Release date:
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May 20, 2016
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Director:
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Omung Kumar
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Cast:
Language:
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Aishwarya Rai
Bachchan, Randeep Hooda, Richa Chadha, Darshan Kumaar
Hindi and Punjabi
|
Once upon a time there was Sunny
Deol’s dhai kilo ka haath, which
uprooted a hand pump to scare off the entire Pakistan Army. Today there is
Aishwarya Rai Bachchan’s index finger.
To be fair, Sarbjit is not the unrelenting screamfest that Gadar was, but Deol’s film came to mind as the former Miss World
held up her famous slender digit to intimidate an armed Pakistani security
official. She did this right after delivering a loud speech to a Pakistani mob
about how Pakistanis stab us Indians in the back while we bravely fight them
face to face. As expected, the gun-bearing Pakistani meekly moves aside, and
she proceeds to grandly walk past him as only Indian movie stars can when up
against the dreaded dushman from
across the border.
This embarrassingly tacky,
populist scene of high-decibel, chest-thumping patriotism is the low point in a
film that never quite takes off anyway.
August 25, 1990: a farmer from
Bhikhiwind village in Punjab crosses the India-Pak border in an inebriated
state, is mistaken for a terrorist and jailed in Pakistan, returning 23 years
later in a coffin after he is allegedly murdered by fellow prisoners.
The true story of Sarabjit Singh Atwal is a tragedy of gargantuan proportions that is enough to
move a rock to tears. Yet director Omung Kumar somehow manages to make a
curiously unmoving film out of this inherently heartbreaking story.
A large part of the
reason for this is the writing by Utkarshini Vashishtha and Rajesh Beri,
which places Sarabjit’s sister Dalbir Kaur rather than Sarabjit at the centre
of the plot. This might have been an
acceptable writing choice if they had focused on the nitty-gritty of this brave woman’s battle to free her
brother. Instead we get broad brush strokes which induce a sense of detachment
rather than involvement with this
real-life crusader and her unfortunate sibling.
The writing is not the film’s
primary problem though. The primary problem is the casting of Aishwarya Rai
Bachchan as Dalbir. Try as she might, the actress cannot get under the skin of
her character. She does not have the look or the body language of a Sardarni
from rural Punjab, but her effort to get there shows in every studied gesture,
every laboured expression, every step, every word spoken, until that effort
becomes so distracting that it eclipses all else in the film.
This is particularly unfortunate
because the rest of the cast is formidably gifted, but the entire project seems
designed to ensure that they do not overshadow the central star. Rarely has
Bollywood witnessed such a self-defeating approach to filmmaking.
Despite this, Randeep Hooda – one
of the industry’s most under-rated talents – shines as Sarabjit to the extent
that it is possible given the limited writing. His physical transformation from
a healthy, happy-go-lucky young farmer and wrestling enthusiast to a scrawny,
ragged, filthy prisoner is remarkable, a combination of his own scary
dedication (he reportedly lost 18kg for the role), SFX and his makeup artist
Renuka Pillai’s ability to understand the requirements of a character. In his
skinny body and decrepit face here, it is hard to spot the actor’s naturally
sexy persona or the hot physique he has happily displayed in earlier films.
Commendably though, Hooda does
not use the bodily makeover as a crutch. His performance is greatly handicapped
by the fact that the camera rarely dwells on his face when it is in the light
in India, and in the shadows in his Pakistani prison we see his countenance
with clarity pretty late into Sarbjit’s
running time. Further diverting attention from him, quite senselessly, are
pictures of the real Sarabjit on posters and placards being held up by
campaigners in the film – serving to repeatedly remind the audience that the
guy we see on screen is someone else.
Hampered in so many ways from so
many directions, Hooda still immerses himself in the role, making it possible
to sometimes forget that he is but an actor playing a part.
Richa Chadha as Sarabjit’s wife
Sukhpreet is mostly on the margins, but in the one scene where the spotlight is
firmly on her, she sparkles. The situation is a confrontation between Sukhpreet
and Dalbir. Without raising her voice even a single notch, without seeming to
try at all, Chadha delivers the only scene in the entire film in which I found
myself crying.
Darshan Kumaar is the new
chameleon of Bollywood. As the zealous Pakistani lawyer Avais Sheikh who takes
up Sarbjit’s case he is a far cry from the heroine’s soft-spoken, supportive
husband he played in Mary Kom (2014)
or the frightfully evil fellow he was in last year’s NH10.
Omung Kumar debuted with Mary Kom in which, despite the grievous
offence of casting Priyanka Chopra as a Manipuri woman, he pulled through on
the strength of Saiwyn Quadras’ solid script, Chopra’s acting talent and his
own firm directorial hand. Here though, he seems scattered and star-struck. It is
as if he zeroed in on a star and built a film around her. Big mistake.
When you watch Sarbjit, you must accept it as a given
that the makers believe Sarabjit Singh Atwal and his family’s version of
events, not the Pakistani authorities. The reason why that is okay is because
the film is not pretending to be a journalistic exercise telling all sides of
the story; it is open about its stance that it is a feature recounting one side of the story. Besides, unlike
the Akshay Kumar-starrer Airlift
released earlier this year, the fictionalisation here does not amount to
outright, blatant lies revolving around a protagonist who never existed in
reality.
The news occurrences in Sarbjit are more or less faithful to
Indian media reports, with certain self-serving
omissions such as the real Sarabjit’s reported admission to a Pakistani judge that he was involved in cross-border liquor smuggling (not spying and
terrorism) or the controversies surrounding the real Dalbir. Even if these
exclusions were to be excused as cinematic licence, the problem remains that this film fails to flesh out the people
at the heart of this true story.
Statistics flashed on screen
right before the end credits inform us that there were 403 Indians languishing
in Pakistani jails and 278 Pakistanis in Indian jails as on July 1, 2015. Like
Sarabjit, they are not mere numbers, they are living breathing human beings,
many of whom (though not all) are innocent victims of the long-running
political enmity between India and Pakistan.
Sarbjit is a lesson in how not to tell
their story.
Rating
(out of five): **
CBFC Rating (India):
|
UA
|
Running time:
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132 minutes
|
This
review has also been published on Firstpost:
Poster
courtesy: Team
Celeb Studio Talk
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