Tatsam Mukherjee

When I watched the teaser for Anubhuti Kashyap’s Accused about a week ago, my first reaction was that of excitement. But almost reflexively, I tempered my expectations. Decades of being let down by Hindi cinema can do this. The teaser reminded me of Todd Field’s Tár – starring Cate Blanchett, playing a renowned conductor, whose mythical brilliance on stage is punctured by her indiscretions. It makes sense that the actor tasked with conveying the moral ambiguities and unpleasantness of the subject is Konkona Sen Sharma. The farthest thing in physicality and style – the only thing overlapping Sen Sharma and Blanchett, is their fearlessness to look absolutely deplorable on screen without breaking a sweat. Also, I’d enjoyed Kashyap’s last venture, Doctor G (2023), pushing the Ayushmann Khurrana social dramedy in a new direction.

Very little of Aashish Mall’s Shatak looks real. I’m not talking just historical authenticity here, or the conspicuous name-dropping of ‘leftist’ freedom fighters (all of them, obviously in awe of the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh or the RSS). Most of Mall’s film looks enhanced like the tacky green-screens on primetime news. Most characters wander around like AI slop, speaking with pauses – without showing the slightest bits of humanity. Walking out of Mall’s film, one of my thoughts was if the film was an exhibit for the India AI Impact Summit held in Delhi. If that was the case, what fresh hell it would mean for the nation already grappling with a dozen controversies brewing because of the event. Would Sam Altman have felt pressured to give it a standing ovation, seeing the Indian Prime Minister sitting adjacent to him, if the film screened there? Mall’s film feels like a 112-minute reel created using AI, chronicling the good/better/best anecdotes of the far-right organisation – without the slightest hint of curiosity. The aim is not to find out about how the RSS came into being, as much as kissing the feet of its founding fathers.

At one point in Anubhav Sinha’s Assi, a father (Manoj Pahwa) and his son (Abhishant Rana) are devouring a plate of chhole bhature. The father says, “Your mother is an excellent cook, but the chhole bhature she makes is… okay. No shame in eating outside once in a while. You can get a plate like this for Rs 60, maybe Momos for Rs 90,” he says, going on to add – “but a man never brings these home.” Only towards the end, does a woman overhearing the conversation realise that the duo aren’t talking about her food. The son is shown to be an accomplice in a rape, a few scenes earlier. I can see why co-writers Sinha and Gaurav Solanki [the duo had also earlier written Article 15] might lean on the wryness of a scene like this to explain a perpetrator’s mindset. But the scene feels too satisfied with its oversimplified metaphors for deep-seated dishonesty and compartmentalisation that the (primarily) male, urban population is capable of.

Screenwriter, showrunner, and now co-director of Kohrra S02, Sudip Sharma has mastered the art of writing loud silences on page. Like Garundi (a scene-stealing Barun Sobti) bumping into his brother, Jung (Pardeep Singh Cheema) at his sister-in-law’s baby shower, and offering him a drink. Everyone except Garundi is able to read the room here. In the first season, the low-level cop is shown to be groomed by his sister-in-law, Rajji (Ekta Sodhi). Jung (shown to be impotent earlier) knows this child isn’t his — and even though he’s aware of his wife’s transgressions, he can’t seem to look it in the eye anymore. Jung tells his brother he wants to go to a Gurudwara and offer ‘seva’ (service) to the almighty. Jung is clearly perturbed by Garundi’s presence, but is too consumed by his own shame to address it. Similarly, a few scenes later, a heavily pregnant Rajji is living with Garundi and his wife, Silky (Muskan Arora), battling morning sickness. Garundi helps her stand upright in front of a sink; their sudden proximity only dawns on both once Silky enters the scene and interrupts it.

Sometime in December 2020, Icelandic mountaineer John Snorri was on the cusp of making history. He was getting ready to scale the second highest mountain peak, the K2, in the winter. Around then the temperatures go down to -60 degrees celsius near the peak. Compounded with the steep incline of the K2 (part of the Karakoram range) with winds blowing up to 150 mph, even experienced mountaineers dubbed it as a tricky climb. Every other record in the mountaineering world had been achieved. Having arrived in Northern Pakistan a good two months in advance, to help himself acclimatise to the conditions, Snorri – with his Pakistani counterparts, Ali Sadpara and his son Sajid – looked set to take on arguably the most gruelling climb ever attempted.

I found myself tearing up a few times while watching Sriram Raghavan’s Ikkis. It’s not because of the film alone, which is based on the military service of India’s youngest Paramvir Chakra awardee, Second Lt Arun Khetarpal – who died during the 1971 Indo-Pak war. It had more to do with the Bollywood war film – a genre that has assumed the responsibility to rile up obvious jingoistic sentiments, thinking it’s the only way to make itself a successful enterprise. Raghavan is too much of a ‘thinking’ and a self-assured filmmaker to give into the temptations of the box office. We’ve also seen dozens of these idols exhibit feet of clay in the last decade.

Has James Cameron been trapped in the metaverse longer than we have? The 71-year-old director reportedly spent over a decade working on what eventually became Avatar (2009), and has been involved in making its sequels Avatar: The Way of the Water (2022), the latest Avatar: Fire and Ash released on Friday (December 19), and another film in the making – making it a cumulative 30 years spent on four films, set on the faraway planet of Pandora.

There came a scene in Prabhash Chandra’s Alaav (which as the English title Hearth & Home) when my jaw dropped on the floor. A 60-something Bhaveen is helping his 90-something mother, Savitri, relieve herself. It’s the part of a caregiving film, where most filmmakers prefer implying it by either starting the scene before or after the said deed. But in Alaav, the camera (thanks to the dependable ingenuity of cinematographer Vikas Urs) remains strategically placed, straddling a pencil-thin ethical line – where on one side they could be accused of being voyeuristic and exploitative; on the other end, it could be held for trying to lessen the blow of a hard-hitting reality. Remaining true to its static, observational style – the scene went on for longer than I was ready for, making me shift in my seat uncomfortably. It’s only then did I recognise what Chandra was trying to highlight – the selflessness of it all. We hear truisms like ‘being of service’ to something bigger than us, but nothing quite tests it like when we take care of a loved one in a hopeless situation, and when everything is only steadily regressing.