Shubhra Gupta

Two old friends get together to create a new brand. Of craft beer. In Gurgaon. Troubles pile up. The going doesn’t look as if it will be easy. Stop press. Gotta spill it right here, that the going is so hard that by the end of the first episode (there are eight in all), all I wanted to do was flee. It would have been one thing if this show, the latest offering from Dharmatic, was simply daft. Daftness, well done, can be a lot of fun. But ‘Do You Wanna Partner’ is plain terrible: there’s not one idea or performance that it can grab on to to save itself from going under, and staying there.

Some films come up to you, and slowly draw you in, until you are firmly within their spell. This is what happened to me when I watched ‘Jugnuma: The Fable’ : the quality of life being lived in the slow lane — the film is set in 1989, in the upper reaches of the Uttarakhand hills — where nothing much seems to happen, one day passing uneventfully into another, is ruptured by the growing feeling of something more, something elemental, something beyond our grasp. What writer and director Raam Reddy, with the help of cinematographer Sunil Borkar, and a cast which is one with the plan, has managed to pull off is quite remarkable. The two-hour film weaves in the prosaic, the quotidian, with quiet strokes of magical realism, leaving us wondering about our world, and the tantalising possibility of other worlds.

You know that a film baldly calling itself Bad Girl will be about a girl who is ‘bad’, but you also wonder how it will be different from films about a similar subject that have preceded it. Bad Girl makes no bones about telling us why Ramya (Anjali Sivaraman) is labelled so. All her instincts rebel against what ‘good girls’ are expected to do– be seen, not heard– in fact, not even be seen if that is going to upset her core family, which in Ramya’s case is her mum, dad, and grandmum, as well as school-teachers, principal, and every one else who makes a girl’s business their own, because, of course, a girl has no business that’s strictly her own.

First things first. For those who go looking for a detailed sketch of Gopal Patha, the so-called ‘Butcher of Bengal’, will be disappointed. The reason for this is evident. For the past several weeks, all we’ve been hearing in the context of Vivek Ranjan Agnihotri’s The Bengal Files is how it thrown a light on a forgotten chapter of our recent history in which Gopal Chandra Mukherjee, a local strongman, saved Calcutta from being ‘annexed by Pakistan’ on Direct Action Day on August 16, 1946. The first part of the statement is accurate. Yes, there are several slices of pre-Partition, pre-Independence events recreated in the three-and-a half-hour film, in which we see Gandhi arrayed on one side and Jinnah on the other, with the latter’s demand of a Muslim Pakistan being put into motion by the reluctantly-departing British.

A film scored by A R Rahman, no less, cannot, in all honesty, be called a silent film. It can also be a big reason for drawing us into a film labelled a silent comedy, because music is key to telling us what words cannot. But looks can be deceptive. Let me warn you, this is two hours of drivel. How on God’s good earth did Rahman get inveigled into a project so vacuous? That’s a mystery which is destined to go unsolved; meanwhile, let me inflict upon you the misery I had to undergo.

Bikini Killer Charles Sobhraj, as he was gleefully dubbed by the tabloid press because many of his early hippie-trail victims were attired thus, never goes out of vogue. Just when you think there can’t be yet another iteration of his life and amazingly criminal times, up he pops again. Earlier this year, we had his character appear in a web-series (Black Warrant) ensemble; now he’s sharing equal space in a feature based on the exploits of real-life cop Madhukar Bapurao Zende who nabbed the dreaded criminal from Goa’s famed O Coqueiro restaurant. This is not myth, as many spin-off Sobhraj stories inevitably were; it is fact, causing the eatery to become a local landmark.

Amongst the most rewarding things about Songs of Paradise, which tells the story of Radio Kashmir’s first female singer, Padmashree Raj Begum (‘inspired by’ is the standard caveat) is watching Saba Azad play the lead role, with pleasing strength and vulnerability. The other is the attention paid to the music, which feels authentic. There’s no Bumro-Bumro over-orchestration, the accompanists keeping to what they need to do. Azad’s Noor Begum comes across as a young woman of the 50s, not an actor trying to do period, the costuming and the body-language feeling as if it could well have belonged to that era. The film opens with a young scholar (Tarruk Raina) trying to interview the older version of Noor, played by the wonderful Soni Razdan. Why, she asks. So that her story may be told to a generation which has forgotten her. In her time and in her kind of conservative Muslim family — her father is tailor who stitches women’s garments, and her mother (Sheeba Chadha, excellent as ever) keeps the home fires burning — there was no question of a ‘respectable girl’ not only singing, but making a profession of it, even if one of the most respected teachers (Shishir Sharma) of ‘mausiki’ thinks that she has a voice which the world needs to hear.

Punjabi ‘munda’ meets Malayali ‘penkutti’ in Param Sundari, and everything happens by the numbers. End of story. Wait, there’s 136 minutes of the film, which struggles to find both the rom and the com, from the beginning to the end, finding its feet only towards the last half an hour. By which time Param (Sidharth Malhotra) and Sundari (Janhvi Kapoor) have finished with their meet-cute in a small Kerala town homestay, gone into the long second act which perks up only when such supporting actors Manjot Singh (hero’s BFF) and Renji Panicker (the heroine’s brusque uncle) show up, finally fetching up at their DDLJ moment, where you can see the spark, fleetingly, between the good-looking leads.