REVIEW 711: MALAAL

Release date:	July 5, 2019
Director:	Mangesh Hadawale
Cast: Language:	Sharmin Segal, Meezaan Jafri Hindi with some Marathi

This morning as I settled into my seat to watch Malaal, I could not help but notice that there were just three other people in the hall with me. I always wonder why producers with cash – in this particular instance, Sanjay Leela Bhansali and T-Series – make films and then choose not to market them. If it is worth making and releasing, is it not worth letting the public know that it is out there, and then leave it to us to embrace or reject it? 

Now that I have watched this one – “survived it” would be a more accurate description of the dreary experience – I can imagine why the promotions have been such a whimper. If you made a mistake, would you tomtom it to the world? Why it was released at all of course is a big question.

Malaal is Blockbuster Bhansali’s launch vehicle for his niece Sharmin Segal – daughter of his sister Bela Segal, a director and accomplished editor in her own right – and actor-dancer Jaaved Jaaferi’s son Meezaan Jafri. In normal circumstances I would try to tell you a bit about the film and the kids’ work in it before announcing their pedigree. But let us be frank here: like Salman Khan’s ‘discoveries’ Athiya Shetty (daughter of Sunil Shetty) and Sooraj Pancholi (son of Aditya Pancholi and Zarina Wahab), there is no way these youngsters would have been allowed a foot in the door of insular, incestuous, extremely challenging Bollywood if it were not for their weighty surnames. 

This is not to say a person’s genes should be held against them. Of course not. Bhansali himself did, after all, gift us Sonam Kapoor and Ranbir Kapoor 12 years back, and those two bright debutants from Saawariya have gone on to earn the right to be known as much more than just, respectively, the daughter of Anil Kapoor and the great grandson of Prithviraj Kapoor, grandson of Raj, son of Rishi and Neetu. Khan too recently backed Nitin Kakkar’s Notebook, which unveiled Nutan’s granddaughter Pranutan Bahl and a leading man called Zaheer Iqbal who, as far as we know now, has no industry lineage, and both have a natural romance with the camera that is worth exploring further even if their maiden venture came a cropper at the box office. Young Ms Segal and Mr Jafri may one day earn the right to be known as works in progress, but with Malaal they have only become the latest shining examples of nepotism in Bollywood. 

Meezaan Jafri plays Shiva More, a hoodlum owing allegiance to a politician who resents the north Indian presence in Maharashtra. Shiva plays along with the neta’s beliefs, avoids his college like the plague and causes much heartburn to his parents until a new girl moves into his chawl. Astha Tripathi catches his eye from Day 1, and yes, you read the surname right. Obviously after some tension between them and an ideological verbal sparring match, they both fall in love. 

There is an atom of an idea there, a potentially interesting reworking of the by-now-tiresome feuding families/communities formula, that could perhaps have been expanded into a good film. In a world where cracks are increasingly developing in families and friendships over the “did you vote for Trump / Modi / Marine Le Pen?” question, it might have been intriguing too to see if love can blossom across party divides. Malaal fails to notice either possibility, and once Shiva turns over a new leaf, completely forgets its political beginning.

It then turns into an inexorably dull retelling of the clichéd conviction so many people hold in real life: that a good woman can reform even the worst of men. Every hurdle in their path thereafter feels like an additional paragraph written without much thought or imagination because the class teacher said the essay should be a minimum of 1,000 words. And oh heavens, that silly tragic twist in the closing minutes – the only purpose it served was to ignite a flame of hope that the film might soon end.

Malaal is a remake of the Tamil hit 7G Rainbow Colony (2004). K. Selvaraghavan, the writer-director of the original, has been duly credited here for the story. Director Mangesh Hadawale and Bhansali himself share the honours for the adapted Hindi screenplay. Bhansali has also given this film its music, which is one of its few positives but that too not to an earth-shattering degree.

There is one element in Malaal that is worth mentioning. Towards the beginning, when a smattering of Marathi is spoken in Astha’s presence, no subtitles are provided, I suppose because we are expected to receive it the way a non-Marathi might and glean the meaning from the speakers’ tone and gestures – if you make the effort (unfortunately, too many non-Marathi residents of Mumbai do not) it is actually not that hard. Later though, when there is a full-fledged Marathi conversation between two important characters, Hindi subtitles are embedded in the print out of consideration for the film’s primary audience, that is, Hindi speakers.

Meezaan Jafri is a nice-looking man, but barely moves the muscles on his face in Malaal. Was he instructed to deadpan his way through it, or is he not capable of anything else? No idea. What I liked: though he does, as is mandatory these days, lift his shirt to reveal a trim, worked-out torso, he does not resemble one of those assembly-line male debutants being rolled out by the Hindi film industry in the past decade with intimidatingly bulging muscles, perfect but soulless dance moves and perfectly made up faces. The choreography of Malaal too does not feel show offy and unreal, but is the sort that regular folk with reasonable talent might pull off.

At least Jafri shows some spark – just a bit – while dancing. Sharmin Segal does not have even that going for her. She is so tepid that her walk and posture are as inexpressive as her face – I did not realise such a thing was possible, but today I know it is.

The use of heavy rain as a backdrop to a love making scene works far better than the love making itself – these two have zero electricity between them. There is more thunder and lightning in a scene featuring the song Aila re, while dancing to which a skimpily clad young woman – not Astha – grabs a large fistful of Shiva’s belt buckle, prompting him to thrust his crotch towards her, making it look exactly like what you are thinking.

“Malaal”, I have learnt from the website of the Rekhta Foundation that aims to promote Urdu literature, means regret, grief, sorrow. The title comes from a line delivered by Shiva – he wants to have no regrets in his relationship with Astha. I am googling the Urdu words for “no choice”, because that and my farz (duty) are what compelled me to sit through this boring film even after two out of those three people sharing the hall with me at the start had walked out.

Rating (out of five stars): 1/2

CBFC Rating (India):	UA
Running time:	136 minutes

This review has also been published on Firstpost:

https://www.firstpost.com/entertainment/malaal-movie-review-sanjay-leela-bhansali-launches-his-niece-and-jaaved-jaaferis-son-in-a-dreary-film-6941301.html

Poster courtesy:

https://www.facebook.com/tseriesmusic/

REVIEW 563: PADMAAVAT

Release date:	January 25, 2018
Director:	Sanjay Leela Bhansali
Cast: Language:	Deepika Padukone, Ranveer Singh, Shahid Kapoor, Aditi Rao Hydari, Jim Sarbh, Raza Murad, Anupriya Goenka Hindi

In a scene towards the latter part of writer-director Sanjay Leela Bhansali’s new film, Rani Padmavati has a conversation with the mother of Badal, a loyal soldier in her royal husband’s army who gave up his life to save his king. The queen informs the madre that her son is dead. The aforesaid madre refuses to mourn her child’s passing, replying instead that a Rajput who loses his life on the battlefield is not to be deemed dead.

By then, much speechifying about Rajput valour and usool (principles) has already flowed under the bridge on screen. But wait…there is more. “Today I understand why Rajputs are said to be brave,” says Ms Padmavati. “It is because they are born of brave mothers like you.”

Oh Mummy! I almost choked on exasperated laughter in that moment as I sat watching in IMAX 3D in a darkened hall in Delhi, because like so much else in the film, the goings-on in this passage too contradict what its self-worshipping Rajput characters are saying. Far from being an example of that much-touted Rajput bravery, Badal’s end was the result of a foolish and egoistic Rajput king’s foolhardy moves going against the common-sense advice of his far more intelligent wife Padmavati – the king’s stupidity leads to his imprisonment by an enemy ruler, at which point Padmavati displays further intelligence and political acumen in entering the lion’s den and snatching her husband from the jaws of death with the help of those like Badal.

If anyone’s courage should have been celebrated at that point, it should have been the courage of Padmavati who, genetically speaking, was not a Rajput herself but a child of the Singhal kingdom that lies in modern-day Sri Lanka.

Lesson No. 1 from Bhansali’s guide to populist pandering: do not let facts stand in the way of dialogues designed to massage the collective ego of the men in a community you wish to please.

Padmaavat – originally named Padmavati till the Censor Board forced a title change following extremist reactions from that very community – is steeped in such unwitting contradictions. The film tells the story of Rani Padmavati, second wife of Maharawal Ratan Singh, king of Chittor situated in today’s Rajasthan. H.R.H. Ratan encounters Padmavati in an accident when he visits Singhal to procure its famed pearls for his first wife. They fall in love and Padmavati returns with him to Chittor as his bride. Through a series of events, Alauddin Khilji, sultan of Delhi, hears of the woman’s unparalleled exquisiteness and – since he wants to possess every “nayaab cheez” (unique thing) in the world – attacks Chittor to get her for himself. After another chain of events, Padmavati kills herself along with all the female adults and children of Chittor in the practice of jauhar, an old north Indian custom where women would commit suicide by jumping into fire instead of risking being raped by a rival army when faced with certain defeat.

Bhansali’s Padmaavat is based on the 16^th century fictionalised poem Padmavat by Malik Muhammad Jayasi. Most modern historians concur that Rani Padmavati a.k.a. Padmini is a figment of Jayasi’s imagination although Alauddin Khilji and Ratan Singh a.k.a. Ratan Sen a.k.a. Ratnasimha are historical 13^th-14^th century figures and the siege of Chittor did indeed happen, Alauddin’s purpose being to expand his kingdom and not to forcibly take a mythical queen. 

In the year leading up to the release this week, fundamentalist Rajput organisations have committed acts of violence, threatened worse, demanded a ban and in general created a hubbub based on their inexplicable assumptions that this film insults their people. Quite the opposite. Padmaavat is an irritating ode to Rajput bravery which, if you read history books, is as much a myth as Padmavati a.k.a. Padmini herself.

From the very first scene, Bhansali’s goal is clear: to pedestalise Rajputs and demonise the Khiljis, to pander to the larger Hindu Right via Rajputs by slandering a Muslim king.

And so, while H.R.H. Ratan Singh (played by Shahid Kapoor) looks pristine, as if his pyaara sa, gora sa chehra has been newly cleansed by an Emami or Vaseline face wash, Alauddin (as played by Ranveer Singh) is a perennially dirty-faced devil, his chehra forever smeared with what appears to be blood and mud even when he is not in battle. Alauddin’s hair is wild, his walk almost bear-like, his eyes at all times either narrowed to slits or widened to convey his menacing intent, while H.R.H. Ratan looks angelic. If Alauddin wants a woman for himself, he is portrayed as lustful, whereas Ratan’s betrayal of his first queen for Padmavati is sweet romance. Alauddin has sex with another woman minutes before his wedding, rapes his first wife Mehrunissa (Aditi Rao Hydari) and beds a prostitute even while consumed with desire for Padmavati, but H.R.H. Ratan makes sweet sweet lurve to Padmavati. Alauddin and his uncle Jalaluddin (Raza Murad) are shown tearing into massive chunks of meat like savages, while H.R.H. Ratan feeds himself delicate morsels of food. Bad Alauddin always wears black and other dark shades, whereas the good Ratan, dons whites, beiges and cheery colours. Wicked Alauddin stomps his feet in laughably animalistic dance moves to the song Khalibali whereas Ratan, dahling Ratan, carries himself with dignity. And get this, in what seems to be Bhansali’s ultimate signifier of debauchery, the nasty Muslim king’s male lover is trivialised – oh no! bisexuality! how terrible, no? – whereas the good Hindu man’s eye wanders with poise and only in the direction of women. Heterosexual promiscuity and infidelity are allowed, no?

There is no pretence at objectivity or nuance in the contrasting portrayals of the two monarchs. This is a literal echo of the average Hindu right-winger’s view of Muslims as horny, carnivorous beasts. Padmaavat is a perfect example of a Hindi film couching its extreme prejudices in grandiloquence and tacky clichés, with those clichés embedded in resplendent frames.

Meanwhile, the gorgeous Ms Padmavati (Deepika Padukone) wears gorgeous lehngas while her gorgeous hair flows in just the right gorgeous wave and her perfect gorgeous makeup remains unsoiled even when she hunts in a Singhal forest or flees Alauddin’s fort. As with all Bhansali’s post-Khamoshi films, this one too is operatic in tone and visually stunning. After a point though, all that flawless beauty – architectural, sartorial and human – becomes exhausting (as it did in his worst film so far, Guzaarish), especially because his biases, his penchant for overstatement and his regressive worldview overshadow all else.

Among the many contradictions in Padmaavat is the fact that it chooses to lionise Rajputs when, by its own admission, Chittor fell because of Rajput disunity and cowardice. H.R.H. Ratan seeks help from all his fellow Rajput rulers but they turn him down for fear of antagonising Alauddin.

The biggest – and most frightening – contradiction though comes in the horribly romanticised depiction of jauhar, although the opening disclaimer states that the film does not intend to glorify the custom. Really? Why then does a closing voiceover, right after the act is shown on screen, seek to deify Padmavati’s ‘sacrifice’? She walks towards the flames, her hair blowing in the breeze, her voluminous skirt swirling about her ankles, her eyes burning with determination, full-bodied music playing in the background, joined by a sea of women clad in bridal red (including – I wanted to vomit when I saw this – a pregnant woman and a little girl) all voluntarily approaching their death.

That anonymous child is the only one in the crowd looking fearful rather than purposeful. I wonder if Bhansali let that shot of her frightened face slip in by mistake, because the rest of that elongated passage is clearly intended to valourise Rajput women. Jauhar was a horrendous practice underlining the belief that a woman’s life is worth nothing if her vagina, the sole property of her husband or future husband, is invaded by another man. Considering that conservatives even in today’s India place greater value on what they see as a woman’s ‘honour’ over her life, it is scary that Bhansali has chosen to glamorise jauhar in his film in a bid to play to the Rajput gallery.

I am only portraying a reality from our past – I can almost hear him say the words. There is a difference though, Mr Bhansali, between portraying a shameful reality and venerating it.

So yeah, everything in Padmaavat looks pretty, but the film has little else to offer beyond that, not even the striking performances that marked out Bhansali’s last directorial venture, Bajirao Mastani, in 2015. Ranveer Singh appears to have bowed completely to Bhansali’s vision of an evil Muslim king. While one cannot argue with an actor seeing a director as his captain, what is certainly worth questioning is his decision to accept this role with the full awareness of what that vision entailed in this case.

Others who have submitted entirely to Bhansali’s line of thinking in their performances are Raza Murad playing the ravenous Muslim, Jalaluddin Khilji, and Jim Sarbh (who was so interesting in Konkona Sensharma’s A Death In The Gunj just last year) here playing a scheming homosexual, Alauddin’s slave Malik Kafur who one of the virtuously heterosexual H.R.H. Ratan’s courtiers describes as Alauddin’s “begum”. Giggle giggle.

Shahid Kapoor as Ratan Singh has precisely one expression on his face from start to finish, which is such a disappointment considering how amazing he was in Vishal Bhardwaj’s Haider (2014).

Deepika Padukone and Aditi Rao Hydari look great, of course. They are the only ones among the lead cast who manage to eke something out of the stereotype-ridden writing by Prakash R. Kapadia and Bhansali. Although their roles do not give them much space for depth, they remain convincing as epitomes of grace and elegance throughout.

Neither their presence nor the overkill of extravagant spectacle can save this film though. Apart from the tuneful Binte dil and brief snatches of the background score, even the music does not match up to what Bhansali’s films have delivered in the past.

Padmaavat’s disturbing ideology – misogynistic, communal and homophobic – is bad enough. The final nail in the coffin is the lack of chemistry between Deepika Padukone and Shahid Kapoor, which made me long for the Aishwarya Rai-Hrithik Roshan pairing in the equally lavishly produced, vastly superior Jodhaa Akbar (2008). Remember Queen Jodhaa peeping out from behind curtains at the topless emperor? It was a scene crackling with electricity and longing. Watching Padmaavat’s lead couple together though, I could not for the life of me understand why Padmavati gave a fig – or her life – for H.R.H. Ratan.

Rating (out of five stars): *

CBFC Rating (India):	UA
Running time:	163 minutes

This review was also published on Firstpost:

http://www.firstpost.com/entertainment/padmaavat-padmavati-padmavat-movie-review-bhansali-couches-regressive-opportunistic-messaging-in-exhausting-visual-splendour-4317153.html

Poster courtesy: https://www.facebook.com/FilmPadmaavat/