Tatsam Mukherjee

The world must be changing fast and beyond recognition if even Miranda Priestly can’t afford to be nonchalant anymore. Played by Meryl Streep in the 2006 film, it was a rare instance of a star marrying the material. Streep, in her 50s then, was planning to retire from Hollywood (which she revealed in an interview recently), when a studio offered her to play the Darth Vader of bosses from hell – the kind who does more damage with a well-timed sigh than most can with 20-minute rants. Priestly, a demanding editor-in-chief for the fashion magazine Runway, also had the layer of an ambitious woman fending off sharks at work.

As someone who has been watching Bollywood biopics for the last decade, there should be little in Antoine Fuqua’s Michael that should upset me. When the protagonist is not showing off his god-given talent on screen, all that the secondary characters talk about is how special he is. It is a film that mistakes superficial tics like voice, make-up and costume as authenticity. Also, a film that confuses grit for honesty. It’s eerie how much of Fuqua’s biopic on the ‘King of Pop’ seems to internalise and then channel Rajkumar Hirani’s Sanju (2018). Hirani’s biopic on Sanjay Dutt is among the gold standards of Bollywood biopics; the hardest anyone’s worked to vindicate its powerful protagonist. Michael might be Hollywood’s answer to Sanju.

One of my favourite scenes in Sam Mendes’ Revolutionary Road (2008) – starring Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet – is when April (Winslet) greets Frank (DiCaprio) for breakfast, after a colossal fight the night before, during which things were said that neither can ever take back. As she (much to his surprise) performs her part of a ‘supportive’ wife, while he riffs on his role as the polite, clueless breadwinner of the family, the quiet breakfast – a symbol of suburban bliss – begins to feel suffocating and emotionally claustrophobic. Both Winslet and DiCaprio act the hell out of this scene, playing the wounded, flawed couple trying to deflect from the unpleasantness of their once-loving marriage, hoping things would get back to normal with time.

In a way, it’s brilliant that actor Riz Ahmed delves into one of Hollywood’s (and Britain’s) most pressing cultural voids – Who will be the next James Bond? – and inserts himself into it. In Bait, a six-episode miniseries, Ahmed plays an emerging Pakistani-British actor having an existential moment when he’s announced as a contender to be the next 007. In a series that is part wish-fulfilment, part introspection, part satire and part surreal coming-of-age tale, Ahmed meditates on his place in Hollywood, in modern British society and if his immigrant trauma will even lends itself to playing the poised, suave, and, till now, white, neo-colonial MI6 agent.

At one point, in Phil Lord and Chris Miller’s Project Hail Mary, someone asks if they know when a hug ends. “You just know,” comes the response from Dr Ryland Grace, a scientist from earth, trying to devise a way to save the Sun. After the film, my first thought was if Lord and Miller’s film knew when to stop mollycoddling its audience. Why else would a competent film adapted from a bestselling novel of the same name by renowned author Andy Weir, starring an immensely watchable Ryan Gosling (playing Ryland Grace), triggering laughs and tears feel almost immediately forgettable after leaving the theatre? A film can be ‘good’ by any number of metrics, but it’s a certain degree of serendipity galvanising good films, elevating them into an authentic and a moving experience. Even the tears in Project Hail Mary feel like the result of a large assembly line, which is never a good sign.

For a second time in two months, a woman disapproves of her gangster-husband betraying her nation. It happened recently in Vishal Bhardwaj’s O’Romeo, when Rabia (Tamannah Bhatia) confronts Jalal (Avinash Tiwary; a stand-in for Dawood Ibrahim) for allying with the Pakistani intelligence agency, ISI. In Aditya Dhar’s Dhurandhar: The Revenge, Yalina (Sara Arjun) aims a glock at Hamza (Ranveer Singh) when she finds his secret diary with names of targets — all of them said to be embroiled in terror attacks in India.

More than once while watching Lakshmipriya Devi’s Boong, I was reminded of Aijaz Khan’s Hamid (2018) – another Indian film that used the ruse of a “children’s film” to examine a region riddled with conflict. In Khan’s film, a serendipitous phone call between a seven-year-old local (Talha Arshad Reshi) searching for his‘disappeared’ father and a CRPF jawan (Vikas Kumar) became an unintentional humanitarian bridge in the midst of Kashmir’s paranoia. In Devi’s film, the unrest in Manipur remains an undercurrent, filling even the ‘cute’ scenes with an unease.

It’s quite a responsibility to be trusted to engage with a debutante’s fragile creation. Operating outside the ‘system’ with few resources, featuring yet-to-be-proven faces – a newbie ‘indie’ film crew might be among the purest underdogs out there. It can colour the judgement of most fiercely ‘objective’ critics. Despite how much one might be rooting for a film, the experience of it rarely lies. The good intentions are visible, the rawness of craft is rationalised, the obvious missteps grate the senses, and the naive sincerity can be disarming. You want to be mindful of the limitations of a production like this, but also will kid-gloving the undertaking breed a level of indolence in the crew’s next outing? Will there be a next outing, if one employs the brutal honesty extended to other films out there? Is it fair to measure all films by similar yardsticks?