Amazon Prime’s Bandwaale is not without its flaws. There is a serious pacing problem when we feel that the storytelling is taking too much time to say what it has to say. There are also some ridiculous situations, for example, a hospital-rescue sequence which looks like something out of an Anees Bazmee comedy.
But there is also an unflinching sincerity and a beating heart at the core of the story, with characters who are so grounded, their will to fly seems preordained. At the centre of the 8-episode musical (snatches of Lataji’s Jiya jale are still playing in my head) is Mariam, played with a gentle persuasiveness by Shalini Pandey.
Mariam is a closeted poet (her poems are written for the series by Kausar Munir). There is another closeted character in the series whose come-out monologue is so poignant, it leaves us deeply moved.
Such moments come from a place of empathy and surprise us. Mariam’s journey from a tyrannized daughter bullied by her father (Ashish Vidyarthi) to a winged wanderer is dotted with joyous encounters with musicians and other oddballs.
Not all of them sit easily on the storytelling, which tends to be wobbly due to overloading. There are more characters waiting for things to happen than incidents that actually happen, so that there is a looming sense of de-energized, thwarted storytelling hampering what could have been a miniature classic of a show.
That said, Bandwaale directed by Akshat Verma and Ankur Tewari, has a lot going for itself. Its depiction of small town bedlam in Ratlam (Madhya Pradesh) over ‘reels’ are worthy of squeals. Though the pace is uneven, and not all the characters grow as smoothly as they should over the episodes, the feeling of a purpose beyond the pedestrian never gets shaken off.
The performances are primarily in keeping with the mood of the languid proceedings. Although Shalini Pandey gets her character, she could have gone easy on the warpaint, which stands out in the scrubbed surroundings. Zahan Kapoor shows a lot of restraint in interpreting his complex character, although his arc kind of peters out towards the end.
The real winner among the performers is Swanand Kirkire, whose Robo Bhaiyya is the kind of boorish but well-meaning singer-musician that prevailed in the 1990s. As a remnant of the past, Kikire has a blast. We only wish his character had more room to breathe.
There are too many supporting characters, interesting in their proclivity to project the best versions of themselves into the plot. As a piece of work that grapples with the conflicts of small-town aspirations, Bandwaale works well enough to command attention.
