The expectations were sky high. Imtiaz Ali, Wife's favorite. Randeep Hooda, my favorite. Alia Bhatt's surprisingly perceptive acting skills and AR Rahman. Add to these, a glimpse of the storyline from the advert on TV and we were raring to watch this flick after epic disasters of volcanic proportions like Dhoom X, Krishh X, Yaariyan and other diabetic, discordant and destructive bolly products.
I only read reviews, I never write them. This being my first, I'll excuse myself for any theoretical blunders in the science and art of review-writing, 'coz I know none. Bollywood, along with my wife, has been a recent entrant into my life. So, I'll also excuse myself from the lack of historical perspective in what I write 'coz, I have none.
First, the story in a few lines. Alia is a rich man's daughter kidnapped by the opulence of fate by a seasoned thug, Hooda. Both, representing the mordant incongruities of modern day India, find their foils in each other and come to accept the highway as their new home. Thanks to India's bewildering network of roads which remain perpetually unenforced, we get a 140 min spectacle to watch.
The presence of two independent forces bound by two opposed philosophies (hero and villain) has always defined mainstream Indian Cinema. The character, color and the cast of the fight between these forces made the lifeblood of the movie. Romance, Dance and Songs were meant only to pander to the "other" carnal instincts. The Hero and Villain theme was inconspicuously based on one primitive, indispensable formula. There should be an undisguised and barefaced distinction between the hero and the villain. Fair, tall, nice-smelling, woman, infant and child protecting, philanthropist, society before thyself, no-lust-only-love, mostly communist on the one hand and a dark, bearded, meat-eating, booze-guzzling, libido-pumped and mostly capitalist on the other hand. When this cement-mortar wall sometimes gave in to create variety, the film was punched in the groin, smacked on the face, spanked on the butt and consigned to the "Art" almirahs of government media libraries to wither and perish under the weight of exile.
Highway, quite aptly, doesn't just create holes in this cement-mortar wall, it removes it completely. As a natural consequence, the "flock" pronounced the film dead at birth. Not many liked it. When I watched it in its release week in a city where despite its geographical disconnect from the Hindi heartland, there is a substantial Hindi speaking populace, the hall was mostly empty.
Where did Imtiaz Ali fail? The waxed chest of Randeep Hooda, the 2 feet bright red party frock of Alia Bhatt (From Student of the Year), Priyanka Chopra's lascivious buttoning/unbuttoning of her choli, Prabhu Deva's hip thrusts and YoYo Honey's Punj-hin-glish rap. All these were missing in the movie to draw in the crowds. The average Indian male/female wanted all this and his share of nachos and popcorn to call the film a Blockbuster. So clearly, Highway isn't one. But there were tiny little things that the movie did seem to get right.
When it showed how Alia and Randeep breakdown in the course of their journey, it also showed how ridiculously hypocritical a society can become when its collective beliefs and dormant traditions are asked to face simple truths. It showed that when a traditional, theoretically spiritual and often emotional and hierarchical system is effortlessly invaded by the spirit and the beliefs of the new world, chaos makes presence. It also showed that what appears to be free in a modern, spirited and vocal democracy may not actually be free. Fraught in the timeless burden of virtue, family and tradition, it showed that a touch of freedom can unravel the duplicity and the deception of the morbid faiths that are often hailed as holy grails.
The movie showed, quite necessarily, to the new uber - cool of Urban India that more money doesn't always make a person more human. So, to judge a civilization on the basis of the gadgets it uses, the accent it wears or the power it wields is to judge a person's nature by virtue of his religion. As Hooda cracks his palm against the lurid moves of his crony, the movie showed that faith and rectitude are not Siamese Twins of growth and development. When Alia divulges the secret of pedophilia, the movie showed that debauchery and depravity are not the privileged dominions of penury and destitution. More often it is the other way round. So the movie questions, where, as a country and a society, are we moving?
The movie also showed that an Alia exists in each one of us. To love the journey as it unfolds and to forget the consequences of the destination.When you are in transit, you are in a state of suspended animation. A state of peaceful recess where you are bound just by the rules of the road. Your identity is swamped by the strident noises of the road. You are a nobody in the traffic of metal. You are on your own. Left to your own, to think of your own. The deafening intensity pushes you into an urgent anonymity and you then begin to regain a part of your self that you had lost under the constant surveillance of your earlier ambiance. You question your position and re calibrate your situation. Miracles might happen and this movie is about one such miracle.
The movie showed the inevitable exigence for women in society. As they are raped, brutalized, buried and snuffed out in this corrupt and venal world of ours, they play an imperceptible role in circumscribing the limits of misdemeanor, criminality and immorality in society. A goon with a scathing tongue, a contempt for decency and a history of violence, it is out of his love for his mother that Hooda remains sane in his vitals. He retains an iota of civility, fallibility and emotion purely out of his memories of maternal love. Whereas Alia, ravaged as a child, earns disbelief and incredulity from her mother who warns Alia to stay hush about her cannibal uncle. Women, as mothers, are the conscience keepers of society. As we kill and decapitate more of them with impunity, we are only making the country a more decrepit place to live in. The movie, as it is apt, tells us a thing or two about how important it is today to protect our women, our future mothers.
In the end, yes Imtiaz captures in vivid images and great detail, the fight between the good and the bad that forms "The" element of Indian Cinema. But I'm sorry Imtiaz, you failed to create the inconspicuous wall. Well you couldn't anyways. The evil, the monster this time was in each one of us, the silent nacho-munching, soda-flushing urban multiplex fan. We gaze at women as if they could be gleefully fondled with. We, on the other hand worship Goddess Durga. We treat women at work like they are wartime spoils while we protect our wives and sisters at home. We stage dharnas for laws to protect women but also are loathe to the fact that a women wishes to work after marriage.
In this hypocritical society, Imtiaz, your film had to fail.
I only read reviews, I never write them. This being my first, I'll excuse myself for any theoretical blunders in the science and art of review-writing, 'coz I know none. Bollywood, along with my wife, has been a recent entrant into my life. So, I'll also excuse myself from the lack of historical perspective in what I write 'coz, I have none.
First, the story in a few lines. Alia is a rich man's daughter kidnapped by the opulence of fate by a seasoned thug, Hooda. Both, representing the mordant incongruities of modern day India, find their foils in each other and come to accept the highway as their new home. Thanks to India's bewildering network of roads which remain perpetually unenforced, we get a 140 min spectacle to watch.
The presence of two independent forces bound by two opposed philosophies (hero and villain) has always defined mainstream Indian Cinema. The character, color and the cast of the fight between these forces made the lifeblood of the movie. Romance, Dance and Songs were meant only to pander to the "other" carnal instincts. The Hero and Villain theme was inconspicuously based on one primitive, indispensable formula. There should be an undisguised and barefaced distinction between the hero and the villain. Fair, tall, nice-smelling, woman, infant and child protecting, philanthropist, society before thyself, no-lust-only-love, mostly communist on the one hand and a dark, bearded, meat-eating, booze-guzzling, libido-pumped and mostly capitalist on the other hand. When this cement-mortar wall sometimes gave in to create variety, the film was punched in the groin, smacked on the face, spanked on the butt and consigned to the "Art" almirahs of government media libraries to wither and perish under the weight of exile.
Highway, quite aptly, doesn't just create holes in this cement-mortar wall, it removes it completely. As a natural consequence, the "flock" pronounced the film dead at birth. Not many liked it. When I watched it in its release week in a city where despite its geographical disconnect from the Hindi heartland, there is a substantial Hindi speaking populace, the hall was mostly empty.
Where did Imtiaz Ali fail? The waxed chest of Randeep Hooda, the 2 feet bright red party frock of Alia Bhatt (From Student of the Year), Priyanka Chopra's lascivious buttoning/unbuttoning of her choli, Prabhu Deva's hip thrusts and YoYo Honey's Punj-hin-glish rap. All these were missing in the movie to draw in the crowds. The average Indian male/female wanted all this and his share of nachos and popcorn to call the film a Blockbuster. So clearly, Highway isn't one. But there were tiny little things that the movie did seem to get right.
When it showed how Alia and Randeep breakdown in the course of their journey, it also showed how ridiculously hypocritical a society can become when its collective beliefs and dormant traditions are asked to face simple truths. It showed that when a traditional, theoretically spiritual and often emotional and hierarchical system is effortlessly invaded by the spirit and the beliefs of the new world, chaos makes presence. It also showed that what appears to be free in a modern, spirited and vocal democracy may not actually be free. Fraught in the timeless burden of virtue, family and tradition, it showed that a touch of freedom can unravel the duplicity and the deception of the morbid faiths that are often hailed as holy grails.
The movie showed, quite necessarily, to the new uber - cool of Urban India that more money doesn't always make a person more human. So, to judge a civilization on the basis of the gadgets it uses, the accent it wears or the power it wields is to judge a person's nature by virtue of his religion. As Hooda cracks his palm against the lurid moves of his crony, the movie showed that faith and rectitude are not Siamese Twins of growth and development. When Alia divulges the secret of pedophilia, the movie showed that debauchery and depravity are not the privileged dominions of penury and destitution. More often it is the other way round. So the movie questions, where, as a country and a society, are we moving?
The movie also showed that an Alia exists in each one of us. To love the journey as it unfolds and to forget the consequences of the destination.When you are in transit, you are in a state of suspended animation. A state of peaceful recess where you are bound just by the rules of the road. Your identity is swamped by the strident noises of the road. You are a nobody in the traffic of metal. You are on your own. Left to your own, to think of your own. The deafening intensity pushes you into an urgent anonymity and you then begin to regain a part of your self that you had lost under the constant surveillance of your earlier ambiance. You question your position and re calibrate your situation. Miracles might happen and this movie is about one such miracle.
The movie showed the inevitable exigence for women in society. As they are raped, brutalized, buried and snuffed out in this corrupt and venal world of ours, they play an imperceptible role in circumscribing the limits of misdemeanor, criminality and immorality in society. A goon with a scathing tongue, a contempt for decency and a history of violence, it is out of his love for his mother that Hooda remains sane in his vitals. He retains an iota of civility, fallibility and emotion purely out of his memories of maternal love. Whereas Alia, ravaged as a child, earns disbelief and incredulity from her mother who warns Alia to stay hush about her cannibal uncle. Women, as mothers, are the conscience keepers of society. As we kill and decapitate more of them with impunity, we are only making the country a more decrepit place to live in. The movie, as it is apt, tells us a thing or two about how important it is today to protect our women, our future mothers.
In the end, yes Imtiaz captures in vivid images and great detail, the fight between the good and the bad that forms "The" element of Indian Cinema. But I'm sorry Imtiaz, you failed to create the inconspicuous wall. Well you couldn't anyways. The evil, the monster this time was in each one of us, the silent nacho-munching, soda-flushing urban multiplex fan. We gaze at women as if they could be gleefully fondled with. We, on the other hand worship Goddess Durga. We treat women at work like they are wartime spoils while we protect our wives and sisters at home. We stage dharnas for laws to protect women but also are loathe to the fact that a women wishes to work after marriage.
In this hypocritical society, Imtiaz, your film had to fail.
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