Rahul Desai

Azaad is fit, handsome, muscular and agile. His flowy hair is the talk of the town. He plays hard to get. He looks away and sighs if he isn’t interested. He loves his whisky neat — and straight from the bottle. He sits on a bed when he’s tired. He loses his appetite when he’s sad; he eats only if his food is spiked with alcohol. He has expensive taste. He farts in a closed room. He isn’t afraid to defy outdated perceptions of masculinity: his eyes go glassy when he gets a whiff of his late companion’s scent from a turban. He remembers the day they met and necked. He remembers their adolescent-love song together: “Ab jeene ki koi wajah toh hai” (I now have a reason to live). He isn’t ashamed of weeping. He likes dancing. He loves racing, too. Azaad is an expressive action hero; this film is his big-budget launch vehicle. There’s only one problem though: Azaad is a horse.

You’ve heard of “Prestige TV”: the term for quality long-form film-making, cinematic production values, A-list acting and complex screenwriting. But in the Netflix non-fiction universe, Prestige TV is a far more literal term. It stands for self-produced and self-congratulatory celebrity documentaries with infinite access that explore the sanitised prestige of fame. The symptoms: prestigious movie and music legacies, prestigious anecdotes, prestigious lives, prestigious prestige. You get the gist. Or maybe you didn’t. Think of the line from Christopher Nolan’s The Prestige (2006): “Making something disappear isn’t enough, you have to bring it back”. This hagiographic genre is all about bringing things back. Some call it the magic of movies, others call it a nostalgia grab.

You can tell when someone—especially an actor—is directing their first action movie. The craft is more impressive than expressive. Sonu Sood’s Fateh, starring himself, has telltale signs. For instance, there’s that ambitious mirror shot in the beginning: The hero looks straight at his reflection but you can’t see the camera; it then floats through the glass like a ghost. There are the over-excited transitions and snazzy editing. At least twice, shots of spilled blood cut to ketchup on a plate; a cop ordering a steamed momo cuts to a villain eating a momo (“my long-time weakness”); a victim opens his mouth to scream and you hear a honking car. There’s an interval slate that reads “Brace yourself, you’ll need this break”. A pointless overseas sequence is inserted only so that a Hans Zimmer-composed track can be flaunted. A random close-up of a henchman’s ear is seen seconds before his severed ear is served on a plate.

Given the times we live in, it’s a source of constant intrigue that Hindi cinema’s politically aware film-makers have to be smart about expressing themselves. They have to be subtler and sneakier with their views, but also stay just as accessible. You see a push-and-pull balance with the more prolific storytellers like Hansal Mehta, Sudhir Mishra and Anubhav Sinha. But cult-status directors like Anurag Kashyap and Dibakar Banerjee have found it visibly harder. At times, their opinions are nearly too pure. You can tell that they have so much to say—there’s a lot of emotion, passion, cynicism and awareness—but they’re running out of commercial road.

The Pickle Factory is what happens when The Office (U.S.) and Better Life Foundation (India) reluctantly get married (arranged) and have a pious, Doordarshan-loving child that refuses to grow up. It’s the kind of stagey and adolescent workplace comedy that went out of fashion years ago. You want it to work, of course, for several reasons. The 10-episode show revolves around the quirky employees of a family-run pickle company; imagine the readymade Hindi ‘achaar’ proverbs.

It often takes no more than five minutes to tell that a ten-episode series is going to be … not good. Yet, it’s my job to watch the whole thing. I can’t just abandon it the moment I realise it’s fundamentally flawed. So, I spend a day or two watching the next 395 minutes, hoping against hope that a miracle changes my mind. But, of course, it never comes—the craft is all wrong, the writing is dated, the music is uninspired, and the acting is everywhere. Yet, when a series is so long and stubborn and voluminous, one tends to develop a strange attachment to it. There’s no escape, so I simply make peace with—and normalise—the mediocrity at hand. It’s a reluctant bond, the kind you have with a month-long cough. But it’s a bond nevertheless, and when it ends, a part of your life ends. That’s what Doctors became to me.

Watching a mass actioner is a bit like watching West Indies play T20 cricket. When it comes off, there’s no better sight in sports. It’s all fireworks and fury, natural showmanship and musical rhythm. It makes no sense, yet the joy is real. But when it doesn’t come off, it can look like one giant Steve Smith mishit: ugly, awkward, strange, abnormal. Baby John is an example. Nothing aligns. The timing is woefully off, the star wattage is awry, the sound mix is all over the place, the action is unimaginative, it’s 164 minutes of dated narrative tropes, and the money shots don’t add up. That’s the thing about the genre: it’s boom or bust. It’s high-risk, high-reward, high-everything filmmaking. West Indies either chases down 250 or gets skittled out for 45 — there is seldom an in-between version.

While watching Mufasa: The Lion King, all I could think about was this: 4 precious years of Barry Jenkins’ career were spent in front of Disney green screens and sound stages to not even create something madly original? Don’t get me wrong, I’m not against effects-driven or photo-realistically animated movies; visionaries like Peter Jackson and James Cameron have redefined the relationship between technology and storytelling over the years. But Disney? Another Lion King film? My viewing experience was laced with the frustration of realising that yet another Hollywood studio franchise was doing wasteful Hollywood things.