Alappuzha Gymkhana

The heroes of Malayalam sports comedy Alappuzha Gymkhana are more laughing punching bags than lean and mean fighting machines. In the adept hands of co-writer-director Khalid Rahman, it’s what makes them worth rooting for. Never has following failure been this much fun and worth reflecting on. Jojo Johnson (Naslen Gafoor), Cheruth (Franco Francis), DJ aka David John (Habish Rahman), Shanu (Shiva Hariharan) and more are a bunch of good-for-nothing fellows struggling to clear school grade 12. Failure, though, doesn’t dent their confidence. Jojo comes with a bright idea of taking up boxing to get into college through sports quota. Little do the boys know what they have signed up for. So begins a film where Rahman lands more punches of the humorous kind as he follows guys big on ambition and short on experience, and in a few cases boxing talent, struggle in the ring.

Five skinny dudes turn up at the Alappuzha gym and announce that they want to learn boxing. The man at the desk says, that’ll be a thousand in advance, plus monthly fees. The boys murmur about not being able to afford it. Fine, the official says, how about 300? There’s a chorus of assent, but one of them hopefully asks, EMI? They say you shouldn’t put a hat on a hat, place a joke on top of another. Khalid Rahman’s Malayalam film Alappuzha Gymkhana is the exception to this rule. There are jokes within jokes, jokes appended to jokes, jokes hanging off other jokes like the last commuter on a packed bus. And it all works. This is a slacker comedy that’s works hard, a babbling stream of slapstick, non sequiturs, sight gags and general silliness. Along the way, it also manages to be a damn good boxing film.

Alappuzha Gymkhana is about a bunch of small-town boys trying to become boxers. But the brilliance of director Khalid Rahman’s writing lies in the fact that the film is not actually about boxing. Jojo Johnson (Naslen), Shifas Ahammed (Sandeep Pradeep), Shifas Ali (Franco Francis), and David John (Habish Rahman) are teens from Alappuzha Gymkhana who have just discovered they haven’t cleared their board exams. This doesn’t come as a surprise to them—they seem to know their limitations. Jojo, the driving force of the group, convinces his friends that becoming boxers might help them gain college admissions, given that academics clearly aren’t their strength. But the real motivator seems to be their bruised egos. What begins as an impulsive decision gradually turns into something life-changing when the group enters a state-level tournament.

They say all you need is love, but sometimes misplaced confidence can go a long way. It is a gift. It might come across as awkward or arrogant or both. It might make one look like an asshole or, worse, foolish. Sometimes the audacity is rewarding, and the reckless abandon can often lead to a hard fall. The very definition of misplaced is such that one cannot predict its outcome or reception. But it is indeed a gift, and goes a long way. It reveals that there was an attempt. That someone took a shot. That no matter what Yoda says, there is always a try. One didn’t simply walk away quietly. One refused submission.

In Boxing, dodging a punch is probably as important as landing one. Filmmaker Khalid Rahman clearly knows a thing or two about this evasion technique, which he portrays so well in the elegantly staged boxing bouts in his fifth film, Alappuzha Gymkhana. Like a skilled boxer, he also gently evades the genre compulsions of making a sports movie, especially one that revolves around boxing. In doing so, he also breaks the expectations associated with him after the inventive Thallumaala. It is not surprising, though, for all his five films have hardly anything in common. The attempts to break cliches in a sports movie is an endeavour fraught with risks, for it also means not going along that easy path with an endless supply of emotional highs and cheap thrills. Alappuzha Gymkhana does not deliver much of the latter but makes up with a relatable tale that spares a thought for those not cut out to win. The film is written in such a way as to make us think that we wouldn’t want it any other way.