Date: 04 February 2005, 6.00 pm
Place: Kauveri Theatre, Bangalore
Movie: “BLACK”
Cast: Ayesha Kapur,Rani Mukherjee, Amitabh Bachchan,Shernaz Patel, Dhritiman Chatterjee, Nandana Sen. Direction: Sanjay Leela Bhansali, in brilliant form.
Rating: I am not worthy enough to do such a thing for such a film
Somebody out there’s listening. Just today morning (after “SHABD”), I was brooding about the state of the movies, about how love stories don’t have a heart anymore, sentiment is sadly lacking and the little remaining talk rarely to any point.
And then along comes BLACK.
Let the self-appointed paan masala pundits and plain philistines (like Srinidhi) say what the hell they want to. Let the action at the box office dictate what it will. None of that matters because here’s a labour of love that’s spectacular.
For indeed it follows the rule of fine movie making, with a story to tell and a comment to make. Moreover, there’s a perfect collaboration between the technicians and director, actors and the camera, to transmit both. As a result, Sanjay Leela Bhansali’s fourth feature film emerges as a civilized, inspiring and literate celebration of the human condition, discovering light and grace within the depths of darkness. (Did I just write that? Somebody please inform the Booker people).
Okay, so the credit titles acknowledge a debt to Helen Keller, whose real life battle with physical impairments, catalysed the Oscar winning American masterpiece, “ The Miracle Worker” by Arthur Penn. Yet it would have been great if Bhansali bhai had tipped his hat to the film as well. Oh well. Redeemingly, the adaptation has been crafted with such an unprecedented amount of compassion and care, that you’re more than willing to overlook that trespass.
Beauty, undeniably, lies in the eye of the beholder. A myopic, ageing and tipsy teacher of Braille (Amitabh Bachchan), makes it his manic mission to tame a wild child, born blind and deaf into a well-heeled Christian family of the early 1920s. The period atmosphere in a snow-flaked Shimla, is evocatively captured as a battle royale of nerves begins between the strong-willed teacher and his equally stubborn kicking-biting-snarling pupil.
In the end, the teacher succeeds, with the girl learning to pronounce the word “water”(wa..a..ter, the girl says with that very thing, a bit salty though, running down our cheeks) and also learns to speak to her “Ma” and “Paa”. If you aren’t weeping during this scene, go join the communist party.
Stay put, this is only the intermission. The tables are now being turned.
A touching plot twist this. Now, the pupil (Rani Mukherjee) must bring her guru out of the abyss he has descended into on being struck by Alzheimer’s disease. Throughout, their little big victories in making contact, exhilarate you in the manner of Climbing Mt.Everest. Alternately sad and sunny, child-like and mature, touching and troubling, the two-character drama evolves from the theatre of life.
Gratifyingly, the supporting ensemble is etched with dexterous strokes. The eight-year-old Ayesha Kapur, enacting the childhood segment of the blind girl, is absolutely stunning. If this girl doesn’t win all the awards, Oscars included, then those awards are nothing but scrap metal.
As the mother, Shernaz Patel, is marvelous. Dhritiman Chatterjee as the father and newcomer Nandana Sen (cute!) as the neglected younger sister fit the bill.
Several scenes are splendidly done: the girl-turned-woman asking the teacher for a kiss(“I may never know what it is to be a woman,” she pleads); a dance performance with sign language; the sightless one arguing that the blind can “see” dreams too; and the teacher’s joyous jigs on accomplishing impossible tricks and feats.
The dazzling technical wizardry, the deft camerawork and the British age décor, contribute immeasurably towards realizing Bhansali’s ode to human resilience.
However, almost as an afterthought, one does wonder why the dialogue relied so excessively on English, the angrezi frequently being translated into Hindi. Also what were those Michelangelo De Leonardo paintings doing in the background when the mother is informed that her child is blind and deaf?
Above all else, BLACK is a triumph for its two performances. Rani Mukherjee is a revelation, belting out a multi-faceted performance that compels you to reach out for that hyperbolic adjective, awesome. Lock up all the awards already. They’re her’s.
As for Amitabh Bachchan, he surpasses himself. Veins knotted, eyes like flickering flames and laughter that stabs the air like a chilled knife, he’s magnificent.
And the director, bow….hail the king….bow.
After the tumbling experience I had watching SHABD, BLACK was a hard day’s light. BLACK is beautiful. Do yourself a favour, go watch.
And as to why I repented for having invited Srinidhi to the theatre, is this.
Not even ten minutes had passed since the movie began, his highness, the holy pontiff Srinidhi Swamigal started to twitch, twist and turn in his seat, often jabbing me with his elbow. And during those emotional scenes, he would turn to me and start regurgitating words like “what the hell is this” or “oh no not again” and “ I wanna go home” and stuff. After the intermission, buddi left the seat next to us and went 50 miles behind. Smart guy.
Sri, your prayers were powerful son. It was your lucky day. You walked out alive.
