Goliyon Ki Raasleela Ram-Leela

Even before writing this review, I knew it would run the risk of appearing slightly schizophrenic, thanks to my difficulty in separating my critical eye from my personal excitement to watch Ram Leela* and shameless willingness to lap up Bhansali's particularly extravagant brand of filmmaking. Consider that my confession, as well as your warning, before proceeding to read the rest.

Because I'm feeling lazy, and because most of us probably made it through eighth grade English class, I'm going to assume that we're all familiar with Romeo and Juliet and avoid explaining the predictable beats of Ram Leela's plot. The opening credits do mention that the film is "inspired" by the classic, but Ram Leela takes it a step further. Aside from the addition of ethnic touches and (of course) song and dance sequences that are rather reminiscent of Bhansali's earlier Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam, the film is largely a faithful reproduction of the Shakespearean play--or actually, Baz Luhrmann's 1997 cinematic version of it, right down to the pool under Leela's bedroom, Deepika's white ensemble during the balcony scene, and a spin-off of the famous "rose by any other name" line. 

As a speedy refresher, then, let's just leave it at this: ruling crime clans of adjacent villages, the Rajadis and Saneras have been at war for over 500 years. Daily existence is governed solely by a mission to destroy each other. Even within the enclaves of their neighborhoods, any conflict, major or trivial, is solved conveniently with firearms. Amidst this violence-ridden existence occurs the encounter between Rajadi playboy Ram and effervescent daughter of the Sanera house, Leela. The star-crossed lover angle thus begins, and, well, you know the rest.  

When originality of plot is given somewhat of a pass, a film had better find other ways to keep us interested. What Ram Leela lacks in narrative novelty, it makes up for in dramatic visual scale. Legions of dancers swirl alongside the stars during intricately choreographed songs. Scenes spill over with exquisitely designed ghagras and ornate displays of rangoli. It's a little bizarre to see magnificent havelis and camel-drawn carriages sharing screen space with laptops and mobile phones (there's even a mention of Twitter!), but hey, it is a modern classic after all. If nothing else, the juxtaposition sure contributes to the film's entertainment factor. 

Furthermore, in the first act, it is a welcome change to see Bhansali trade in some of his usual somberness and intensity for a dash of playful irreverence and plain goofiness; we are treated to the delightfully silly "Ishqyaun Dhishqyaun" number, and some laugh-out-loud moments courtesy of Leela's awkward NRI suitor and Ram's particularly cheeky exchange with the police during a raid in his home. 

But post-interval, the film unfortunately slides back into the director's signature realm of melodrama, with long drawn-out sequences that involve way too much killing, backstabbing, chasing, and angry noise. In one scene, exasperated by the trigger-happy tendencies of the two warring families, Ram complains, "su fighting fighting full time?" Incidentally, that's exactly what I want to ask Bhansali, as by the 150th minute and the nine-gazillionth gunshot, we have long since gotten the point. At over 2.5 hours long, even epic gorgeousness can become overwhelming, and by the rolling of the final credit, no amount of ravishing set design or impassioned monologues could have prevented my relief that it was over.

Speaking of wanting things to end, must I discuss Priyanka Chopra's item song? I realize it was a much-anticipated part of the movie, but as I was kind of hoping to keep the snark in this review to a minimum, perhaps it's best that I leave her special appearance untouched.  I will say that, immediately after it was done, someone in my theater yelled out, "once more!"** I would respectfully have to disagree. One round of gratuitous gyrating is quite enough for me, thankyouverymuch.

What I couldn't get enough of was Ram and Leela's courting period. Their first meeting is a solid ten minutes of suggestive gestures, eyebrow raising, and coy sidelong glances during a song sequence. When they do eventually converse, the provocative banter that accompanies the lascivious looks results in an unbelievably electric rapport. It is pure fun watching the two sneaking trysts on Leela's balcony, stealing moments undercover in their respective neighborhoods, and exchanging intentionally cheesy pick-up lines over the phone. Say what you will about the believability of Ram and Leela's story; the chemistry between Ranveer and Deepika, boosted by some seriously spicy dialogue, is off the scale and unlike any other on-screen pair we've seen recently. 

So it's unfortunate when, in the second half, their interactions get relegated to the backseat and the Rajadi/Sanera feud takes front and center. While not unexpected, given the plot's loyalty to its 16th century roots, you crave the duo's presence simply because they make such an irresistible combination. That being said, the supporting cast is by no means incompetent, especially the women; Richa Chadda as Leela's sister-in-law strikes the perfect balance between fierce and vulnerable. Supriya Pathak is a deliciously devious matriarch, her steely glare and ruthlessness commanding power both over the Saneras and over us as an audience. 

However, the movie truly belongs to the leading pair.  While I found Cocktail--often touted as her breakthrough performance--overrated, Deepika has at last convinced me that she isn't just a pretty face with a gift for garba (although, MAN, is she ever gifted at garba.) Delivering flirtatious quips and fiery outbursts with equal finesse, she breathes new life as Leela into the well-worn skeleton of Juliet. As for Ranveer, it is clear in everything from his exceptionally chiseled physique to his hot-blooded passion for his co-star that he was made to play Ram. Though occasionally pushing his confidence to the brink of overacting, there is no denying his completely uninhibited commitment to a character that has no room for subtlety. Despite the shift in focus away from the two in the second half, we can spend it reveling in the resounding impact they make, both individually as well as together, during the first. 

A concluding note, to those who grumble about the film's unnatural excess: let's be real. Sanjay Leela Bhansali has made enough films by now that you when you sign up to watch one of them, it's downright foolish to expect cinema verite. If it's gritty realism you're looking for, go watch a Dibakar Banerjee movie. Bhansali doesn't call his films "magnum opuses" for nothing. He makes no effort to hide his love of color, of grandeur, of theatrics, and of love itself--here, he has unapologetically dished it all out in spades. Ram Leela is a quintessential exercise in indulgence: not to be delved into every day, but relished, free of judgement, when we do.

*In the interest of saving space, can we just call it that instead of its ridiculous, way-too-long new title? Thanks.

**In spite of not sharing the young man's sentiments, for the first time ever, I was thrilled about this. Not even prim & proper Singapore can hold obnoxious desis back from hooting in the cinemas. Woot!

Enough Said

I was less than amused by the contrived and crude humor in It's Complicated; yawned my way through the tired storyline of Something's Gotta Give; and fidgeted uncomfortably while witnessing an over-the-hill couple struggle with intimacy issues in Hope Springs. Needless to say then, the thought of watching yet another middle-age romance made me weary.* And yet somehow, The Husband and I found ourselves at the cinema last Tuesday evening, purchasing tickets for Enough Said, a movie that, from the trailers, promised the very premise that for me, had gotten old. Pun intended. 

I should have known better. When you place the mammoth talents of Julia Louise-Dreyfus and James Gandolfini in the hands of a writer/director as sharply perceptive as Nicole Holofcener (doesn't hurt that her entry into Hollywood was under the tutelage of the ever-discerning Woody Allen), the results are bound to stand out from the rest.

10 years divorced, with a loving daughter (Tracey Fairaway) whose one foot is out the door on her way to university, Eva (Dreyfus), a masseuse in her mid-50s, is painfully aware of having to redefine the impending new phase of her life before the loneliness of empty-nest syndrome sets in. 

So when she meets Albert (Gandolfini) at a party and begins dating him soon afterwards, she is delighted at having found someone she genuinely clicks with. Albert is overweight, balding, and a bit of a slob--but he's also effortlessly lovable, unashamedly vulnerable, and a fellow divorcee on the verge of sending his own daughter off to college. Connecting to him with unexpected ease on everything from a distaste of loud restaurants to the visual symptoms of aging and the challenges of single parenthood, Eva is surprised at how comfortable they are together, and how quickly her feelings for him grow.

Meanwhile, she also finds both a new client and friend in Marianne (Catherine Keener). A poet who dazzles her with an impeccable home, yogini-esque aura, and first name basis with Joni Mitchell, Marianne also happens to be Albert's former wife--a coincidence unbeknownst to anyone except Eva. Still bitter about her failed marriage, and thrilled to finally have a confidante, Marianne doesn't hold back in divulging the idiosyncrasies she found maddening about her ex-husband; suddenly, Eva finds herself having become the sounding board for endless complaints about own new boyfriend.

When you've already lived half your life and had your share of heartbreak and missteps along the way, it's only natural to approach every new major decision or turn of events with a degree of trepidation, afraid of mistakes you think you can no longer afford to make.

Perhaps this is why Eva never confesses to either party, using Marianne's consistent stream of criticisms of Albert to discover his imperfections and, in subsequent conversations with her best friend (Toni Collette, as a psychologist who may benefit from some therapy herself), judge the course of her own relationship with him. Soon, all the quirks that initially made Albert sweetly endearing to Eva--his guacamole-eating technique, his slightly unkempt home, his limited culinary repertoire--become reasons to question him as a partner after being clouded by Marianne's tainted lens. But in her preoccupation with how Albert's faults could lead their relationship to disaster, Eva may actually be the one digging them into a hole.

There is a moment in Enough Said where, acknowledging her use of humor to mask her deeper insecurity, Eva admits, "I'm tired of being funny." The line summarizes, albeit inadvertently, one of the biggest traps that previous films about love over 50 fall into; presumably desperate to appeal to all ages, they subject their older actors to plot points better suited for 25 year olds, and drive them to histrionics that border on buffoonery. 

Ironically, in spite of Eva's confession, Enough Said manages to achieve funny without forcing it or resorting to caricatures and melodrama. The twist that forms the central plot may be unlikely; however, the reasons it occurs, the sentiments that surround it, and the humor that arises from it are entirely plausible, thanks in large part to a screenplay that reflects Holofcener's subtle yet solid understanding of human nature. Dreyfus, Gandolfini, and their supporting cast shine in their portrayals of carefully-etched characters that are notable for being flawed but not unsympathetic, and likable without trying too hard. No hysterical breakdowns a la Diane Keaton necessary to create comic relief; no need for the 60 year old male lead to be a stereotypical womanizer to convince younger viewers of his desirability. The combination of a minimally embellished script, Dreyfus's sheepish smile, Gandolfini's good-natured self-deprecation, and their natural chemistry work together to elicit from us a frequent chuckle, and occasionally move us to the hint of a tear.

During their first date, we watch Eva and Albert discuss their methods of home organization and debate the merits of The Container Store. In another scene, Eva snuggles into her daughter's bed and, in a typical moment of parental curiosity, asks her what she ate the previous day. Even the unfolding of the climax is refreshingly undramatic, mercifully free from eyeroll-inducing displays of excessive emotion. At moments like this, we realize the deceptive difficulty of using the nuanced, more real moments of personal interactions to tell a compelling story while still managing to preserve the zingers and zest of a successful comedy. It is a reminder to appreciate filmmakers like Holofcener for crafting simultaneously witty and authentic characters, recognize the rarity of actors who can do them justice, and lament all the more the loss of an artist as versatile and valuable as Gandolfini.  

With simple, unembellished dialogue, equally authentic delivery, and deeply compassionate treatment, Enough Said is honest, heartfelt, and wise; an astute portrait of two adults navigating the unique challenges and rewards of mid-life relationships.

*come to think of it, why have I seen so many movies about middle-age romance anyway? #SlightlyWorried

Ilo Ilo

I posted my last real review on September 22, 2012.

{Insert awkward silence here.}

I could get into the how’s and the why’s of what has been so utterly all-consuming as to cause a 13-month abandonment of this little space of the Internet that I call my own—believe me, it’s been quite the year.  However, I distinctly recall insisting, in my very first entry, that Reel Simple would be “a treasure trove of cinematic reflection,” not Anisha’s Life Chronicles That Nobody Really Wants to Read. So in the spirit of that, allow me to pare my current situation down to its bare bones: I have recently tied the proverbial knot with a man entirely too good for me.* With the sleepless nights of planning an Indian wedding (really, a full-time job in itself) and a glorious honeymoon behind me, I am ready to buckle down and get back to work.

Part of said honeymoon had us touching down in Singapore, where I realized that for all my love for world cinema, I’ve never seen a Singaporean movie. Determined to change that, I dragged The Husband (as he will be referred to in any and all posts hereafter) to the nearest theater to catch Anthony Chen’s Ilo Ilo. Impressed by its unexpected Camera d’Or win at Cannes this year, I figured Chen’s debut feature was as good a choice as any for my introduction to Singapore’s locally-grown cinema.

Teetering on the edge of 1997’s Asian Financial Crisis, Ilo Ilo employs a zoom lens on one particular middle-class Singaporean family plagued as much by its internal tensions as by its dismal external climate. 

Insolent and unruly, young Jiale’s (Koh Jia Ler) wayward antics at school and at home are the bane of his parents’ existence. Overworked, frustrated, and now expecting their second child, they decide to call for reinforcement in the form of Teresita (Angeli Bayani)—Auntie Terry--a timid 20-something Filipino maid who, like her countless fellow domestic workers, seeks employment in Singapore to provide for her family back home. Jiale wastes no time in making her a new target for his mischief; but as soft-spoken as Terry is, she quickly makes clear that she refuses to be the pint-sized bully’s victim.

The stage is therefore set for an unconventional yet effective rapport, Terry falling somewhere in between “maternal figure” and “friend” as Jiale begins to develop both respect and fondness for her. Yet, while the understanding between them grows, their surrounding tensions build further as the father, Teck, struggles to keep his recent unemployment a secret from his domineering wife, Hwee Leng, or as Hwee Leng’s jealousy of Terry’s ability to connect with her son mounts.

With no discernible climax, exceptionally low-key performances, and zero stylistic excess, the almost-stubborn commitment to realism may come dangerously close to rendering the plot too ordinary for some audiences. However, Ilo Ilo’s appeal stems from the fact that it is inspired by Chen’s childhood experiences with his own Auntie Terry. The film may be set at the cusp of a region’s fiscal downturn, but it is disinterested in making a grand statement on the state of Singaporean society, politics or economy in the late 1990s.  Instead, its semi-autobiographical framework explains the smaller scale of its narrative, and allows it to take on an observational, not argumentative, tone.

The biggest advantage of Ilo Ilo’s decidedly minimalist approach is its similarly organic treatment of its characters, enabling greater scope for their authenticity. It’s easy to disapprove of Hwee Leng’s hostility towards Terry and dictatorial power over her husband, but equally instinctive to root for her when, resentful of her son’s camaraderie with the maid, she makes her own attempts to forge a bond with him. While Teck’s resigned acquiescence to his wife is aggravating to watch, we still hope she doesn’t discover his habit of sneaking cigarettes outside the home.  Jiale largely comes across as an insufferable brat, but the moments in which he displays unexpected compassion for Terry quickly compensate for his previous misbehavior. Even Terry, for all of her patience and dignity, is not hoisted onto a pedestal as the family’s “savior;” rather than transforming Jiale into the epitome of obedience, she has merely connected with him in a way no other adult in his life has even tried.

The characters are thus neither saints nor demons; whether this is a testament to the actors’ performances or to Chen’s nuanced character development through his writing, it is this humanization that forms the core of the film’s ultimate emotional impact. Spared of the pressure to choose any one person as morally superior over another, even relieved from the need to put ourselves in their shoes, we can accept them for who they are: a household of naturally flawed individuals, simply straining to make personal and financial ends meet. Neither preachy nor judgmental, sprinkled with moments that highlight the humor in everyday life, and leaving an impression of surprising poignancy, Chen’s story manages to capture our hearts with the very banality that could have been its downfall, making Ilo Ilo far from ordinary.

*Shhhhh. I don’t think he’s caught on yet J

Dancing with the Stars: An Interview with Saroj Khan

I have no idea why I didn't put this up earlier but I suppose it's never too late for a conversation with Saroj Khan: queen choreographer and all around Bollywood legend who propelled the likes of Madhuri Dixit and Sridevi to dancing fame with iconic numbers "Ek Do Teen" and "Hawa Hawaii."

Check out my Sept 2012 interview with Khan at The NRI blog!

Heroine

Hey all,

My review of Kareena Kapoor's latest, Heroine, is now up on The Urban Asian.  Check it out!

Thanks for reading,

Anisha

Barfi!

Don’t Worry, Be Barfi!

Initially, the tagline can come across as incredibly silly. It seems like an unnecessary move, lame even, to riff on a common saying for the sake of a slogan on a movie poster. But upon watching Barfi! it’s easy to understand why it was done—the title character’s entire being is a reflection of the idea. And though the philosophy of living carefree isn’t exactly groundbreaking or profound, Barfi! reinforces that it's not a bad one to abide by.

Born deaf and mute, and raised by a poor single father in a Darjeeling village, “Barfi” (Ranbir Kapoor) is the result of his own mispronunciation of his actual name, Murphy. He is as sweet as his nickname would imply, yet his impish side and constant prank pulling renders him the bane of a local cop’s (Saurabh Shukla) existence. In the midst of his mischief-making, Barfi encounters new-girl-in-town Shruti (Ileana D’Cruz), is instantly smitten, and woos her the only way he knows how, with exhilarating bike rides, adorable miming acts, and a muted but crystal-clear window into his heart of gold. Regardless of his childlike demeanor—or perhaps because of it—Shruti finds herself falling for him in return, despite her engagement to a perfectly suitable (and perfectly non-disabled) other man. Parental disapproval and her own lack of courage to defy it lead to their incomplete love story, leaving Shruti to join her new husband in Kolkata and Barfi to mend his bruised heart.

Not one to dwell over disappointment, Barfi is quick to recover, soon reuniting with his childhood friend, the autistic Jhilmil (Priyanka Chopra). Confined to a “special home” by her pretentious parents who were too embarrassed to raise her themselves, Jhilmil finds both a caretaker and a companion in Barfi. But when she disappears and Barfi is held to blame by his police officer enemy, a frantic chase commences in which the paths of Jhilmil, Barfi and Shruti coincide.

It has become standard for Bollywood actors to promote their films as “different,” declaring their treatments and characters to be unlike anything the audience has seen before. Barfi is the only instance this year where those claims can be held as true. Director Anurag Basu has created both a visual and an emotional world that is so inviting and unique that one cannot help but be drawn into it. The town of Darjeeling is as enchanting as Barfi himself: dusty paths winding through misty mountain tops, toy-like trains snaking through the streets, wooden bridges and vintage cottages all lend themselves to a glorious storybook quality.   

With the only speaking part of the three leads and the responsibility of narrating the story via voice-over, Ileana in her Bollywood debut does her role of a woman caught between her heart and her family full justice, elegant in her appearance while graceful in her delivery.  

If Ileana represents the voice of the film, Ranbir is its heart and soul. One moment, he wrenches your heartstrings and the next, you’re chuckling as he entangles himself in yet another stop-motion style, cat-and-mouse game with the police. In a non-speaking role that could easily have been overplayed, Ranbir draws inspiration from yesteryear masters of physical comedy to create his Barfi without resorting to caricaturization. His slapstick antics are reminiscent of Buster Keaton, while his facial expressions bring to mind Charlie Chaplin and his temporary moustache is a nod to his own legendary grandfather. Yet, none of it is frivolous mimicry. Instead, it is indicative of the very essence of Barfi’s personality, contributing to the idea that his sensory limitations do not obstruct his appreciation of life; on the contrary, they may be the reason for his unrestrained optimism and ability to find happiness in the mundane. 

Be it Rocket Singh, Sid, Rockstar, or Barfi, shedding his off-screen image and immersing himself completely in the unconventional characters he takes on has become Ranbir’s brand itself: a modus operandi that few actors in Bollywood are talented, confident, or brave enough to even attempt, let alone excel at. Maybe it's my preference for happy-go-lucky charmer over angst-ridden rebel, but his turn as Barfi far supersedes the Rockstar role lauded as his career best to date.

Perhaps the most striking performance is Priyanka Chopra’s. Whether her portrayal of an autistic young woman is 100% accurate is debatable, but what is undeniable is her complete commitment to her character. She betrays no inhibition in her physical transformation, trading in her lusciously long locks and glamor goddess wardrobe for a rather unbecoming mop-of-curls hairdo, buck teeth, minimal makeup, and frumpy cardigans. Add to that her nervous twitching, childlike posture, and slightly muffled timbre of her voice, and it’s clear that she has given the indisputably demanding role of Jhilmil all she’s got.

Additionally, the chemistry between Priyanka and Ranbir is almost too cute to handle, their shared sequences at once amusing and poignant: perfecting the art of spitting watermelon seeds. Their special rendition of hide and seek involving a party whistle and goofy costumes. A particularly heartwarming scene in which Jhilmil teaches Barfi the alphabet, he dutifully copying the 'B' she has confidently written backwards. Together, they easily embody what those with fully functioning minds and senses often fall short of—unwavering loyalty and unconditional love.

Given the lack of dialogue between two of the main actors, the movie’s music is required to become a central character and the accordion-infused lilts that we were teased with throughout Barfi!’s promos fulfill the role perfectly. A favorite is the lyrics and picturization of Kyon, during which the relationship between Barfi and Jhilmil begins to blossom from that of babysitter-versus-nuisance to steadfast friends. The tunes are woven beautifully and seamlessly into the narrative, blurring the line between background score and feature song.

And yet the narrative itself is the film’s biggest drawback. It starts off promisingly as a romantic comedy but is then convoluted into a clunky, whodunit-style mystery, leading to a lagging pace post-intermission. Perhaps this was an effort on Basu’s part to avoid accusations of being run-of-the-mill. However, in a film so rich with the innocence of the era and the electrifying dynamic between the 3 characters, this may have actually been best left as an unlikely love story.

The film’s greatest strength is that Barfi and Jhilmil evoke endearement, not pity. This isn’t a melodrama bogged down by sermonic criticisms of society’s prejudices against the disabled. Rather, it’s an out-and-out feel good film, worth a watch for plenty of reasons besides the somewhat haphazard specifics of the plot. Watch it for the unforgettable music. The courageous performances. The nostalgic recreation of 1970s Darjeeling and Kolkata. And finally, watch it as a reminder that life is best celebrated with the simplest of joys: in his own silent way, Barfi makes this loud and clear.