Rahul Desai

“A manhole cleaner and vegetable vendor fall in love during secret meetings in a train bathroom” is a great one-liner. Especially for an indie made on a shoestring budget. Especially in an India that’s gotten too real and complicated for love stories to make sense. It’s even better if said India then gatecrashes the love story, revealing why the title contains the term “Ki Kahani (the story of)” rather than the Bollywood-coded “Ki Prem Kahani (the love story of)”. With those like Pinaki (Sanjay Bishnoi) and Mariyam (Eshita Singh), it’s not falling for each other that’s the conflict; it’s the audacity to fall for each other that is.

The opening minutes of Vadh 2 feature a surprisingly tender moment. It’s past midnight in a prison complex in the wilderness of Madhya Pradesh. A wall separates the female and male wards. Manju Singh (Neena Gupta), a senior inmate of 28 years, sits on one side of the wall and chats with Shambunath Mishra (Sanjay Mishra), a long-time constable, from the other side. It’s a ‘blind’ date of sorts; they can’t see each other, but it’s a routine etched from decades of familiarity (he’s the official bootlegger) and friendship (her friends refer to him as her “aashiq”). Under the stars, they discuss each other’s life now. Her term is ending and she doesn’t want to leave; he speaks of loneliness and offers her a bottle on his birthday. You feel for the old ‘couple’: united by shackles, divided by freedom. They could be a film on their own. One of the merits of Vadh 2 is that it never loses sight of this little film. It’s a moment that echoes across a story that keeps expanding: a moment that keeps reclaiming the eyes of companionship from the jaws of a crime thriller.

Sam Raimi’s Send Help stars Rachel McAdams as Linda Liddle, a disgruntled corporate employee who finds herself stranded on an island with the sexist young CEO of the company after his private jet crashes into the ocean. She’s the better survivalist (Survival is literally her favourite reality series), so the power dynamic is reversed on the island — and she starts to enjoy it a bit too much. Her injured but smug boss, Bradley, begins to rely on her like the volleyball Wilson might have depended on Tom Hanks in Cast Away. She likes his dependence. At some point, the two even threaten to enter romcom territory, what with the days and weeks of cohabiting and building sheds and cooking and hunting together. That’s how it goes: the two enemies fall in love, and their differences are fetishised.

By now, it’s clear that the Mardaani franchise — which revolves around supercop SSP Shivani Shivaji Rao (Rani Mukerji) and her patriarchy-smashing badassery — is known for its villains. Not unlike the other baddie-steals-the-show YRF action franchise, Dhoom. Unlike the Dhoom movies, though, the Mardaani trademark is that it handpicks relatively anonymous (male) talent and propels them into the limelight. Mardaani (2014) thrived on its slick and urban Wall Street-capitalist-coded mastermind; Tahir Raj Bhasin made quite the splash. Mardaani 2 (2019) pivoted to the opposite end of the spectrum; it relied on a light-eyed hinterland psychopath, gamely played by Vishal Jethwa. Given that these characters are largely created and written by men, it’s perhaps by design that they outshine the star of these movies.

I like how Daldal opens. A woman is seated with her older friend at a local bakery. She does not look pleased; they’re discussing a love poem written by a boy across from them. Her friend teases her. They’re used to his lecherous gaze. Suddenly the two women get a call and leave. We soon learn that they were actually ACP Rita Ferrera (Bhumi Pednekar) and sub-inspector Indu Mhatre (the ever-watchable Geeta Agrawal Sharma) waiting to raid a brothel in Mumbai’s red-light area. The boy was actually a student, because Rita had infiltrated the area as an undercover teacher. It’s one thing for Rita to pretend to be someone else, it’s another for the series itself to pretend that she’s someone else. After the raid, we see her come home to a fiancè cooking dinner. He brings her some wine. We expect her to soften. Within seconds, we learn that this is, in fact, a couple on the verge of separation; one of them is moving out. This is a recurring trick — it shows us the expectation panel before hitting us with reality. It’s like even the camera is not in on the illusion: it bakes the average Indian viewer’s conditioning and gaze into the film-making. This extends to the end of the episode. The dual identity of a killer is revealed; the victims, too, seem to be older males who hide behind the veil of virtue.

In Tumbbad director Rahi Anil Barve’s second film, stories are told in a cinema hall. Quite literally. A few characters reminisce, rage, narrate, perform and lie in a decrepit Mumbai movie theater named Mayasabha; they may be projecting, but the blank screen is witness to the telling and untelling of their stories. The place looks halfway abandoned between suffocating reality and misty mythology: like a penniless single-screen auditorium that gave up on its own allegorical significance (as Mahabharata’s Hall of Illusions). It is also “home” to a once-famous and now-unhinged film producer, Parmeshwar Kumar (Jaaved Jaaferi). He lives in the past but scoffs at history.

When Chandrayaan-3 nailed the first-ever soft landing on the South Pole of the moon in 2023, all I could think of was the mad scramble of studios to secure the rights to ISRO’s remarkable feat. I could almost sense it happening in real time. It didn’t take long for the child-coded euphoria to make way for an adult-coded wariness — who’s going to pitch first? Who’s going to overcook the perfectly good story? Who’s going to make the unglamorous heroes speak to each other like human ChatGPT apps? It felt inevitable, given the tailor-made ingredients: science, space, patriotism, spaced-out patriotism, a budget less than Nolan’s Interstellar, New India, first-world villains, a moon that doesn’t resemble Swiss cheese. TVF wasn’t on my Creator bingo card, but their slate has often used popular appeal to conceal themes of social conservatism and compliance over the years. Ironically, the current ‘2016 viral trend’ would flash back to TVF as the first movers and harbingers of Indian web storytelling. But space is not their jam; the future is not their cup of (mainstream) tea.

The “Supreme” in Marty Supreme has dual connotations. The obvious one is that here’s an underdog hero who will stop at nothing to achieve sporting supremacy. Marty Mauser will be an anti-hero, a hustler, a fraud, a narcissist and whoever it takes to summon his destiny of being world champion. Usually, such protagonists have to overcome the system with talent and grit. Here, the talent and grit are almost incidental. It is assumed he has those, so he’d rather game the system in the language of those who run it. As a Jewish shoe salesman in 1950s New York in a post-Holocaust world, he is accustomed to selling his identity more than proving it. America and table tennis are merely his mediums to be seen; he is neither patriotic nor a purist. If he’s an allegory for the entitlement of US capitalism and the illusion of the American Dream — where he upends multiple lives and puts everyone at risk to get what he wants — so be it.