Disclaimer: This review does not intend to glorify the practice of movie reviews.
Disclaimer: No sentiments were hurt while writing this, however, some may be hurt on reading this review.
Disclaimer (Rant Disguised as a Disclaimer): All those decrying Feminists view on this movie, please pause to think. Whose view would you rather take? Steve Bannon's?
When Malik Muhammed Jayasi wrote “Padmavat” in 1540, almost 200 years had elapsed since its central characters Allaudin Khilji and Ratnasimha (the character after which Rana Rawal Ratan Singh so stoically portrayed by Shahid Kapoor is based) lived and fought.
Padmaavat directed by Sanjay Leela Bhansali is based on the poem Padmavat written by Jayasi. Historians remain divided about the historical accuracy of this work, with mostly Rajasthani historians claiming that Rani Padmavati indeed existed, whereas many others argued that she was actually a work of fiction. However, the non-fictional or fictional nature of the characters is the topic of discussion for another day.
Sanjay Leela Bhansali's vision is larger than life indeed, and this is evident in the very first frame of the movie itself. The rich blue hues of the Singhal Kingdom where Padmavati played by Deepika Padukone hunts with such dexterity and grace and accidentally hurts Rawal Singh with her arrow (literally, and perhaps figuratively as well), sets the scene for the introduction of the characters. That this very brave, independent soul, will be on the path of self-immolation only three hours from now, is something, one can’t fathom.
As the pair falls in love, and Rana Rawal Ratan Singh manages to propose to our protagonist – and bring her to Chittor where she promptly transforms into a ghoonghat clad bride from a warrior princess.
Not to mention the little detail that our Rana is already married. But Rana Rawal Singh is God personified who can do no wrong – from the beatific smile on his face, to his Rajputana code of honour, to his luscious locks and the moustache on point.
His first wife, Rani Nagmati portrayed by Anupriya Goenka looks on with subdued anger as the procession makes its way into the fort. Of course, I would be pissed too, but that character arc is left essentially unexplored, apart from a few scenes where we see smidgens of anger and jealousy. I wish these strains had been explored a bit more, but then again that would detract from the main narrative.
The voyeuristic Raghav Chetan (the priest) played by Aayam Mehta, is the devil incarnate who when banished from Chittor, manages to ensnare our Khilji played devilishly by Ranveer Singh, with his poetic description of Rani Padmavati.
The rich tapestry of the cinematographer's vision – the rich red of the Ghoomar song or the sunburnt orange of the Rajasthani landscape, soon give away to the depiction of barbarism and debauchery in Khiljis Delhi – where he rapes his wife, kills his father-in-law and laughs maniacally, in no particular order.
Khilji soon attacks Chittor to catch a glimpse of this fabled Rani Padmavati, and what follows is a back and forth which seemed as pointless as the scene where Khilji douses a slave in itar and then rubs the slave all over him. We get it, Khilji = evil, and Rana Rawal Singh = God. Now, every movie needs a villain, and in this narrative that villain is Khilji, so everything is done to vilify him. With scenes alluding to his bisexuality – the slave Malik Kafur (delectably played by Jim Sarbh) singing a paean while Khilji cosies up to a lady in a camp outside Chittor to the large chunks of meat he devours with much anger, no doubt remains in the mind of the viewer as to the integrity of this character. To tell the truth, Ranveer Singh has managed to embody the director's vision for Khilji in a way only Ranveer can. He is believable, so believable, that you love his barbarism, his reality, and his madness. His presence engulfs the screen, amidst characters that seem lacklustre and unidimensional.
The movie trudges on in the second half, where one starts to wonder if Rana Rawal Singhs code of honour is possibly getting in the way of his intelligence. As Rana goes for the final battle, our Rani Padmavati seeks permission to perform Jauhar (self-immolation) in the event he does not make it back. As I said earlier, the transformation of this warrior princess to this subservient patriarchal minion seems incomplete and contrived.
The battle scene between Khilji and Rana is unimpressive, where Rana Rawal Ratan Singh is impaled by multiple arrows in his back. One would expect to feel sadness at the death of the main character such as his, but by this point, all one feels is relief, as the impending doom and the subsequent closure is around the corner. Finally, the end is nigh.
True to her promise, our Rani on learning of her beloveds death, goes on to give an impassioned speech to hundreds of women, that how even in victory Khilji will stand defeated since he will not be able to capture them and the sequitur that they will go to their deaths with honour.
Ceremonies are performed, a pyre is lit, and then in what entails a sordid scene that should not have lasted more than 1 minute, we are shown in slow motion the determination on Rani Padmavati's face as she inches towards the fire, her tresses billowing in the dry breeze. No anger, no conflict, but a peaceful determination. Some may choose to call it brave, but really it is a glorification of an act that should remain relegated to the history books as a cautionary tale. Instead, we have Jauhar being depicted as a symbol of bravery, as we see Rani Padmavati and hundreds of women self-immolate themselves. And just before we see any flesh being burnt or witness the horror of humans burning alive, the screen goes dark, with an endnote and a voiceover that reminds us how women are revered for their bravery in committing Jauhar, to this day.
I’m not suggesting this be erased from our collective conscience, but rather that artists use platforms to tell better stories, and set better narratives. In a country like India, movies impact the masses and impact the social milieu. Projecting something grotesque as valour, when it stands for regressiveness in its purest form is not a creative expression that our society needs to extol. All art is political, so let us remember to make better art.
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