Despite all efforts for women’s emancipation and the increasing relevance of the conversation on feminism, India remains a deeply misogynistic and sexist society. While we strive for change, to usher in equality, the role of art gains immense significance as a tool capable of invoking powerful thought which has the potential to lead to action, and eventually, reform. The documentary Shut Up, Sona attempts to achieve the same, to question the status quo of inequality and sexism, and succeeds most brilliantly in making its point. The narrative follows the life of Indian singer and musician Sona Mohapatra and raises deeply disconcerting questions about the gendered nature of art in contemporary times. <br><br>  The scene is of Sona’s house where she discusses a legal notice with her husband Ram Sampath, also an accomplished music composer. As our protagonist introduces the viewer to all that she is being alleged of - singing a song as old as several centuries, and devotional in nature, in what society deems to be ‘inappropriate’ clothes and make-up, you are allowed to share her combined rage, disappointment and hurt. <h2>The story of an artist condemned for blasphemy over a piece of art that did not sit well with the times is not a new one. Yet, as Sona points out, in twenty-first century India, male artists are allowed to get away with much more than their female counterparts. It is not about religion or a religious figure, it is about being a woman, it is indeed about gender, as the documentary itself points out.</h2>  As the narrative progresses, it touches upon several aspects that a woman singer or, as a female voice (surprise, surprise!) is heard announcing while introducing Sona, “songstress”, has to deal with while trying to make herself heard in a predominantly male field as well as world. There is a sense of validation, emancipation and empowerment for women, in particular, and the marginalised in general, to be found in this deeply poignant narrative where Sona refuses to relent, to give up, to break, to “stay in her place” despite all odds. <h2>She may be questioning the <i>qawwals</i> in Delhi’s Nizamuddin Dargah where women are still not allowed inside the inner sanctum, but a calm smile will not leave her face. She may disagree with her husband’s approach to let the allegations and accusations blow over, to not say a word, but it will not alter the course of her fight. She may revisit the close confines of an old hostel room, find herself break down in it, yet find it in her to smile for the selfie-camera a young girl has directed towards her. </h2>  There is a sense of self-awareness in Sona that makes the narrative more meaningful than it already is, that protects the film from being threadbare, hackneyed and preachy. Instead, it is powerful, ensuring that the viewer finds themselves questioning why only a woman’s presence is not sufficient on stage, why she has to seek validation and acceptance, not through her art, hardwork and skill, but by using male presence as a crutch, why any attempt to break away from it would incur upon her the condemnation of her family, society and loved ones.<br><br>  Sona is fearless in calling out people who do not stand with her. Her anger is almost like a character in the film which supports the narrative most wonderfully. The film takes you into a tour of her disagreement with society, it leads you by the hand into an understanding of it, breaking it down for you bit by bit. This harsh truth that the viewer is forced to swallow like a bitter pill is juxtaposed against her melodious, soulful singing to the point that every time Sona opens her mouth to sing, the viewer is not far from goosebumps. Consequently, the documentary becomes a strong, pertinent comment on society and the manner in which it locates women across different fields, age groups and social positions. The protagonist, her talent and her rage all enhance it further making it a wholesome, relevant product.
<br/><br/>
<b><i>Written by <span class="text-gradient">Rosheena Zehra</span></i></b>  

Shut Up, Sona | Review | Sona Mohapatra

Some short films are so wonderfully made that you know they will stay with you for a long time. Chotti, with its beautiful exploration of a mother-daughter relationship, is a perfect example of that. <br><br> Written and directed by Akansha Seda, this Culture Machine production stars Lillete Dubey, Ira Dubey and Sarah Hashmi. Strong performances, skilled cinematography, soulful storytelling and brilliant writing of the narrative come together to portray how dynamic, fiery and endearing a mother-daughter equation can be. Watch very closely because you don't want to miss any part of this lovely story and the sophisticated manner in which all of it ties up very neatly at the end.

Chotti | Short Film of the Day

There has been a recent surge in mainstream films set in small cities of Northern India.
However, in ‘Bareilly ki Barfi’ (an otherwise good film), when Kriti Sanon smokes a cigarette
sitting on her rooftop with her father, she does not have to think <i>log kya kahenge?</i>. Most of
these films do not tackle the actual hardships of living in these cities. The burden of living in a
society where it dictates your personal life to the point of absurdity is perhaps not a suitable
topic for entertaining cinema. <br><br>

Kislay’s ‘Aise Hee’ has proven it can be done. It is a film about an elderly woman in Allahabad
(later Prayagraj) who, after the death of her husband, begins to live her life on her own terms.
The husband, however, is a looming shadow in the film, his absence the driving force.

<h2>Little scenes in the first act brilliantly build this up. Earlier on, we see her younger family
members scrounging for colourful sarees in her wardrobe that she would no longer need. Her
son and daughter-in-law diligently plan to give her room on rent for extra money. The locals
respect her for being a lawful wife, and by extension, expect her to be the perfect widow. </h2>

When she breaks away from the norm, society is not ready to handle it. Until then, perhaps
her presence was little more than a venerated idol in the house. Stones don’t require people to
change their lives for them. Kislay’s brilliant screenplay follows her journey in every aspect - in its
pacing, its momentum and its interaction with side plots.

<h2>The film is more than her story. It slowly, but surely develops into a competent social and
political commentary, and a story of a middle class family struggling to keep their lives
functional. Her son, brilliantly portrayed by Harish Khanna, struggles with the uncertainty of
contractual government jobs. When we see him burst out in anger at his family, we see his
frustrations. It is apparent that his professional life is confined to being a  yes man to a boss who
couldn’t care less, trying to find work in an industry he clearly cannot understand.</h2>

Another brilliant moment comes in the character sketch of his wife, she finds her kitchen in
disarray, only to see her apathetic daughter coming in and nonchalantly contributing to the
mess. She bursts out in tears as she cleans it. <br><br>

A strong subsidiary plot is set in the backdrop of radicalisation of youth as Allahabad becomes
Prayagraj. ‘Aise Hee’ is able to comment on class relations, religious tension and misogyny in a
multi-layered narrative that is ultimately the struggle of a family to keep itself together in a
disintegrating society. <br><br>

All characters fall victim to their circumstances in their own way. Kislay compounds it with collages of their real
pictures from a life of ‘innocence’ as he completes their character sketches while Schubert’s C
minor symphony plays in the background. <br><br>

The filmmaking is relentless, unnerving, yet intimate. The camera understands its characters,
and never judges. There are no clear blacks and whites in their bleak world. In a sense what we
do not see in the film is worse. Kislay has presented a world at the brink of a fallout, desperately
clutching to itself. When we look back, the comedy of errors seems less comic and more ominous with regards to what is to come. It is the story of a degenerating society that might just
crumble, where nothing can be done ‘aise hi’. Well-meaning things have dark repercussions,
and the individual is never free from the dehumanizing grasp of society.

<br/><br/>
<b><i>Written by <span class="text-gradient">Nimish K Sharma</span></i></b>

Aise Hee | Review

The film begins with a black screen and the sound of a bicycle bell and a man
catcalling are heard in the background. It is the sound of every terrified memory of making
one’s way through the dark of the night for most girls in India. Even before the visual of the
man stalking the woman on his bicycle is shown, the viewers are immersed in the tension of
the moment. <h2>The film refuses to force its messages down its audiences’ throat, relying instead
on the truth of the reality it depicts to resonate and shine through despite, or perhaps because,
of the subtle manner in which it is depicted. </h2>

Soni follows the lives of two police officers – the titular Soni (Geetika Vidya Ohlyan), and
senior superintendent Kalpana (Saloni Batra), as they struggle with hardships, dirty politics,
sexism and blatant discrimination in their personal and professional lives. They work
tirelessly to make the streets safer for women, but emerging victorious in the battles of their
own lives seems impossible. <br><br>

It doesn’t matter that Kalpana is a smart, successful superintendent – at home she is still
constantly reprimanded by her mother-in-law for not having a child, accused by her husband
of being too “weak” to be a good police officer, and her strong-willed, independent nature
blamed by family members on her being “a Capricorn”. It doesn’t matter that Soni is a
moralistic vigilante who is good at her job – her aggression and violent tendencies don’t fit
the image of a policewoman, and her strong morals don’t fit in a field simmering in
corruption. She is eventually confined by her male superiors to the control room.

<h2>It’s interesting to watch Kalpana’s juniors address her as “Sir ji” – a term commonly used to
address male superiors. The term being gender-neutral is a positive concept, but one cannot still overlook
the inherent sexism in a woman’s superiority being acknowledged through male terminology. </h2>

However, there is no attempt in Soni to grab its
audience’s attention through a crime or mystery to be solved as the central thread running
through the film, with the women’s lives playing out merely in the background. This is precisely why it does not fit neatly into the genre of a “crime drama”. The
operations their force is working on and the crimes they deal with are never explored in great
detail. Instead, the narrative, through its unhurried pace, long single-take scenes, and empathetic
lens, closely follows the two women – their daily routines, every angered expression, every
defeated sigh, every defiant turn of the head - both in and out of their uniforms. 

<h2>The film
refuses to indulge in a flashy story to convey its intent, reasserting that its
messages are honest and important enough for the film to lean solely on them. </h2>

The film then, is not one for a society trained to crave instant gratification,
quantity over quality, and mindless entertainment. It does not entertain the “art of
tension” as Hannah Gadsby calls the process of building tension and providing the audience
with a release. It constantly builds tension, with
every violent outburst Soni has or every tense conversation between Kalpana and her
husband, but provides no release. There is no moment of catharsis for the audience, because
there is no such moment for either the two women on screen, or the ones that they come to represent in the narrative.

<br/><br/>
<b><i>Written by <span class="text-gradient">Sanjana Bhagwat</span></i></b>

Soni|Netflix|Review

Dealing with a topic as sensitive as child sexual abuse runs the danger of easily falling into a space of sensationalism, voyeurism or simple unpalatability. It requires a meticulous and delicate treatment in order to drive its point home, to introduce a possibly unsuspecting or unwilling audience to it, to hone their sensibilities and awareness in the most constructive way possible. If a film makes you sit up and pay attention to your actions and of those around you, to perhaps strive for reform, then a product of art can be considered successful in a significant way. That is exactly what Maunn manages to achieve. <br><br> 

The film opens with a shot in the dimming light of twilight on a terrace, clearly suggesting the passage of imminent darkness. The plot unfolds to reveal that the couple is quarrelling about sexual abuse of their ten-year-old daughter, Shreya at the hands of their neighbour's son, Dev. We make our way into the house, currently under a power-cut, while the couple continues to argue about their course of action regarding Dev. The muted colour palette and the dimly lit frames remain until the absolute moment of clarity is achieved by the viewer as well as Shreya's father when he finds Dev uncomfortably close to his daughter. The moment is further foregrounded by the end of the power-cut. Light floods back into the room, along with the father's undeniable realisation of his daughter's abuse. <br><br> 

The crux is reached in the narrative in a forceful manner leaving the viewer unsure of what truly hit them. As they reel with the aftermath, the film succeeds in reiterating the message it had set out to convey at the start. However, how will it influence Shreya's parents?

Maunn (Silence) | Eros Now | Anurag Arora

With disturbing data that suggests one in every three women in the world has been sexually or physically abused at some point, this short film by UN Women makes a strong case for women's rights. <br><br> The simple weaving of visuals of different situations are sufficient to convey how unsafe women are at work, in public spaces and at home. Lakeer raises a very important question - where do we draw the line when it comes to violence against women? With a coherent and sophisticated narrative, further coupled with good acting and visuals which are disturbing without even bordering on voyeurism, the short film becomes the kind of content the world needs.

Lakeer | Short Film of the Day

'Roam Rome Mei', a strong and much needed commentary on gender, misogyny and sexism, turns out to be a  powerful directorial debut by Tannishtha Chatterjee. The film is further supported by the most convincing portrayal of an elder brother by Nawazuddin Siddiqui who goes to Rome looking for his missing sister. What the narrative does most wonderfully is offer a sharp critique of gender dynamics in contemporary India which still refuses to allow its women to have a mind of their own. It opens with a shot of Siddiqui’s character, Raj, on a video call with a woman who the viewer soon finds out to be his sister.

<h2>As the story progresses, the viewer is further made to realise that this Raj is different from all the other Rajs we are used to seeing in the Indian cinema space. Unlike all his namesakes before him, he will make you sit up and pay attention to all your internalised sexism. </h2>Needless to say, the strength of the film lies in the way it establishes a strong feminist premise and follows it through right till the end, using the point of view of a male character, as if, almost urging the tools of patriarchy to introspect and change. <br><br>

Unlike films which often fall in the trap of romanticising the foreign land, the film offers a balanced and adequately de-glamourised version of Rome to the viewer. Further, as Raj finds himself unable to differentiate between dream and reality, the narrative acquires a life of its own. The mystery builds up to involve and frustrate the viewer, already struggling to make sense of what is truly going on. Where did Reena go? Why is no one - past lovers, police, her brother - able to track her? But most importantly, who is Reena truly? Is she the girl who wears <i>kurtas</i> and returns home to follow her seven-thirty-curfew or is she the curly-haired woman in summery dresses who aspires to be an architect, constantly struggling to step out of the shadow of discrimination and lack of education by a family which prioritised her brother over her?

<h2>The film hits home too close for comfort, and might even be triggering for several women. The beauty of the narrative lies in the fact that 'Roam Rome Mei' is the story of everywoman. </h2>This is precisely what makes it an intimate and moving experience for those who have felt discriminated against and dreamed of a reality where they could truly be themselves. On his wild-goose-chase to bring his sister back, a la true patriarch and son who has to ‘uphold the honour’ of his family, Raj finds himself unlearning all that he had established about gender identities, location of women in society, sexuality, and most importantly, Reena. Once again, Siddiqui does not disappoint in the delineation of a repentant brother desperate to find his sister.<br><br>

Another strength of the film lies in the manner in which it borrows from the genre of dramedy. This borrowing, which Chatterjee accepted in response to a question by the author, organic in nature, enriches the narrative manifold. The most intensely moving scenes are allowed to be diffused by an unexpected quip or witticism, making them wholesome and balanced. Towards the second half, the film runs the danger of sagging and becoming slightly threadbare. However, Chatterjee’s direction soon pulls it together making it a well-rounded product highly recommended for Indian viewers. <br/><br/>
<b><i>Written by <span class="text-gradient">Rosheena Zehra</span></i></b>  


Roam Rome Mei | Review | Nawazuddin Siddiqui, Tannishtha Chatterjee

First person documentaries are usually a reflection of the director's idiosyncrasies. They blur the lens
between the observer and the creator. While a third-person documentary would document and let the
camera tell a story, a first person narrative reminds you that you are seeing the film from the
director's perspective. 
<h2>About Love, the latter of the two, is a sincerely heartwarming film that flows like a breeze from start to finish. There is
never a dull moment in a narrative that captures a regular Marathi Brahmin family in their
daily lives. Director Archana Phadke has documented her family in the lead up to her
brother's wedding, trying to explore love in its mundane, overlooked, day-to-day form. </h2>

Love in a family is often never expressed through words, but conveyed through actions.
The mother takes care of the father's eccentricities. The grandmother, who has been married to
her husband for decades, quips that she follows him around all day for the 'sake of humanity'.
The grandchildren irritate the grandfather for fun, but also take care of his medicines. <br><br>
The film documents a family which is dysfunctional, but bound together in a sort of permanence
that only a family allows. Couples firmly believe in "until death do us part". While siblings
banter, the grandparents hurl abuses at each other constantly. <h2>Through all the
nagging, bickering and dad-jokes that land extremely well, a story about love is
documented through the eyes of the director.</h2>
Phadke has a background in filmmaking which is probably why she chose the medium for its intimate nature. Her
filmmaking abilities keep this film smooth, with well-framed shots and the house taking
up a life of itself.The residence has been around since 1901, we are told. A shot composed
of the grandmother, mother and the director herself with the camera standing on three different floors, one
above the other, conveys that the story is not simply confined to a single generation. <br><br>
The film is at its most subtle and mesmerising when it draws the character portraits of
the mother and the grandmother. The mother wears a smile on her face and lifts the house on
her shoulders. She yearns for two things - peace of mind and to be able to write, both of which
continue to evade her. She longs for comfort and recognition as she reads excerpts from her stories, always willing to explain her motifs and themes. She plans to write about love, about 'two
women separated by time' and comments on the nature of the relationship of Radha and
Krishna.<br><br>
The grandmother is from a different time. As she grows old, she becomes one with the house,
alone in a structure too big for her. She clings to memories from her past as her children and
grandchildren grow up and move on. <br><br>
There is a discussion on misogyny to be had, and the nature of love that women learn to give in to
marriage. Both the women form a real life tragedy that everyone is familiar with, all the while
maintaining the beauty of everyday relatability and light-heartedness. With its jovial quips as
well as deep conversations, About Love becomes a film that stays and deeply affects the viewer.<br/><br/>
<b><i>Written by <span class="text-gradient">Nimish K Sharma</span></i></b>  

About Love | Review | Archana Atul Phadke

Women's accessibility to public spaces is fraught with threats of molestation, street sexual harassment and sometimes even far worse. The film attempts to draw attention to this limited space that is allowed to women, and how the entire society, from family and friends, to colleagues and complete strangers, are implicit in reducing it further. <br><br> The narrative makes the most skilled use of hand-held shots, tight frames and dim lighting to drive this message home. It's written in a manner that makes the viewer deeply invested in the fear and the anger of the three main characters. As their families tell them to avoid stepping out and confronting their harassers, the women find their strength in each other. However, more than trusting each other, they have to find that strength and trust in themselves. Once they manage to conquer the enemy within, there is little they cannot defeat without, emphasises the film. 



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