Tuesday, January 28, 2020

War: Review

War. What is it good for? For starters, it answers a question too important to remain hypothetical any longer: Who comes out on top in a Hrithik-Tiger dance-off? It also poses a question of its own: what if there was a film in which Hrithik and Tiger were in love with each other but couldn’t admit it and sublimated this longing into a nation-love bordering on the pathological?

This is all subtext. Sort of. When Indian super-soldier Kabir (Hrithik Roshan) goes rogue, his protégé Khalid (Tiger Shroff) offers to bring him in. His commanding officer isn’t convinced, saying, “You love him, Khalid." “I love my country more," Khalid replies, but his eyes tell a different story. In the flashback that follows, those same eyes stare for what seems like a whole minute at Kabir alighting in slow motion from a helicopter. Later, a colleague jokes about running off with Kabir and getting married. Khalid mutters: “Get in line."

War, which pingpongs from Malta to Marrakesh to the Arctic Circle, barely bothering to justify the location changes, is the best big dumb Hindi action film in a long time. Screenwriters Shridhar Raghavan and Siddharth Anand (also the director) fashion a silly-smart narrative that’s nothing but expansive setpieces joined by inventive, preposterous twists. It’s never subtle – a solid page of information is imparted on a boat that might as well be called the SS Exposition – but there’s considerable charm in the film’s commitment to glossy uptempo mayhem.

There’s also Abbas Tyrewala on dialogue duty – a canny hire. He does the standard action movie patter (“You are in hell now") but also comes up with poetic flourishes that draw on mainstream Hindi cinema traditions. When Khalid’s mother meets him at camp, she tells him she asked god for himmat (courage) for him and izzat (respect) for herself. He tells to ask for barkat (good fortune) next time, lightening the mood with a joke. “Aadmi pahaad se takra sakta hai, parvarish se nahi (a man can go up against a mountain, but not his own upbringing)," Kabir warns – a line which could have been written anytime in the last six decades.

Like almost every film made this year, War makes a lot of noise about country and security and sacrifice. Yet, on one occasion, it subverts its own macho patriotism. Attempting to get Naina (Vaani Kapoor), a “civilian asset", to participate in a mission, Kabir appeals to her sense of duty as an army daughter. “Not everyone’s taken a pledge to save the country," she replies. “Some just want a better life for their daughter. This is the war in most ordinary lives." She eventually agrees, but a quiet – and rare – point has been made.

Anand knows the audience isn’t there for subtle undercutting of patriotic fervor. So he gives them a jeep driven out of a plane in mid-air; a pas de deux with brightly coloured cars in the swirling snow; Roshan and Shroff driving bikes towards each other at top speed and, just as they’re about to pass each other, clasping arms. Several of the setpiece ideas are taken from the Mission: Impossible films, and while War doesn’t come close to that level of choreography, it’s more than competent, which is about all you can ask of an Indian action film (it wipes the floor with Saaho, made on a much higher budget).

When Kabir refers to Khalid’s chehra, it reminded me of Roshan uttering the same word 19 years ago in his first film, Kaho Na Pyar Hai. War is a reminder that, as far as big-budget action goes, there are still few better. He seems to relax in these movies in a way he isn’t able to when he’s being a Serious Actor. Shroff, who never looks relaxed, appears very much in awe of him. “Khalid used to be my student," Kabir says. “Perhaps he now thinks he’s surpassed the teacher." No one is likely to leave with that impression.

This review appeared in Mint.

Joker: Review


The edgelord with 300 Twitter followers. The skinny kid you knew back in college who’d get drunk at parties and insist on sitting with his feet dangling over the window ledge. The millionaire comic who complains about there being no takers for his provocative jokes. The shadow version of Gus Van Sant’s Elephant in which the high school shooters are mistreated, misunderstood boys.

Joker is all these things, and a few more. It was the Golden Lion winner at the Venice Film Festival. It’s being monitored as a potential instigator of gun violence. It’s infuriating and deeply disturbing, a sneer that’s also an animal howl of pain.

Arthur Fleck (Joaquin Phoenix) is an aspiring stand-up who works as a professional clown, performing on street corners and at children’s hospitals. His shifty manner and a verbal tic – a high, cackling laugh he can’t control – have reduced his daily existence to a series of escalating humiliations. Fleck (how easily the noun attaches itself to dirt, or blood) has no friends, or prospects, or talent. He’s prone to tremendous rage and tremendous self-pity – a flammable combination even without his mental health issues and the gun a coworker casually hands him.

Arthur lives with his mother, who once worked for billionaire Thomas Wayne and still believes he’ll lift them out of their sad lives (a scene with young Bruce is all the fan service this film provides). But Wayne is more concerned with his mayoral run, which hinges on a promise to rid Gotham City (a stand-in for New Jersey) of poverty and crime. If an unhinged loner obsessed with a politician running for office sounds like another film you know, well, that’s not the only Taxi Driver reference in Joker. The Gotham of this film, set in 1981, is a hellscape resembling Scorsese’s '70s New York, all garbage and strip bars and despair. Arthur has the same inarticulate anger as Travis Bickle; both find purpose in violent action. But Travis’ violence finds a specific target, whereas Arthur is lashing out against a society that he feels deserves it.

Does the film agree with him? Joker doesn’t seem in control of this crucial detail. Director Todd Phillips would probably argue that his film is a critique of gun control in America, that it demonstrates how even the mentally ill have always been able to easily access firearms. Yet, there’s so much justification provided for Arthur’s rage that when it explodes in a shocking scene on the subway, we’re clearly meant to explode with it, to cheer the transformation of put-on clown into potent Joker. The critique sits uneasily with the catharsis, as we see again when another brutal bout of violence is alleviated by a comic ending.

Phillips is best known as the director of Old School and the Hangover trilogy. Apart from 2016's War Dogs, he’s shown little inclination towards dramatic material till now, which might be why, instead of working out his own aesthetic for this film, he simply borrows Scorsese’s. The Taxi Driver moments feel less like tributes than wholesale lifts, from Arthur’s rants about a filthy, immoral city to his fooling around, gaunt and shirtless, with a loaded gun in his home. Scorsese’s The King of Comedy casts a similarly long shadow, with Arthur obsessed, as Robert De Niro’s aspiring showbiz-hopeful was, with a talk show host. Both films have the central character admit to perpetrating a crime on live TV. And the host in Phillips’ film is played – holy metanarrative, Batman! – by De Niro.

Between the griminess of Lawrence Sher’s photography and Hildur Guðnadóttir sawing violins, Joker is impressively queasy for a studio film. Phoenix’s turn, too, is anti-beauty: greasy hair, twitchy manner, nails-on-blackboard laugh. It’ll be interesting to see if he’s canonized like Heath Ledger in The Dark Knight, his pronouncements printed on T-shirts. Ledger’s Joker had wit and invention, whereas Phoenix’s creation is so pitiable and unappealing that anyone proclaiming themselves a fan might consider asking themselves what exactly it is they’re admiring.

“I just hope my death makes more sense than my life," Arthur tells a social services employee. Later, he complains: “I don’t think you ever really hear me." You could string together a dozen of his lines and get a suicide note, or something more sinister. “For my whole life, I didn’t know if I even really existed," he says. “But I do, and people are starting to notice." This is mass-shooter language.

This review appeared in Mint.

Hustlers: Review

It makes sense that Adam McKay is a co-producer of Hustlers. Lorene Scafaria’s film could almost be a vignette from The Big Short, which had a scene where a stripper tells Steve Carell’s character about how she’s been flipping houses. McKay’s film was about a few men on Wall Street who predicted, and benefitted from, the 2008 US financial crisis. Hustlers is about a group of women, dancers in a New York strip club, whose lives are derailed by the same crisis, and who take to crime to support themselves.

When Dorothy (Constance Wu) takes up stripping, she doesn’t get anywhere initially: she’s not an especially good dancer and there’s a lot of competition to take money off the Wall Street types who come in. Her luck changes when she meets Ramona (Jennifer Lopez), who takes her under her wing, shows her how to work the pole and, more importantly, how to identify big spenders and keep them happy. Just as their lives are looking up, the economy tanks in 2008. Suddenly, most of the rich patrons are in jail or out of jobs, and Dorothy’s boyfriend has left her with their baby.

When they run into each other again, Ramona lets Dorothy in on a scheme she’s running. She and her friends find a suitably flush mark, slip a mixture of ketamine and MDMA into his drink, rendering him almost comatose, then run up huge bills at the strip club, of which they get a cut. Dorothy, despite her reservations, joins the gang.

Hustlers, which is based on a 2015 New York magazine article, has the same rude energy The Big Short did, but there’s one difference. Scafaria’s film has an unwavering emotional throughline: Ramona and Dorothy’s friendship, genuinely touching, even when it frays. The scene where they talk for the first time – right after Ramona burns up the floor dancing to Fiona Apple’s "Criminal" – is perfect in its simplicity. An awestruck Dorothy bums a light off Ramona, who’s sprawled on the roof. Noticing the younger woman doesn’t have a coat, Ramona calls her closer, and wraps her in the magnificent fur she’s wearing. It’s an apt gesture – the film is unsentimental, but Ramona has an enveloping warmth.

Ramona’s plan is so direct and uncomplicated it allows Hustlers to sidestep the winking intricacies of the Danny and Debbie Ocean films, or even those of Logan Lucky, whose characters belong to a similar economic milieu. The viewer’s attention is focused time and again on characters and performers: Lili Reinhart, Keke Palmer and Madeline Brewer as Ramona’s partners-in-crime, crowd-pleasing cameos from Cardi B and Lizzo (with flute), and the late-2000s setting driven home by the presence of Usher (as himself) and Julia Stiles (as a journalist).

Wu’s low-wattage warmth creates the space for Lopez’s barnstorming performance. Ramona is a complex creation – driven, impetuous, maternal, materialistic – and Lopez plays all the shades simultaneously. It’s an exhilarating lead turn in a breakneck movie, which – despite its crazy premise – is filled with more rage and emotion than you’d imagine. This is an unremittingly tough world, filled with abusers of various stripes, neglectful parents, callous employers, rapacious businessmen. All that’s offered in return is a bit of hopeful advice: lean on a friend.

This review appeared in Mint.

The Zoya Factor: Review

Early reviews of The Zoya Factor seem to agree that the film is either ‘breezy’ or ‘frothy’. As someone who isn’t averse to a light breeze (or a little froth), I found myself reasonably charmed by its opening half hour, in which adwoman Zoya (Sonam K Ahuja) meets up with the Indian cricket team, on tour in Sri Lanka, for a campaign. But then Zoya, upon receiving a list of instructions on how to behave with the Indian skipper, looks straight at the camera and says, “Is this Nikhil Khoda the captain or prime minister?" And the charm dissolves apace.

In scene after scene, The Zoya Factor builds to the point where a punchline is demanded. And just about every time, it comes up short. Romantic comedies live and die by their wit. If Abhishek Sharma’s film has shades of Notting Hill, it’s missing those horses and hounds. Writers Anuja Chauhan, Neha Rakesh Sharma (screenplay) and Pradhuman Singh (dialogue) try everything: daydream jokes, Baahubali jokes, post-dentist cottonmouth jokes. To use a sportsperson’s metaphor, they float like butterflies instead of stinging like bees.

The central conceit of this film (based on Chauhan’s eponymous novel) is that Zoya, born on the night of India’s first World Cup win, is a cricketer's lucky charm. All she needs to do is breakfast with players on the morning of a game, and they invariably win. Her luck rubs off sensationally on the out-of-sorts national team in Sri Lanka. Against the wishes of captain Nikhil (Dulquer Salmaan) – who’s fascinated by her but irritated by the press ascribing their wins to luck – she’s offered a position as official mascot for the duration of the upcoming World Cup.

Ahuja does well in delineating the contours of Zoya: under-confident, romantic at heart, somewhat of a goof. But the film overdoes her simple-mindedness, making her fall for a paper-thin conspiracy by Nikhil’s jealous teammate, Robin (Angad Bedi, always angry). You can see the film root about ineffectually in search of conflict. Salmaan’s easy charm actually works against the film – when it’s time for Nikhil to be angry with Zoya, there’s no edge to the antagonism.

It doesn’t help that The Zoya Factor hasn’t the slightest feel for cricket. The on-field action, even edited down to a few key movements, looks preposterous. These are national teams, but they look like club sides, which begs the question: why not set your cricket film at a less exacting level, where wildly swinging batsmen and military medium bowlers might not be so out of place? Worse, though, are the narrative contrivances that reveal the film’s fundamental misunderstanding of the sport. Would a bowler who asks his captain for song recommendations before starting an over ever play for his country again?

There’s a smarter, sharper film somewhere inside this one, with insightful things to say about fandom and celebrity and superstition. As it stands, however, The Zoya Factor offers little cheer to those invested in the return of the Hindi romantic comedy or the halfway-decent post-Lagaan cricket film.

This review appeared in Mint. 

Twentieth century women: 'Delayed Rays of a Star'


Amanda Lee Koe’s novel takes its title from a line in a Roland Barthes essay, in which he describes the radiation from a photograph touching the viewer “like the delayed rays of a star". In this case, the light emanating is from a publicity still of Leni Riefenstahl, Anna May Wong and Marlene Dietrich, taken by Alfred Eisenstaedt in 1928 in Berlin. Koe follows this diffused beam across time, expertly using it to illuminate little corners of the 20th century.

Though the two Germans would soon eclipse her fame, Wong was the biggest star in the photograph, having played Tiger Lily in Peter Pan and starred opposite Douglas Fairbanks in The Thief of Bagdad. Riefenstahl was then an actor, known for her nature films; she would soon catch the eye of Hitler and turn to film direction. And Dietrich wasn’t a star at all, still two years away from Josef von Sternberg unleashing her distinct brand of smoky sexuality in The Blue Angel.

With the photograph as a jumping-off point, Koe proceeds to make dizzying leaps across time and space. After starting in Berlin, we’re suddenly in Paris, with Dietrich as a cantankerous, elderly recluse; next we’re in China, following the journey of her maid, Bébé. In one stunning chapter, we follow a wolf from a forest in Czechoslovakia to the Leipzig zoo to the sets of a film Riefenstahl is shooting in the Bavarian Alps. Sternberg is moved to tears by a noh performance in a Tokyo monastery. A Smiths fan attends a Joy Division gig in London and serves David Bowie drinks in a Paris bar.

Despite its expansive canvas, Delayed Rays trips lightly and confidently from incident to incident, character to character. Much of what happens in the book is anchored in fact, but the embellishments are Koe’s. A meeting between Wong and German critic Walter Benjamin is imagined over the space of a chapter. As I ran into one obtuse word after another, I realized with delight that Koe’s prose had taken on the qualities of Benjamin’s fussy language (“he found himself unwilling to verbalize to her how the extemporaneous interpolation of various spheres of her being…"). Later, a winding sentence describing Sternberg’s travels in Asia has the same exotic detailing as the director’s films.

In a 2017 interview, Koe said that shuttling between her native Singapore and New York felt like “a split existence". “I guess when you’re away you always see the other thing more clearly. So it is interesting to have that dual perspective as well." Whether by design or not, Delayed Rays abounds in dualities. Dietrich—German but also American; lover of men and women—is described by Sternberg (himself suspended between American and faux-Continental) as having a “lust for bothness". Wong is American, but in the eyes of Hollywood she’s Chinese, forced to adopt Oriental clichés. Riefenstahl’s biggest supporter is Hitler and her funder the Nazi government, but she thinks of herself as an apolitical artist, pure (hearing this last descriptor from Hitler’s mouth is chilling).

Though Delayed Rays is mostly concerned with fame in the first half of the 20th century, several of the issues it grapples with are bracingly modern. Riefenstahl practically begs us to separate the art from the artist, to call her a genius for Olympia (completely deserved) but gloss over Triumph of the Will’s deification of Hitler. She also corrects a reporter who calls her the first female film-maker, saying she’s just a film-maker. Then there’s the matter of representative casting in Hollywood. More than half a century before Scarlett Johansson became a meme, the part of O-Lan in the adaptation of Pearl S. Buck’s The Good Earth went to a white woman. Wong, for whom the part seems tailor-made, is deemed “too Chinese to play a Chinese" by the studio.

Koe writes beautifully about cinema and its effects. If you haven’t seen Shanghai Express, I would recommend watching two isolated scenes from the film, both of which are on YouTube. The first is a comic one, with Dietrich putting down a supercilious woman, and Wong joining in with the punchline. The second is even more thrilling, an action scene with an erotic charge. Koe imagines how these must have unfolded on set, with the autocratic Sternberg (Dietrich’s lover) and the two stars, also lovers once (in the book at least). Elsewhere, Sternberg tells Riefenstahl that cinema is “time on the axis of sight", a description so perfect that it sounds like it came from the real Sternberg, though it’s probably Koe writing in Sternberg’s voice.

When Riefenstahl is called by Hitler for a final meeting, he asks her for a favour. She’s surprised to learn that even with defeat imminent, he’s concerned about the unreliability of film stock and would like her to work on a more durable material after the war. That Koe finds a way to make Hitler a film preservationist is the sort of unexpected delight this book regularly passes on from writer to reader. Style never hesitates, we’re told at one point. Style necessitates. Koe finds her style from the start, and never looks back.

This review appeared in Mint Lounge. 

Monday, January 27, 2020

Dream Girl: Review

As Hindi film micro-genres go, Ayushmann Khurrana Chips Away At Masculine Tropes is a stellar one. It may have become a formula of sorts – there’s one about hair loss coming up, and another built around a gay character – but the films have by and large been smart, funny and unusually perceptive about middle-class insecurities. Unfortunately, this makes matters worse for Dream Girl, a film that’s slight to begin with, and which looks even slighter in comparison to Dum Laga Ke Haisha, Shubh Mangal Saavdhan and Badhaai Ho.

Desperate to repay his single father’s debts, Karam (Khurrana) glimpses a flyer promising employment at 70,000 a month. It turns out to be a “friendship call centre", which pairs lonely men with seductive female voices. Karam, whose cooing falsetto has landed him in stage productions as Radhas and Sitas since childhood, senses an opportunity. He answers the phone, improvises a coquettish character named Pooja. By the end of the day, he has a strange, if well-paying, job.

Soon, Pooja has attracted a host of admirers: a cop (Vijay Raaz), an ardent teenager (Raj Bhansali), a misandrist editor (Nidhi Bisht) and a buffalo-rearing virgin (Abhishek Banerjee). Their conversations make for a lot of low comedy, and though Khurrana sells everything that’s saleable, the hit rate isn’t high enough to keep scenes from dragging. It’s not surprising that writer-director Raaj Shaandilyaa once worked on Comedy Circus: there are silly sound effects and many of the gags are built around broad stereotypes.

Dream Girl has little to say about the effect of female impersonation on men who specialize in it: everyone’s matter-of-fact about Karam’s gender-swapping on stage, and it seems to have had little psychological impact on him. Neither does Shaandilyaa have much to say about the act of phone sex (or friendship). Karam has a revelation early on about how lonely all his callers seem. A platonic client might have added some depth, but none of the callers is just seeking a friendly ear; they’re all in love with Pooja.

There are a few things that work. The setting of Gokul, Mathura is nicely used; unlike some recent Hindi films, this doesn’t feel like a big city script relocated to a small town. Shaandilyaa has a way with flowery comic phrasing – there’s a droll bit where Annu Kapoor, playing Karam's father, becomes an Urdu speaker overnight (even if the extent of caricature is… uncomfortable). Karam’s own dream girl (Nushrat Bharucha) is given little to do but smile at his overtures, but Kapoor and Khurrana are a warm pairing, and Banerjee is fast becoming one of Hindi cinema’s defter comic actors.

Karam, dressed in a sari, repeats the “people are lonely" line towards the end, a moment with none of the subversive force it should have had. Khurrana should be wary of getting stuck with sermons: Shubh Mangal Saavdhan had a similar one before its muddled climax, and Article 15 was riddled with them. In any case, Dream Girl’s moralizing is unearned – it upbraids the call centre’s proprietor for not respecting his employees, but doesn’t bother giving the women anything to say, let alone distinct personalities. This is a film about female impersonation with no sympathy for its one queer character, which talks about loneliness but brushes off a suicide attempt. Like Pooja, it speaks in two voices, one of which is fake.

This review appeared in Mint.

Who killed the Hindi gangster film?
















A bearded man dressed in white answers the phone. “Anna," he says. Then, “Kiska aadmi hai? Accha. Mere aane talak zinda rakho use (Whose guy is it? All right. Keep him alive till I reach)." There’s a deathly shriek, a cut and a dull thud. We see a face in profile, silhouetted, eyes staring upwards, lifeless.
That cut is the Hindi film equivalent of the matchstick being blown out in Lawrence Of ArabiaParinda (1989) may not have been the first Hindi gangster film, but it was the first fully realized effort in the genre. It was also, in the words of director Vasan Bala, an “inside story", every inch of it in the shadow of the underworld. Until then, we’d had movies with gangsters in them, but no genuine gangster movies. India adopted the genre in the 1950s as it did most American inventions: a little late, and using only those bits that would be acceptable. The idea of making an entire film about organized crime didn’t catch on for years.
Parinda celebrates its 30th anniversary in November. Ram Gopal Varma’s equally influential Satya turned 20 last year. Both are classics in a genre that has fallen somewhat out of fashion. There hasn’t been a game-changing Hindi gangster film in a while. Instead, the gangster has found a new home on streaming TV. The first season of Netflix’s Sacred Games (2018) found a way to connect a street hustler’s rise to power with the larger political and social currents of the time (the second season released in August). Amazon Prime’s Mirazapur (2018), set in a small town in Uttar Pradesh, was less intricate, but irresistibly pulpy.
It may not quite be time to pronounce the death of the big-screen gangster. One only need look at Tamil and Malayalam cinema, which churn out spectacular gangster films on a regular basis. Perhaps those winds will blow north, as they did when Anurag Kashyap dedicated his Gangs Of Wasseypur to the “Madurai triumvirate" of Bala, Ameer and Sasikumar. Still, it’s an opportune moment to look back at the circuitous path the Hindi film gangster, and the Hindi gangster film, have taken.

FAST CARS AND FEDORAS
In the years before and after independence, migrants started arriving in Mumbai from all over India. This meant a larger unemployed population in the city’s working-class neighbourhoods. Crime rose. Initially, it was petty thievery and pickpocketing, mugging and the odd planned robbery. You can see this reflected in the crime films of the 1940s and 1950s, like Kismet (1943, Ashok Kumar as a pickpocket), Sangram (1950, Ashok Kumar as a casino owner), Pocket Maar and House No. 44 (1956 and 1955, Dev Anand as a pickpocket), Awaara (1951, Raj Kapoor as a small-time thief), Shree 420 and Baazi (1955 and 1951—Kapoor and Anand, respectively, as card-sharps).
Prohibition was enforced in Bombay state in 1949. “Aunty bars"—speakeasies run by women—supplied patrons with illicit liquor. As had happened during prohibition in the US, local gangs moved in on the trade. Sacred Games alludes to this through the figure of Kanta Bai, who runs a dive, makes her own taadi (moonshine), and partners with up-and-coming gangster Ganesh Gaitonde. The first street gangs were formed, many taking the names of their cities of origin: Allahabadi gang, Kanpuri gang, Rampuri gang.
There were Indian crime films in the 1920s and 1930s—most of them out of circulation or lost forever—but the genre is generally traced back to Gyan Mukherjee’s very successful Kismet (1943), starring Ashok Kumar as Shekhar, a pickpocket and smooth-talking con man. A mildly unscrupulous hero with a cigarette dangling from his lip was an illicit thrill for Indian audiences at the time (“All that they see is the fascinating life of a thief and pickpocket portrayed in a glamorous and alluring way," Filmindia fretted in July 1943). But the criminal activity in Kismet is limited to a couple of chases and robberies; the only time it resembles a gangster film is when the inspector on Shekhar’s case turns up looking like Al Capone, buried in a trench coat and hat and chewing on a cigar.
By the time of Kismet, Hollywood had been making gangster films for a decade and a half, and was starting to move past them into the more psychologically fraught terrain of noir. Late 1920s and ’30s Hollywood films established the grammar of the genre: the urban milieu, the detailing of organized crime, the fixation on clothes and cars and guns, the indictment of society over and above the criminal. “The gangster is the man of the city," critic Robert Warshow wrote in a famous 1948 tract, “with the city’s language and knowledge, with its queer and dishonest skills and its terrible daring...." This is true of the best Mumbai gangster films—ParindaSatyaKaala—in which the city emerges as a character in its own right.
It was the Navketan Films banner, founded by Chetan Anand and his brother Dev, which pioneered a sort of hard-boiled Hindi noir. Guru Dutt’s Baazi (1951) was the first example of what would become the Navketan style in the 1950s: city films, usually a comedy-romance-thriller hybrid, often with some kind of criminal element, stylistically (though not attitudinally) indebted to the noir tradition. Baazi was more recognizably a crime film than Kismet—the villain (played by K.N. Singh) is a shadowy kingpin who orders muggings and murders.
You can see this style in subsequent Navketan titles like Taxi Driver (1954), House No. 44 and Kala Bazar (1960), and in Guru Dutt’s productions before he turned to personal stories—his own Aar-Paar (1954) and Raj Khosla’s CID (1956), starring Dev Anand. Aar-Paar in particular nudged Hindi cinema in the direction of organized crime by having its hero participate, reluctantly, in a bank robbery, most likely based on the 1951 Lloyds Bank heist on Hornby Road, Mumbai.
Other studios looked at Navketan and Dev Anand and wondered why they didn’t have a hard-boiled hero of their own. Some went ahead and got one. Sunil Dutt played a reporter in Post Box 999 (1958); Balraj Sahni starred in N.A. Ansari’s delirious noir comedy-thriller Black Cat (1959); Ashok Kumar in Shakti Samanta’s Howrah Bridge (1958) and Brij’s Ustadon Ke Ustad (1963). Samanta’s China Town (1962), starring Shammi Kapoor, came closer than any film of that era to appropriating the look and feel of a classic Hollywood gangster film—fast cars and dive bars, fedoras and shoot-outs (its central idea of a gangster’s doppelganger sent by the police to impersonate him would be reworked to iconic effect in 1978’s Don, starring Amitabh Bachchan).
The Hollywood-influenced cigarettes-and-trench-coats film was on its way out by the early 1960s. Colour had arrived, and this meant a new kind of thriller: less brooding, unconcerned with the rhythms of the street. But the upper-crust villain, dressed in bow tie and coat or bandhgala, issuing commands to his henchmen, not only survived the move to colour, but thrived. In Vijay Anand’s Teesri Manzil (1966), the antagonist is a wealthy, reputed member of society, with a secret life as a criminal; in Anand’s Johny Mera Naam, made four years later, he is that most 1970s of villains: a smuggler. This figure would continue into the decade, but become campier, crazier—a possible influence of the Bond movies, in which 007 was as constant as the North Star but the villains were distinguished by their weirdness.
Meanwhile, Hollywood was moving on. With Mean Streets (1973), Martin Scorsese showed it was possible to make a personal, even poetic film about street hoods. The previous year, his friend Francis Ford Coppola had reinvented the crime syndicate film with The Godfather. Over in Mumbai, Vijay Anand was assembling a holy trinity of smarmy villainy—Prem Nath, Prem Chopra and Ajit—for Chhupa Rustam, a 1973 film with all the inherent danger of a pillow fight. The Hindi film villain was stuck, and the gangster was nowhere in sight.

RISE OF THE DONS
There was one significant change, though. Hindi cinema in the 1970s wasn’t making gangster films yet, but it had started looking at the lives of real-life gangsters. Pran’s Sher Khan in Zanjeer (1973) is said to have been based on mob boss Karim Lala, who, like Khan, was a Pashtun and ran gambling and liquor joints (Lala can take credit for the high number of Pashto-accented crime lords in Hindi cinema). The film’s writers, Salim-Javed, borrowed again from the story of a real-life criminal for Deewar (1975), basing Amitabh Bachchan’s Vijay on Haji Mastan, who started out working on the Mumbai docks and eventually established his own smuggling empire. Other legends began to take shape. Varadarajan Mudaliar, from Tamil Nadu, manoeuvred his way into the alcohol business in Mumbai. Kamal Haasan played him as Velu Naicker in Nayakan (1987).
Hindi cinema’s interest in the lives of gangsters was returned by the gangsters themselves. Mastan was fascinated by the film world; he married a starlet and was seen in public with stars like Dilip Kumar. He even financed a couple of movies. Hindi cinema began to attract blood money. “When Dawood Ibrahim entered the scene in the mid-1980s... financing films became less romance, more serious business," India Today reported. “Unheard of people became producers overnight."
Commercial Hindi film in the 1980s is usually dismissed as uninspired and crude, a cinematic wasteland separating the socially committed 1970s and the youthful 1990s. There’s some truth to this, but this was also the time a new generation of directors was starting out. Subhash Ghai, J.P. Dutta and Rahul Rawail showed flashes of style beyond the capabilities of the more workmanlike directors of the 1970s. Between their extravagant commercial films and the grittier visions of parallel cinema, the gangster film gathered steam. Govind Nihalani’s Ardh Satya (1983) introduced, in Sadashiv Amrapurkar’s Rama Shetty, a new kind of gang boss: watchful and amused instead of campy or psychotic. In the years to come, there would be different iterations of the thinking gangster: Nana Patekar in Parinda, Dilip Kumar in Vidhaata (1982), Kader Khan in Angaar (1992), Raghuvaran in Shiva (1990). In a larger sense, Ardh Satya also showed how the Hindi gangster film of the future might look, sound and feel: spare, shorn of glamour, engaged with the city at the ground level, flawed characters negotiating an unsympathetic universe.

MEAN STREETS
This brings us to 1989: the birth of the modern Hindi gangster film. Dutta’s Hathyar and Vidhu Vinod Chopra’s Parinda were stylish, violent, dark—and a huge leap forward. Gone were the camp thrills, the bodies flying through the air. Here, for the first time, were films which gave you a real sense of the Mumbai underworld and the people who ran it.
Parinda is built around two brothers: clean-cut Karan (Anil Kapoor), who’s just returned from his studies abroad, and Kishen (Jackie Shroff), who works as a hitman for crime boss Anna (Patekar). Karan makes plans to reunite with his childhood friend, police officer Prakash (Anupam Kher), and Prakash’s sister, Paro (Madhuri Dixit), whom he’s in love with. But Prakash has been making life difficult for Anna, and the reunion turns tragic when he’s shot by Anna’s men. Karan vows revenge, even as a frantic Kishen tries to talk Anna out of killing his brother.
“It was a watershed moment," Vasan Bala says about the film’s release. “There was this new spin on violence and intensity but you couldn’t put a finger on why it also looked pretty. Something just felt different."
Parinda’s stylistic approach was revolutionary in the context of Hindi film. Chopra, along with cinematographer Binod Pradhan and editor Renu Saluja, drew on the paranoid American cinema of the 1970s to create an atmosphere both burnished and unsettled. When a character shoots himself in the factory, the whirring machinery slices the light into jagged patterns typical of noir cinema. And the ambush of the brothers at Gateway of India is a masterful setpiece, unfolding at first in quick fragments, then stretching into slo-mo as bullets fly, ending with a majestic god’s-eye view shot from the top of the monument.
Unlike Parinda, which frequently finds itself on greatest film shortlists, Hathyar—about the gradual slide into hard crime of a young man, Avi (Sanjay Dutt)—is largely forgotten today. This is a pity, for Dutta’s film, though less polished and streamlined than Parinda, has more to say about the cyclical nature of violence. It’s also a bridge between gritty 1980s films like Ardh Satya and Arjun and 1990s gangster movies like Satya and Vaastav. While Parinda’s Karan and Paro and Anna live in well-furnished upper-middle-class homes, Dutta’s film is at the street-level, with characters struggling to make ends meet. Avi takes the local train; Karan and Kishen drive around in cars. One musical sequence in Parinda involves the cooking of dinner. In Hathyar, Avi ends up killing someone over food.
It was in the 1990s that the Mumbai underworld seemed to come above ground—a system unto itself, complicated and often malfunctioning, like the local trains or the municipality. Shoot-outs and extortions made the front pages; criminals and cops alike were profiled as stars. This informed the films, and, sometimes, the films gazed back. There was an eerie footnote to Angaar, in which bombs planted by the mafia level a series of skyscrapers. The film released in September 1992. Six months later, actual bombs planted by gangsters went off in Mumbai.
It took a while for the lessons of Parinda to percolate. Sudhir Mishra’s Iss Raat Ki Subah Nahin (1996) carried forward a simple idea: distinct personalities for all the criminals, not just a gang boss and a bunch of faceless henchmen. Iss Raat also allowed for representations of gangsters as complex and affecting. There’s a great comic scene with gang boss Ramanbhai (Ashish Vidyarthi) at home, trying to keep his cool as he unsuccessfully attempts to reach someone on the phone while his father criticizes him, his sister tries to get him to give her husband a job and a priest conducts prayers loudly in another room.
Not long after the release of Iss Raat, Saurabh Shukla (who acted in Mishra’s film) and an unheralded Anurag Kashyap started writing what would eventually become the greatest Hindi gangster film ever. Its director was Ram Gopal Varma, who had already made films about street gangs (Shiva) and hitmen (Drohi, 1992), as well as one of the great Mumbai films, Rangeela (1995). But what he really wanted was to make a film about the Mumbai underworld.
The mafia was part and parcel of Hindi cinema by then, but no one had made a film about its inner workings. The start of Satya’s shooting coincided with the murder of film music baron Gulshan Kumar by mob-hired killers—something which both rattled Varma and set his imagination on fire. “At that time (the mafia) was rampant," he says. “It was a part of life, part of the city."
Satya was a revelation. By showing the day-to-day working of gang functionaries—brutal murders followed by drunken celebrations—it demythologized the underworld, made it vivid and immediate. The cinematography, by Mazhar Kamran and the American Gerard Hooper, had a vérité-like punch, and there were around a dozen memorable turns, none more so than Manoj Bajpayee’s irrepressible mid-level gang boss, Bheeku Mhatre. The writing was peak bhai-speak: ghoda for revolver, chidiya for pager, kauwa for mobile phone.
A few days after the release, a group of dangerous-looking men approached Bajpayee outside a theatre. “They told Manoj, kya kaam kiya, phaad dala (great work, you nailed it)," Kamran recalls. “They talked to him like he was a bhai."
In a rapturous review in Sunday Mid-Day, novelist Shobhaa De wrote, “It’s far too intelligent and intense a film to break records at the box office." This prediction was proved wrong. Satya grossed 18.59 crore on a budget of 2.5 crore: not a massive hit, but a solid return on investment, somewhat miraculous when you consider it had one star, Urmila Matondkar, and a bunch of sweaty, bearded, unknown faces, as Bajpayee put it. The film’s success pointed the way to a new “hindie" cinema, suspended between the commercial and the arty, but with none of the self-consciousness of Parallel Cinema.
“With Satya, Varma inaugurated a gangster film cycle that was employed by every ambitious film-maker who wanted to break into Hindi cinema," critic Lalitha Gopalan wrote in her essay Bombay Noir. Suddenly, everyone was making films set in the underworld. Sanjay Dutt, who had been in and out of jail for possession of arms (supplied to him by Dawood Ibrahim’s men) at the time of 1993 blasts, starred in Vaastav (1999). Varma expanded the genre’s canvas with Company (2002), a flashy, continent-hopping look at the relationship between Dawood Ibrahim and Chhota Rajan. If Satya was about mob shooters who carried out orders, Company was about the ones who gave them. The style was different too, wide lenses and distorted compositions suggesting a world askew.

BIG SHOTS AND STEEP FALLS
Hindi gangster cinema was at its peak between 2002-05. Talented young directors used the genre as a springboard for varied styles and visions. The gangster began seeping into other genres: the cop film (Ab Tak Chhappan, 2004), big-budget action (Kaante, 2002), the procedural (Black Friday, 2004), comedy (Munna Bhai M.B.B.S., 2003), the hybrid hindie (Waisa Bhi Hota Hai Part II, 2003), the literary adaptation (Maqbool, 2003).
It was with Varma’s Sarkar (2005) that the genre crested and began to arc downwards. The film, which crossed The Godfather with the life of the late Shiv Sena chief Bal Thackeray, was slickly made, but top-heavy and hollow. Two years later, Shootout At Lokhandwala (2007) pushed the gang film into gratuitous macho territory.
Mumbai had always been home to the Hindi underworld film, but by the end of the 2000s, the city’s mob legends were close to being exhausted. Directors started looking for crime stories in other parts of India. Tigmanshu Dhulia set Shagird (2011) and Saheb, Biwi Aur Gangster (2011) in north India, and his dacoit film Paan Singh Tomar (2010) in Chambal, Madhya Pradesh. Vishal Bhardwaj’s Omkara (2006) unfolded in heartland Uttar Pradesh. Varma headed to Andhra Pradesh for the brutal Rakta Charitra (2010).
Ironically, it was Anurag Kashyap, one of the creators of the modern Mumbai gangster film, who put two nails in its coffin. First, he cemented the genre’s exodus from the city with Gangs Of Wasseypur. The film, set in a small town in Jharkhand, was a sensation from the moment it premiered at the 2012 Cannes Film Festival. Overflowing with dazzling new colours, sounds and slang, it drew from the localized Tamil gangster films of the late 2000s and foreign titles like Fernando Meirelles and Kátia Lund’s sprawling City Of God (2002). Suddenly, everyone wanted to talk like Nawazuddin Siddiqui’s Faizal. Bombay bhais began to look passé.
Wasseypur’s success allowed Kashyap to set his sights on an expansive period film. Bombay Velvet (2015) was to be his masterpiece. He had the backing of a big studio. He cast big stars: Ranbir Kapoor, Anushka Sharma. He recreated 1950s Mumbai in Sri Lanka. Amit Trivedi worked for two years on the cabaret-jazz soundtrack. Thelma Schoonmaker, Scorsese’s long-time editor, assembled the international cut.
Everything came apart spectacularly. The film was a Warner Bros gangster movie transplanted to Mumbai—there are fedoras and Tommy Guns and Gladys George cradling James Cagney in The Roaring Twenties, saying “He used to be a big shot". But the intricate politics, the context, was lost in the flash. “Everyone falls in love with creating period settings," journalist and author Sidharth Bhatia told me. “Ram Gopal Varma has a terrific nose for organized crime, and he wasn’t concerned with painting a glamorous world. The rest are sitting in a helicopter and looking down—they can see the big picture, but not the smelly details."
Bombay Velvet crashed and burned—grossing 43 crore on a budget on 120 crore—and the Mumbai gangster film went on hiatus. Producers were unwilling to lose money on the next ambitious flop. The genre lost its immediacy. All the big dons were in jail, or abroad, or dead. They weren’t being photographed with movie stars any more. Shoot-outs and extortions were rare. Deprived of new source material, directors reworked existing properties: Agneepath (2012), Once Upon A Time In Mumbai Dobaraa (2013), Shootout At Wadala (2013), Satya 2 (2013), Ab Tak Chhappan 2 (2015). Eventually, the genre moved to the streaming space, with shows like Sacred Games (Netflix), Mirzapur (Amazon Prime), Rangbaaz (Zee5), Smoke (Eros Now) and Hankaar (Hungama).
The decline of Hindi gangster films has coincided with a sparkling run down south. This past decade has produced only one superlative Hindi title in Gangs Of Wasseypur (though Ashim Ahluwalia made an intriguing Arun Gawli biopic, Daddy, in 2017). But there are several contenders in Tamil and Malayalam cinema. Thiagarajan Kumararaja’s Aaranya Kaandam (2011) was a fluid gangster noir. Karthik Subbaraj’s Jigarthanda (2014) and Nalan Kumarasamy’s Soodhu Kavvum (2013) were hip, cinephilic crime stories. And Angamaly Diaries (2017), Lijo Jose Pellisery’s look at street gangs in a small Kerala town, was, quite simply, the most kinetic Indian film of the decade.
Like their Hindi counterparts a decade earlier, southern directors are retrofitting the genre to accommodate their concerns. Pa. Ranjith launched a blistering attack on the caste system under the guise of a Rajinikanth entertainer in Kaala (2018). Rajeev Ravi’s moody Kammatipaadam (2017) examined how Ernakulum Dalits were forced to give up their land to upper-caste developers. Vetri Maran’s time-hopping gangster saga, Vada Chennai (2018), was also a strident critique of gentrification.
Back in Mumbai, things appear to have come full circle. In the second season of Sacred Games, a director named Ram G. Varma is hired to make a film on gangster Ganesh Gaitonde’s life—a bit of fun at the expense of the godfather of the modern underworld film. The Varma scenes are played for parody, but there’s actual precedent for the mafia-making films in its own image. In 2000, the Mumbai police tapped an extraordinary phone conversation, with gangster Chhota Shakeel in Karachi on one end, and Sanjay Dutt and directors Mahesh Manjrekar and Sanjay Gupta on the other. Shakeel not only discusses flaws in Gupta’s films (he doesn’t like the continuity) but gives Manjrekar material for a possible film on his own life. Gangsters as screenwriters, as film critics—only Hindi cinema could allow for such a possibility.
This piece was a cover story in Mint Lounge.