a technology that takes the guesswork away from forecasting rainfall.

This is the beginning of the recurrent water motif that Gowariker has so masterfully utilized in his film. From the affinity of Mohan to mineral water (one bottle of which he gifts to a minstrel who he picks up on his caravan); to a child water vendor who acts as a catalyst in the protagonist's life; the singular channel of change in a village; the ultimate ablution in a water body where Mohan washes his soiled feet; to Geeta's (Gayatri Joshi) first question to Mohan in a classroom about five rivers of India—the source of life acts as a refrain throughout the film.

Other deftly applied symbolisms abound, especially remarkable is one where Gowariker, the director, removes a great class divide in a village—an erected movie screen—to bring to the fore what the film stands for: a coming together, a unison.

The performances are also remarkable. Kishori Ballal as Kaveri Amma, the mother figure who brought up Mohan, is simply sublime. Gowariker should be applauded for eliciting touching performances from non-actors—a despondent farmer who has all but given up hope of providing for his family; an aged woman whose only reaction to her first interaction with a lit bulb is simply uttering the word 'bijli'...the instances are many.

Gowariker's forte, apart from being a brilliant storyteller, has been his character sketches, a trait that is evident in this offering as well. The film brings to light Shahrukh Khan as never seen before—a cliché that is actually applicable as far as his portrayal of Mohan Bhargava is concerned.

Considered a demi-god, Khan sinks into his character albeit a trifle skeptically at the beginning of the movie, but then settles into it in the same manner he dips his feet in the murky water of the village reservoir. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said of the debutante Gayatri Joshi. While seeing her acting prim and proper, I could not but help wonder if her character was written with Nandita Das lurking somewhere at the back of the mind of the screenplay writer!

Swades is as patriotic in flavor as any release in the same genre, with a subtle difference. Except for two sequences, it makes its statement without resorting to any sort of jingoism.

Look for the brilliant quirks in the film—the reaction of an eight-year old to a huge caravan in a village, a water pipe turning into a musical instrument, an inverted image of a temple as seen through the eyes of a child looking at it in an upside-down manner—these are the small things that ultimately separate the wheat from the chaff and not an elaborately staged, grandiose item number.

Of Contrast, Character, and Credibility

Dev (2004) is a film about choices—choice between duty and morality; responsibility and obligation; friendship and conscience; and most importantly between right and wrong. It is a film that walks a very thin line—the line that demarcates commercial cinema and the so-called 'art' film, and the divider between jingoism and objective portrayal.

Joint Police Commissioner Dev Pratap Singh's (Amitabh Bachchan) character is an easy chair in a battlefield. He belongs to the old school of thought where duty comes first and the honor of the uniform is of the utmost priority. However, he comes at a crossroad in his life and career when he is wrongly suspected of harboring ill-feelings towards the 'minority' (read: Muslim) community.

Tejinder Khosla (Om Puri) is an old friend of Dev, and in more ways than one his mirror image. Over a bottle of malt whisky, he lambasts the ’outsiders’ using expletives, is quite vociferous in his notions, and goads his best friend of 30 years to subscribe to his communal hatred.

The third angle of this triangle is completed by Farhan Ali (Fardeen Khan), a student of law who witnesses his father (Pramod Moutho)—a peace-loving Muslim—being gunned down during a demonstration by a police contingent led by Dev Pratap Singh. Disturbed, distraught, and disillusioned, Farhan turns into a pawn in the hands of Latif (Ehsaan Khan)—a Muslim political leader—receiving training to eliminate his father's killer. But by a twisted turn of fate, he gets betrayed by his own lot and takes resort in the house of the very man he had sworn to kill.

Aaliya (Kareena Kapoor) plays Farhan's love interest. In a strikingly underplayed role, Kareena excels as the innocent victim of a political nexus run by Latif on one hand, and the CM (Amrish Puri) and his henchman Mangal Rao (Milind Gunaji) on the other.

It is interesting to watch Bachchan play a role that is so diametrically opposite to the ones that made him a living legend in the '70s and '80s. Audiences so used to seeing him take the law in his own hands in situations such as the ones that are portrayed in the film would be pleasantly surprised to see a man torn apart by his emotions and duty-bound attitude. True, he breaks his shackles; but then, too, he doesn't turn into a vigilante.

Overall, the film rests on the seasoned shoulders of Bachchan and Om Puri, but equal credit needs to be given to the writer Meenakshi Sharma. This is a writer's film. However, Govind Nihalani's direction fails to leave a mark. The weakest performance comes from Fardeen Khan. His role demanded emotions, expressions, and empathy. Unfortunately, the wooden-faced actor fails on all three counts.

Aadesh Shrivastava's music appears imposed at times; our fascination with a conclusive dénouement stretches the story towards the end. On the brighter side, the film does break free of certain clichés such as maligning entire communities or being reactionary in its treatment, a la Gadar (2001).

In conclusion, a much better outing for Govind Nihalani than his earlier Thakshak. Special gratitude is due to him for providing Bachchan a role that he can really sink his teeth into. Ironically, with a name like Dev, this is Bachchan's one of the most human characters, ever!

The Price of Fame

In a scene in Satyajit Ray’s Nayak (The Hero), the protagonist arrives at a pre-determined location, at his old friend’s request. When he reaches there, he sees that what his friend wants him to do is to be a part of a protest being held in front of a factory. The obviously uncomfortable, to the point of being embarrassed, protagonist backs out in his car, as he puts on his dark glasses, unable to meet the eye of his friend.

In the words of Fred Allen, 'A celebrity is a person who works hard all his life to become well-known, then wears dark glasses to avoid being recognized.' The dark glasses appear on the faces of both the protagonists in Nayak and Halla Bol—not as a protection from being recognized, but as a means to hide their own conscience. 

And both films deal a lot about conscience.

While Ray’s class act dealt with a single individual leading a screen idol into a journey of self discovery while both are traveling in a first class compartment on board the Rajdhani Express; Rajkumar Santoshi’s film is more about the rise of the fallen.

It was an individual oblivious of the screen idol’s image and charisma that acted as a catalyst in Nayak; while it is being witness to a murder that makes Ashfaque, aka Sameer Khan (Ajay Devgan) question himself. But that’s more or less where the resemblances end.

Before the release of Halla Bol, there occurred a glut of films about films, each dealing with one aspect or another of the entire process of movie making. In Halla Bol, however, the focus is not so much on the process of film making, but the aftermath of joining and making it big in tinsel town—the loss of innocence, for example, made amply clear by the contrast between a despondent Sameer holding a 'Youth Icon' statuette and a jubilant Ashfaque when he is handed a small trophy by his mentor Sidhu (Pankaj Kapoor).

It is said 'The higher they rise, the harder they fall'. But that’s not the only reason that a film star is a perfect character for a film like Halla Bol. Film stars, while they have these legions of fans, are the ones who we all know as people who mouth words written by others, act out stuff directed by others—in other words, being a film star is the epitome of lack of individuality.

It is the crowd who makes a hero, carries him on their shoulders, taking him that much closer to the silver screen on which his movie is being projected. It is the same crowd that tears down the posters of heroes and burns effigies.

So, the ‘hero’ of the film is not really the screen idol, but the masses. Because they are the ones the film is directed at. Call it film activism, if you like. Nothing wrong in that. However, the film goes kinda haywire in its objective.

While Sameer’s rise to fame and simultaneous fall as an individual are depicted by him climbing a staircase; and his fall as a star and rise as a human being are similarly shown by him sitting at the bottom of that very stairwell, the same is reflected in the film, too.

When the film could have reached its zenith, it plummets to a nadir with stereotypical characterizations, trite dialogue and cliched sequences. It’s when Santoshi’s protagonist realizes the true meaning of a ‘hero’, which is off-screen, that he starts becoming a caricature of an on-screen hero.

There was not a single cringe-worthy sequence during Sameer’s rise as a filmstar. In fact, Santoshi has made a fair share of digs at how the cine stars literally sell themselves to sell commodities. But when it came to making his own protagonist rise above such pettiness, both the director and the character fail abysmally. It is during the onset of his self-awareness that Sameer walks the walk and talks the talk of so many so-called ‘heroes’ of the silver screen.

And that is precisely why Halla Bol looks and sounds as fake as the claims by the filmi superstars when they endorse hair oils.

Oh, and one more thing, Mr Santoshi. The fourth ‘P’ after ‘Power, Public, and Paisa’ could easily have been ‘Price’ – the price of fame, that is. Did it really have to be what it turned out to be?

Reincarnating Manmohan Desai!

There’s a particular shot in Om Shanti Om, where the director, on a film set, tells the producer that he has three cameras for the next shot—'Ek Satyajit Ray angle, ek Bimal Roy angle, aur ek Guru Dutt angle.' The producer coolly tells him to try out the Manmohan Desai angle because that’s the one that sells.

That sums up the entire film for me.

I have not seen Main Hoon Na, and to be very frank, Farah Khan, to me, has never come across as someone who can make serious cinema. And that’s exactly where I had gone wrong.

In the happiness of my pursuit of cinema, I had all but forsaken the pursuit of happiness that is watching films. I still remember one of the interviews of the late Manmohan Desai, where he had emphasized that there is already a lot of strife, pain, loss, sorrow, and grief in the world. When an individual enters the cinema theater anywhere in India, he wants to leave those behind at the entry gate. For three hours he wants to visit another world where 'Everything is fine in the end. If it is not fine, it is not the end.'

Whether the 1970s was the 'golden age' of Hindi cinema or not, why Manmohan Desai is not studied the way he should be, might or might not have been some of the questions the researcher and/or even the filmmaker had in mind while conceptualizing Om Shanti Om. But it is quite apparent that they have, indeed, expressed their love for that era and the man.

What has really impressed me about the film is the fact that it has the guts to laugh at itself. Being a film about the industry (in fact, considering there’s a literal roll-call of yesterday’s, today’s, and tomorrow’s film personalities in a much-talked-about song sequence—I refuse to use the term ‘star’, because it does not apply to at least 4–5 of them—it can, in fact, be called a film of the industry, for the industry, and by the industry), the little nudges in the ribs that it gives to itself are quite commendable. It has taken almost every stereotype that you can think of from the '70s (there are actual footages from '70s films with OSO's stars inserted in the frame, a la Forrest Gump) and thrown them back at us. In fact, it has delved on certain aspects that I have always wanted to ask while gorging on those stupendously entertaining films by the Desais, Mehras, et al. For example, how does a mole on the cheek so drastically alter one’s appearance?

There are many such references, whether a nod to actual incidents that occurred during shooting (watch out for a take on Mother India with Deepika Padukone doing a Nargis and Shahrukh Khan doing a Sunil Dutt) or characters that were obligatory in those blockbusters—the suffering mother, the selfless friend, and the scheming villain. In fact, it mixes today with yesterday seamlessly and am not talking about the 30 year time-frame that the film covers. 

For example, I know for a fact that everyday thousands of youngsters still arrive in Bombay (I still prefer to call the city that, Mumbai just doesn’t have the correct twang to it) with one dream, like the one Shahrukh Khan’s character has in the film—to make it big: ‘a round bed, velvet slippers, silk coat, loads of servants and to top it all, a FilmFare award!’

The film is not an ode to the 1970s. In fact, it is not an ode to any era at all. It is a paean to the joy of both watching a film and making it. It unabashedly lauds those people who, when they enter the darkened theater, wants to be transported to a world where the hero can do no wrong, where the heroine is 'dreamy', and where the villain will get his due, even if he seeks refuge in Hollywood!

The spoilsports among us might point out the fact that not all oblique insinuations have been in good taste. Especially those who refused to be a part of the 'roll-call number' (for want of a better term) have had quite a few digs made at them, be it a photo on a driving license or anything but parental affinity to girls young enough to be daughters. But, these again, are minor issues as compared to how well the film has tackled the 1970s in the first half, in particular, and filmdom, in general.

Shahrukh, the self-proclaimed 'rockstar' possibly found an even bigger fan following after OSO, because this is the film where those gazillions who come to Bombay everyday will find themselves reflected in the superstar’s persona—at last in a character he plays on screen, they will find themselves. There are, I think only three films of Shahrukh that I like. But this is the film, which has made me realize why he is such a huge star on the film firmament. In between a Chak De, a Swades and a Kabhie Haan Kabhie Naa, this man has, as an actor, carried on the legacy of Manmohan Desai, the legacy of unadulterated entertainment. We all know by now who the real 'Mohabbat man' is, don’t we?

About three-quarters into the second half, many of us, especially the Bimal Roy fans, will know how the climax of the film will turn out. But that, to me, was not a deterrent. It is just Farah’s way of taking her hat off to one of the best films ever made on the same premise that her film is based on. It, to me, was not plagiarism, not even an 'inspiration', but just a film fan’s way of saluting a master and his masterpiece.

There’s one prop in the film that encapsulates the spirit of Om Shanti Om. Shreyas Talpade handing Deepika Padukone a wine glass filled with tea. Yes, Hindi cinema has traveled, the form has changed, but the essence of going to a film is still the same old entertainment, like the staple morning cup of tea.

And to those of us who smirked at the issue of reincarnation (in fact a character in the film also asks the same question. It really is amazing how most characters in the film ask questions that we audiences have had in mind) in a film releasing in 2007: you just mistook the '70s to be dead, it is still with us, in ‘spirit’; we simply didn’t recognize it till now.

MKD would have said 'Om Shanti Om—I likes lot!' 

Shun this Tashan

Being an Aquarian, I am guilty of a bad road sense. I don’t know the Sun-sign (or should I say, Tashan-sign?) of debutant director Vijay Krishna Acharya, but let me tell you, this guy gave me a huge ego boost. Think about this—you go from Mumbai to Haridwar, via Ladakh and if that is not enough, you travel from Haridwar to Rajastan via Ladakh again!


I am not quite sure what the word ‘tashan’ actually stands for. Some say, it means ‘style’; according to others, it means ‘attitude’. However, the most apt description was found in the film itself, mouthed by Ibrahim, the real life son of Saif Ali Khan: ‘Bull shit, with a cherry on top’.

So, what is the cherry, one might ask. It is a red convertible, which changes during a seesaw ride that ultimately lands itself into deep water. No, nothing Bond-ish happens. It is just that the number plate of the convertible gets converted from 'UG...' to 'MH...' somewhere midway!


In my opinion, the car, in many ways, stands for the film itself. The driver, Bachchan Pandey (Akshay Kumar) and the passenger Jeetender ‘Jimmy Cliff’ Kumar Makhwana (Saif Ali Khan) play with the stereo system of the car in a manner befitting a couple struggling with the same remote while choosing between IPL and a K-serial The songs they are trying to reach a consensus between were AC/DC's 'Highway to Hell' and the title track from YRF's very own Kabhie Kabhie. Tashan, if the expressions of people coming out of the theater were of any indication, has definitely taken the highway to hell, while kabhie kabhie we can't help but think that the YRF banner came up with gems like Deewar (which we shall get to shortly), Kaala Patthar (also bastardized in the film, transliterally) and numerous other classics.


Just like the car, the film also nose dives into a pool of cold water! So, I firmly believe that the car is symbolic of the film itself!


Vijay Krishna Acharya made a name for himself while writing scripts for films like Dhoom and Dhoom 2. Now, some of us might vehemently refute the usage of the term 'script' in the context of the aforementioned two films. But what both of those lacked in the story department, they at least made up in 'looks'. Unfortunately, when it comes to Tashan, you just do not know where to look, because it lacked in both departments (unless you think 'This film looks like bull shit with a cherry on top'; then, it’s a different issue altogether!)

Now, a little bit about the ‘characters’ in the film. First up is Anil Kapoor who plays the spoken-English-challenged ‘Bhaiyyaji’. I once read somewhere that the English language has been raped so much that you can now drive a truck through its genitals. Here, we found the truck. Lampooning one of the sequences that is synonymous with the YRF banner—the temple scene towards the end of Deewar—Anil’s character mouths the 'Aaj khush toh bahot hoge tum' in such a language, that had that been in the actual Deewar, am sure the idol would have raised from his pedestal and did something quite unidol-like to him.


And for those who had no clue of what Bhaiyyaji was saying (I must admit, after 10-odd minutes, his pendulum act between broken Hindi and decimated English made me think of the swerving car again) there was this poster of Deewar just behind Bhaiyyaji. As Bhaiyyaji would have said 'Sub-tellity eej naat this philm’s fortress'!


Next up is Akshay Kumar—the current reigning superstar of Bollywood. I have caught only glimpses of his recent super hits. Hence, I thought this film will give me a much better idea about his popularity. So, when he enters, as Bachchan Pandey, about 40 minutes into the film, wearing a Ravana costume with all ten heads having his face, I understood.


This guy is the same Akshay Kumar, no matter which film you put him in. And he also has a nice way of acknowledging the audience’s love for him—for want of a better name, let us call it a 'crotch hitch'. Or maybe it has a crotch cultural symbolism as well, who knows!


Now, the hullabaloo about Saif and Kareena. Before that, a little bit about who they play in the film. Saif is a call center executive who would give you Sunny Deol’s number if you want to 'ukhaado' a hand pump from your locality. No, I stand corrected. He will only give it to you, if you are Pooja Singh, who is actually a secretary (with a secret) who works for Bhaiyyaji. The two, I mean Pooja and Jimmy, meet when the former comes to the latter asking if he is interested in giving private tuitions to the English enamored Bhaiyyaji. But...Bachchan is the one interested in 'privates'—another irony!


So, did we get a 'Rain in Spain falls mainly in the plain'? Nope, instead we got a lot of pain. As Bhaiyyaji kept on molesting the Queen’s language, Saif and Kareena decided to give him the slip and run away with his money. Actually, I stand corrected again. Kareena gave Saif the slip as well, and slipped into a two-piece. And there it was, on screen, the dance number that has made more headlines than Harbhajan slapping Sreesanth. However, it came and it went before we could say 'Hero aur zero'. Possibly because, when we are told ‘zero figure', we inadvertently think of ‘zero’ as well-rounded!


Then there is this subplot, involving Bachchan and his childhood sweetheart. At that time, Bachchan was someone who used to climb up poles and fix electricity lines. Curious, isn’t it? He fixed the lights and we got the jolts? If only he was equally generous towards the director and fixed his ‘dimaag ki batti’, as well. But then, I am digressing again. I think the red car got to me.

Now, for the Hollywood connection in the film. As has happened on numerous occasions, Hollywood comes to the rescue of Hindi cinema—but this time, in the form of two truckloads of singing, dancing, and gyrating extras for a Hollywood film, called ‘Bolly-widow’! So, our threesome don some wigs that will make their head disappear and look like they are ostriches when they dig a hole and jump in it head first (not a bad idea, actually) right in the middle of Rajastan. At the end of it all, the director of the Hollywood film profusely thanks Bachchan Pandey, believing he is this ‘huge star’ of Hindi films. As if the violation of Deewar wasn’t enough!


But that’s not where the Hollywood connection ends. I have been told a leading action coordinator was brought from Hollywood to choreograph the stunts. I won’t be surprised if he was handed films like Hukumat, Elaan-e-Jung, Mardon Waali Baat and the likes. Because that is precisely what the action sequences resembled. Remember those '80s and '90s films where the hero—a cross breed between Spiderman and Superman and equally adept at handling machine guns, pistols and, even lamp posts—single handedly annihilated an army in such a manner that he would have made Leonidas scratch his head in utter dismay and send a missive saying 'Forget 300. One will do. You are hired'? Now think Tashan. You get the idea.


While I was going through the ‘credits’, (Yep, people do get credited, no matter how the film is), I found one guest appearance had been left out, I don’t know why. It was a speed boat, which appears out of thin air while a ‘fight’ akin to what we often see in Parliament was going on.


On my way back home, I was trying to gauge what the film outline might have looked like. A gangster who wants to ravish English, a call center executive who is hired to teach him the nuances, a secretary that every ‘body’ dreams of, a recovery agent with a Tendulkar itch (ironically, Bachchan has the itch while Bhaiyyaji wields the bat in the film!)—it all must have sounded quite hunky dory on paper. But when it came to execution, after all those 'the' in the film (the opening credits say The Akshay Kumar, The Anil Kapoor…), the only 'the' you crave for throughout the 2 hr and 45 minutes is 'The End'.


In fact, to think of it, this film might have started a whole new movement, after Dadaism, called 'The-The-ism!'

Color, Contrast, and Commonality

If one closely examines Sanjay Leela Bhansali’s body of work, one can’t but fail to notice certain common threads that run through his creations. In all his films his protagonists suffer and its cause lies within them.

From the deaf-mute couple in ‘Khamoshi’, to the love-triangle in HDDCS and the self-destructive ‘Devdas’, Bhansali has crafted pathos as a leitmotif.

Add to this the fact that with every film his vision has grown more lavish, more opulent, and more grandiose. So, his work has grown in scale, but what about the growth of the filmmaker as an artist, one might ask? 

In several of his interviews, Bhansali himself has mentioned that he had given this point a thought. And the response that he has come up with—‘Black’—is a piece of work that has continued his growth curve by taking the opposite route. 

It is like two ends of a string that point in different directions, but come together to attain completion. So, from the atrociously meretricious, he has resorted to the sublimely minimalist to complete a circle—the circle of evolution, life, and vision of an artist.

In its essence, ‘Black’ is a spiritual film. It deals with confinement, freedom, and miracles. (Notice the cross symbol on the car window towards the beginning of the film and the same in the asylum room towards the end). It deals with two characters who share commonalities by being perfect opposites in the same manner as two ends of a string. One is the deaf-blind-mute Michelle McNally (Rani) and the other her tutor Debraj Sahai (Amitabh).

Throughout the film, Bhansali has fused together apparent opposites to evolve a similarity, and, sometimes, a third aspect out of them. It is this sense of dualism that lifts 'Black' to the domain of a classic. Hence, Michelle is a child, while Debraj is at the twilight of his life. But both are equally arrogant, obstinate and headstrong. 

The similarity between the two is made even more apparent in the sequences when we see Debraj and Michelle for the first time. A now adult Michelle, accompanied by her sister Sara, finds her tutor seated at the fountain near her house, his back turned towards the camera. (This is also the exact place where Debraj, albeit in an unorthodox manner, led to Michelle’s first tryst with the joy of a spoken word). That is precisely the manner in which we first see the baby Michelle, with her back towards us, being cajoled by her mother Catherine (Shernaz Patel).

Both had turned away from life. But in doing so, they faced each other.

Our first meeting with the child Michelle (Ayesha Kapoor) is accompanied by the jingling sound of tin cans tied to her waist. When we meet Debraj, he is lighting a bulb which is ‘dying’. Their connection is bound that moment on—they bring back in each other’s lives the light of life and the sound of recognition.

While Michelle spends her life in eternal darkness, Debraj is equally blinded by a white room with white walls and streaming light. Michelle’s parents tied a bell round her waist to know of her whereabouts; an Alzheimer’s ridden Debraj was bound by chains. One was lost in eternal darkness from her birth; the other lost his way in the same darkness when he was old. The circle is complete.

The film has a predominance of black, grey, blues, and browns. The first few endeavors that Debraj makes to lend a hand to the disturbed child at communicating from his dark world all deal with white—be it eating rice with a spoon or trying to understand what a napkin is. Later on they both dance ecstatically to celebrate a snowfall.

But Bhansali has not stuck to these hues; he has deviated and done so on several occasions. From the red wine when Sara makes a heart-wrenching speech about her sister, who she admits to be more than envious of; to the red flowers that Michelle brushes against, when she utters her first ever word; the red dress that she wears the night she encounters passion; and, finally, the red ribbon on the certificate that bore testimony to the realization of her life-long dream—Bhansali has masterfully used red as a harbinger of change in Michelle’s life.

The dualism continues in the usage of water as well. What was feared once becomes the source of wonder—'water' happens to be one of the first words that baby Michelle learns. Towards the end of the film, when Michelle opens a new world for Debraj and stretches out his hand, he feels and learns the same word. There are tears of joy welling from his eyes as he retraces one step to the world he once knew. There is an indescribably poignant wordless sequence between the teacher and the pupil, each in a world that are eons apart, but they still connect—through the language of touch.

Black is generally associated with negativity, sorrow, and loss. But from the very first sequence itself, Bhansali has rendered banal such a significance. In fact, he turns it into a color pregnant with promise, just as the darkest part of the night is right before the crack of dawn. It is the color of success and achievement, as made clear in the graduation uniform that Michelle wears with pride. It is also the color that we emerge from and the color that we disappear into. Hence, the beginning and end are one and the same—they are similar by being opposites. 

What brings the two ends together is the story of our lives. And 'Black' is an extraordinary story.

Someone once said that the blind are those who touch words and feel words touch them back. 'Black' happens to be a film that shares the same trait. 

P.S. Even though I own a VCD of this film, I have watched it only once, in the theatre, when it was released in 2005. This piece was written the day after. I have never watched the film again primarily because I was apprehensive that the feelings it evoked will get diluted when my analytical prowess (which was bound to appear during a subsequent viewing) superseded the strong emotional connect I felt the first time round. Sometimes, emotions need to be treasured.