Filmi Geek

Love, Sex aur Dhokha (2010)

Dir. Dibakar Banerjee

What strikes the camera's lens is truth.  That is the convention in the movies; what you see on the screen is presumed to be what really happens within the narrative.  There are  movies that play with this convention, calling into question the reality of the narrative or the reliability of the narrator.  Dibakar Banerjee's Love, Sex aur Dhokha ("love, sex, and deceit") bends the convention in the other direction, telling three intertwined fictional stories in a cinéma vérité style, with mostly unfamiliar actors.  Here, the imprimatur of realism mingles with an  uneasy sense of voyeurism to yield a thought-provoking and excellent movie. 

Contrary to some interpretations, the three vignettes of Love, Sex aur Dhokha do not correspond, each in turn, to the concepts enumerated in the film's title.  Rather, the three stories together explore the spaces where love, sex, and dhokha meet, intersect, and blur.  Each is shot in found-footage style - through an amateur filmmaker's handheld lens, through supermarket security monitors, through a sting reporter's hidden camera.  Markings on the periphery of the screen, like time-stamps or battery indicators, provide a constant reminder of the nature of the footage - and the nature of the viewer.  We are voyeurs, make no mistake, and Love, Sex aur Dhokha does not let us forget it.

The first story lulls the viewer into a complacent sense of light, sweet, entertainment.  It is a romantic tale, and a filmi one - a boy Rahul (Anshuman Jha) making a student film (a tribute, or knockoff, that is more or less what would have resulted had the filmmaker of Malegaon ka Superman taken on Dilwale dulhaniya le jayenge) falls in love with his heroine Shruti (Nushrat Bharucha), and the two elope.  The sweet simplicity of the story is no preparation for the gut punch of tragedy that arrives with its violent conclusion.  When you are watching a slick Bollywood romance, this segment seems to say, it's all too easy to neglect the fact that such tales don't always end so happily in real life.  As a voyeur in Rahul and Shruti's life - not just a popcorn-munching cinema watcher - the viewer must confront the sickening reality of their story's culmination. 

In the second segment, the most effective and taut of the three, Love, Sex aur Dhokha examines the microcosmic consequences of the public's insatiable appetite for voyeurism and scandal.  Voyeurism is not a victimless crime, when the demand for voyeuristic footage, and the promise of money for delivering the same, drives good people to do terrible, life-altering wrongs to even better people. Adarsh (Raj Kumar Yadav) is an immature gadabout who lets a friend talk him into seducing Rashmi (Neha Chauhan), to capture the deed on the closed-circuit security system of the store where they both work, and sell the tape for hard cash.  As he gets to know Rashmi in the course of working this angle, he actually comes to care for her.  The mad, biting frustration of this story is that Adarsh comes within a hair's breadth of redemption.  His face turns hard in that moment of decision between turning the camera off and leaving it on, and his choice once again socks the viewer:  If it weren't for you, you audience, you society at large and your unending thirst for cheap voyeuristic thrills, there would be no payoff, no financial drive for Adarsh to go through with this despicable act.  The coda to this segment adds a reminder of further damage wrought by society at large - after the tape goes viral, Adarsh gets on with his life, but Rashmi's life is destroyed.  Boys will be boys; girls get no such leeway.

The third segment adds some much-needed dark humor into the mix; without it, Love, Sex aur Dhokha would spiral into an unendurable tailspin of despair.  Here a beleagured sting reporter (Amit Sial) teams up with a despairing wannabe item girl, Naina (Arya Banerjee), to entrap a sleazy pop star, Loki Local (Henry Tangdi) in a casting-couch scandal.  Loki is hilarious, as is Naina's increasingly disgusted weariness with the whole enterprise.  As in the second segment, some events in this segment tie it to the other two; Love, Sex aur Dhokha does not allow wry black comedy without reminding you of the viciousness it reprieves.  But the film ends on an arch and arguably hopeful note; its closing-credits song is a jaunty, angular number that suggests that Naina gets both the dance-video she wants, and the last laugh.  The song is satisfyingly entertaining; more than that, it is a fittingly sarcastic ending to a bitter, challenging, unsettling movie.

 

 

Thank you, Pran saheb

Pran Krishan Sikand (12 Feb 1920 – 12 Jul 2013)

With the sad news of Pran's passing today, I wanted to put up a brief tribute to his work.  I have not seen nearly as many of Pran's astonishing number of films as I would like.  I haven't seen any as old as the picture at the top of this post, any of his early films in which he played the hero.  And I have yet to see even so many of his villainous roles. 

Yet he is a house favorite here at Filmi Geek, one of those actors whose name in the cast is always a plus.  Here is a brief rundown of some of my favorite Pran roles. What are some of yours?

Raja, Half Ticket (1962) - Quite possibly my favorite of all.  In this incarnation Pran chases a pretend-crazy Kishore Kumar across Bombay, trying to recover a stolen jewel he slipped into Kishore's pocket to hide it from police.  But the very best thing about this role is that Pran is in not one, but two magnificent songs.  How can you not love a song in which Pran romances Kishore?

 

 

Kishanlal, Amar Akbar Anthony (1977) - Apart from just being a superb movie all around, this is one of Pran's less villainous 70s roles.   Married to Nirupa Roy, the father of the three stars, Pran is that quintessential masala character separated from his family for decades.  He is also a rags-to-riches story, turning the tables on the villainous Robert.  It is a great story arc with many ups and downs. 

Mohan, Kashmir ki kali (1964) - Quintessential Pran at his sneering, conniving best.  If the way he leers at Sharmila Tagore's character isn't enough, he turns out to be a baby-snatcher too.  This is the Pran that audiences love to hate. 

Daljeet, Kab? Kyoon? aur Kahaan? (1970) - This makes the list only because Zombie Pran popping his eyeballs out is far and away the best thing about this movie. 

Sher Khan, Zanjeer (1973) - Well, duh.  This is almost too obvious to mention. From the flaming orange henna to the superb qawwali to some of the best dialogs of his career, this dushman-ban-gaya-dost, won over by the heart and fighting spirit of Amitabh Bachchan, is sure to make many a best-of-Pran list coming out this weekend.  But that doesn't mean he shouldn't be on my list too.

 

Godspeed, Pran saheb, and thank you so much for all the memorable movies and rich, gripping, larger-than-life characters. 

Lootera (2013)

लूटेरा

Dir. Vikramaditya Motwane

On an absolutely sweltering summer afternoon like the ones I've had these last few days, a languid tragic romance with a climax on a snowy Dalhousie mountainside is a very welcome respite.  Lootera ("thief"), an adaptation of O Henry's The Last Leaf, is a simple story that does not conceal any surprises.  It is just superbly executed at every turn.  It does not try to do too much, but everything it does, it does splendidly.  From gorgeously creative photography to Sonakshi Sinha's masterfully expressive performance, Lootera offers a touch of melodrama that engages from start to finish.

When a privileged young woman and a professional thief fall in love, you know it's not going to end well.  From the very first meeting of Pakhi (Sonakshi Sinha) and Varun (Ranveer Singh), it is clear they are star-crossed.  But the scene itself is delightful.  Pakhi has part-charmed, part-strongarmed her driver into letting her drive their opulent, beautiful car, which she does with laughter, with abandon, and utterly without skill.  If they crash, she tells him, he is the one driving.  (Not too long ago a friend of mine told me a nearly identical story about how she learned to drive as a teenager in Karachi; I wonder if this scene has a timeless resonance for many affluent South Asians.)  Of course Pakhi does cause an accident, spilling the handsome Varun off his motorcycle.  Varun is only slightly the worse for wear, but the real damage is done when their eyes meet. 

The movie's first half flows at an easy pace, as Varun impresses Pakhi's father (Barun Chanda), a zamindar who is about to lose most of his wealth to West Bengal's aggressively socialist Zamindari Abolition Act.   Varun moves into the zamindar's enormous mansion and bonds with Pakhi over painting lessons, although Pakhi's real passion is for writing.  This part of the film is strongly evocative of Satyajit Ray's tales of privileged Bengali women chafing to experience a broader intellectual life, like Charulata or Ghare baire. Although Lootera's story doesn't explore those themes, it echoes Ray in its use of the zamindar's home, its gracious galleries, its density of colonial treasures, its shots of the sumptuously dressed Sonakshi Sinha peering through slatted windows at the movements of men below.  The sinister breeze of political change (it's not for nothing that the zamindar may consider himself at least twice robbed, by the outlaws and by the Act's seizure of his lands) and the lovers' teasing courtship in the property's idyllic fields and orchards enhance the fragrance of Ray.

But in substance, Lootera deviates from this evocation of the ghosts of Ray's movies. With its ill-fated love, its consumptive heroine, its charming conscience-dogged hero, Lootera is pure melodrama - timeless archetypes, swelling background score, magnified emotions.  And yet it never veers into the outrageous, maintaining a measured pace and a relatively delicate tone until the climax.  Even within the framework of melodrama, the actors work terrifically subtle expression.  Sonakshi Sinha shines in particular. In Dabangg, Sonakshi Sinha displayed far more gravitas than that film knew what to do with, which made me long to see her in a role with more substance.  Lootera provides that role.  Pakhi, though willful and confident, is a woman of extraordinary privilege who has never really been challenged.  When Varun confronts her with this fact, she wavers, regroups, and strikes right back, all in a matter of a moment and all in the lines of her face, the furrow of her brow, the curl of the corner of her lip.  Sinha's outstanding work makes Lootera Pakhi's story, despite its title; she is the film's emotional source and emotional core.  Still, Ranveer Singh brings a strong and subtle performance as well, even if not meeting Sinha's stellar standard.  He executes the same flawless balance of swagger and tenderness that made him so appealing in Band baaja baaraat.  Some filmi heroes carom between these aspects with more expedience than coherence; but in Varun they blend to form a cohesive, sympathetic character.  The pain of the wound that Varun sustains during the film's one dramatic chase scene may come and go with narrative convenience, but his character is consistently wrought.

Even with these engaging performances, the real star of Lootera is its cinematography.  The film is visually breathtaking, but more than that, its shots bring every surprise that the story does not.  A rich, earthy, palate renders each frame sumptuous and inviting. Each scene has a dominant color that sets an unconscious tone; a forest green evoking life's promise, a golden yellow signaling happiness, a deep brown for gravity, a snowy gray yielding to loss and melancholy. Marvelous control of depth of field and focus plays tricks on the viewer's attention.  In one scene, a harried Varun squints at two women framed in a window in the middle distance; by familiar movie conventions the viewer expects the figures to resolve into focus, but they do not, and the unsettling effect draws you deeply into Varun's perspective.  In other scenes, as Pakhi (delightfully, left-handed) writes at her desk, the camera focuses in unexpected places, shifting from detail to detail. The camera-work enhances the temporal setting, as well. The style of modern Hindi films is very crisp and even bright photography that would feel incongruously modern for a movie set in the early 1950s.  But many of Lootera's scenes are shot with a soft graininess that suits and evokes the bygone time. 

If I have a gripe about this lovely film, it is that Amit Trivedi's rock-tinged songs sometimes ring so jarringly modern as to work in opposition to that historical sense of the photography.  But this is a minor quibble, as they are fine songs, and the rest of the film is so absorbing and well-crafted that it seems petty to fuss about a backbeat here or there.   Lootera gives lie to the common lament that the rise of the multiplex and the importation of western aesthetics and production values are the death knell for the classic Indian melodrama.  It is a nearly flawless balance of emotion and subtlety, art and artchetype, crime and redemption, love and loss.  It is, simply, a wonderful movie.