Volver, Pedro Almodovar’s latest venture opens to action which shifts between his hometown of La Mancha and a working class neighbourhood in Madrid but in sooth the film is situated in the sort of Almodovarian world his followers have grown to love over the last two decades- where every room and street corner is saturated with bright color and there is a dash of red in every mis-en-scene alongwith vivid and discordant feelings of violence, pain and love.
With Volver, he abandons the dark terrain of his male-centric films like Live Flesh, Matador and Bad Education to revisit the woman-centered territory of his films like Women On The Verge Of A Nervous Breakdown and All About My Mother. His women are hearty, self-possesing and compassionate despite the monstrous abuses that plague their lives. They live in a world nearly free from prejudice, luminous and optimistic. He loves his women characters and watches over them like a guardian angel (sometimes literally with top shots), generously handing the film over to his actresses who shoulder its weight almost entirely and easily on their gorgeous shoulders. The film may be reminiscence of the early American Feminist ideas of sisterhood but Almodovar’s greatest source of inspiration is clearly his own childhood memories of being brought up by women in a patriarchal and gender-divided world of fascist Spain.
With the years the enfant terrible’s films have become more self assured and simpler with lesser intricate parallel plots or flashbacks and more structural niceties. Also missing is the wild overt sexuality of previous films like Tie Me Up, Tie Me Down; but the essential quirkiness that accentuates his work is intact in this film as ever.
The film deals with death in the most natural way treating it as just another human state and liberating it from the clutches of heightened tragedy. The directors violent rebellion against the church is less pronounced but puts in an appearance nonetheless as he indulges the idea of resurrection of body. One of the central characters long thought dead reappears and expresses her desire to color and style her hair before she can elucidate the more mstical reasons for her return.
The plot is full of twists and turns, secrets and mysteries- embroiling cancer, incest, ghosts, murder and the ills of tv. It is often improbable but that is of little concern given that it is merely a tool for the director to get to the heart of his matter- the soul and spirit of women.
And in laying bare their soul, he lays bare the soul of Spain through History. In a blink and miss shot there are turbines that dot the skyline. Clearly much has changed in La Mancha from the times of Quixote’s windmills but the essence of the small town- its superstitions and madness are preserved as if from the times of Cervantes.
Volver means coming back and true to its name the film marks the coming back of this unsurpassable Spanish master to his home town, his comedic roots, to Carmen Maura who he casts for the first time after a fallout 16 yrs ago but most importantly to the world of women he has created with his previous films- a world where they survive boisterously balancing reality and romance- The only of its kind where it is always great to be a woman.
(The article originally appeared in Mumbai Mirror)
Monday, September 8, 2008
An Inconvinient Truth- The beginning of tomorrow
Davis Guggenheim’s documentary on global warming takes us through a power-point lecture-demonstration that Al-Gore, (America’s ex-presidential candidate), has been presenting world over. This is interspersed with stark, arresting images of the effects of the phenomenon worldwide and occasionally a glimpse from Gore’s personal journey. With the lec-dem taking the lion’s share of the 96 minutes, the film comes across more as an educational tool than a cinema-verite feature. But it is this no-nonsense realism that makes the film an ideal vehicle for its very pressing issues.
Contrary to misconception the film is not about Al-Gore. Although it is as enriched as compromised by his association. He is the known face of the film and perhaps its main draw. But it cannot be overlooked that some very urgent facts stand to be dismissed as politically motivated simply because he is presenting them.
However, Gore comes prepared for the potential attack. He presents his arguments without being patronizing, boring or dry.
Gore never cosily assumes that we’re with him in accepting the theory, and instead lays out the evidence piece by comprehensible piece to build to a conclusion that is hard to dispute.
He has all the graphs and charts and time-lapsed photographs and peer-reviewed scientific studies he needs to underscore his message about where the planet is heading. He debunks the theory that these changes are “cyclical” and confronts head-on the “doubts” skeptics may have about the issue.
In the course of Gore’s lecture tour comes the unsurprising news that Bush aide Philip Cooney routinely red-penciled the conclusions of impartial government scientists; when exposed, he resigned and took a job with ExxonMobil. But despite his clear agenda, Gore is careful not to turn this film into a party-political broadcast for Al Gore or the US Democratic party. He presents saving the planet as a moral, cross-party, worldwide issue rather than casting stones at the current US administration (despite the fact that he has good reason to). Facts and observations that could point a direct finger are few, far-between and presented objectively. The closest he gets to political commentary is to rhetorically ask, “Is it possible we should prepare for any threats other than terrorism?”
That’s not to say that the film is flawless. It is conveniently soft on its examination of the Clinton-Gore administration’s less than glowing record on the environment. And it does put Gore on a pedestal, with interludes about his personal history that feel less than relevant and carefully designed to elicit sympathy for the man. That said, his spiritual journey is indeed transparent and compelling in its own right.
The film is by no means all you need to know about global warming, but like all good pedagogy, whets the appetite for further study, which is a very desirable achievement in this case.
Besides, is ultimately hard to fault a film that for all its dismal urgency does not leave you devastated by its implications. Gore ends the film with a series of practical solutions for the problem, convincing you that you can do something about it.
It is surprisingly absorbing for its format and even entertaining in bits, no less thanks to Gore’s disarming sprinklings of humour. He introduces himself saying, “I used to be the next president of the USofA.” One can only hope he gets the vote on this one.
(The article originally appeared in Mumbai Mirror)
Contrary to misconception the film is not about Al-Gore. Although it is as enriched as compromised by his association. He is the known face of the film and perhaps its main draw. But it cannot be overlooked that some very urgent facts stand to be dismissed as politically motivated simply because he is presenting them.
However, Gore comes prepared for the potential attack. He presents his arguments without being patronizing, boring or dry.
Gore never cosily assumes that we’re with him in accepting the theory, and instead lays out the evidence piece by comprehensible piece to build to a conclusion that is hard to dispute.
He has all the graphs and charts and time-lapsed photographs and peer-reviewed scientific studies he needs to underscore his message about where the planet is heading. He debunks the theory that these changes are “cyclical” and confronts head-on the “doubts” skeptics may have about the issue.
In the course of Gore’s lecture tour comes the unsurprising news that Bush aide Philip Cooney routinely red-penciled the conclusions of impartial government scientists; when exposed, he resigned and took a job with ExxonMobil. But despite his clear agenda, Gore is careful not to turn this film into a party-political broadcast for Al Gore or the US Democratic party. He presents saving the planet as a moral, cross-party, worldwide issue rather than casting stones at the current US administration (despite the fact that he has good reason to). Facts and observations that could point a direct finger are few, far-between and presented objectively. The closest he gets to political commentary is to rhetorically ask, “Is it possible we should prepare for any threats other than terrorism?”
That’s not to say that the film is flawless. It is conveniently soft on its examination of the Clinton-Gore administration’s less than glowing record on the environment. And it does put Gore on a pedestal, with interludes about his personal history that feel less than relevant and carefully designed to elicit sympathy for the man. That said, his spiritual journey is indeed transparent and compelling in its own right.
The film is by no means all you need to know about global warming, but like all good pedagogy, whets the appetite for further study, which is a very desirable achievement in this case.
Besides, is ultimately hard to fault a film that for all its dismal urgency does not leave you devastated by its implications. Gore ends the film with a series of practical solutions for the problem, convincing you that you can do something about it.
It is surprisingly absorbing for its format and even entertaining in bits, no less thanks to Gore’s disarming sprinklings of humour. He introduces himself saying, “I used to be the next president of the USofA.” One can only hope he gets the vote on this one.
(The article originally appeared in Mumbai Mirror)
Tendulkar Ani Hinsa- deconstructing Vijay
Atul Pethe’s documentary explores the overt and covert expressions of violence in Tendulkar’s plays like Ghashiram Kotwal, Gidhade, Sakharam Binder and Shantata by piecing together interviews of the man himself and his famous contemporaries like Vijaya Mehta, Dr. Lagoo, Nilu Phule, G.P.Deshpande, Ram Bapat and Satyadev Dubey.
The presentation and format of the film is elementary but the investigation aims to be thorough. The idea is to understand the influences and process of thought, philosophy and creation in a man who is nothing short of a legend of our times.
His contemporaries mostly discuss their understanding of his works from a close vantage point. The real fodder for thought is in their more critical bytes, largely because those are the only quarters from which criticism against Tendulkar will be tolerated in the literary circles. His supporters have gradually turned as vehement as his detractors used to be when he emerged as a radical provocateur of social conscience in the 50’s. Bapat and Mehta in particular do not mince words in expressing their opinion on his reluctance to take more active ideological stands on issues.
Tendulkar himself speaks with practiced candour on his writing. He is not afraid of being questioned or judged but the interviewer Makrand Sathe, for all his research stops short of digging for more than enthusiasts already know.
Tendulkar was foremost, a journalist. This is reflected in the absence of absurdity, cynicism and even a pointed stand in some of his works. Not all his plays were masterpieces. Even those that were may have lost some sheen to sentimentality and time. But they remain important as works that reflect the history, psychology and morality of a society and its art through the most important years in the birth of our nation.
The real meat is in some rare archival footage of his plays and the moments when we can look over a writer we know to see a man who inspires with what he reveals and conceals. The real ‘greatness’ of Tendulkar lies in being a middle class man who dared to question and did not let the stature of his legend overshadow his quest to make sense out of our times. There is a strong case to be made in favour of imbibing that spirit irrespective of what talent one may have or lack. He believed that the important thing was to observe- anyone could write.
In the film, he is still growing, assimilating, thinking and angry- as alive as most people can only aspire to be. That is why watching this film a month or so after his demise might pinch. Death rarely takes away so much.
(The article originally appeared in Mumbai Mirror)
The presentation and format of the film is elementary but the investigation aims to be thorough. The idea is to understand the influences and process of thought, philosophy and creation in a man who is nothing short of a legend of our times.
His contemporaries mostly discuss their understanding of his works from a close vantage point. The real fodder for thought is in their more critical bytes, largely because those are the only quarters from which criticism against Tendulkar will be tolerated in the literary circles. His supporters have gradually turned as vehement as his detractors used to be when he emerged as a radical provocateur of social conscience in the 50’s. Bapat and Mehta in particular do not mince words in expressing their opinion on his reluctance to take more active ideological stands on issues.
Tendulkar himself speaks with practiced candour on his writing. He is not afraid of being questioned or judged but the interviewer Makrand Sathe, for all his research stops short of digging for more than enthusiasts already know.
Tendulkar was foremost, a journalist. This is reflected in the absence of absurdity, cynicism and even a pointed stand in some of his works. Not all his plays were masterpieces. Even those that were may have lost some sheen to sentimentality and time. But they remain important as works that reflect the history, psychology and morality of a society and its art through the most important years in the birth of our nation.
The real meat is in some rare archival footage of his plays and the moments when we can look over a writer we know to see a man who inspires with what he reveals and conceals. The real ‘greatness’ of Tendulkar lies in being a middle class man who dared to question and did not let the stature of his legend overshadow his quest to make sense out of our times. There is a strong case to be made in favour of imbibing that spirit irrespective of what talent one may have or lack. He believed that the important thing was to observe- anyone could write.
In the film, he is still growing, assimilating, thinking and angry- as alive as most people can only aspire to be. That is why watching this film a month or so after his demise might pinch. Death rarely takes away so much.
(The article originally appeared in Mumbai Mirror)
John And Jane- Twisted Tongues
At some point in Ashim Ahluwalia’s many award winner, John and Jane, a call centre trainer recounts the core ‘values’ of the average American - privacy, progress, sense of achievement, patriotism, pursuit of happiness and individualism. The rest of the film echoes the hollowness of these very words in the context of call centre employees in Mumbai catering to clients half the world away in an alien accent with alien names.
The film observes the lives of 6 young Mumbaikars who are negotiating with the humiliations and perks of a call centre job and hoping to ride on it to a place far away from their murky existences.
Now much has been said about the disquieting colonialisation by the American dream and the terrifying loss of cultural identity and pride in a country eager to immerse itself in the globalization and growth agenda vis-à-vis the BPO situation. If this film stands out it is because its form is engaging, impressionistic and immaculately controlled. It lays out its characters precisely and gently, trying as best as art can, not to judge, sympathize or appear voyeuristic. Lovingly framed images create a dreamlike edgy world, ready to host the strange lives of a generation caught between itself and pre-packaged well-being.
Naturally the film was well received abroad by critics and audiences tantalizingly intrigued and satisfactorily moved by the discovery that their annoying telemarketers have a name, face and disturbing lives in cramped decaying apartments to go with it. But if you live in Mumbai this Powai-Malad reality is about as shocking as the leper that hammers at your car window for a buck at traffic signals. The odd shifts, assumed names and accents cannot keep it from flowing into the mouth of the mainstream Bombay story. The American dream is indistinguishable from its Indian version today and Ahluwalia’s protagonists are aspiring for and struggling with the same things that afflict most of the city’s youth irrespective of where and who they are working for. Bombay has distorted politically and culturally the identity of its inhabitants as it has infused with possibilities the idea of India. It promises what it does on its own terms and leaves you scampering for an inner anchor. There are two ways to deal with its extremes - smoke pot and abuse like Glen does or dream with naïve denial about the promise of a better tomorrow like Irani does.
Either way, the film’s characters are going to mirror more the lives of you and your friends than a unique disposition created by the economic exchange between India and America. And unless it moves someone enough to take on the forces of globalization or abandon it all and move to the mountains, its greatest use will be to provide you with the comfort of knowing that in this city lonely as you might be, you’re never alone in your soup.
(The article originally apppeared in Mumbai Mirror)
The film observes the lives of 6 young Mumbaikars who are negotiating with the humiliations and perks of a call centre job and hoping to ride on it to a place far away from their murky existences.
Now much has been said about the disquieting colonialisation by the American dream and the terrifying loss of cultural identity and pride in a country eager to immerse itself in the globalization and growth agenda vis-à-vis the BPO situation. If this film stands out it is because its form is engaging, impressionistic and immaculately controlled. It lays out its characters precisely and gently, trying as best as art can, not to judge, sympathize or appear voyeuristic. Lovingly framed images create a dreamlike edgy world, ready to host the strange lives of a generation caught between itself and pre-packaged well-being.
Naturally the film was well received abroad by critics and audiences tantalizingly intrigued and satisfactorily moved by the discovery that their annoying telemarketers have a name, face and disturbing lives in cramped decaying apartments to go with it. But if you live in Mumbai this Powai-Malad reality is about as shocking as the leper that hammers at your car window for a buck at traffic signals. The odd shifts, assumed names and accents cannot keep it from flowing into the mouth of the mainstream Bombay story. The American dream is indistinguishable from its Indian version today and Ahluwalia’s protagonists are aspiring for and struggling with the same things that afflict most of the city’s youth irrespective of where and who they are working for. Bombay has distorted politically and culturally the identity of its inhabitants as it has infused with possibilities the idea of India. It promises what it does on its own terms and leaves you scampering for an inner anchor. There are two ways to deal with its extremes - smoke pot and abuse like Glen does or dream with naïve denial about the promise of a better tomorrow like Irani does.
Either way, the film’s characters are going to mirror more the lives of you and your friends than a unique disposition created by the economic exchange between India and America. And unless it moves someone enough to take on the forces of globalization or abandon it all and move to the mountains, its greatest use will be to provide you with the comfort of knowing that in this city lonely as you might be, you’re never alone in your soup.
(The article originally apppeared in Mumbai Mirror)
HRIDAYATTEIEYKKU ORU MADAKAYATHRA - Father Land
Hridayatteieykku Oru Madakayathra (directed by Abhinand Kumar) is a simple story of conflict between a father and son on a personal level, and tradition and progress and civilizations on the other. A young man defies his father’s wish to see him don the colours of Kathakali and takes a journey to the west in search of a ‘better’ life.
As the title suggests the film traces his path back home. Given the constraints of time, there is but a couple of lines from his letters that convey the disenchantment that precedes his return. The reasons are predictable and personal- a broken relationship and such, at least on the surface. The lack of incisive detailing is partly compensated for by leaving room for the imagination to take in a range of emotions.
The screenplay of the film is pleasantly clever in places. A journalist is used as a device for the father to deliver a touching monologue on his dying art and the camera pans over various stages of his applying dramatic makeup to create engrossing visuals for the voiceover of the son’s letters home. The brevity of expression of the last shot is emphatic and skilful.
But for all the ways in which the film milks the short film genre, there is a feeling of incompleteness that lingers. The audience is witness to a journey but not a participant in it. It is a relief that the film does not subscribe to the commonplace twist in the tale formula ever so popular in the genre, but perhaps falters in choosing a subject that envisages a not just a great depth but also a formidable width of human issues.
(The article originally appeared in Mumbai Mirror)
As the title suggests the film traces his path back home. Given the constraints of time, there is but a couple of lines from his letters that convey the disenchantment that precedes his return. The reasons are predictable and personal- a broken relationship and such, at least on the surface. The lack of incisive detailing is partly compensated for by leaving room for the imagination to take in a range of emotions.
The screenplay of the film is pleasantly clever in places. A journalist is used as a device for the father to deliver a touching monologue on his dying art and the camera pans over various stages of his applying dramatic makeup to create engrossing visuals for the voiceover of the son’s letters home. The brevity of expression of the last shot is emphatic and skilful.
But for all the ways in which the film milks the short film genre, there is a feeling of incompleteness that lingers. The audience is witness to a journey but not a participant in it. It is a relief that the film does not subscribe to the commonplace twist in the tale formula ever so popular in the genre, but perhaps falters in choosing a subject that envisages a not just a great depth but also a formidable width of human issues.
(The article originally appeared in Mumbai Mirror)
Jashne Azadi- The Apple That Fell Out Of Menon's Basket
Last week police officials seized copies of Jashn-e-azadi minutes before its screening for a handful of cineastes. Their accusation- the film is controversial and sensitive. But how can a film on Kashmir be otherwise?
Kak’s film begins with asking what India’s independence means to the people of Kashmir. Clearly not much given that the streets during flag hoisting are completely deserted. The journey from this point explores some of the probable reasons for this boycott. The camera takes in the beauty of the valley that mocks at the ruins of the city and the broken spirits of those left to mourn the ever increasing tribe of the dead. The harsh testimonies of grave diggers, PTSD patients and civil rights activists are punctuated by poetry from the land. These voices hoarse with pain, underpin the essential lament of the film. Why should there be any Indian worth his claim on Kashmir then who will grudge this film its portrayal of plight?
Many argue that the film ignores the massacre and consequential exodus of Kashmiri pandits from the valley after a token mention. But a filmmaker is free to choose his focus. The validity of his representation of those who are left in the valley should not be conditional to the representation of anything else.
However, the arguments in favour of the film’s objectivity are compromised perhaps by its commentary. The infinite layers of social, historical, human and political debate which the frames reveal are oversimplified by a narration which does not attempt political correctness. “Domination is not victory”, the narrator reiterates. In this context, speeches by JKLF leaders and other such radicals acquire a tinge of support even though there is some attempt to bring out the rehabilitation work the army claims to be involved in. The questions about the dignity of a people made to prove their identities in their own land are most perturbing. But within the ambit of this subject perhaps falls the role of Pakistan in fuelling the unrest and the balancing act of an underpaid army constantly at war with an unseen enemy. By denying space to these, the film risks taking an unqualified pro separatist stand without empathizing with the quandary of a nation who could be faced with 28 such very bloody demands in the future.
But political debates cannot outweigh the humanitarian and artistic concerns of a film which highlights the pathos of people living in the shadow of guns, vanquished and hopeless. Freedom of expression is a right qualified by public safety and security by law. But in this case there is hardly a security issue. The intellectual level at which this film speaks can only incite public debate which is the need of the hour.
A letter from a senior inspector of police asks the filmmaker to obtain a censor certificate before screening the film anywhere. The law is dead letter and for years it has been interpreted to suppress human rights. The area between public screenings (which require censor clearance) and private ones is grey, and therein lay the scope to interpret the law in favor of liberalism for once. But the verdict in this case has been announced without a trial. The censor board will be another battle for the filmmaker against democratorship.
(This article originally appeared in Mumbai Mirror)
Kak’s film begins with asking what India’s independence means to the people of Kashmir. Clearly not much given that the streets during flag hoisting are completely deserted. The journey from this point explores some of the probable reasons for this boycott. The camera takes in the beauty of the valley that mocks at the ruins of the city and the broken spirits of those left to mourn the ever increasing tribe of the dead. The harsh testimonies of grave diggers, PTSD patients and civil rights activists are punctuated by poetry from the land. These voices hoarse with pain, underpin the essential lament of the film. Why should there be any Indian worth his claim on Kashmir then who will grudge this film its portrayal of plight?
Many argue that the film ignores the massacre and consequential exodus of Kashmiri pandits from the valley after a token mention. But a filmmaker is free to choose his focus. The validity of his representation of those who are left in the valley should not be conditional to the representation of anything else.
However, the arguments in favour of the film’s objectivity are compromised perhaps by its commentary. The infinite layers of social, historical, human and political debate which the frames reveal are oversimplified by a narration which does not attempt political correctness. “Domination is not victory”, the narrator reiterates. In this context, speeches by JKLF leaders and other such radicals acquire a tinge of support even though there is some attempt to bring out the rehabilitation work the army claims to be involved in. The questions about the dignity of a people made to prove their identities in their own land are most perturbing. But within the ambit of this subject perhaps falls the role of Pakistan in fuelling the unrest and the balancing act of an underpaid army constantly at war with an unseen enemy. By denying space to these, the film risks taking an unqualified pro separatist stand without empathizing with the quandary of a nation who could be faced with 28 such very bloody demands in the future.
But political debates cannot outweigh the humanitarian and artistic concerns of a film which highlights the pathos of people living in the shadow of guns, vanquished and hopeless. Freedom of expression is a right qualified by public safety and security by law. But in this case there is hardly a security issue. The intellectual level at which this film speaks can only incite public debate which is the need of the hour.
A letter from a senior inspector of police asks the filmmaker to obtain a censor certificate before screening the film anywhere. The law is dead letter and for years it has been interpreted to suppress human rights. The area between public screenings (which require censor clearance) and private ones is grey, and therein lay the scope to interpret the law in favor of liberalism for once. But the verdict in this case has been announced without a trial. The censor board will be another battle for the filmmaker against democratorship.
(This article originally appeared in Mumbai Mirror)
I Am The Very Beautiful- Scars Ablaze
“International” bar singer Ranu is the plot of Shyamal Karmakar’s film I am the very beautiful. She ‘survives’ the impoverished life of a refugee as a child in Kolkata, an abduction as a teenager, early pregnancy, suicide attempts and a series of broken relationships to emerge as the ‘triumphant’ subject of the film. Her ‘victory’ is elusive even as she struggles to define it in terms of the flat she has procured in Mumbai after ‘hard work’ or the new found ‘respect’ she has among her relatives who once disowned and despised her footloose ways. Yet Ranu is not a tragic character. Somewhere in her subconscious she must know, as her audience will understand, that her real victory lies in her having made her journey.
Karmakar has filmed his subject over six years and edited the material to create a documentary which questions its traditions. Right from the start the filmmaker establishes his intimacy and involvement. He is not a scholar dissecting his subject comprehensively with objectivity and equanimity but a character in the film who makes us a part of his quandary about this woman. He objectifies her, checks her out voyeuristically, gazes at her burnt body compassionately, disbelieves her, attempts to understand her, never letting his audience think he is in a better position than they are. He is determined not to be her saviour in any way and labours to point out that he is as much an exploitative man as any other in Ranu’s life. His relationship with her is less organic and more what he had decided it should be perhaps. But it is important in the scheme of this film, which means well and is conscious of that. It is self assured. As a result it does not attempt to justify, emancipate or patronize Ranu or her like. It does not worry about political correctness either. It is not afraid to barge into Ranu’s world as it is.
Ranu tells the stories of her life, etching out her longing, loss, pride, pathos and abandon. The filmmaker and the audience can never be sure if she is telling the truth and more than once she gives them reason to doubt her (her conversation about age or her education in IIT for instance). But there is no attempt to probe further, for facts and figures are not the point of this film. It is a portrait of Ranu, her unforgettable smile, her inimitable ways; and as the camera gets closer it begins to blur the social and economic boundaries that differentiate her from any other Indian woman. The taboo of what Ranu does for a living cannot hold her story apart for long. Not every Indian woman may have had to prostitute herself but she has fought the double edged sword of dependence, moral dilemmas, ancient traditions, religious sanctions, vulnerability and at times even her own desires to make a small place where she can house her own individual identity. She knows Ranu and will find it easy to join in her celebration.
(The article originally appeared in Mumbai Mirror)
Karmakar has filmed his subject over six years and edited the material to create a documentary which questions its traditions. Right from the start the filmmaker establishes his intimacy and involvement. He is not a scholar dissecting his subject comprehensively with objectivity and equanimity but a character in the film who makes us a part of his quandary about this woman. He objectifies her, checks her out voyeuristically, gazes at her burnt body compassionately, disbelieves her, attempts to understand her, never letting his audience think he is in a better position than they are. He is determined not to be her saviour in any way and labours to point out that he is as much an exploitative man as any other in Ranu’s life. His relationship with her is less organic and more what he had decided it should be perhaps. But it is important in the scheme of this film, which means well and is conscious of that. It is self assured. As a result it does not attempt to justify, emancipate or patronize Ranu or her like. It does not worry about political correctness either. It is not afraid to barge into Ranu’s world as it is.
Ranu tells the stories of her life, etching out her longing, loss, pride, pathos and abandon. The filmmaker and the audience can never be sure if she is telling the truth and more than once she gives them reason to doubt her (her conversation about age or her education in IIT for instance). But there is no attempt to probe further, for facts and figures are not the point of this film. It is a portrait of Ranu, her unforgettable smile, her inimitable ways; and as the camera gets closer it begins to blur the social and economic boundaries that differentiate her from any other Indian woman. The taboo of what Ranu does for a living cannot hold her story apart for long. Not every Indian woman may have had to prostitute herself but she has fought the double edged sword of dependence, moral dilemmas, ancient traditions, religious sanctions, vulnerability and at times even her own desires to make a small place where she can house her own individual identity. She knows Ranu and will find it easy to join in her celebration.
(The article originally appeared in Mumbai Mirror)
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