Raja Harishchandra (1913)

D.G. Phalke – also known as Dadasaheb Phalke – is commonly regarded as having almost single-handedly created the foundations for what would become the Indian Film Industry. Phalke’s career path was quirky and eclectic. He was schooled at both the Sir J.J. School of Arts in Bombay and Kala Bhavan in Baroda, studying engineering, drawing, sculpture, photography and painting. At various times he worked as a draftsman (a profession he found not to his liking, not surprising given his artistic and imaginative bent), a photographer, a printer and a magician (training under Carl Hertz, one of the magicians sent around the world by the Lumiere Brothers).

But it was a screening of a film on the Life of Christ that ignited Phalke’s passion for the relatively new medium of cinema. Phalke and his family (and this was, truly, a family affair: Phalke’s children appear in several of his films, and his wife Saraswati was not only a support for her husband, she also learned how to develop and perforate film stock) set up Phalke Films Company in 1912 by taking a loan against his insurance policy. Equipment was imported from England, and Phalke himself went to England to train at Walton Studios under Cecil Hepworth (one of the founders of the British Film Industry).

The ever inventive Phalke raised finances by shooting a short film, Birth of a Pea Plant. By shooting one frame a day, the resulting film showed the plant growing almost miraculously before the viewer’s eyes.

It was Indian stories though that fueled Phalke’s desire to make films – and it was Phalke’s early films that introduced the idea of the “mythological” to Indian cinema, starting with Raja Harishchandra (a story from the Mahabharata), generally considered to be India’s first feature film production. The film premiered on the 21st of April 1913 and was released on May 3rd 1913.

The story revolves around Harishchandra, known to be devoted to the truth, so much so that he hands over his kingdom to the sage Vishwamitra in order to keep his word, going into exile with his wife Taramati and his son Rohidas. Harishchandra is separated from his wife and son when, in order to pay the dakshina the sage insists is part of the deal, he sells them off. Eventually he becomes an attendent at a cremation ground, where one day he is asked to preside over the cremation of his son (whom he doesn’t recognize). Lord Shiva appears and, moved by Harishchandra’s devotion and honesty, brings his son back to life and offers his family a place in heaven.

Sadly, only two of the film’s original four reels – the first and the last — have survived, and apparently recent research shows that the two reels held by the National Film Archive of India may, in fact, be from a version that was either re-shot or re-edited in 1917. Nevertheless, they are a testament to the creativity, perseverance and above all the passion of a great filmmaker.

As part of the celebration of 100 years of Indian Cinema, the National Film Archive of India has recently released a DVD of silent movies which include one Bengali silent film (Jamai Babu by Kalipada Das, the only surviving Bengali silent film), and two of Phalke’s films: the surviving reels of Raja Harishchandra and the marvellous Kaliya Mardan from 1919 (which features Phalke’s daughter Mandakini in the role of a very mischevious Krishna). Also highly recommended is Paresh Mokashi’s charming and delightful 2009 Marathi film, Harishchandrachi Factory, which details the creation of Phalke’s first feature film.

Raja Harishchandra will forever be remembered as the film which kick-started the ground-breaking movement of Indian Cinema, which is now one of the most revered industries in the world today. Stay tuned for more from our Framing Movies series we have 100 years and many many fabulous film to highlight!

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Jalpari: The Desert Mermaid (dir. Nila Madhab Panda)

It’s a massive shame that Nila Madhab Panda’s film didn’t get as much attention as his I Am Kalam, and also a shame that the film was released to DVD without English subtitles.  Because Jalpari: The Desert Mermaid, like I Am Kalam, weaves an issue into a story about, and for, children and families, and the message it carries (about the value of women and girls in society) has never been more important given recent events in India.  Panda shot the film in Mahendragargh, which, as the closing credits inform us, “is one of the lowest sex ratio districts in India”. Lehar Khan is delightful as the tomboyish Shriya, and it’s heartbreaking when her father is informed by her school that he has to curb her creativity (part of her charm and intelligence).  The discovery she makes about the village she and her father and brother have moved to will also break your heart.

Gattu (dir. Rajan Khosa)

Another film from the festival circuit, Rajan Khosa’s Gattu received a special mention at the 62^nd Berlin Film Festival. Gattu (Mohammad Samad) works in his uncle’s garbage recycling business, and his only interest in the local school is because the school’s terrace is the highest around, best for flying kites, and for Gattu’s ambition: to cut down the mysterious kite called Kali that has obsessed every kite-flyer in the neighbourhood.  Gattu may be illiterate, but he has street smarts, and a terrific performance by Mohammad Samad shows us that Gattu is curious, inventive and resourceful in his quest to best Kali.  The film is bittersweet – Gattu’s life is, on some level, sad and often heartbreaking — but it’s also charming, funny and uplifting, and invested with a great deal of heart.

Aiyyaa (dir. Sachin Kundalkar)

Sachin Kundalkar took one segment of his award winning Marathi language film, Gandha, and created this incredibly witty and charming film.  Like works from filmmakers Wong Kar-wai (Chungking Express/Ashes of Time) and Jean-Pierre Jeunet (Amelie) who create unique visual and aural universes, Kundalkar takes a deconstructionist view of classic Bollywood and creates a fresh and inventive story that centres on female desire and feminine power. The cinematography (by Amalendu Chaudhary, who also lensed the award-winning Harishchandrachi Factory) with its use of yellows and blues is brilliant, as is Amit Trivedi’s music and how it is used in the film.  Bonus points for a film about art that gives us interesting art to look at as well as beautiful visuals.  And Kundalkar and his lead actress Rani Mukherjee do something almost impossible:  make us smell what Meenaskhi smells, make us feel what she feels, every time she takes a breath.

Good Night, Good Morning (dir. Sudhish Kamath)

Good Night, Good Morning trades in all sorts of pop culture references that are familiar, allow us to immediately identify with the two main characters, Turiya (Manu Narayan) and Moira (Seema Rahmani), who meet by chance on New Year’s Eve in New York, and spend the night carrying on a long and far-reaching conversation by telephone, Turiya in a car with his three friends, on their way back to Philidelphia, and Moira, spending the night in a hotel on a stop-over on her way to Mumbai.   The dialogues (as befits an all night conversation), written by Kamath and Shilpa Rathnam, are sharp and crisp and pointedly wonderful.  Images of New York, shot in black and white, and set against a smooth, jazzy soundtrack, give this film a hip, contemporary, cosmopolitan feel, allowing Kamath to create an intense environment that allows us to focus on the discussion taking place.

Patang (dir. Prashant Bhargava)

Laneways bustling with a wedding party, little boys running to and fro, kites being made and delivered, kite strings coated with glittering glass and chosen with care.  Rooftops where families and neighbours share delectable dishes, sing songs, remember the past.  Kites that dip and swirl and soar on the skyline.  This is Ahmedabad during the annual kite festival.  This is the world that director Prashant Bhargava draws us into, a place where modern and traditional world views collide, and where a family’s emotions and conflicts mirror that of the kites in full flight and fight.  The film draws us into the lives and the laneways, the sounds envelop us, the music pulses, its rhythms taking us further and further into the streets and lanes of Ahmedabad, the camera view intimate (Shanker Raman’s cinematography is beautiful), dipping and swirling like the kites themselves, taking us into the lives of these characters, showing us their thoughts, their secrets, their struggles, their anguish, their smiles.  Patang also features one of the many fine performances this year from Nawazuddin Siddiqui.

Supermen of Malegaon (dir. Faiza Ahmed Khan)

Faiza Ahmed Khan’s documentary, Supermen of Malegaon, is a marvellous film within a film, tracing the making of Sheikh Nasir’s creation of Malegaon ka Superman. Khan gives us a truly touching portrait of everything and everyone involved in making this film.  She shows us the difficulties of a community like Malegaon – poor, divided.  But her film also reflects the great spirit of the place, and is always respectful of everyone involved.  It would be altogether too easy to see Malegaon’s filmmakers as a bunch of madmen with big dreams and no budgets.  But in Khan’s hands, we see them for what they truly are:  mad, surely, but in the finest sense of that word, living out their passions and, for the most part, making their dreams reality.

Chittagong (dir. Bedabrata Pain)

Bedabrata Pain takes a largely ignored event in Indian history, the Chittagong Uprising, and does for it what Tigmanshu Dhulia did for Paan Singh Tomar:  infuse it with dignity and patriotism.  It helps that Chittagong’s cast is first rate, many of them actors who have found their way onto a number of “best of” lists this year:  Manoj Bajpai, Nawazuddin Siddiqui, Raj Kumar Yadav, Jaideep Ahlawat and Vega Tamotia.  But the film is anchored by another terrific performance by Delzad Hiwale, who also shone in last year’s Bubble Gum.  Hiwale plays adolescent Jhunku, who becomes one of the players in the uprising, and it’s through his eyes that we see events unfold.  Pain’s film is well worth seeking out for the performances alone, and to ensure that these events in India’s history do not remain forgotten.

Luv Shuv Tey Chicken Khurana (dir. Sameer Sharma)

The story of the black sheep of a Punjabi family who returns home only to steal his grandfather’s famous recipe, Chicken Khurana, so he can sell it to pay off his debts, LSTCK is filled with warmth and charm.  The script is witty, the characters funny and engaging. Sameer Sharma gives us a film that celebrates family and community, as well as making us salivate at the thought of daarji’s chicken and its top secret ingredient.

Harud (dir. Aamir Bashir)

Actor turned director Aamir Bashir gives us an insight into the everyday existence of those living in Kashmir in Harud (“Autumn”), a film which had its world premiere at the Toronto International Film Festival in 2010, but which finally saw its Indian release in 2012 (through the PVR Director’s RARE banner). Autumn leaves fall and drift to the ground, the only spot of colour in an otherwise bleak landscape. Far from the image of Kashmir as a paradise in Bollywood films, this is a place where family members disappear and gunshots ring out. The younger generation, raised in this environment of fear and despair, try to find a way to escape, or survive. Bashir’s whole film is an exercise in restraint, but the performance by Shahnawaz Bhat as Rafiq, an adolescent brimming with anger that is only expressed in his eyes, is heartbreaking.

Kshay (dir. Karan Gour)

Another independent festival film that was released in India through PVR Director’s RARE, Kshay is an absolute gem. Shot exquisitely in black and white, with a beautiful and meticulously used score and an inventive use of sound, the film is mesmerizing from beginning to end; but the standout of the film is the breathtaking performance of Rasika Dugal as Chayya, the young woman whose grief over a miscarriage descends into obsession with the unfinished statue of the goddess Lakshmi that she believes is the solution to her sorrow. Karan Gour has given us one of the finest films to be released in India this year.

Ship of Theseus (dir. Anand Gandhi)

Anand Gandhi’s first feature film created a sensation on the 2012 festival circuit, though it’s hardly surprising. Ship of Theseus is one of those rare things: an elegant film that demands that its audience be engaged at every moment.  The film explores the concept of the paradox of Theseus: if an object has any or all of its parts replaced, does it remain the same?  Deft writing is matched by brilliant performances, lush sound, and cinematography that is breathtaking and beautiful.  Cameron Bailey, Artistic Director of the Toronto International Film Festival, called the film one of this year’s hidden gems, though, thankfully, its success has meant it is hidden no more.

Shahid (dir. Hansal Mehta)

Lawyer and human rights activist Shahid Azmi spent his career defending clients who had been wrongly accused for terrorist activities, and was gunned down in his office in February of 2010.  Hansal Mehta decided to make a film about him in order to stand up for him in the face of accusations of criminal activities that were being made after his death.  The result is the film Shahid, another film that riveted audiences at the Toronto International Film Festival as well as at other festivals in 2012.  The film is passionate and incredibly moving, as well as being a fascinating character study, brought to life through a wonderful performance by Raj Kumar Yadav as Shahid Azmi.

Miss Lovely (dir. Ashim Ashluwalia)

Documentary filmmaker Ashim Ashluwalia makes his transition to feature films with this story of two brothers, Sonu (Nawazuddin Sidiqqui) and Vicky (Anil George) who work making lurid and sleazy (and highly illegal, given the censorship and repression of the times) schlock horror and porn films in 1980s Bombay.  The film’s strength lies in its aesthetics, capturing this period perfectly, and in yet another powerhouse performance by Nawazuddin Siddiqui.

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Indian Expressionism runs at the TIFF Bell Lightbox from November 14 to 21.  Film screenings include (all information via the TIFF Press Office):

Wednesday, November 14 at 6:15 p.m.

Light of Asia (Prem Sanyas/Die Leuchte Asiens)

Franz Osten, 1925, India/Germany

In contrast to such flamboyant Orientalist fantasies as The Indian Tomb, which were produced and directed by Germans and intended for Western audiences, this Indo-German co-production on the life of Gautama Buddha (adapted by Niranjan Pal from Edwin Arnold’s poem of the same name) was initiated by Indian theatrical impresario Himansu Rai, who imported German director Franz Osten and cinematographers Josef Wirsching and Willi Kiermeier to India to make the film with an Indian cast. Living an indolent life in a luxurious palace, Prince Gautama (Rai) is insulated by his family from the harshness of the world outside. But he is destined to learn greater truths: shocked to discover the pain and suffering of so many in his kingdom, he abandons his privileged existence, and his wife Gopa (Seeta Devi), to become a wandering teacher, eventually finding enlightenment and founding Buddhism. Featuring superimposed images and deep-focus shots that were highly impressive for the time, Light of Asia astutely combines a deeply felt spirituality with the surefire attraction of Indian exotica, which helped make it a considerable success in Europe.

Wednesday, November 14^th at 8:30 p.m.

The Blue Angel (Der Blaue Engel)

Josef von Sternberg, 1930, Germany

One of the earliest German talkies and an acknowledged classic of world cinema, The Blue Angel made Marlene Dietrich into an international star — although at the time its biggest draw was Emil Jannings, who had just returned to Germany after winning the very first Academy Award® for Best Actor. Dignified educator Immanuel Rath (Jannings) is scandalized when he discovers that some of his students have been frequenting a sordid cabaret called The Blue Angel, whose star attraction is alluring songstress Lola Lola (Dietrich). Heading to the club to have it out with Lola, Rath instead falls in love with her himself, and their ensuing affair and marriage results in the professor’s progressive debasement, finally ending up as a pathetic clown clucking like a chicken to the derision of the club’s customers. Marvelously photographed by Günther Rittau and featuring Sternberg’s suffocatingly luxurious mise en scène, The Blue Angel was a profound influence on visiting Indian filmmakers Himansu Rai and V. Shantaram; the latter would remake the film as Pinjra in 1972.

Thursday, November 15 at 6:30 p.m.  With an introduction by Meenakshi Shedde

Pinjra (Cage)

V. Shantaram, 1972, India

A remake of Josef von Sternberg’s The Blue Angel by the great Indian director and social reformer V. Shantaram, Pinjra retains the core of the original film’s story — an upright teacher who falls from grace when he falls in love with a seductive dancer — but Indianizes it in both setting and theme. Where The Blue Angel was on a certain level a bourgeois horror story about the corruptive (and seductive) influence of the underclass as embodied in Marlene Dietrich’s Lola, in Pinjra Shantaram valourizes his heroine Chandrakala (Sandhya), dancer of the lowly tamasha, a robust, sexy folk song and dance. Shantaram draws on religion and literature to defend Chandrakala’s profession: when she does an erotic dance in a river, the accompanying song refers to Lord Krishna stealing the clothes of bathing women; later, the classic Sanskrit poet-playwright Kalidasa is quoted to validate the affair between the dancer and her teacher-social reformer lover. But Pinjra also packs in plenty of melodramatic twists to suit Indian tastes, culminating in the teacher being sentenced to death for killing . . . himself!

Saturday, November 17 at 1:00 p.m.

The Indian Tomb  (Das indische Grabmal)

Part One:  The Mission of the Yogi (Die Sendung des Yoghi)

Part Two: The Tiger of Eschnapur (Der Tiger von Eschnapur)

Joe May, 1921, Germany

Full of scheming maharajahs, magnificent palaces, ferocious tigers, erotica, adultery and revenge, this Weimar-era Orientalist adventure-fantasy spectacle was one of the first German films to be set in India (though it was shot in Berlin, with white actors in blackface and turbans and tigers borrowed from the zoo). An Indian maharajah (Conrad Veidt) orders a yogi (Bernhard Goetzke) to bring a European architect to his kingdom to build a tomb for his queen, Princess Savitri (Erna Morena) — even though she’s not dead yet. Rather, the adulterous consort is having an affair with a British officer, and the maharajah plans revenge by entombing her alive and chucking her lover into a handy tiger pit. Featuring inventive special effects and compelling performances by Veidt and Goetzke, this lavish epic was scripted by Thea von Harbou and her then husband Fritz Lang from von Harbou’s novel; Lang himself would direct the colour remake of the diptych on his return to Germany nearly four decades later.

Sunday, November 18 at 1:00 p.m.

The Tiger of Eschnapur/The Indian Tomb (Der Tiger von Eschnapur/Das indische Grabmal)

Fritz Lang, 1959, Germany

Unintentionally hilarious, unabashedly racist and tremendously entertaining, Fritz Lang’s remake of the original 1921 Indian epic (which Lang himself was slated to direct, until producer Joe May decided to do it himself) is the epitome of the Gollywood (German Bollywood) film: a luridly colour-saturated adventure packed with action, romance and revenge. German architect Harald Berger (Paul Hubschmid) is brought to India by the maharajah Chandra (Walter Reyer) to build schools and hospitals. Berger rescues the beautiful temple dancer Seetha (Debra Paget) from a tiger, and the two fall in love. But the jealous Chandra, who wishes to marry Seetha himself, drops his reformist spirit and plans a brutally archaic revenge for the two lovers. The unquestioned high point is Paget’s near-naked dance with a clunky fake cobra to prove her innocence before the temple priests (all played by Europeans in blackface). A big box-office success in Germany and a precursor to modern action-adventures like the Indiana Jones series, Lang’s last great epic is pretty outrageous German neo-colonial snake oil, all the more startling considering that India had gained its independence more than a decade earlier.

Monday, November 19 at 6:30 p.m.

Amrit Manthan (The Churning of the Oceans)

V. Shantaram, 1934, India

A trip to Germany to process and print India’s first colour film Sairandhri in 1933 marked a turning point for brilliant Indian film director V. Shantaram. While his earlier films were mainly lumbering mythologicals and historicals, Amrit Manthan, made immediately after his return from Germany, clearly reflects the powerful impression that German Expressionism had made upon him, while also reflecting his own perennial themes of social reform. When a progressive Hindu king bans animal sacrifice, he is opposed by a wicked priest, leading to a series of deadly intrigues and last-minute rescues. A heartfelt plea for a more humane religion, Amrit Manthan — its title referring to the “churning of the oceans” by gods and demons in search of the elixir of immortality — is also an action-packed spectacle featuring elaborate sets and costumes and impressive special effects, with Shantaram employing a host of techniques and devices learned from the German cinema: deep shadows, canted compositions, and, in one startling moment, a telephoto shot that offers an intense close-up of the evil priest’s glaring eye.

Wednesday, November 21 at 6:30 p.m.

Mahal  (Palace)

Kamal Amrohi, 1949, India

A stylish, atmospheric black-and-white ghost love story that clearly reflects the influence of German Expressionism, Mahal was shot by German cinematographer Josef Wirsching, who had earlier shot Light of Asia and a number of other films for Himansu Rai’s studio Bombay Talkies. Hari Shankar (Ashok Kumar) comes to live in an old mansion, where he is astonished to discover that he resembles the portrait of the house’s late previous owner. The gardener tells of how the former owner and his lover Kamini died tragically, with the owner promising her he will be reborn to reunite with her some day. Soon after, a beautiful woman (Madhubala) appears, and Hari falls in love with her — but some melodramatic twists later, it becomes clear that at least one of the lovers hails from the spirit world. Madhubala is gorgeous as the stately phantom, and her song “Aayega aayega aayega aanewala” (The One Who Is To Return, Will Return) remains popular in India even today. An enormous box-office hit, Mahal inspired many more ghost/reincarnation love stories, including Madhumati, Karz and Om Shanti Om.

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Theirs is a world that is a far cry from the glitz and glamour of Bollywood. It’s a dirty, gritty world, where, in the words of one of the money-men, PK, “the girls need to be pretty and shameless.” The casting couch is not only a fact of life, it’s a prerequisite for becoming a heroine. But it’s also an environment where the quest for fresh flesh means that heroines are tossed aside without a second thought. It’s hard not to think of Milan Luthria’s 2011 film The Dirty Picture while watching Miss Lovely (though I suspect that Ashluwalia might not be happy at that comparison)– but Luthria’s film is a much tamer work, where competing heroines duke it out in song and dance. In Miss Lovely, they engage in a knock-down, drag out cat-fight. Luthria’s film flirted with shamelessness; Ashluwalia’s is unabashedly tawdry and tacky, a true dirty picture at its core.

Ashluwalia captures the 80s to perfection, right from the film’s opening with its fabulously retro title card. The film’s great strength lies in its aesthetics, reminiscent in some ways of the low-budget horror films produced by the Ramsay Brothers. There is, at times, almost a documentary feel to it all, with Ashluwalia attempting to give us an almost clinical, detailed glance into this shadowy and highly disreputable world. That’s a strength, but it’s also a weakness, robbing the film of a narrative flow and depth in characterisation that would make it so much more engaging. Nawazuddin Siddiqui’s Sonu moves listlessly through much of this film, so passive that he never makes much progress on his dream project and finds himself pushed by Vicky into situations that find him taking the rap when the police finally crack down on their productions. Siddiqui’s Sonu reminds me of his Faizal in Gangs of Wasseypur 2 – both men suffer from an inability to act, but when they do, they do it in a way that is explosive and brutal and almost unexpected.

In the end, Miss Lovely, aesthetically pleasing and unsettling at the same time, remains an uneasy film about an uneasy subject.

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Bala’s film is gritty and pessimistic, his characters not losers, exactly, but wholly inadequate and unable to make something of their lives. Bala is unsentimental in his portrayal of them, and of the environment they live in. These are the people who live on Mumbai’s fringes, far from the glamour of the vibrant metropolis. You can see the influence of director Anurag Kashyap (with whom Bala worked on films such as Gulaal and Dev D, and who is one of the producers of Peddlers) – there is a similar dark humour, for example, and an ironic referencing of Bollywood – Ranjit’s neighbour, for example, is a lawyer who claims to have started out as a background dancer in Bollywood. But the music in Bala’s film is edgier, the camera work more agitated. Bala’s style is grittier, his characters more disaffected – on the whole he creates an environment that is unrelentingly dark and depressing. Peddlers is an uneasy watch, with an explosive climax that is worth the occasionally meandering paths that Bala leads us down.

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It’s a drastic step, and one that has consequences, both for Shiv (Sarang Sathaye), and for the family and friends he leaves behind, who miss him terribly and worry about him. But like the best of spiritual quests, the things we need are given and revealed only when we are ready for them. Along the way, Shiv meets people who change his life, who act as guideposts for him, and who are there for him when he reaches the darkest point in his journey. Shiv wants to become someone, something, and his journey allows him to strip himself of everything he thought was important to him, and finally find a purpose to his life.

Mohit Takalkar’s film is probably the most thoughtful and spiritual of all the films I’ve seen this week at TIFF2012. The film’s title refers to a book by Russian writer Andrei Turgenev. As Shiv’s mother (Shernaz Patel) tells us, it’s the story of a prince who gave up his kingdom, leaving and no one knowing where he went. “Why should someone give up his world?” she wonders. “Real life isn’t like that.” But this story, which she tells Shiv and his brother at bedtime – changing the ending, of course – shows that Shiv’s reality, at least, is like that story, and some princes need to go in search of something different from what they already have.

The Bright Day occasionally feels staged, the dialogues occasionally stilted, but there is much is Takalkar’s film that is thoughtful, joyous and charming. The director has said that the film is about a journey towards lightness, and he’s not wrong. As I sat in the theatre and watched cinematographer Amol Gole’s crisp, vibrant, and luminous images (the film is shot using DSLR photography, with a short depth of field that draws you right into the frame), listened to the soulful music (Benedict Taylor’s original score draws from local sources for inspiration), I felt the weight of everything just drop from my shoulders. Shiv’s journey, finally, allows him to find his own note to sing (as the old man he meets on his journey might have it), a note that brings him, and us, joy.

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Part 2 begins where Part 1 left off, with the death of Sardar Khan (Manoj Bajpai). Part 2 sees his eldest son, Danish (Vineet Kumar), begin to take over the reins, and exact punishment for his father’s assassination, but he soon is taken down by Sultan Qureshi (Pankaj Tripathi). Thus it falls to the perpetually stoned Faizal to step up and exact revenge – a role that no one, not even his mother Nagma (“Look at your eyes, dead with drugs,” she tells him), feels he is fit for.

And it’s true – the days pass, and Faizal seems incapable of action. But when he does finally swing into action, he does so in a spectacular and brutal fashion, proving himself to be more cold-blooded and brutal than any of his brothers – no mean feat that, because all of Sardar Khan’s sons – including Perpendicular (Aditya Kumar) and Definite (Zeishan Quadri — who impressed me as much as Nawazzudin Siddiqui did) – are cold and ruthless.

Two of the three screenings of Gangs of Wasseypur at TIFF2012 will allow viewers to watch Parts 1 and 2 back to back (with a short break in between screenings), and although seeing them this way is the film lover’s equivalent of running a marathon, it does, I think, give you a sense of the shape and scope of Kashyap’s vision. Part 1 lays out the groundwork, peppering us with dates and events, layering the history of these families over the history of the region, even the country they live in. In Part 2, the focus is laid squarely on the sons of Sardar Khan and their opponents, and as the film progresses, the bullets fly more frequently and furiously, and the body count rises almost alarmingly. The film is not for the faint of heart – and yet, as bloody and violent as it is, everything is filmed almost artfully and poetically – dust flies, water pours from a pail shot out by police, gunshots ring and shell cases clatter to the floor.

It would be too easy to see Gangs of Wasseypur as an exercise in self-indulgence by one of India’s most uncompromising filmmakers – yes it is long, and yes, it frequently requires much patience on the part of the audience (more so in Part 1 than in Part 2, for me at least). But Kashyap’s vision also reveals that he is unparalleled technically, and that he is able to reference the films and filmmakers who inspire him and yet create something that is totally his own. His trademark dark humour is more in evidence in Part 2, providing a welcome counterpoint to the ever increasing violence. Kashyap is easily unrivalled in how he makes use of music in his films, whether it’s the old Bollywood songs that are sung at funerals or weddings, or that chirp out as ringtones for cell phones, or whether it’s in the use of original songs such as the ones Sneha Khanwalker created for the films. The romance of Mohsina (Huma Qureshi) and Faizal (easily one of the highlights of Part 2) takes place to the strains of “My lover has a dark heart” – so true in the case of the cold-blooded Faizal. And Faizal’s signature song with its refrain of “Whatever’s wrong, set it right,” neatly highlights Faizal’s motivating force. And finally, “Why are you trying to hold water in your palms, fool – its nature is to slip away” played as Faizal finally avenges his father’s death by killing Ramadhir Singh (Tigmanshu Dhulia) only serves to underline the futility of this seemingly never-ending cycle of violence and revenge.

Because the business of Wasseypur is not coal, it’s not cloth, it’s not iron – the business of Wasseypur is revenge, a cycle of violence handed down from father to son like a beloved family tradition. Sardar Khan chose his two wives, Nagma (Richa Chadda) and Durga (Reema Sen) well – they both raise their sons, in the words of Durga, “to be killers, not cowards.” That the films present us with a whirlwind of characters is, I think, intentional – it’s an almost bewildering and never-ending cycle, further underlined in Part 2’s final frames, when only one of Sardar Khan’s sons is left standing, and we see the son of Faizal Khan, who we can only assume will be groomed to take up the torch to exact revenge for his own father.

Gangs of Wasseypur also stands as a testament to how far things have come in Hindi cinema since Anurag Kashyap first started kicking at the edges of it. His first film Paanch (unreleased because it was refused a certificate for what was felt to be excessive use of drugs and a glorifying of violence) now seems almost tame in comparison, especially as we watch Faizal toke and kill his way through Part 2. Kashyap’s tireless and uncompromising attempts to push at the boundaries of what is acceptable in commercial Hindi cinema may come across at times as single-minded and self-indulgent, but when the result is Gangs of Wasseypur (even with its flaws), and the rise of a whole new generation of filmmakers who are able to share their own uncompromising visions, then I’m prepared to indulge Anurag Kashyap, and to look forward to where he will go now that he has Gangs of Wasseypur out of his system.

TIFF Special: Gangs of Wasseypur (Part 2) Movie Review is a post from: BollySpice

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From the novel Z by Vassilis Vassilikos

A controversial political activist fighting the displacement of people in the face of a development project is mowed down as he leaves a rally. When his wife calls into question the nature of the “accident”, the Chief Minister sets up an enquiry, headed by a rising bureaucrat who is expected to confirm the official reports and get things settled quickly. When he begins to investigate, and when he is provided with evidence by Shalini (one of the leader’s followers) and Joginder Parmar (a videographer and part-time pornographer) he discovers that things are not what they seem, that the “accident” was, in fact, a premeditated attack on the leader with the collusion of the police and the powers that be.

The “Shanghai” of the film’s title stands as a metaphor for a kind of modern progress, where skyscrapers and housing developments are the new gods, and where India jostles with China to see who will come first in the race of emerging world powers. As with anything new and shiny and powerful, it comes with a price, where political corruption and slippery morality displace other values; where people can be removed from their homes and relocated simply because it serves the purpose of those with more money; where murder becomes the way to deal with those who inconveniently shine a light on problems.

Most of Shanghai‘s characters are outsiders: the bureaucrat Krishnan (Abhay Deol) is a Tamil working in the North of India. Dr. Ahmedi (Prosenjit Chatterjee) is a social and political activist who lectures in the United States; Shalini (Kalki Koechlin) is marked as a foreigner; Joginder (Emraan Hashmi) is a pornographer; even the two murderers, the truck driver Jaggu (Anant Jog) and Bhagu (Pitobash) sit at the fringes of a movement that they hope will help them (Jaggu wants to pay off his truck, Bhagu wants to learn English so he can rise to put on a tie an manage a pizza place), but which is only too willing to toss them aside when they’re no longer useful. All of them find themselves confronted with a system that is rife with corruption and that is only too willing to play with their lives.

The novel Z by Vassilis Vassilikos (on which Shanghai is based) is sweeping and clinical, almost a documentary account filled with a vast cast of characters. It’s as if the author needed to document a version of events occurring in Greece at the time he was writing, to make sure these stories were told, and not covered up in the face of massive political corruption. There’s frequently a sense of bewilderment on the part of many of the characters, as events almost seem to be beyond their comprehension. The author seems to be bearing witness to events that seem almost overwhelming.

And it’s that sensation I get at times from Banerjee’s film – and the film stands in sharp contrast to the director’s previous work (the films Khosla Ka Ghosla, Oye Lucky, Lucky Oye! and Love Sex aur Dhoka), where humour and satire worked to provide social commentary in a way that was thought-provoking and often surprising. Shanghai is darker, more intense. It doesn’t seem to have any easy answers; nor does it seem to be a direct call to arms, and its ending makes me wonder if Banerjee himself is simply documenting a system that never seems to change, if his intention is in simply lifting up a rock and letting us see what’s squirming there when the light shines on it.

What hasn’t changed is Banerjee’s remarkable attention to detail. Characters slip on a freshly mopped floor, symbolizing the shaky ground they find themselves on. A basketball bounces in the inquiry room, suggesting that what is going on is more of a game than anyone realizes. I particularly love the quirky little details that help us learn more about Abhay Deol’s Krishnan – his striped socks, the tie he carries but only puts on at the last minute, both perhaps suggesting his willingness to break with convention. The computerized puja he performs, marking him as modern and yet sincere and devoted at the same time.

Other characters, too, make an impression. Kalki Koechlin’s Shalini is too tightly wound and too high-pitched for my taste, but the film occasionally uses that to great effect, for example, when she bites the hand of one of the men trying to attack her and Joginder. In contrast, there is Tillotama Shome as Dr. Ahmedi’s wife, weeping for him on the one hand, and yet brutally aware both of his dalliances with other women (including Shalini), and the politics that separate her from her husband. Bengali actor Prosenjit Chatterjee is an inspired choice as Dr. Ahmedi – the role is small, and needed someone to make an immediate impact, and Chatterjee brings the full force of his charisma to the role. As much as I hated Pitobash’s Bhagu and his willingness to gleefully embrace violence and to almost blindly follow party orders, I could sympathize with his desire to make something of himself. And I have to state: this is the first time I have ever enjoyed Emraan Hashmi in a film – he manages to make a character as morally slippery and almost pathetic as Joginder into someone noble enough to get involved to try to make sure the information he has gets into the right hands.

There are heartbreaking moments in the film too, such as when Jaggu, having been beaten by an angry Shalini after she discovers he was the one driving the truck that hit Ahmedi, notes dejectedly that he knows he is nothing to her, but equally, she and the supporters of the doctor are nothing to him. This statement more than anything underlies the futility of everything they are doing, no matter which side they are on. An observation by the young journalist in Vassilis Vassilikos’ novel applies equally to Banerjee’s film: “There is something shattering about all these people who’ve somehow got mixed up in this sinister affair.”

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“Here comes Ms. Earthquake,” says Zoya’s father of her when she arrives home after using her gold earrings to buy herself a gun. If that surprises us, we soon realize it shouldn’t – Zoya lives in a place divided by religion (her family is Muslim, Parma’s is Hindu) and, more importantly, by politics, with the two clans, the Qureshis and the Chauhans, vying to win elections. This is an incredibly testosterone driven world, with Zoya trying to match the machismo with her spunk and spitfire and carve out a place for herself that is equal to that of the male members of her family.

At first it would seem that she has nothing in common with Parma Chauhan – who is a cad of the first order, rude, boorish, loutish and thuggish. Whereas the educated Zoya works to help her father be re-elected, Parma has a lot of half-baked, ill-thought out, ill-considered plans. What they have in common, we come to realize, is that neither of them is truly taken seriously by their respective families. The male members of Zoya’s family laugh at her when she talks about becoming an MLA like her father. Parma’s grandfather constantly tells him he’s a good-for-nothing who can do nothing right. It’s this sense of being outsiders, I think, that finally draws the two of them together.

Zoya’s life (and Parma’s too) is changed by one small action she takes – when Parma points a gun at her, she decides that the retribution she must dish out is to be the first to slap him. It’s that slap that changes the course of both their lives.

It is incredibly difficult to write about Ishaqzaade without giving away the main plot twist (that happens just before the interval). Let me just say that the relationship that appears to be blossoming between Zoya and Parma is not what it seems, and results in the betrayal of Zoya by Parma in a way that is both unexpected and shocking. And it changes both their lives in a way that Parma could never have predicted when he came up with the idea to try to seduce and marry Zoya – another of his half-baked plans that almost looks set to succeed (and which finally gains him the respect of his grandfather), but for his mother’s deathbed insistence that he must make amends for what he has done to Zoya, and because, unexpectedly, he actually falls in love with Zoya (and she with him). This finds them not only at odds with both their families, but on the run as both families set out to deal with them in the only way they know how – violently.

I hadn’t expected that Ishaqzaade would turn out to be a film about honour killing. In fact, the film is a whole series of “unexpecteds” for me: unexpected from director Habib Faisal (he of one of my most recent favorites, Do Dooni Chaar, about a middle class family trying to make ends meet, and dialogue writer of the delightful and light-hearted Band Baaja Baaraat); unexpected from Yash Raj Films, from whom I expect frothy entertainers; unexpectedly gritty and violent – in fact, Ishaqzaade makes an interesting counterpoint to Anurag Kashyap’s Gangs of Wasseypur (also screening at TIFF2012), exploring a similar kind of lawless, almost frontier environment (though I’d argue that Kashyap’s films do a much better job of capturing the flavour of that environment).

Totally unexpected, too, is the film as the launching pad for newcomer Arjun Kapoor. Parma is no hero — and although the film sets out to redeem him, he still spends most of it as something of a villain – incredibly unlikeable, and with a sneaky smile that almost makes him repulsive. This is not a man with whom anyone falls in love, and I have to admire the risk that takes in an industry obsessed with the perfection of the leading man. Parma’s betrayal of Zoya is both heartbreaking and cruel, and it’s almost distressing to think that the one scheme he has that redeems him in the eyes of his grandfather is also the one with the potential to destroy the feisty Zoya.

Where Ishaqzaade falls down, for me at least, is in the romanticizing of the relationship between Zoya and Parma – and here’s where the Yash Raj connection shows, trying to convince us that it’s in Zoya’s best interest to reform the man who betrayed her, and that he will be a better man for it in the end. The film allows Parma to redeem himself in fulfilling his mother’s dying wish that he make amends, but this comes at the expense of Zoya, who is left with limited options as to how she can retain any control in her life. And as much as Parma might change, even truly falling in love with Zoya, still we can’t forget that his roots are in the misogynistic setting the film presents us with.

There are, of course, better films dealing with the subject of honour killings – for example Love Sex aur Dhoka, from Dibakar Banerjee (whose Shanghai is screening at TIFF2012) lands a sucker punch on the subject, using humour as a counterpoint to almost lull us into complacency, and then shock us by delivering the unexpected. It’s an uncompromising film, but so is Ishaqzaade in some respects, and that is a strength. Also interesting are the women to be found in this extremely macho setting – Parma’s mother succeeds in stopping Zoya when she makes her way into the Chauhan family compound, and she exacts a promise from Parma that he will make amends, something no other (male) member of his family would do. There’s also the prostitute Chand Bibi (the wonderful Gauhar Khan), who takes a risk to help the pair out – even though she herself loves Parma. And there’s Zoya herself, played magnificently by actress Parineeti Chopra, who, in the course of two films, has proved herself a force to be reckoned with in Bollywood. In the end, though, they are all caught in this cycle of violence with no way out of it, and the shooting of Parma’s mother shows just how expendable and worthless they are to the men in this society.

Some have argued that the film is regressive. The problem with Ishaqzaade is not so much that it is regressive; it is that it dares to promise something more – to give us a heroine who is powerful and who goes after what she wants with no concessions – and then snatches it back by reverting to typical filmi form. Love makes Zoya vulnerable, and it’s that vulnerability that Parma exploits, to great effect in the film. But it also dilutes her strength, her passion, and her power as a character. The film does redeem itself somewhat in the end, thankfully, when Zoya makes a decision that allows her to take control over this misogynistic cycle of violence and repression she finds herself caught up in. But the one option that is left open to her to retain that control, over how she will live, and how she will die, well, that one option just left me absolutely heartbroken. And perhaps, in the end, that was Habib Faisal’s intention all along.

TIFF Special: Ishaqzaade Movie Review is a post from: BollySpice

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The film, then, traces the stories of three individuals, all of whom are affected by this conundrum. Each of them must deal with the change that is wrought in their lives and in themselves either after an organ transplant (in the case of the photographer Aliya and the stockbroker Nivan), or before it (the monk Maitreya).

Aliya (Aida Elkashef) is blind as a result of a corneal infection. Despite this, she works as a photographer, relying on her intuition to fuel her creative output. In addition, she has developed a way of working with her boyfriend – he describes the images she has taken in detail, and she decides, based on what she feels about the experience of taking the image combined with his description, on whether she will accept or reject an image. Images the two of them disagree on get put in something they call a “memory box”, perhaps to be reconsidered another time.

Aliya’s world and her sense of herself as an artist are both changed and called into question dramatically when she undergoes a corneal transplant. When we first see Aliya, she is blind, but incredibly confident, forging into situations without a second thought, making decisions about her art and standing by them. Interviewed during a showing of her work, she reveals the connection she feels with novelist Patrick Süskind’s perfumer – just as he tried to isolate and preserve all the scents in the world, so Aliya wants to isolate and preserve something of her experience and existence through her work.

Süskind’s novel is a story of identity and communication, and Aliya’s sense of identity, and her means of communicating meaning and expressing herself through her photography is called into question after she regains her sight. Aliya is more bewildered by her physical surroundings – she seems to lose some instinctive, intuitive part of herself. The irony, of course, is that Aliya can see, and yet, she can no longer see. Aliya must find new ways of working. Even as she experiences the joy of finally seeing her own photographs, she must confront the new insecurity she feels, and her inability to work and create as she has previously.

Nivan (Sohum Shah) is a young stockbroker who has undergone a kidney transplant. While caring for his grandmother when she finds herself in hospital after a fall, he learns of the case of a patient who has had his kidney stolen (after going in for an appendectomy). Nivan’s initial worry, of course, is that he has been the recipient of the stolen kidney. His research assures him that he has not, but he begins a quest to discover what happened to the kidney, which leads him to confront the existence of illegal organ transplant tourism, and the slippery morality that comes with it. The Swedish man who received the kidney argues that if the owner was willing to sell, then why shouldn’t he buy it? The man himself, so bereft at the loss of his kidney, is mollified when offered a considerable sum of money for it in the end. Nivan questions whether his actions have made any difference at all – and is reassured by his grandmother, who tells him it is always better to try than to remain indifferent. Nivan’s life, his priorities, his morality – even his relationship with his grandmother (an educated woman surrounded by activists, who disapproved of her grandson’s views on life) is transformed after his own transplant and how it calls him to question his life.

Both of these stories bookend what is perhaps the most compelling of Gandhi’s three stories – that of the monk Maitreya (Neeraj Kabi). Maitreya is an animal activist, participating in a trial which aims to see the ending of animal testing in India. When Maitreya finds himself seriously ill, with cirrhosis of the liver, he is told not to worry, there are medications he can take, and he may undergo a transplant.

Maitreya’s first thought, though, is to check his medications on a list of those banned for use because they are produced by companies actively involved in animal testing, and when he finds them there, he refuses treatment. He becomes progressively more ill, more frail – and the film pulls no punches here, showing us his skeletal frame (the actor lost an incredible amount of weight over the course of the shoot), the bedsores that stick to his sheet – but more importantly, it peels back the ethical and philosophical layers he finds himself confronted with.

Maitreya’s character is nicely balanced against that of the young lawyer he works with on the animal testing case. The aptly named Charvaka (after the branch of Indian philosophy that embraces philosophical skepticism) constantly calls Maitreya’s beliefs into question, particularly as the monk comes closer and closer to death. Maitreya’s central belief is one of non-violence (and he is also aptly named, “Maitreya” meaning “loving-kindness”), but Charvaka (Vinay Shukla) wonders about the violence one commits on one’s self by refusing to take medication, and whether sacrificing one’s life for a cause is a huge expectation to place on someone. It’s an expectation that Maitreya seems to set for himself, until he eventually decides his cause would be better served by having him be alive to fight it.

TIFF’s Artistic Director Cameron Bailey has described Ship of Theseus as one of this year’s hidden gems, and it’s not hard to see why. Pankaj Kumar’s cinematography is breathtaking and beautiful. The sound (Gabor Erdelyi and Tamas Szekely) is lush. All the performances are terrific, but the renowned stage actor Neeraj Kabi brings an intelligence and grace to his role that makes his portrayal of the monk particularly troubling and moving.

Ship of Theseus is one of those rare things: an elegant film that demands that its audience be engaged at every moment. It’s an incredibly ambitious film, and if it falters at all, it’s because it, perhaps, asks a little too much of its viewers. Having seen Gandhi’s previous two short films – especially Continuum (co-directed with Khushboo Ranka), with which Ship of Theseus shares much, including a thematic structure and finale – I knew that somehow he would tie the three stories together in a way that was surprising and satisfying. I wasn’t disappointed – but I did wonder what the film was like for those sailing rudderless, not sure where the Ship of Theseus was really taking them. The journey is worthwhile, but some judicious editing and a better sense of continuity (Continuum, for example, used title cards to express which concept we were seeing played out in each of the stories) would make this film the truly magical, mystical voyage it is meant to be.

TIFF Special: Ship of Theseus Movie Review is a post from: BollySpice

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