Movie Review: Kabul Express - Riding with the Enemy

(First published at Desicritics)

Kabir Khan's Kabul Express is the story of two Indian jouralists, Jai (Arshad Warsi) and Suhail (John Abraham), on a mission to interview the Taliban in Afghanistan's rugged deserts. Their chauffeur-cum-guide is the fiercely anti-Taliban Afghan, Khyber (Hanif Hum Ghum). Along the way, Jessica (Linda Aresenio), an American reporter latches on to them in search of a good story. The party is then hijacked by a Pakistani Pathan soldier (Salman Shahid), fighting disguised as a Talib, who forces them to take him to the border so he can escape to Pakistan. The film offers us vignettes of the region's politics through the goings on between these different characters.
Kabul Express was born of Khan's experiences filming documentaries in Afghanistan. The script is punctuated by some genuinely moving commentary on the absurdity and brutality of war. Take the scene, for example, when Suhail is doing his ritual push ups while a wide-eyed Afghani boy looks on, his back facing Suhail. Suhail playfully invites the boy to join him. When the child turns around, we see him holding crutches, having lost a leg to a landmine.

The comic exchanges between the characters over cricket (the Pakistani Pathan uses the pseudonym 'Imran Khan Afridi'!) and Bollywood - two facets that respectively divide and unite people of the region - offer us entertainment and a taste of identity politics. Khan succeeds in humanizing the warring parties, including the 'terrorist', making us refine some of our crude and simplistic stereotypes. Imran is the most author-backed character, with the track involving his daughter; his weary and defensive remarks, "I was just following my orders and doing my duty"; or his guilty twitches when Suhail mocks his militant version of Islam ("namaaz with a rifle by your side") and his warped sense of duty ("What sort of duty shames you in your own daughter's eyes?"). The scene where Imran is gunned down by soldiers of his own country beautifully captures his tragedy and the fickleness of politics (shades of Kubrick's Paths of Glory). How you wish the film had concluded with that scene instead of the wordy addendum.

Khan does not mince words in condemning shifty governments, and his fortitude is laudable. Unfortunately, the usually sharp commentary occasionally turns into filmy dialogue-such as Imran's mushy "we'll be friends in our next life" remark to Jai, or the narration at the end of the film. Also, the "Who started the war?" bitty between Khyber and Imran is straight out of Danis Tanovic's No Man's Land. And why does Jessica have so much make up on? Even Jai and Suhail sport spotless jackets and no signs of fatigue, while braving the dusty landscape for 48 non stop hours. The shot of Imran leering at Jessica's cleavage is, ironically, a cheap, distasteful stereotype in itself. All of this does somewhat dilute the film's impact.Salman Shahid brings a dignity and humanity to his character - no mean achievement if you're playing a terrorist. Hanif Hum Ghum too plays his part to perfection. Arshad Warsi's effortless dialogue delivery and his famous comic timing enthrall us as always. John Abraham is sincere, at best, and Linda Aresenio is somewhat better.

All said, Kabul Express is a brave, honest and intelligent comment on politics and war.
P.S. Do watch the making on the DVD; it has some informative, moving and funny stuff.

Movie Review: Namesake-The Shoes we walk in

(First published at Desicritics)

It all begins when a train to Jamshedpur meets with an accident, leaving few survivors. One such survivor is the young and bookish Ashok Ganguli (Irrfan Khan). Only minutes before the accident, while he is reading Nikolai Gogol's The Overcoat, Ashok is advised by a fellow traveler to 'pack a pillow and see the world'. Once he recovers, he does just that and heads off to the 'land of opportunities'.
A few winters later, Ashok is in Calcutta to pick his bride. The first time we see Ashima (Tabu), she is blissfully lost in her riyaaz, singing to her heart's content. When Ashok and his clan are over to 'see' her, she secretly tries his shoes on-a metaphor that will recur throughout the story. Ashok's shoes fit Ashima beautifully, and she is more than willing to walk in them half way across the world to New York. Though the novel has Ashok studying at Harvard, Mira Nair uses New York. This is perhaps a calculated cinematic license that allows Ms Nair to use shots of the Brooklyn bridge (or was it Manhattan?) in NY and the Howrah bridge in Calcutta to bridge the two cultures. So many times in the film, we cut from one bridge to another and it takes us a split second to realize that we've crossed cultures: another effective metaphor. Before we move on, I must mention my favorite shot in the film: a close-up silhouette of Ashima's hand, waving goodbye through a window as Ashok fades away in the snow. The scene is a poignant pointer to what will follow.
Ashima and Ashok have two children: a son and a daughter. The son, Gogol aka Nikhil Ganguli (Kal Penn), grows up to be a much taunted teen, what with his namesake being a psychotic, suicidal writer. Despite his father's many attempts at connecting with him, Gogol is determined to shake this baggage off, and has his name changed to Nikhil. What he's really looking to shake off, of course, is his identity. But that's never easy. No matter how hard he tries to avoid his parents and blend with those of his all American girlfriend Maxine (Jacinda Barrett); no matter how hard he tries to be Nick, life (and Ashok, of course) will keep reminding him that he is Gogol.
The first such reminder is a touching one: Ashok tells him that the reason he named him Gogol is, in fact, that train accident. Ever since then, Gogol has been associated, in Ashok's mind, with the gift of life. Upon learning this, for the first time Nikhil appreciates why he is Gogol to Ashok. Alas, the second reminder is a rude shock. A few days into his semester at Ohio, Ashok suddenly dies of a heart attack. Nikhil walks into Ashok's empty hotel room in Cleveland, and steps gingerly into his dead father's shoes. And the meaning in the metaphor dawns upon us: Ashok, we realize, was always comfortable in his skin. Hence, to walk in his shoes is not to be him, but to be your self. Nikhil's transition, though, is not yet complete. Maxine now reminds him of everything he is not: she shows up in black in a house where all the Indian mourners are in white. And even though she takes off her shoes (metaphor intended) before stepping into an Indian house in mourning, Nikhil's own guilt pushes him to the other extreme. In true Hindu mourning fashion, he shaves his head off and breaks up with Maxine. But there is a silver lining: when performing his father's rites, he calls himself Gogol. Later, his marriage to the Bengali-British Maushami (Zuleikha Robinson) is destroyed by her infidelity (by contrast, his sister's American husband will continue to love her), making him see, at last, the true middle ground of his bi-cultural identity.
In life and in death, Ashok proves to be the guardian angel for Gogol and, of course, for Ashima. He protects them in the best possible way: by forcing them to be independent. Note Ashima's post facto rationalization that Ashok went to Ohio just to teach her how to live alone; when, in fact, we saw him a few scenes back, urging Ashima to accompany him. Ashima, walking in Ashok's shoes, lets go of Gogol and moves back to Calcutta. And the film's concluding scene rhymes with Ashima's opening scene: we leave her, as we first met her, blissfully singing her heart out in Calcutta.
Irrfan Khan pours his heart into the character, managing to move you to tears and make you smile; so that when he is gone, we, too, miss him. Kal Penn is a protagonist for all seasons. From snubbing his father as a head banging teenager; to breaking down at his dead father's empty, crumpled hotel bed; and everywhere in between-he is at ease and in character. Tabu graces Ashima's role, effortlessly growing from the playful lass to the restrained woman(note her shock when she hears of Ashok's death).
Mira Nair's adaptation of Jhumpa Lahiri's book works because she captures that elusive Holy Grail of adaptations: the book's spirit. The languor of the film sits well with the large canvas and the setting (who ever heard of a fast-paced Bengali life?) The metaphors and lyrical touches (note the classic boatman's song in the Ganges) give the story a poetic feel. The seamless interspersing of shots between India and the US, and the evocative, intimate flashbacks capture the immigrant experience wonderfully.
Throughout the film, Nair sprinkles the vagaries of both cultures with humor: note the red chili powder in Rice Krispies, or the funky wedding night song ditty between Maushami and Gogol. The skin show in their first sexual encounter, however, is gratuitous. Nair and cinematographer Frederick Elmes don't paint the two cultures in strikingly different hues, thus preserving the seamlessness of cultures and the universality of the story (Ashima, we're reminded, means one without boundaries). Nitin Sawhney's background score is rich with ragas. But above all, Nair's actors stand out for their authenticity in costume, make up and mannerisms (note how Ashima hums, as singers often do). True to their particular milieu, they tell us the universal story of finding peace in the face of tragedy.

Honeymoon Travels: Six Degrees of Togetherness

(First published at DesiCritics)

Reema Kagti's Honeymoon Travels is a comedy about six couples taking the eponymous tourist bus to Goa. All the stories are told with youthful, irreverent and yet insightful humor.
Kagti's literary devices - a radio jockey as the narrator and his Hindi film songs to convey her character's flashbacks - are narrative masterstrokes. This treatment makes the stories comic without trivializing their message. So let's, to quote the movie's tour guide Sunil, "introduce ourselves to ourselves".
Meet then, the jazzy Gujarati newlyweds Shilpa (Diya Mirza) "forcefully" married to Hitesh Patel (Ranvir Shorey) while secretly having the hearts for mysterious motorcycle man. Early on in the film, the resolution to this conflict - Shilpa eloping with her lover and freeing herself - sets the tone for the remaining stories.
Diya Mirza is aptly weepy and funny, while Ranvir Shorey fits the flamboyant Gujarati businessman to a tee: accent, body language, et al. Note his excellent performance when licking his wounded ego after Shilpa elopes.
Meet also, the dignified, lovable fifty-something Naheed (Shabana Azmi) just married to a Goan Christian, Oscar (Boman Irani). Both have gone through terrible tragedies and have found love in each other. Oscar's quick and often self-deprecating wit (he announces them as "Mr. and Mrs. 55", mocking those who constantly patronize them for being newlyweds at their age) and his bad Urdu diction are qualities that endear him to Naheed and to us.
Note also, the scene where he concocts a fantastically improbable plane crash story when telling a tourist how he met Naheed. Again, the story is comic but its message is serious: he and Naheed are survivors. And Bollywood, take a lesson from Ms Kagti, Ms Azmi and Mr Irani: this is how lovers kiss.
No change in light, no mushy close ups and soft focus, nothing: just a simple, sweet and heart-warming kiss. Naheed helps Oscar reconcile with his troubled teenage daughter, giving us our second happy ending. Boman Irani is excellent as the laugh-at-life Goan and Shabana Azmi is, of course, the dignified Urdu-speaking woman: a casting masterstroke, this.
Next, the garrulous, Bollywood-smitten Punjab di Pinky (Ameesha Patel) and her forced-to-be-quiet hubby Vicky (Karan Khanna). Their conflict is tied to our next couple: the bold and sassy Madhu (Sandhya Mridul) and the shy American-Indian Bunty (Vikram Chatwal).
Madhu, too, has a painful past which beautifully explains her present persona. In Bunty, Ms Kagti scores another first for Hindi cinema: she confidently and path-breakingly creates a perfectly normal and believable gay man. You can't help remarking that it had to be a woman director who did that. Again: Bollywood, this is how it's done.
Unfortunately, the resolution to this conflict (and therefore Pinky and Vicky's too) seems more to the writer's convenience than the two couples'. Fortunately, this is the only flaw in the entire film. Sandhya Mridul is expressive and spirited as always and Ameesha Patel as the Bollywood Barbie is perfect.
Our next couple is, in effect, Kagti's trump card: the comically made for each other Aspi (Abhay Deol) and Zara (Minnisha Lamba). They have identical tastes, quirks, mannerisms and movements. They are every couple's envy and have never, ever fought. They are literally - thanks to a childhood accident involving the Haley's comet - a super couple. And after sixteen super blissful years, they fight.
And give us the wonderful moral of Kagti's story, "Only Supercouples don't fight for sixteen years". Kudos to Kagti; using Superman and Superwoman is another masterstroke!
At the heart of the film, however, is the story of Milly Sen (Raima Sen), a young-at-heart, middle class and mildly rebellious woman betrothed to a quintessentially bhadralok Bengali Partho Sen (Kay Kay Menon).
Milly and Partho, we are told, are in a supremacy race with each other. Each one wants to be on the top: yes, in bed and in life. We laugh at them and ourselves when Kagti cuts from the duel in bed to a shot showing them in a boxing ring packing punches at each other, egged on by their villainous mothers. We feel Milli's pain at being wronged, as she lies down in the ring and concedes the title.
Kagti's brilliance lies in the fact that she uses this absurd humor to bring out, and make us laugh at, our own absurdities. Milly boggie-woogies a bit at the evening party and the uptight babu bhadralok is apologetic, "My wife has become a hippie in Goa". But the turning point comes when Partho must prove to a swimsuit clad Madhu that Milly can damn well parasail in a saree.
Alas, his eyes are opened when the saree comes off in the sky. He is down below, embarrassedly cursing everyone like a knight guarding his lady's honor. But Milly is up in the sky, carefree and flying. Milly is, at long last, free. "No, I don't want to wear the saree", she matter-of-factly but firmly tells Partho upon landing. The tide has turned for the better.
Partho, by the end of the film, accepts Milly's independent spirit. And, with a little help from free-spirited Goa's party potions, he changes by the end of the film; he is ready to move out of his parents' house. He, too, is free. The transition of both these characters is Kagti's pointer to the transition in the Indian middle class.
Partho and Milly's story is also, by and large, our story. Kay Kay Menon is one of the finest actors around today. He internalizes and embodies the conflict between the old and the new that Partho represents. Raima Sen is a class act and a delight to watch. Note her expressions walking around in a blouse and petticoat with a twinkle in her eyes on the beach. In that one scene, she becomes the heroine of the film.
Anurag Kashyap's dialogue is full of colloquial wit and is amazingly in tune with the characters' backgrounds (note Madhu's Bambaiyyaa Hindi when she snaps at the auto-rickshaw driver, "Mere ko nahiiN sun ne kaa hai"). He is one of the best things to have happened to Bollywood. Vishal-Shekhar's background score is peppy and in keeping with the film's mood.
But we doff our hats to Madame Kagti. First, comedies and stories-within-a-story films are two of the hardest genres to write and direct. Full marks to a first time director for scoring a double whammy! Far as my memory goes, this is the very first Hindi film to succeed at this Love Actually/Crash format.
Second, Reema Kagti's film has a celebratory, endearing feminist undercurrent that refreshingly breaks away from the usual damsel-in-distress woman-centric films such as Tanuja Chandra's Dushman, Kalpana Lajmi's Rudaali, Daman and Chingaari, Mahesh Manjrekar's Astitva or Madhur Bhandarkar's Satta. That is another first for Hindi cinema (even the great Hrishida's Mili was dying, remember?).
Kagti's woman is comfortable with herself; her own identity and her commitment to the man in her life (captured by the song, 'Sajnaa jii waarii waarii jaauuN jii maiN') don't compromise each other. On a related note, though, surely lyricist Javed Akhtar and/or Kagti could've avoided 'charanoN meN tere jagah paauuN'? There's always the heart, you know.
All this is not to slot Kagti as a 'female' director, or the film as a feminist film. The feminism is an undercurrent; the film is a one-of-a-kind hilarious and paisaa-wasool human comedy.