Prathyush Parasuraman

One of the strange symptoms of our current climate is an inability to distinguish between ironic and unironic love. When I ask friends who have paid for and partaken in Himesh Reshammiya’s Cap Mania concert, if they are enjoying the music or the performance of a collective exercise in irony, the answers confuse me, because the distinction seems hard to make. The question of what to do with celebrities of irony is itching, because they are people who become known for their upfront, unapologetic silliness. We enjoy their audacity. We cringe at the expression of it. Why do we love Rakhi Sawant? Urvashi Rautela? What primal instinct for trash do they accomplish? Perhaps, trash has a street credit that Satyajit Ray simply cannot compete with, a counter-canon kind of joy that insists on and prides itself in being outside of what is considered tasteful and tactful.

With big, puppy dog eyes and an angular nose that could crater dimples into cheeks, facial hair that hoods over his lips, nimble legs that slip into skinny pants, a bicep wide enough to hold a strange tattoo of his dead mother as a mermaid, and a mop of hair so thick and wild, it requires its own continuity supervisor, actor Harish Kalyan finds the pitch of his character in Diesel, Vasu or Diesel Vasu, somewhere between the charming boy from a romantic film and the vengeful hero from an action one, between the lithe dance movements of Vijay and the handsome, brooding anger of Surya, not quite either, not quite both.

Maybe the Polish poet Czeslaw Milosz was right—“When a writer is born into a family, the family is finished.” Artists look at their past as grist they can reframe on their terms. And this anxiety of re-writing one’s personal history sometimes shines through—the best memoirs are, after all, shameless and transgressive, and timid are those that cave under the weight of this trespassing anxiety. or writer-director Anoop Lokkur’s debut Kannada feature Don’t Tell Mother, which had its world premiere at the 30th Busan International Film Festival, this anxiety has been swept aside and muscled under by nostalgia. Set in Jayanagar, Bangalore in the 1990s—a significant Brahmin bastion—the film follows two siblings, Akaash (Siddharth Swaroop) and Adi (Anirudh P. Keserker), young boys inching towards self-hood, as they make space for their childhood alongside punctures of parental influence and interference, school-day routines, classmate cacophony, and the sudden calls and catfights with neighbourhood friends. They live next to a mosque, so the azaan becomes part of their life’s sounds—one the film makes forceful, by cutting to images of the chanting minarets. (In a post-Babri 1990s, when the Infosys IPO is being launched, you feel the film will say more about this, but it doesn’t, and lets these images, like that of Muharram, puncture the proceedings as a form of spectacle without discourse.)

A weepy gay man is a genre unto himself, moping throughout, a smile as though kryptonite, whose relationship to life is mediated by melancholy and self pity, a melancholy and self pity that gushes from the wellspring of his wounded sexuality. Valid or not, this misery is templated. Writer-director Rohan Parashuram Kanawade’s Sabar Bonda (Cactus Pears), the first-ever Marathi-language feature to premiere at the Sundance Film Festival 2025 as part of their World Cinema Dramatic Competition, both deploys and destabilises this genre. Here, the melancholy of Anand (Bhushaan Manoj), the queer protagonist, is actually grief — his father passed away, and it is under the shade of this grief that the story of his sexuality stretches itself in a quiet, twilled yawn.

It is irritating when religious people use science to explain faith—the language of energy, Einstein, vibrations, frequency etc. to rationalise how blessings and prayers work, for example. (If your prayer is an action, the blessing is the equal and opposite reaction, so the lore goes) Faith operates on a logic that is different from science, and appropriating the language of reason to express the contours of belief, is like demanding the heart to breathe. It is also why the religious film and the science fiction film have been kept apart, because their pursuits, pitch, and parlance seem to walk in different directions. That was until Hanu-Man starring Teja Sajja last year blew those borders apart, to tell a story that, though riddled with the flaws of both genres—too much faith, too much reason—was also packed with the joys of those genres—the joyful imagination, the pungent staging. It built its mythical world on the quirky possibilities of our present, remember the women pickling in the backdrop of a pulping?

The most terrifying stretch of growing up is between the feeling that you are the only one who is going through life—masturbation, bleeding, heaving, wet dreams, shattered hearts—to knowing, no, there are others, too, who are transgressing. “Naan yen ippudi irukkein? (Why am I like this?),” a frustrated, teenaged Ramya (Anjali Sivaraman) asks herself as Bad Girl opens, and you think the film will iron out this misconception—that no, she isn’t alone. But Bad Girl’s preoccupation is elsewhere. The central protagonist of the film, also its central hurdle, Ramya pulls the film from her high-school years, to college, to her early thirties, roughly more than a decade. The film begins frenetically, moving swiftly between her inner and outer world—dialogues delivered in the same decibel—between mid-shots and close-ups, between dreams and reality, life-rooted and life-fabulated. Even the close-ups are wide, rushing the whole world into the image of her face in the trembling foreground.

I suppose the first thing you need to know about Mayasabha is that it is an incomplete show—like most shows these days, hungering for your attention to make you watch their second season, they forget to complete the first. So, before you strap on for this nine-episode saga, know there will be nine more. How has this become common practice among the streamers? Imagine being pushed out of a theatre post interval, and being told that this is all we get to see for now—come later, pay again, for more. They have collectively ruined storytelling as an art form, fracturing it into parts that can be sold cheaply at the marketplace for attention. Mayasabha, also like most shows today, is written with a lethargic hand and an unexcited imagination, beginning with a high-stakes, political, livewire moment, only to recede into a long, winding flashback. We will not return to that high-stakes moment in this season—that is for later.