Rahul Desai

Since deception is the language of a spy thriller, let’s pretend that movies exist entirely in isolation — like an introvert on a Saturday night. Let’s pretend that Dhurandhar, Aditya Dhar’s directorial return after Uri (2019), has absolutely nothing to do with the world around us. (One could argue that it doesn’t, but that’s a mob attack for another day). Let’s also pretend that film criticism is about seeing a movie for what it is, regardless of its moral character or ideology. It’s only fair, given that we all admire great serial killers for being awesome at what they do, legendary dictators for being no-nonsense leaders, wars for being the epitome of courage and technology, and plane crashes for doing tragedy so well.

When it comes to reviewing shows, binge-watching is the default mode of the job. It’s mostly a mad rush to finish all the preview episodes and start writing. There’s no time to be immersed in a universe long enough; the next title is always waiting. So you’re more wired to look for inventive themes and catchy in-points. It’s not often critics get to see a show as it should be seen — steadily, on a drip, one episode at a time, spread over a few days. I had this rare luxury with Real Kashmir Football Club and its eight episodes. Ideal as it sounds, this can go wrong, too; the choice to walk through a show brings with it the risk of losing rhythm and interest. But I found myself ‘waiting’ to watch Real Kashmir Football Club and voluntarily returning to it: during meals, after breaks, before sleeping, between films. Not out of suspense to know what happens next, but out of curiosity to know more. That’s the sign of a rooted and fundamentally sound series. Like a good host, it invites you in without gimmicks and touristy offers, lets you experience it on your own terms, transcends terms like “addictive,” and allows you to establish more of a lived-in relationship. It’s not a perfect bond, but it can be a satisfying one. And it’s kind of fitting for a story set in Kashmir, the one place that cannot be reduced to snap judgments and plain scrutiny.

In Train Dreams, life is but an accruement of endings. Based on Denis Johnson’s 2011 novella, Clint Bentley’s tender fever-dream of a film is rooted in the anonymity of time: an anti-Forrest Gump of sorts. It’s about the kind of man that history is wired to forget: a humble woodlogger and railroad construction worker, a normal husband and father, a survivor and soliloquy, a grafter and griever. A voice-over introduces Robert Grainier (Joel Edgerton) as an orphan in his childhood; it closes with him at 80, having lived and loved and lost and lived in the shadow of loss. He is a reluctant protagonist masquerading as just another person. It’s almost as if the story keeps leaving him behind in the hope that he will catch up.

If you’ve watched enough modern Hindi socials over the years, chances are you’re well-acquainted with its red flags. Especially if the themes sound like hashtags: #DysfunctionalFamily, #Therapy, #MentalHealth, #NobodyIsPerfect, #SeekHelp. The preachiness aside, the stories are often designed to offer solutions to everything short of death (or sometimes even that). If not solutions, then righteous advice at the very least. It’s why I both loved and hated Dil Dhadakne Do (and a show like Made In Heaven); the staging of dysfunctionality and cultural quirks are the fun parts, but there’s always a sense that nothing is beyond repair. Every ‘condition’ is curable. The great thing about Perfect Family is that, over 8 fairly long episodes, it puts itself in a position to humanise the hashtags more than feature-length movies do. Its imperfections have character, and even if the intent is tethered to a message of change and higher wisdom, the show feels like more of a journey than a destination. Which is precisely the anatomy of being “fixed” these days; it’s a process with no beginning and ending.

Conceptually, Kaisi Ye Paheli goes for broke. The 95-minute independent film, written and directed by Ananyabrata Chakravorty, wears the cloak of yet another small-town whodunnit. There’s a death in misty Kalimpong; sullen cop Uttam (Sukant Goel) and his boss, Tamang (Chittaranjan Giri), are flummoxed by the details: a religious girl poisoned by a holy sweet? The theatrical Bondo (Rajit Kapur, always) is summoned from Kolkata by the powers that be; the senior sleuth has a direct line to “Didi,” and behaves like he’s an amalgamation of Byomkesh Bakshi and Feluda in his head. Meanwhile, Uttam’s home situation is complicated — he resents his widowed mother (Sadhana Singh) for various reasons, not least because she constantly recalls their past life and late husband. The mother-son bond is strained, she aches for his attention, so it’s amusing when Tamang and team unofficially recruit her to be part of the investigation because of her passion for Bengali detective novels. Uttam’s colleagues confide in her like sons in their downtime; it’s a quirky touch without the energy of a quirky touch.

Animal’s Rannvijay, Kabir Singh’s Kabir, Rockstar’s Jordan, Tamasha’s Ved and Haseen Dillruba’s Rishu walk into a bar. There is no punchline here, because they are no joke. They participate in a victimhood-measuring contest. Rannvijay declares he had to sleep with a female agent knowing who she was and cheated on his wife to make his dad proud; it was very difficult. Kabir claims he slapped a girl to make her love his alpha masculinity; it was very hard. Jordan says he quotes Rumi and chose to meet his dead soulmate in a field beyond; it wasn’t easy. Ved claims his girlfriend fixed him by rejecting his alter-ego; it was terrible. Rishu declares he chopped off his hand to be with his bad-boy-craving wife; it’s been a sacrifice. In walks Tere Ishk Mein’s Shankar, who lights a cigarette and scoffs at them all.

The test of an effective Hindi film these days is the post-screening afterglow. If it’s a loud historical, the chaotic traffic and fumes outside feel like a relief. If it’s a button-pushing social thriller, some walk out with big chests and a renewed passion to blame someone. If it’s a patriotic biopic, there might be wet eyes and a desire to be very Indian. If it’s a love story, men stride out with an inflated sense of self-worth, corny grins and cloud-nine-sized delusions. At different points in life, I’ve been guilty of doing all of the above. Add Gustaakh Ishq to the list, a period drama about poets and lovers that’s so immersive and committed to its setting that I was overcome by an urge to speak in chaste Urdu and rhyme idioms with emotions. The cab driver did not appreciate my use of “qaatil” to describe the waiting time. He sped away the second I started waxing lyrical about English being a flight and Urdu being the nest we come home to.

Of all the Disney movies over the years with PG-13 racial metaphors and diversity parables, Zootopia 2 faces the most uphill battle there ever was. For it takes on the task of doing the near-impossible: the destigmatisation of Snakes. The fear and distrust of this reptile is so historically and genetically entrenched in human systems that the real-world subtext is almost secondary. In Zootopia 2, the unlikely police pairing of hyper-rabbit Judy Hopps and red fox Nick Wilde try their darndest to unscramble snake propaganda — a pit viper named Gary De’Snake emerges in the mainland, and everyone is terrorised. Except Judy, who trusts that the snake is the good guy whose ‘people’ have been maligned by the ruling family of lynxes. Gary wants to prove that the land was theirs to begin with (duh), and the patent was stolen by the sly lynxes. History students, unite.