Regards all

the old in the new

Once again, we have arrived at a moment in our cinema when the seemingly distinct categories
of 'arthouse' and 'commercial cinema' are collapsing. In the '80s, when the chasm between these
two categories was at its zenith, socially meaningful cinema flourished. Yet apart from Jaane Bhi
Do Yaaron, a scathing satire on the embedded web of corruption, it is hard to recall a film from
that period that has survived into mainstream consciousness today. This was after an
extraordinary spell in the '70s, when fuelled by the masterly screenplays of Salim-Javed, films like
Deewaar made such categories redundant.
Over the last year, a number of films have challenged those notions, rejecting the ghettoisation of
'arthouse' cinema in order to effect change from within the mainstream. Films such as Anurag
Kashyap's Dev D, Dibakar Banerjee's Oye Lucky Lucky Oye and, now, Vishal Bhardwaj's
Kaminey have unlocked the potential within popular idioms of Hindi cinema. Contemporary
interpretation of the proverbial tale of twin brothers or the story of Devdas for these filmmakers
allows easy translatability, giving them a mainstream platform while leaving room for avant-garde
expression. Thus, subversion of popular idioms becomes the conduit to weave tales of modern
India.
One of the ways in which this subversion is achieved is by privileging disjunctions over continuity.
In the original Devdas, for example, his death serves the purpose of preservation of the
patriarchal order. However, the subaltern narrative of society's suppression of women in Devdas
is given agency in Anurag Kashyap's Dev D. Kashyap's target is the hypocrisy of patriarchal
structures that finds itself in crisis when faced with a more assertive female sexuality. Thus, the
lead protagonist played by Abhay Deol encourages sexual liberalism in Paro, but is unable to
respond adequately when it threatens to outgrow patriarchal consent. Chanda's father, on the
other hand, commits suicide when shown a mirror to his participation in society's collective lust
which invokes morality while it receives gratification.
In an iconic film such as Ram aur Shyam, the twin brothers are united in pursuit of a common
goal— the return to rightful inheritance and restoration of a slightly readjusted feudal order. In
Kaminey, for the most part, they engage in a clash of competing self-interests — it seems
inevitable that one's happiness must come at the cost of the other. In earlier versions, the filial
bond was sacrosanct, yet Kaminey repeatedly violates this maxim to portray a society getting
rapidly atomised. Fittingly, Bhardwaj sets his tale in the brutally competitive world of Dharavi.
Another common thread in these films is the dark, dystopian urban vision, revolving around
themes of alienation. The city does not exist as a singular entity — it inhabits diverse worlds, the
distance between those is immeasurably vast. This is only too evident in Oye Lucky Lucky Oye, a
film almost entirely set in the capital that steers clear of Delhi's dominant representation in
cinema. Instead, Banerjee focuses his lens on the claustrophobia of growing up in a west Delhi
ghetto, the narrative of people excluded from centres of power. Similarly, the ubiquitous pictures
of Marine Drive and Bandra that populate films set in Mumbai are largely absent from Kaminey.
The decade-long reign of the banners of Yash Chopra and Karan Johar, beginning with DDLJ in
1995, came at a moment when the middle classes were grappling with identity — the new
wealth could not make them overcome a lingering unease with modernity. Their films celebrated
this fraught coexistence, by effortlessly merging regressive values with consumer culture. In Oye
Lucky, the protagonist is a victim of both — he seeks to firmly abandon the former, while
wanting to conquer the latter. Oye Lucky replicates some aspects of the loud, baroque film with
Punjabi characters, only for it to serve as a form of critique. Lucky is the antithesis of the
archetype Punjabi lead in, for example, Karan Johar's films. He never completely belongs in a
consumerist milieu while the 'native culture' so beloved of their films is, for him, a prison that he
must escape.
Another remarkable aspect is the astute skill with which these filmmakers have incorporated
contemporary events, without appearing contrived or cynical. From the right-wing politics of Raj
Thackeray's MNS to the DPS MMS scandal, their interpretation has taken the form of progressive
interventions.
Vishal Bhardwaj, Dibakar Banerjee and Anurag Kashyap are at the forefront of a new wave of
filmmakers reshaping popular Hindi cinema, merging tribute with critique. Their films have served
as expressions of dissent in a cinematic culture veering towards lazy self-congratulation.
Contributing to constructive change from within mainstream cinema, they have taken up old
chestnuts and infused them with radical energy, opening up new horizons in which we can re-
imagine the popular Hindi film.