O!

Vishal Bharadwaj’s Omkara

In Omkara, The Vishal Bharadwaj Adaptation of Othello, the curtain opens in a parting of the bridegroom-manque Roderigo’s (Rajju) ’sehra’, on Iago’s (Langda Tyagi) villainous face. Before that, we had heard Saif declare in the darkness that a thread’s breadth separates the ‘bewkoof’ from the ‘chootiya’ (‘fool’ and, probably, ‘ass’.) And we had just seen vaguely a painting depicting an ancient time obscured by clouds and a shimmering composition, The Tragedie of Omkara.

Omkara’s opening sequence, like Maqbool’s, is clad in director Vishal Bharadwaj’s ambition and his joi-de-vivre at having discovered Shakespeare. The film opens the way the play does, Iago playing his tricks on Roderigo. Soon, however, we see Saif dragging himself with a crooked leg to a cliff-edge overlooking a landscape that Hindi cinema no longer traverses. Young cameraman Tassaduq Hussain goes on to celebrate the quintessential Indian rivers, hills and homes as Ashok Mehta did in Bandit Queen. And so, instead of This Heavy Act With A Heavy Heart Relate, Vishal Bharadwaj brings us cinefans much cheer and hope.

[

Smoke without Fire

A lot of gas
 
There has been some appreciation for No Smoking, which is as ludicrous as the film. One reviewer found it “subversive, arthouse cinema”, another saw it as “daring, imaginative, often brilliant”. The critics can be forgiven their inanity, but surely one expected better from such an intelligent cinema buff as Anurag Kashyap, and even more so from the peerless Vishal Bharadwaj, who has led us astray by unfurling his banner over the film.
 
The German-speaking K (John Abraham) is supposed to be Anurag Kashyap’s alter ego (“it is my most personal movie.. I am K”, says Kashyap on his blog), so it seems Kashyap has imagined himself as a Kafkaesque figure. K wakes up from nightmares, gets sucked into a hopeless situation (echoes of Faust, it is said), and finally ends up in a limbo. All for what? For his arrogant, rebellious, subversive urge to smoke, all the time, everywhere. His motivation? Standing in front of the mirror with his chiselled chest bare and his vacant eyes hidden under dark glasses, he looks the epitome of cool with the smoke curling up his lips. “Nobody tells me what to do. Nobody,” he tells his reflection. Is the suggestion here more of Oscar Wilde than of Kafka? K’s narcissism has everyone attracted, and confused.
 
But there’s no peace for the narcissist. [