We shall overcome...

 Karan Johar’s My name is Khan (2010), starring Shahrukh Khan and Kajol – her great comeback since Fanaa (U me aur ham being not much more than a Devgan promotional), is a movie about truth and violence, like Fanaa in fact, with which it shares some similarities. One has a double pleasure while watching Karan’s opus – BTW, his comeback too since KANK in 2006 – first SRK’s acting, a fine piece of work (more on this in a minute) and Kajol’s, who does a great job with her role as Mandira, definitely showing she’s one of Bollywood’s most serious assets.  First I’ll look at the actors, then the film’s meaning, and finally the controversies it provoked.

Kajol doesn’t need to show any skin, (sigh of relief!) to be showered with praise, and today this in itself is worthwhile of great praise. She stands for what she is, and performs very convincingly. First she’s the active Americanised foreigner, successful and dynamic, even if divorced and a single mother; then she’s the adorable human being who sees another human being (and not a freak) in Asperger syndrome Kizwan, who most annoyingly at first wants her to marry him; and then after the murder of her child by anti-Muslim youths, she becomes the battling Justice seeker who teaches a lesson to detectives who have other crimes to deal with. And finally she shoulders her pain and grief to join her husband in his battle for tolerance and truth in an increasingly bigoted and fearful America.

 This guy repairs almost everything!

Shahrukh Khan’s best role so far is right here. Like Rani Mukherjee had done in Black with the blind Michelle McNally (cf. Kajol as Zooni in Fanaa), he becomes Rizwan, and invests him with a realism, a strength, and a conviction which reminds one of Dustin Hoffman’s best performances. His story goes back to his Muslim youth in Bombay, where we see him battling against prejudice and incomprehension because of his difference (autism and cleverness), and being left alone with an ageing mother when his brother leaves for the US.  This mother is the source of his strength of character: she teaches him the basic lesson of brotherly love and the equality of all human beings created by one God:

After she dies he leaves for San Francisco too, and there meets up with Mandira while working for his brother. What strikes first is his uncompromising spirit, his will to be looked upon as a person even though he’s handicapped. This is made clear in the speech he delivers in the hair-dresser’s salon, where he comes to sell his wares. Please listen to my words, he says, and don’t stop at my appearance, don’t buy my products out of pity, but because they’re good. This dissociation of surface and depth is the first step towards establishing the link which society often fails to make, that of handicap (or difference) and “acceptable” humanity. Exclusion from a community of fellow human brothers must not (should never) be based on chance differences – religion, handicap – but on the moral intention and the capacity to forgive evil-doers.

Having chosen an autistic lead role is a great idea, because these people have a relationship with language which is like a challenge to social practices of self-defence and privacy, two individualistic features which cement civilisation with suspicious identities and polite distances (1). Never forget that all human societies (even civilisation itself), are based on language, and its recognised and codified uses. If you don’t use language in a recognisable way, you are considered as an idiot, or a madman, or sometimes a mystic (if your audience is religious).

Communities as a rule are based on similarity, norms, and fear of disparity, and individuals who practice an open acceptance of differences, and risk-taking (things which America had so far been so famous for, and which had shaped its history) are quickly rejected from the social body as alien. This rejection is sometimes done in the name of individual freedom, and often corresponds to older social classes who are well established in their rights and advantages. These in turn are challenged by younger generations, who haven’t been shaped too much yet by traditional wisdom – or unclassified (e.g. handicapped) people, who haven’t integrated this social knowledge.

She realises she loves him, and looks at him, to say as much,

but he just points out "you're staring!

Rizwan’s great benefit to society is that he tells the truth bluntly, without hiding it, or transforming it so it becomes socially integratable (and so society can protect itself from its inflexibility). His handicap gives him a status between that of an adult and that of a child, and while his language intellectually belongs to adulthood, socially speaking, he lacks all the acquired softeners by which society adapts the truth to its comfortable lies, and virtue to its pleasurable vices.

The best example of this takes place when Khan denounces the Islamic leader in the mosque on his route to Washington. In that period of anti-Muslim feelings, a half-mystical imam is preaching blood-duty in the name of Islam, in front of a group of serious-looking brothers. Khan is listening at the back, not knowing how to react, but suddenly it erupts: “No, no, no…” and going straight to the truth, without the acceptable language of dissenting opinion – which would have enabled his opponent to defend his ideas, he condemns him: “liar!, shaitan!”.

Such words enable the others to unmask the imam, and later in the movie we learn he’s arrested, even if it will carry danger for Khan (he will be assaulted by an Islamist fanatic). But truth always carries with it this double and dangerous prophetic power: its proclaimer risks his own life saying it. All truth-sayers in history have verified it.  So all this, I think, should help to deflect some of the criticism that this scene is far-fetched and unrealistic: what Karan Johar is doing is examining the power of truth in a fundamentally deceitful society (that of civilisation as a whole, not only America), more than denouncing Islamic extremism, even though he’s doing that also (and I agree that he’s probably a little heavy-handed there – too preachy, as some say).

Kizwan’s use of language has repercussions in less dangerous areas, but nonetheless important for him and the people around him. When he has got in his mind that he loves Mandira, there is no beating about the bush: “marry me” he says, in lieu of sweet talk and romantic courtship. And she doesn’t accept because she pities him and wants to compensate for anything, but because behind this apparent coarseness, she has seen a warm and generous heart. Not only that, but perhaps she knows how civility can be only a mask. On Sam’s birthday, when she’s busy in the kitchen, Kizwan comes clumsily (it seems) up to her and asks her to have sex, she exclaims (because of the social rules governing when you do certain things and when you don’t): “What, now?”, and then realising this is an important thing and that certain joys cannot wait, she grins and saunters after him.

Language also connects with the concept of freedom of speech (Cf. the First Amendment): when Mandira after Sam’s murder cannot help blaming Khan for his indirect role in her son’s death, and tells him to leave her, she suggests that nothing he can do will bring him back, and taunts Khan: “go and tell everybody he isn’t a terrorist, what will it change? Go tell the President, it won’t bring him back!” Khan hears these words, and since he isn’t versed in social irony – that second degree, which we all master only too well when it suits us – it becomes a mission. This systematic obedience is part of his childishness, or lack of social skills. He books a plane, but because he looks strange, he is stopped by the airport police (and ruthlessly searched – reminiscences of Jesus-Christ during his Passion there) and prevented from boarding his flight, no compensation naturally. Undaunted, he decides to cross the United States, and takes the first coach!  Anyway he isn’t wanted at home… Karan Johar makes it clear nevertheless that an ordinary citizen’s desire to speak to his President is an arduous task these days! That such a basic democratic expression is so threatened says a great deal about the decline of the West, and also of democracy as a political regime.

Finally after many adventures (some of which unnecessarily melodramatic), he arrives at a meeting where the President is going to pass next to him, and despite a powerful distaste of crowds and noise, he makes himself pronounce the words he has promised to tell him: “My name is Khan and I am not a terrorist”. But what happens? Paranoiac Special Forces hear the fatal word, understand the exact opposite of what he has said (“he said he’s a terrorist!”), and grab hold of him in a panic! His sentence, born in a context which nobody is prepared to listen to first, before being able to understand it, is misconstrued because it fits all too well in another context, that of a frightened America, hell-bent on hate and revenge (2). What is sad and nevertheless revealing, and also brilliant from the point of view of the story, is that Mandira realises in the end that she has done the same, when requesting justice for her son, instead of exerting compassion and forgiveness. Mind you, it is clear that this wasn’t possible for her (cf. that scene at the football pitch), and it’s also clear that these virtues cannot nor shouldn’t replace justice. But it’s also clear that by appearing so adamant, she has perhaps prevented the witness of her son’s death from testifying.

Namaz!? Here??

This Indian movie doesn’t always protect itself from imitating (in a very good way) the feel-good sensationalism of Hollywood family thrillers, but at least it possesses a high level of entertainment quality.  Witness what Shell says on her blog. She takes the point of view of the mother and identifies with Mandira, which is difficult not to do if you are one!  On the other opposite, perhaps, you can find Beth’s take on the movie as a gross misrepresentation of America. The film according to her is “maddeningly ignorant about contemporary American culture”. Well. She’s probably right. But even if this is true, I agree with Daddy’s girl (on Beth’s blog) who suggests that “there is a very strong and noticeable effort in MNIK to avoid stereotypes and to balance out the equation with some very positive portrayals of Americans”. But it’s impossible, perhaps, in such an entertainer, to avoid all the clichés and simplifications. And there are a lot! So I would suggest giving credit to Karan, to SRK and Kajol and not worry TOO much about faults and feelgood drama!

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(1) On a less important score, I half thought that the use of the autistic character for SRK was a good way to placate a suspicious Ajay that no adult love-scene was going to happen between his dear wife and long-time jodi-partner…

(2) Some commentators suggest this is exaggerated, but other recent historical circumstances have shown this face of an otherwise confidently powerful America…!

A soft breeze wafts the chimney tops on the morning terraces; night clouds trail away in the East. Bustle and rumours from the city all around; calls and shouts close and far, muffled car honks, and the familiar smell of the city. You’re in Delhi. Oh, it’s a film, of course, it’s a vision. Like a memory of a childhood place where one would like to return to, but whose charm and magic are so powerful that they recreate the reality, and this dream is what people need to continue hoping. And then there is the heart of this city, there’s a "beating": a violence which can destroy it, but which is also its blood and its life. The two communities, Muslim and Hindu coexist there and, implies Director Rakesh Mehra, are the city’s treasure. This diversity and difference, along with its potential violence, but also its liveliness, make up the character of the city.

Then there is the History. Culture and tradition are also part of Delhi (above, the Ramlila, fascinating sections of it all film long, as a reminder that history is what builds a common world). We are in purani Dilli, Chandni Chowk. Any capital has a history of course. But it is often seen as touristic artificiality only, alas. Here on the other hand, we don’t get to see the city from a touristic point of view, viz the way the Taj Mahal trip is done. Roshan (the hero, played by Abhishek) sees it, and photographs it, but not us (or just at the end, in a parting glance). What we see is Roshan’s reaction to it. So many masala movies would have given us a full frontal view. The "echo" of that grandeur is given, that's all. What Rakesh Mehra is doing is recording the significance of these buildings and sites. He’s communing (and communicating) with them: this old door, that archway, that view under the sky. And he gives us the night scenes, the ordinary life. It’s a choice, a selection of course; you can never show everything.

A number of negative reactions welcomed the movie in 2009. Here’s Shweta’s take:

“Contrary to what I've heard from other reviews, I don't believe that this is a homage to Delhi - old/new/any part. It’s a fantasy, composed of what the director would LIKE to remember of Delhi (oh that sounds harsh, isn't it?). I almost suspect that he has forgotten what Delhi was like, and would like it believe that this was it - it happens to a lot of folks who move away. Don't get me wrong, I love Delhi, and I love Chandni Chowk, and visit every time I am back there, but its hard to buy into the fantasy of Abhishek believing living in Chandni Chowk's crowds, dirt and smells to be the best thing ever.”

I’d like to ask: what is a city? It isn’t just a location, it isn’t just geography. Of course, a city has an objective side, but that’s like figures and facts. But inhabitants will have their own appreciation of their city, different probably from one to the other. If you have found a job in a town, or if you’ve been sacked there, you won’t consider the place in the same way. But dwellers aren’t the only people who can have an understanding of a city. A tourist, a student, a businessman, all have their own experience. Nobody owns a city. I have lived in Paris, I know the town well (or do I? Can you ever "know" a city?). But I can’t deny one-day visitors their superficial impressions: can I say they are wrong? They’re personal; they’re their own experience of the place. They’re entitled to their impression. When a director decides to film Delhi, he cuts, he chooses, he frames certain districts, certain aspects, his own. The aspects or dimensions of the city which he has chosen to show.

This sentence (above) sums it all for me: Rakesh Mehra is telling us that he isn’t making an objective documentary of Delhi: he’s a lover of Delhi, like shop-owner Vikram Kapur in Rohinton’s Mistry’s Family matters, who’s in love with his city (Mumbai) to the extent that he collects old photos of the roads and buildings; for him the city is like a woman he loves! And this connects to what Rakesh Mehra is doing in Delhi 6: he’s suggesting that a community of people such as the one in Delhi (it would be the same in any other city) can only live together if they love this community as a whole. On the contrary, if individuals or clans exclude other members of this community, then danger and strife aren’t far. That’s why the older characters are so important, Ali Beg (Rishi Kapoor), and Mrs Mehra (Waheeda Rehman): they represent the roots, the history, the trans-generational element. If we spectators forget this basic approach to the film, of course we can easily criticise the director. Here’s what Buddy 51 (who’s written 147 reviews on IMDb) says for example:

“Like most mainstream movies made in India, "Delhi 6" provides a relatively upbeat, prettified look at life in that country. Any hint of poverty is pushed to the edges, while the foreground becomes an almost nonstop dizzying swirl of music and color. And I do mean "nonstop," for if there is one thing "Delhi 6" has in abundance it's musical sequences, some of which drag on for an insufferably long time, adding an unnecessary burden to the movie's overall running time.

Of course Delhi in the film is “prettified”: when you love a person or a place, you are attentive to its beauty: indeed, you see beauty where others do not! But I don’t know if our Buddy recalls this scene:

I myself had rarely seen such a “hint of poverty” in mainstream Indian movies. But anyway, can we seriously criticise Mehra for loving Delhi and urging its inhabitants to work hand in hand to build a brighter future? Can we afford to disregard his call to have religious communities accept each other? Can we decide that the Black monkeys of intolerance, hatred and ignorance are only symbolic? The people at PPCC have decided that:

 “The sprawling, humanist Delhi 6 is a bit of a Monet. Sentimental and impressionistic, it's quite sweet when you step back from it. But, close up, it's a big old mess. »

Sweetness? Sentimentality? Why not after all? I prefer a little sentimentality to insincerity and superiority (1). But what’s wrong with impressionism? I don’t think Delhi 6 is impressionistic, BTW, and it isn’t a big mess either, from my perspective. (Towns are a mess anyway, life is a mess!). It isn’t because there are a lot of characters that they’re hard to catch up with! I found them all quite endearing, even the villains, like the slimy money-lender, or the obnoxious police officer. They just belong to the whole picture:

                      (see Rohinton Mistry’s A fine balance for another effort of that kind)

And I’m not the only one who thinks the same (dunkdaft):

One by one each of the fabulous ensemble cast is introduced. And that too, coming with a unique point. Unique moral is attached with each character. Like the issue of being untouchable, being a muslim, being an unmarried sister who is getting older, dowry, being extreme hindu or a muslim; each characteristic is introduced along with the character. And that works the most for the movie.

Many reviewers contend that the movie’s preachiness is OTT. This brings us to its “message”, which we’ve broached a little already. Roshan the American exile (oh, yes, right, another minus: Abhi’s accent isn’t 100% Brooklyn… Big deal) preaches that God is in all of us, and not solely within the Muslim or the Hindu communities. And he uses the mirror trick to make his point clear. If you look in the mirror, you’ll see… what, by the way? I read lots of people saying “we get it, sir, we get it!” (PPCC)… but what exactly do they get? Truth is, I don’t know. Because they don’t say it.

What’s preachy about the fact that God resides in each person’s heart? And that if you hate your neighbour in the name of God, you’re hating God’s residence itself? It’s only preachy if it’s disconnected from reality (have some of you seen On the waterfront ? Father Barry is also a “unrealistic” preacher – but preaching often needs this “unrealistic” courage). Who says the world doesn’t need that courage, and that message, today, of all periods of history? Who says India doesn’t need Jalebi’s and Gobar’s hand-touch? And anyway, who started criticising Roshan for being preachy? Madan Gopal (Om Puri), in the movie. Rakesh Mehra knew he was going to incur that type of criticism. In fact that mirror trick is rather clever: it reminds one of Socrates’ plea to “know thyself”, which is probably what a lot of fanatics in the world should do before exploding bombs on their fellow humans brothers. And it is Roshan the preacher, after all, who was first scandalised by his Daadi’s fatalism:

Practically no one whose review I read celebrated the glorious section that I would call “the tale of two cities”. It accompanies the song “Dil gira dafatan” (which most people did mention as successful), and it also contains the mirror symbolism too, by the way, look!:

What’s at stake in that scene? It isn’t just a song, beautiful and evocative as it is! It is Art, fresh and sparkling, gushing from the fountain of poetry and love. It starts with that morning breeze on the rooftops: Roshan is half waking, half dreaming; he’s walking in Delhi’s gaaliyon, and he’s in New York at the same time. Suddenly before his very eyes, New York is getting “delhified”: his family and the familiar people are present in the double reality which his dazzled and childish gaze follows. At one stage the bespectacled “crazy fakir” lifts his mirror to him, and it reflects the street, where Bittu is passing, as if she didn’t know that she’s being seen. Is it a dream? Or are we, like Alice, through the looking-glass, on the other side? Could it be that this mirror is our Dream door (and Roshan our Guide), beyond which language becomes a riddle, and magic transmutes reality into beauty, with

This fabulously rich scene glides effortlessly through one mirage to the next, one vision to its association, one evocation of the past (Roshan’s Dad there in the car together with his reunited brother) and of the present (Bittu’s fleeting grace, her everlasting femininity), to the entrancing melody of one of master Rahman’s most beautiful songs. We are in Rakesh Mehra’s wonderland. Rakesh Mehra the wizard of Oz, the Black Illusionist Monkey! A delightful Bittu throws the dove up in the sky: she’s free! and Roshan, in his reverie, flies in a merry-go-round airplane, waving ecstatically to little boys below; oh, and now this reminds him of that faraway B&W movie, “King Kong”; he has now become one of the airplane pilots who circles the Empire State building in a desperate try to save Jessica Lange from the terrible Kaala Bandar who’s holding her… But no, she’s not frightened of him, she’s holding him in his arms… The looking-glass has become the cinema itself: we spectators are looking at ourselves on the silver screen: we live, we laugh, we fear, we cry, we are plunged in Alice’s creation, her transformation of our reality into beauty and fun and meaning!

I must confess that I was very happy to follow Roshan-Abhishek during his trip back to Delhi. He managed to charm me, which is saying a lot, because my eyes were clearly elsewhere:

                                     (Sonam Kapoor, an interesting combination of Ash beauty and Kajol charm) 

But here’s why Aishwarya was right to choose her Abhi:

One last comment concerning the movie’s message: it’s difficult for the Christian that I am not to see in Roshan’s mission a kind of Christ-like incarnation and only half-hidden sacrifice: his arrival in India, his discovery of that world, his love for his people (Jesus didn’t love a woman, that’s the limit of the comparison), and his failed attempt to make enemies forgive one another, then his death (the flat heart beat) followed by a resurrection, once the Father (Amitabh) lets the Son re-emerge from the white Other World – we even have the all-pervasive presence of the Holy Bhoot in the shape of Bittu’s dove: a Trinity of love.

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(1) For example, Thebollywoodfan writes: “There's lack of equilibrium in individual and collective energies transferred within and outside that territory in Delhi allocated zip code 6, because of an uneven juxtaposition of the use of these four sources. This begs for trouble. And trouble it instigates. Except that it's not entirely wasteful, and has its share of positives for those who are willing to play along and give it a chance.”

Phew! I really prefer it when a movie is more… straightforward!

What is the typical Western question? Perhaps this one: “Do you believe in God?” The West has a long history of belief, but also of doubt. And people from the West have long since gone East, most notably to India, to find the answer to that question. Some of the most famous representatives include Rudolf Otto and Mircea Eliade who both travelled to India and both wrote about the religious dimension as essential to man. And so when James Ivory shoots The Householder in 1963, he is following a well-travelled path, which many more people, flowery or otherwise, will also take in the wake of the hippie movement during the sixties. “Spiritual India” is a cliché of course, but when you’re looking for meaning and direction, you often start with them. A picture somehow shows you to the real thing.

The householder is a little clumsy and tentative, even if the great Satyajit Ray was asked to help. James Ivory was only a beginner then, and such masterpieces as The remains of the day or Howard’s end were still a long way ahead. The story centres around Prem (Shashi Kapoor, who does his best) and Indu (Leela Naidu, not too bad), a recently married couple who confront the difficulties of getting to know each other (theirs is an arranged marriage), and in the process have to deal with the formidable mother in law (Durga Khote, of Anupama’s fame), called precisely because powerless Prem cannot cope with his shy young wife. Prem also has trouble at college, where he teaches Sanskrit etymology: his students don’t respect his authority, and his seniors despise him. On top of that, finances are very tight, and the headmaster systematically discourages any payrise request.

So when Indu, as bored as she’s exasperated, leaves the household to go back to her own mother, Prem is left alone with Maa, his troubles and his childish inefficiency. What happens next? Well, that’s where spiritualism enters. Because there’s nothing much to entice back home, Prem hangs around in town and meets Ernest, who is earnestly in search of “enlightenment”, and who lives with a bunch of very highly lit-up individuals, all of white skin, who have come to India in search of spirituality. They’re “all united in their quest”, as they say. Four people: Ernest, the athletic truth-seeker, Kitty the “lovely” hostess (she’s in love with essential Love) with her rolling eyes and scary bosom; then there’s bobo, a fine young girl, only she’s “a little mixed up”, and finally the Professor, hypnotically wide-eyed, who upon seeing Prem, analyses the shape of his cranium (“Ajanta, I would say, or perhaps even Gupta”) and blurbs about “the drone of continuity” in the Indian cycle of lives and deaths... In fact, everything these people say about India is true, to an extent; what is artificial and false lies in the attitude of possesiveness and purposefulness which they display.

Luc Boardwalk at IMDb suggests quite interestingly that Ernest is doing nothing more than going round in circles in the Jantar Mantar where he says his dil is beating so strongly. And so of course that’s an apt description for the pursuits all these westerners follow, because when Ernest tells Prem that India “grows souls” instead of favouring the flesh, Prem is simply worrying about his job, wife and mother at home. Ernest tells him that the solution to his problems is “nonattachement”… But who’s “attached” to an Orientalist cliché, to a condescending illusion of a “spiritual” India? Towards the end of the movie, Ernest tells Prem he’s leaving this India, having not “found” whatever he was looking for, light, truth, God knows what. Mind you, this departure shows he’s managed to free himself from the maya that had taken hold of his mind!

The strange thing is that Prem had gotten caught too, because at one stage they visit a guru in the forest, and they pledge to stay with him. But the old man kindly makes them understand that their pursuit, while not impossible, is perhaps too early: why doesn’t the householder take care of his wife and children to come, first? In twenty or thirty years, he can always come back…Indeed, soon enough, Indu returns and the two young ones, eager now to be together (arranged marriages promote love, it seems!!) manage to get rid of self-pitying Maa, who half-tearfully, but really delighted, takes the train, in order to go and impose her indispensability on a daughter or a niece. They are now ready to focus on their own adventure.

So the film clearly intends to debunk the delusion that bigoted dreamers might have about India, its stale “spiritual” reputation, where as soon as you arrive there, you “feel” more religion than elsewhere on the globe. When the professor tells Prem he doesn’t have a name, because his individuality is lost in the cosmic soul of the Universe, James Ivory is having a lot of fun. But, one has to ask, isn’t there some truth in the fact that the West (at least, the old West) is losing its traditional attachment to religious practices, and is becoming increasingly materialistic? On the contrary, doesn’t India retain an overall religiosity – or spirituality – which people are right to notice as they see all these various rites, temples, sadhus, festivals, etc? It is in India that the two above-mentioned authors came in order to establish their observations of Man as an essentially religious being.

Christianity is considered by some to be “the religion of the exit from religions”, that is to say, the religion which has enabled man to leave his age-old submission to the Gods created by himself in an attitude of fear and awe, and has led him towards a more rational and authentically divine faith – that is, if you believe that Jesus is truly God himself who has inhabited a human body, and therefore is no longer a projection of man’s religious needs. But this perspective might also be Christianity’s undoing: by freeing man from his transcendental inner Heaven, where he roamed in a sort of trance, by making him come down to Earth (even if it is God himself who makes him come down), hasn’t it run the risk of enabling man to decide that he doesn’t need God any longer, and that himself, man, could be his own God, level with the incarnate Son? India, in that case, where Christians represent only a little fraction of a massively religious one billion people, would have had little impact on changing the general “spiritual” needs of men.

In the meantime, Prem (this name means love) faces his ordinary problems with the religious attitude of the simple at heart. If you’ve seen the movie, you’ll remember the scene where his brother in law explains him that he will have to be much stricter in his expenses, once he has his baby (Indu is pregnant), and while they’re talking, a lady with a child in her arms comes begging behind their seat. Prem without thinking gives her some money. “Why do you encourage them?” asks the modernist brother in law. Prem doesn’t answer, but his attitude is the real religious one, the one that doesn’t think about reasons or justifications, and just gives because there is need (“O, reason not the need!”, says King Lear in Shakespeare’s play). He’s the quintessential believer. That’s not exclusively Indian, but certainly India has its fair share of such a spirit.