Barfi-the
cinema of toy trains and paper planes, of love and magic, of big laughs and
quiet tears, of bells and accordions. The cinema of bright lights and bright
lives, burning for an instant before burning out. Barfi is one of those rare
films-a tearjerker which earns its tears and its laughs honestly. No gimmicks,
no deux ex machina suddenly solving all of life’s problems. The story grows out
organically from the characters, how they would behave in the situations that
they are put in. It gives us three characters and two love stories, all so
likable that we are torn at the end, because not everyone can have their happy
ending.
The
story, which takes place in Darjeeling
and Kolkata, is about a deaf-mute man called Barfi (Ranbir Kapoor) and the two
women who come into his life-Shruti (Ileana Di Cruz), a soon-to-married woman
who comes to Darjeeling
for a vacation, and Jhilmil (Priyanka Chopra), the autistic grand-daughter of
one of Darjeeling’s
richest men. Barfi was born to a driver of Jhilmil’s family, and his mother
passed away soon after his birth after getting electrocuted by a Murphy radio.
His father names him Murphy. But he can’t pronounce Murphy. When he says his
name, it comes out Barfi, and everyone knows him as that. This Barfi, despite
being deaf and mute, is the most colourful character in all of Darjeeling and is the talk of the town.
Flamboyant, irreverent, mischievous, with the heart of a romantic and guts to
match, he is a charmer, and it takes him less than ten minutes to lodge a place
firmly in our heart.
He
is smitten by Shruti the first time he sees her, and makes an elaborate show of
giving her his heart. She shows him her engagement ring. He turns back a huge
clock-tower back by a few minutes, asks her to forget what he said, and asks to
be her friend. All this is done so beautifully, with so little dialogue and
with such a sly, delightful humor that you are bound to be hooked. Their love
story is sketched so beautifully in a few set-pieces and a song or two that it
recalls THE ARTIST. Indeed, the film is much indebted to silent cinema for much
of its thematic material and Chaplin-esque humor, turning the disadvantage of
having a mute hero on its head and making a beautiful thing out of it. Another
woman in Barfi’s life is Jhilmil. They play with the sunlight reflecting off
shards of glass. They practice spitting out watermelon seeds as far as they
can. She doesn’t speak much, and he can’t hear anyway. Their love story is one
of small pleasures, of little moments combined majestically into a whole.
Regarding
the craft of the film, I cannot but begin with the phenomenon that is Ranbir
Kapoor. Here is the future of Bollywood, with the past of Bollywood firmly
ingrained in his veins. I know of no other actor of his generation who could
have portrayed Barfi with such a light touch, without making him a caricature,
sketching the joy, the happy-go-luckiness, the innocence, the pain, the
loneliness, the desperation of the character so well, with no dialogue at all.
Look how he rages against Shruti when he realizes she will not marry him. He
can’t say a word, but he doesn’t need to. We see his pain in his red eyes, his
shock at her betrayal portrayed brilliantly by a rapid series of hand gestures,
which you will understand despite not knowing any sign language. His
frustration is palpable.
Priyanka
submerges herself completely into the character, adopting Jhilmil’s mannerisms
like a second skin. In a time when the most popular actors of the Hindi film industry
play outrageously oversized versions of themselves in every single film, and
rake in the moolah, it is heartwarming to see this woman constantly challenging
the limits of her abilities and her range. Look at how she tries to dress like
Shruti, in her attempt to impress Barfi, and how she portrays her embarrassment
when Barfi discovers her doing this. Magnificent. Ileana, in the presence of
these two extraordinary performances, is hopelessly outplayed. She looks like a
million bucks, both as Anglicized young woman and as Bengali bou, and has a
versatile range of expressions. However, her dialogue delivery and diction
still leave a little to be desired.
On
to the visuals-beautiful, striking, unique. Anurag Basu had a certain visual
aesthetic in mind, certain motifs and certain thematic consistencies throughout
the film, such as the bright light of the sun coming in short bursts through
the windows of a moving train, or the accordion players who are there for every
plot point, or the bright, sparkly visual opulence of the jhau-naach (that is
what I think it is called, I am not certain). All this helps to create the
sense of semi-realism, of a sort of retro dreamland which is apt for the mood
of the film. Also, it is obvious why Darjeeling
and Kolkata were the choices for the film’s setting, because these places have
a sort of timeless elegance, and since the film mostly takes place between 1972
and 1976, an old, magical, romantic locale was necessary, and there could not
have been a better choice. The music, if bad, could have ruined the film, since
the film has so little dialogue for such long durations. But thankfully, Pritam
is surprisingly good, abandoning his usual generic pop-rock hooks for an
earthier, classic sound full of accordions and violins, perfectly complementing
the moods of the film.
The
film is an excellent choice for the Oscars. I have nothing but respect for the
sly intelligence of the nomination board. So much of the film is devoid of
dialogue that the Academy voters won’t even have to refer to the subtitles
much. The film is homage to classical Hollywood
romance and silent films, and as last year evidenced, the Academy is in the
mood for nostalgia. Ronnie Screwvala at UTV is a master lobbyist and will leave
no stone unturned in creating a buzz around the film. GANGS OF WASSEYPUR,
although a masterpiece of Indian cinema, is 5 hours long and much of the
dialogue will be wasted during translation, no matter how good the subtitling.
KAHAANI is a generic twisty thriller, with metaphors best understood by
Indians, and in particular, Bengalis. PAAN SINGH TOMAR, I have not yet seen,
but a biopic of an Indian runner is hardly what the Academy looks for in a
foreign film, which is supposed to be some deep meditation on life, mortality,
love and the messiness of human life (I’m just referencing recent deep, and
there’s a bittersweet elegance pervading the film, which may turn out to its
benefit.
Of
course, it isn’t perfect, and the mystery at the heart of the film, which takes
up sizable screen time, and is supposed to be the glue binding the whole fabric
of the film together, is remarkably asinine and clichéd. The film would have
benefited if the screenplay had further abandoned the concept of a plot, and
had been a string of episodes strung together, a lovely song of the open road.
Also, the film is too long. It should have been about twenty minutes shorter,
and some of the needless slapstick scenes could have been clipped.
Despite
its few flaws, the film is a heartbreaking, heartwarming rollercoaster of a
film, and deserves all the praise it gets and then some. Highly recommended.
8.0/10.
No comments:
Post a Comment