Maximum

First let’s just get Maximum’s main, mean seduction out of the way. Sonu Sood has taken a long time since we met him last as Dabangg’s Chedi Singh, but he has finally arrived. Sood (Sonu just doesn’t do him justice) here is not the dumb muscle man you may recall. He is lean, long and limber, with soulful eyes and a sensuous smile. Though Sood has a nice body and is insanely dishy in some scenes, it’s the whole package that works wonders. He inhabits his cop character beautifully, complete with typic mannerisms, an innate craving for a certain kind of power and a quiet pig-headedness. And he conveys most of this not through dialogue, but with his eyes and a slight smile over jaws that suddenly go taut.

I don't know about adolescent girls, but Mr Sood sure is a man for ladies of my vintage.

Now for the rest. Maximum has a prologue: Shimit Amin’s Ab Tak Chappan (whose lead, Sadhu Agashe, played by Nana Patekar, was based on Mumbai’s encounter specialist Pradeep Sawant). Maximum is the next crucial chapter in the history of Mumbai police. It begins in 2003, a time when encounter cops were the heroes of a city under siege from the underworld because it was convenient for all — senior cops, politicians, builders, even the dons.
The film’s story plays out at three levels. At the top is the gentle tug of war between Mrityunjay Tiwari (played nicely by Vinay Pathak) and his senior party leader and state home minister Sathe (Mohan Agashe). Tiwari talks about his party’s national ambitions, the need to establish a secular image and “uttar bharatiya votebank”. Tiwari, who calls himself an "outsider" in Mumbai, also establishes the film’s politics when he says, “Yeh sheher jagah toh deta hai, lekin apnata nahin hai.” Few films in the past have had the courage to say this.
Lots of films have and will be made about Mumbai’s cop-neta-underworld-Bollywood-builder nexus, but Maximum is different because it gives us not just the usual power games interrupted with sudden thain-thain, but adds realpolitik to it, of caste and regional preferences.
Tiwari articulates Maharashtra’s parochialism and we begin to take note of surnames, of the Punjabi camp, the Marathi camp and the UP-Bihar camp in the police department, in political parties, and how “outsiders” gravitate towards each other, to form a sort of support group in the city of dreams.
On the next rung are two quibbling IPS officers, Subodh, joint commissioner of police crime, and Khanna, who is in charge of counterterrorism. Their beats overlap, but this inconvenience is convenient for Sathe.
At the bottom is Pratap Pandit (Sonu Sood), an inspector in Mumbai’s crime branch who has to his credit 44 encounter killings, over 150 medals and a departmental inquiry, just like Pradeep Sharma, Mumbai’s now infamous encounter cop. Pandit is an important ground-level player for Subodh. He has a strong network of informers and operates with a cosy gang of hanger-ons — a mix of cops and small-time goondas.
The son of an English professor from Lucknow , Pandit is married to Supriya (Neha Dhupia), and they have a daughter.
His family life is normal and his wife is supportive. But, as Pandit tells Ashwin (Amit Sadh), the young TV reporter who has recently moved to Mumbai from Lucknow, “Ghar pe toh non-veg chalta nahin hai, par bahar sab chalta hai.” Pandit partakes of more than just non-veg in the world outside his house. His pistol is always tucked in the front of his jeans, happily conjoined with a body part that often requires gratification. Pandit sometimes drops in at Bollywood sets where he attracts more than just quivering producers.
Arun Inamdar (Naseeruddin Shah) is Pandit’s forgotten senior who has chappan (56) encounters to his credit. The story takes a turn when Inamdar aligns with Khanna and decides to challenge Pandit.
This happens at a time when the game, or, as Pandit says, "police ka dhanda", has changed again. Underworld dons have moved abroad, and though they still have connections with politicians and cops and a network of extortionists and sharp-shooters, the main guys running Mumbai’s real estate business and carrying out contract killings are the cops. They are Mumbai’s new dons. Maximum ends in 2008 — after 26/11, when crucial tip-offs got lost between hostile camps — telling us how and why Mumbai’s prized encounter cops suddenly came tumbling down.

Deeply political, Maximum is based on a cleverly written screenplay by director Kabeer Kaushik and Rakhi Soman. It is very obvious that they have researched their subject keenly, minutely, because they love it. That is why, perhaps, Maximum expects prior knowledge and more than passing interest in its subject and their power games and internal politics.
There’s a scene in the film where Pandit and his men are engaged in a shoot-out on a railway overbridge. Pointed guns, eyes on target, bodies tense but moving together, one step at a time — it’s a sort of
slow death dance set to a brilliant background score. I found it almost pornographic. But not all will find it as enchanting.
Maximum’s story is narrated by Ashwin, sometimes through voiceover, at times through bytes to his camera. But story is not Maximum’s main attraction. Its brilliance lies in its craft.
The film’s pace and narration are contemplative, brooding, taking time to establish the sycophancy and servility around powerful men. Subtly, through phone conversations and chit-chat over tea, class differences and power equations are communicated. Several scenes, rimmed with both humour and tension, are constructed beautifully. And they don't just take the story forward, but keep refining the characters as well. Except Inamdar's. Director Kabeer Kaushik gives Naseeruddin Shah's character a Rubik’s Cube to twist around, but terrible lines. And Shah delivers them with the bored disdain he brings to many of his films these days.
With Sarkar-like tight frames, the camera creates intimacy and puts us very close to the film’s characters, most of whom are inhabited by very fine actors. Daniel B. George’s background score, though at times reminiscent of Sarkar, also tells the story on its own.
My only grouse is The film's title — it's flat and doesn't mean anything. It may have worked for Suketu Mehta, but Bollywood audiences need a more definitive invite, like that item number by Ms Hazel 'screech' Keech, though I hated that, too.