A character in The Lunchbox
wistfully notes that if a man who slipped into coma ten years ago woke up
today, he’d be disgusted with what’s become of the world and he’d rather go
back into coma than live this unspectacular life.
However, if that man watched The
Lunchbox, he’d perhaps relinquish his cynicism, because he’d be filled with
hope and a wonderfully upbeat sense of purpose. That is the effect that Ritesh
Batra’s debut feature has on you. It is the most optimistic film of the year,
and one of the best. Batra is our very own Ramin Bahrani.
Happiness is relative and
nostalgia is a drug – both these themes jimmy in and out of every scene in The
Lunchbox. Yet the direction is so slight, the film barely even registers as a
film. Batra, working with Bahrani’s director of photography Michael Simmonds,
directs with warmth and affection for his characters and adds subtle poignancy
to their story. There are no dramatic twists in The Lunchbox and there is
believability to all the characters in it. Moreover it’s a pleasure to see a
Hindi film that exudes a mature portrayal of adult characters who put their
vulnerability on the line. It’s almost as though Batra made this film for the
sole purpose of changing the rules of Indian cinema.
Irrfan Khan plays Saajan, an
aging grouch nearing the end of his professional career. Saajan is Carl
Fredricksen crossed with Max Goldman and Frank
Slade. He’s the neighborhood uncle who stands alone in
the balcony and refuses to return cricket balls when they fall in his garden.
People put up with him, rather than enjoy his company. His abhorrence for human
interaction hilariously contrasts with his assistant’s (Nawazuddin Siddique)
overfriendly nature. Nimrat Kaur is Ila, a young, unhappily-married woman whose
sad, expressive eyes mirror the life that is passing her by. Apart from a
friend and confidante in her neighbour Mrs Deshpande, Ila is utterly alone in
her contemplative gloom.
Saajan and Ila somehow manage to
contact each other via handwritten notes in a lunch box. It’s a ridiculously
romantic plot device, buoyed by terrific performances from Khan and Kaur. It is
a pleasure to watch these two characters charm each other with moments of quiet
vulnerability. At times, the film even flirts with the familiar tropes of a
miscommunication and that of the hero running after the girl to win her back,
but Batra somehow finds new ways to prance over the clichés, letting the story
eventually fade out like a cute little daydream. Batra’s camera, like Saajan,
goes through the motions of the world around him but lingering on details, instead
of zipping away. Nobody in Bollywood does that. Done by a less talented
filmmaker, it would seem indulgent or mundane.
Khan has never been one to dive
head first into the golden pond of commercial success – his roles have skewed
formula time and again. It’s as if he’s afraid of being mediocre and forgotten,
and keeps outdoing himself in every role. Nimrat’s debut as a leading lady
should catapult her to instant stardom – holding her own opposite Khan requires
massive talent. Nawazuddin Siddiqui’s extended cameo is charming to say the
least, and Bharati Achrekar’s voicing of Ila’s neighbour is both hilarious and
awesome.
There are plenty of moments to
treasure in The Lunchbox, and they’re all small and delicately crafted. Those
looking for romance will swoon with delight as they discover two lonely people
can find a way to make things work. Even loveless, heartless audiences would
probably have to to try really hard to appear unmoved. In one scene, Saajan
notices his neighbours eating dinner, sitting around a table, passing food to
one another, chattering as families do. When one of the family members – a little
girl who he didn’t let into his garden to get a misdirected cricket ball –
notices he’s watching, she goes and shuts the window. Later, he eats his dinner
alone. It’s one of the many scenes in The Lunchbox that make you sigh with
gratitude for their emotional whiplash. That’s when you realise Indian cinema
is undergoing a renaissance, right in front of your eyes.
(First published in Firstpost)
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