SHOW ME THE MANI
An unabashed ode to capitalism is wickedly entertaining for the most part – until it gets all righteous on us.
JAN 14, 2007 – MANI RATNAM’S GURU OPENS in a Gujarat village in 1951 – a time when the heady whiffs of independence hadn’t yet rotted away into the stench of cynicism. There’s a can-do spirit in the air – something that informs the actions of both women (like Sujata – played by a spirited, moving, and very beautiful Aishwarya Rai – who elopes after leaving behind a letter to her father that says she wishes to be free, like her country) and men (like Guru – Abhishek Bachchan – who rebels against a job because he’s required to wear that symbolic yoke of the British: a tie). And when Guru leaves his village to seek employment in big, bad Bombay – a city of Buick ads and large, lumbering trams – you can’t help flashing back to Shri 420, which warned the citizens of a newly-independent India about the Faustian bargain that is usually struck in the quest for success. You can make it big, but you’ll have to sell your soul, it said – and this message probably reflected the socialist bent of the era. Shri 420 was, therefore, a morality play, replete with a redemption scenario – and what’s most fascinating about Guru, who would be Raj Kapoor’s contemporary, is that he doesn’t need redeeming. He’s unapologetic about wanting money, making money, and wanting to make more money. If this movie had been made in the time it opens in, its protagonist would have been our cinema’s first unabashed capitalist.
And the first half of Guru – which plays like the movie equivalent of a picaresque novel, where the roguish, low-class hero relies on his wits to survive (except that his “adventures” are in the world of business) – is the textbook definition of intelligent, entertaining, commercial cinema. (Well, except for the songs, but more about that later.) Guru is a charming crook who’ll do anything it takes – and that includes shamelessly marrying the older Sujata simply because she brings with her a fat dowry. (And irony of ironies, the man she wanted to elope with earlier, he was a red-flag waver, a… communist.) In these early portions, almost everything is made to look like a business transaction – whether it’s Guru jingling the coins in his hand as he leaves Turkey (where he’s worked for a while; the exposure to the spice markets there prepare him for the textile markets in Bombay), or Sujata haggling with the vegetable vendor, or Sujata striking a post-pooja deal with the father-like newspaper publisher (Mithun Chakraborty, superbly torn between love for an individual and loyalty to a nation) that she’ll give him a piece of the sweet prasad only if he brushes aside his atheism and allows her to apply a teeka on his forehead, or the doctor telling Guru that Sujata has had twins. (“Double munafa,” he cracks, and I cracked up even more upon hearing the names of the two girls – Disha and Drishti, both of which are indicative of the kind of verbiage that wouldn’t be out of place in a company’s annual report. And it’s a nice touch that Guru has his children late in life; perhaps he had to focus on building an empire before building a family.)
The birth of Guru’s children, however, leads to one of the least graceful segments in the film – and that’s the sequence built around the number Ek lo ek muft, where Abhishek downs a brass-tumblerful of bhang and begins to dance. I am all for the conventions of commercial cinema, but did we really need to see Abhishek – at this point, a hugely successful businessman of a certain age – executing the choreography. Wouldn’t the song have been just as fun with a group of dancers around Abhishek and Aishwarya (who also gets into the act, post-partum)? This made me remember Trishul – a movie with a different Bachchan, but with a similar business background – and not once did we see the hero hoofing around; singing, yes, but dancing, no. Mani Ratnam was, at one time, the most exciting conceptualiser of music videos, but with Kannathil Muthamittal and Yuva, I got the suspicion that he was losing interest in filming songs – and that feeling intensifies when you look at what’s been done with AR Rahman’s terrific soundtrack in Guru. Mayya Mayya comes off as the first-ever item number to be shoehorned into a Mani Ratnam movie, though this may be a result of some of the Turkey portions being edited out – for the cutaways with Mallika Sherawat suggest that she played some sort of role in Guru’s life in Istanbul. And this song is followed almost immediately by Aishwarya Rai going Barso re, which is heavily reminiscent of Ratnam’s earlier outings in the rain. (But the second stanza, which shows Sujata leaving her house, is perfectly in sync with Gulzar’s words, where she asks her surroundings not to forget her. Plus, the nighttime photography is breathtaking. The entire film, actually, is a Rajiv Menon showreel.) More heartbreak follows with the exquisite Ae hairat-e-aashiqui being butchered and served up in pieces as background music between dialogues, and with Tere bina oddly interspersing intimate moments of sadness with all-out, all-colour choreographic spectacle.
For all these musical breaks, the headiest song-dance equivalents are in the film’s graceful leaps across time – one minute you see a poster of Naya Daur, the next you hear Jo vaada kiya woh on the gramophone, and you know you’ve hopped over from the 1950s to the 1960s. There’s a staggering amount of detail in Guru, like crumbs strewn on a trail to help you pick up the pieces. Earlier, for instance, I wondered why this villager never had the slightest trace of self-doubt. The first day he walks into the textile trading market and takes in the complete chaos there, he’s hardly overwhelmed. Instead, when he asks for membership into this association and a trader discourages him, he looks up with serene self-awareness and says that one day he’ll be back, trading alongside. But perhaps his confidence is the confidence of a new India. After all, when he returns home from Istanbul, as he gets off the train and sets foot on the platform, the sky behind him spills over with the glow of the rising sun – the promise of a new dawn and all that. And Abhishek Bachchan’s commanding performance – aided greatly by dialogues that positively snap and crackle with electricity – takes care of the rest. Before the film’s release, the actor kept claiming that he’d never get another role like this – and now you see that this isn’t just hype. This is really one of those parts that span years, moods, highs, lows – and to get a sense of a part with similar scope, it may help to recall Citizen Kane. Abhishek is just a few years older than Orson Welles was when he portrayed Kane across a lifespan, and that’s not the only way Guru reminds you of the earlier classic. Both films feature a morally ambiguous hero, both have as their conscience a straight-arrow reporter (Shyam Saxena here, played by Madhavan with a quiet dignity), both include a major moment with their leading men on a stage delivering a rousing speech, and both choose to visit their heroes at key points in their lives and thus dispense with conventional notions of character continuity (the bit in Guru where the passage of ten years is bookended by the flashing of cameras appears a direct nod to Welles and Kane).
But where Guru diverges from Kane is in wanting us to empathise with its protagonist – something Welles wasn’t at all interested in; he gave us instead a cold, calcified bastard who stood for the failures that follow capitalistic success – and in that respect, it may be more useful to revisit Ratnam’s own Nayakan, beginning with the fact that it was Velu bhai there and it’s Guru bhai here. Madhavan’s expose-the-hero-for-who-he-is character reminds you of Nasser’s cop in the earlier film, and they’re both married to someone very close to the person they’re trying to bring down. When Guru storms into Shyam Saxena’s house, all set for a confrontation, and then stops short because he sees Saxena’s wedding picture, that’s right out of Nayakan, as is the bit where an enquiry commission is looking into Guru’s shady deals and a well-wisher tells our hero – as he’s about to enter the courtroom – not to worry, that nothing will happen to him. Another startlingly similar scene here is the one where Guru barges into the house of someone who’s caused his business to shut down and intimidates this man into backing off, the way Velu barged into the house of the seth who was trying to raze down the slums and intimidated this man into backing off. But the most significant parallel is in the way both films shield us – to a large extent – from the protagonists’ misdeeds; they’re good to those around them, and they’re bad only to the characters we don’t especially care about. We know Velu bhai had people killed, just as we know Guru bhai has broken all laws, and then some. But apart from the stray sight of Guru blackmailing a politician – a moment filled with deliciously implied menace – we’re not shown things that would make it difficult for us to side with our hero, and he’s as deified by this film’s end as Velu was in Nayakan. (The anthemic Jaage hain plays non-stop in the background, apparently cueing not just emotional but spiritual uplift.)
And that, to me, was the biggest problem in Guru. I was all for Guru as long as he was using every trick in the book to get ahead. After all, who doesn’t like a root-for-the-underdog story, especially one this ravishingly crafted? (Some of the images have to be seen to be believed, like the one that has Guru standing at the site where his factory is going to be built, with the plans spread out between his hands in a way that covers the entire bottom portion of the screen – and as a final note of grace, he gets a blessing from the heavens: it rains.) But to say that he did this all for the people, his shareholders – isn’t that a little disingenuous? Maybe you could equate the general circumstances that made Velu and Guru the men they turned out to be – both broke laws because the existing system wouldn’t help them; they were have-nots who had to grab because the haves would not give – but surely there’s a difference between someone becoming a gangster-boss to protect the underprivileged people around him and someone becoming a crooked businessmen to line his own pockets. I didn’t care that Guru cheated the government by exceeding his production quotas or by faking exports or by brushing aside licensing regulations. But the implication that this makes him some sort of messiah, that the efforts of people like him could help us crawl out of third-worldness and begin nipping at the First World’s heels – all this, in a grandstanding bit of oration from Guru, hysterically filmed with whip-pans and fast-zooms and lightning-strobe effects – struck me as a rather unconvincing attempt to extrapolate a single man’s success story to the context of an entire nation, despite the conceit that the materialism of this character mirrors the materialism of India. Why not simply leave things at the fact that he did well, that he earned all those crores, and, yes, those who hitched their wagon to this rising star also did well, and end of story?
The film is so stacked in favour of its leading man – the indulgent smile that the head of the enquiry commission (Roshan Seth) gives after Guru makes his defense argument, it’s as if he simply caught a kid with his hand in the cookie jar; besides, Seth’s plummy intonations are a perfect stand-in for the Brits of yore, for he’s yet another someone trying to repress the Hindi-speaking everyIndian represented by Guru – that the stabs at exposing his other side are quite unconvincing. Madhavan, especially, suffers from this because you expect more from this morally-indignant firebrand-journalist – that too, one introduced so dramatically as a potential adversary; a “hero” to the “villain” that Guru represents – than that silly outburst at Guru’s factory where he leaves the manager (a very fine Manoj Joshi) shaking about the extent to which he is aware of the production illegalities there. I came away remembering more of his scenes with Vidya Balan, a multiple sclerosis victim, who – at first – seemed merely to be this film’s equivalent of Tinnu Anand’s mental-defective from Nayakan, someone who helps bring out the sympathetic side of the protagonist and who hero-worships him, but she has a few resonant moments that showcase Ratnam’s mastery in sketching out even the people on the sidelines. She has very little screen time, but she leaves a big impression – as do Rajendra Gupta (as Guru’s father), Arya Babbar (as Sujata’s brother and Guru’s partner-in-law), Sachin Khedekar (as Sujata’s hard-of-hearing father), Darshan Zariwala (as Guru’s loyal aide) and Dhritiman Chaterji (dripping silky menace as a business rival). It’s enormously gratifying when even these blink-and-miss characters appear to exist with all the weight of people who’ve led full lives. It gives the film the dimensions of a novel when you learn, for instance, that Khedekar was the one who lent money to Guru’s father for a business venture that flopped, and when Guru goes back to Khedekar to ask for his daughter’s hand in marriage, he’s really doing what his father did, which is to ask for (dowry) money.
And Sujata is one of Mani Ratnam’s most vivid, vibrant heroines. She’s Guru’s wife, which is to say – in Guru’s lingo – she’s his 50% partner, and this is one of those rare instances that a heroine has a part as significant and as expansive as the hero’s. She’s one of those Indian wives who are always behind their husbands, no matter what, and if she has reservations about his way of doing things, she’s not one to let them show. There’s a remarkable scene towards the end when Guru asks her if he’s truly as corrupt as the media is making him out to be, and she replies in a beautifully understated way. Looking at this older version of her husband, she says, “Mere pati ke shakal se milti hai.” You could take this to mean that the man beside her merely looks like the man she once married (and that everything else about him is different), or you could interpret this as a simple affirmation that he’s still the same to her and that she’s simply referring to the lines on his face and the streaks of grey in his hair – but either way, you come away with a sense of her unflinching commitment to her husband. And that’s really why you watch Mani Ratnam’s movies. He may display an alarming naiveté in describing political or business scenarios, and his endings may seem disappointingly tame when compared to the truly wonderful beginnings and middles – but when it comes to relationships, he’s out there in a league all by himself. Even if the larger picture doesn’t grab you, you come away dazzled by the characters and their interpersonal dynamics – and that’s the stuff that makes each one of his films, well, a reliance product.
Copyright ©2007 The New Sunday Express
Abhinav
January 3, 2008
Dont the lead actors’ inconsistency with their gujarati accent come in the way of their performances?I for one thought Abhishek made the same mistakes he made in Yuva and Aishwarya made the same mistakes she made in Provoked as they conveniently slipped in and out of thier accent and that irritated me a lot.
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s
January 3, 2008
I love love love this review. All the points I want to remember and in your golden words…
TZP & guru had one similarity in that, they both were going in a well treaded path and suddenly detoured after the interval(guru for me was more obnoxious).
But the man himself catpured the intention behind the film well in his interview to shoba warrier, “It reflects the time period. India was different in its mindset soon after independence. We were little more socialist then, sacrifices were important and individual was not important. Today it is not like that, and youngsters are not ashamed of being ambitious. I think we can be ambitious. That is how we can beat the world. They call it the killer instinct. So, we have imperceptibly changed over the years, and this change is seen through one character. ”
I like the intent, he just fizzled out.
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G
January 3, 2008
Glad to see Guru was at the beginning of last year. I couldn’t believe it was in the same year as TZP. 🙂
but surely there’s a difference between someone becoming a gangster-boss to protect the underprivileged people around him and someone becoming a crooked businessmen to line his own pockets
Wow. That has to be one of the most fat-headed statements made by you. What are you, some kind of commie bastard? 🙂
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brangan
January 3, 2008
Abhinav: Actually, I’m no expert with the Gujarati accent (do you mean the use of certain colloquialims and such, or to the accent itself?), so it didn’t bother me all that much.
s: Do share what you thought of TZP… you too seem to have some post-interval issues, so just curious.
G: If you’re asking if I vote for the CPI and if my parents are unmarried, the answer is no.
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s
January 3, 2008
no, no, not the whole post-interval part of tzp(i think i read you way too much that sometimes your views get uploaded), but yes the pointing of fingers at the parents .. pretty much similar to what you had with the treatment of mom and dad, a real-life newspaper reading dad wouldn’t have walked away like that, a mom is more likely to find the patterns in writing than a teacher.
but i could personally link with “the Nikumbh – who becomes not just teacher, but also surrogate mother and father, and friend and philosopher and guide. ” Nikumbm’s past helped me.
I don;t if it is the euphoria that such a film was working with the audience I watched with or just plain me, it surely did not bother me as much as you had mentioned. I still felt elated overall when i walked out just miffed at those points. Guru was definitely lot more obnoxious.
But with guru you covered all the finer points so well & TZP had so many more of them..
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Abhinav
January 3, 2008
Its the way Business becomes bijness and then business again through the film.
But after watching “Guru”, I think Mani Ratnam is getting lazy. No where do you see the depth of research or the story taking you deep into the trenches like he’s done in many of his prior movies going way back to Nayakan, Roja and others. On the contrary the story just moves along the fluffy, duffy, rosy roads. It’s as if Ratnam or those who control him (impossible?) were to afraid to get to the dark side of Guru.Guru’s character does not even move an inch from the conveniently and comfortably wrapped fabric of pure whiteness around it.
Glad,that your review to a large extent brings it out.
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G
January 3, 2008
someone becoming a crooked businessmen to line his own pocket
Does Sachin play for us? Did Amitabh come down to Mumbai for us? Do YOU write for us?
The answer in all three cases is an emphatic NO
Everyone including you, do what they do because
a)it is what they want to do
and
b) it is in their self interest to do so.
Now does that make Sachin, Amitabh or Dirubhai any less a hero?
Frick no!
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G
January 3, 2008
And the always penetrating Orwell had this to say about why *he* wrote:
i) Sheer egoism. Desire to seem clever, to be talked about, to be remembered after death, to get your own back on the grown-ups who snubbed you in childhood, etc., etc. It is humbug to pretend this is not a motive, and a strong one. Writers share this characteristic with scientists, artists, politicians, lawyers, soldiers, successful businessmen — in short, with the whole top crust of humanity. The great mass of human beings are not acutely selfish. After the age of about thirty they almost abandon the sense of being individuals at all — and live chiefly for others, or are simply smothered under drudgery. But there is also the minority of gifted, willful people who are determined to live their own lives to the end, and writers belong in this class. Serious writers, I should say, are on the whole more vain and self-centered than journalists, though less interested in money.
(ii) Aesthetic enthusiasm. Perception of beauty in the external world, or, on the other hand, in words and their right arrangement. Pleasure in the impact of one sound on another, in the firmness of good prose or the rhythm of a good story. Desire to share an experience which one feels is valuable and ought not to be missed. The aesthetic motive is very feeble in a lot of writers, but even a pamphleteer or writer of textbooks will have pet words and phrases which appeal to him for non-utilitarian reasons; or he may feel strongly about typography, width of margins, etc. Above the level of a railway guide, no book is quite free from aesthetic considerations.
(iii) Historical impulse. Desire to see things as they are, to find out true facts and store them up for the use of posterity.
(iv) Political purpose. — Using the word ‘political’ in the widest possible sense. Desire to push the world in a certain direction, to alter other peoples’ idea of the kind of society that they should strive after. Once again, no book is genuinely free from political bias. The opinion that art should have nothing to do with politics is itself a political attitude
http://www.orwell.ru/library/essays/wiw/english/e_wiw
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brangan
January 3, 2008
G: Whoa dude, relax! I just tried to jest with the last part of your comment. STOP right now before you bust a blood vessel 🙂
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oops
January 4, 2008
I agree with your thoughts about the second part of the movie. Here, “in France”, Ratnam is well known for making movies about social and political issues. I saw Dil Se the first time on tv in hindi, and few month back i saw Bombay in tamil. That’s how he’s known overseas, for these kind of works. So i was pretty disappoint to see how he described Guru in that second half. The last speach during the trial was really ridiculous.
I liked the movie, but i ended up disappointed and i didn’t understand what Ratnam was trying to say.
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G
January 4, 2008
Hey! Somethings deserve to be taken seriously. I know you are going to claim only aesthetic enthusiasm as the reason for your writing(bafflingly for me, there certainly seems to be no Historical impulse for your writing) but you made a political(in the Orwellian sense) judgement and when someone writes as well as you do the only possible reaction for me to that is to lash out and say, “stop speaking such arrant nonesense directly inside my head”. 🙂
As the great Orwell said, “The opinion that art should have nothing to do with politics is itself a political attitude”.
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Zero
January 4, 2008
Baradwaj,
The very line that G quotes in one of the comments above, I remember, is where I clearly disagreed with your reading of the film and its ending. I think Mani very effectively debunks the notion of a contemporary Robin Hood-esque hero (a la Nayagan). The “aam aadmi” in one of the scenes in Guru comes and says he is with Gurubhai because he got his daughter married thanks to the shares he owns of the Shakti Corporation. This scene is done in a somewhat embarrassing manner, almost in a wink-wink manner actually (harking back to the Nayagan scene), but the point is made nevertheless. The “hero-ness” of Gurubhai is deconstructed completely because until then Mani very well establishes Gurubhai as a man unabashedly driven by self-interest. He’s a hero and he gets all the public support not because he did a lot of good to the underprivileged people, but supporting him did a lot of good to them.
And, yes, in this respect, I think Guru’s politics is significantly superior to Nayagan. (Of course, there’s no comparison between the two films on any other level; the latter is a much, much more powerful, visceral and also a landmark film in every sense.) Because, in Nayagan, Mani simply evades from examining the politics (this evasion is a political attitude in itself, as G quotes Orwell) and goes for a simplistic portrayal. But, in Guru, he doesn’t shy away from examining the political context of Guru, the man, his life and the times he lived in, he doesn’t shy away from showing any of his unlawful activities, and yet shows him for what he is — a national icon in the eyes of the nation as a whole, in a sheer populist sense.
At the end of the day, what matters is that all the relevant questions are raised and all the significant criticisms are made about Gurubhai in the film, and it’s never shown in the film that any of the accusations against Guru are false. Whereas in a Nayagan, he evades all the relevant questions. Why, consider the denouements of the two films. While the court scene in Guru is somewhat clumsily done (the strobe effect and all that), we don’t even get into the courtroom in Nayagan! One might argue that, that’s why Nayagan works better. But, that’s to abide with the director’s choice on what is to be included in the frame and what is not to be.
P.S. I don’t think Guru is a masterpiece or any such thing, but I do wonder how a film like Guru is criticised for its politics when a film like Yuva which is comparatively very weak in its depiction of politics and contemporary reality is lapped up with no reservations whatsoever.
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brangan
January 5, 2008
oops: But IMO Guru is still a far better film than Bombay. So there he’s known “for making movies about social and political issues,” eh?. I still think of him as a “people” filmmaker. What fascinates me endlessly in his films are the characters. Dil Se is a great film, though. I don’t recall seeing anything as abstract in mainstream cinema.
G: “aesthetic enthusiasm” yes – but also the desire to communicate a point of view. Don’t you think these reviews — for that matter, ANY writing — are records of my views that are stored for posterity?
Zero: I recall having a discussion about this before. It’s not that the protagonist is such a guy so much as the fact that his motivations and thought processes are soft-pedalled in the presentation. I’m not saying I want to see an EVIL Guru, but more shades of grey in the second half would have been in keeping with the anything-goes character of the first half. It’s almost like — as with TZP — the film becomes “cuddlier” and different in tone from the earlier portions. I understand the audience compulsions, but I guess while writing reviews (or critiques, as you call them), one tries to be idealistic and look at films from a “nettrikkann thirappinum” standpoint, instead of saying “sab chalta hai boss.” And I guess the stature of the people behind the camera also decides how greedy you get in expecting perfection. Damn, film-viewing is complicated. 🙂
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raj
May 27, 2008
Didnt Nayagan have one, nay, two item numbers? Mounaragam had one? I can even remember the horrific Nagendra Prasand-Sonali in Bombay? Anjali and Nishanti? Okay, the last one’s a stretch. But you get the point dont you? Yes, Mayya Mayya wasnt Mani’s first item song.
I’ll leave you to chew the fact that Mani had an item song as early as Pagal Nilavu.
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brangan
May 27, 2008
raj: Surely those aren’t “item” numbers like this one. You can make a case for – say – Pani vizhum nilavu as a sort of counterpoint to relationship crisis between Mohan and Revathy. Was it necessary to the film? No. But was there an attempt to at least give it some level of context? I think so, just as the Bombay song was played out against the “first night” scenario between Arvind-Manisha — and that’s not the case here at all. Hence the word “shoehorned.”
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raj
May 28, 2008
ok, i was just being pedantic anyway. Continuing to be pedantic, i can stretch anjali as a shoe-horn, cant I? Edhukku Happy new year song ange?
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asmozonic
June 30, 2014
This comment is 6 years too late but i Came across this review just today. “Disha n Drishti” also have a another reference, BR…they are the names of Amar Singh’s twins! I’m sure it is not a coincidence that AB’s kids were named thus in the movie :-p.
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