English Vinglish

Achtongue, baby. Or is it Achtung? Oho, here’s one of those rain-in-Spain-stays-mainly-in-the-plain dilemmas. Unlike the pronunciation-stressed Eliza Dolittle of My Fair Lady, the grammar-challenged motley group of the TV series Mind Your Language, and the harrowed hairdresser of Educating Rita, the distressed damsel is a bright-eyed, late 40ish woman who’s chronically low on self-esteem. And not as much on lingo.

In fact, debutante Gauri Shinde’s English Vinglish inadvertently sets up an amazing laddoo-woman — her motichoors, it seems, are the rage of Pune — and then drowns her in a pond of cliches. Stereotypically, she cooks a lavish breakfast for her family, feels low when her husband hugs a female office colleague and not her, sheds a tear when her daughter is embarrassed at a school PTA meeting, and is scoffed at when she mispronounces jazz as jaaaazzz (or something close to that). How has this dear woman tolerated such inane indignities all these years? Be that as it may, it is suggested that the way out of her subservient status is to speak the Queen’s English correctly — not that any of her tormentors seem to have mastered Wren and Martin. Ulp.
Moreover, the lady’s Hindi isn’t exemplary either. Or Marathi which she doesn’t speak at all, despite her marriage to a Mr Godbole. Meaning, the language issue out here is as schematic as the situations scripted for her. Consequently, the outcome doesn’t quite engage or convince you entirely. Neither does it make you jump like a cheerleader through the two hours-plus littered with obstacles. In fact, if you are mildly entertained and keep your hopes up — the stuff has to improve, oh God, please! — it is essentially for stray amusing vignettes, the finale (sticks to the linguistic point) and inevitably, Ms Sridevi back on the big screen after a needless banwas of 15 years. Welcome back Sriji, though there could have been a more worthy… okay, okay, never mind.
Indeed, if more proof were needed that a charismatic star’s power can drive a vehicle running on a near-empty tank of fuel, here it is. For sure, this is not her most vivacious or accomplished performance. Still, it’s competent, far superior to the supposed acting calibre of today’s leading ladies. Her voice has matured, it has a discernible quiver
at points. But for the rest of the way, yesterday’s Chandni is glowing. The dialogue in praise of her preserved beauty, though, is unintentionally howalarious. Says a smitten Frenchman, “Your eyes are like coffee in pools of milk.” Egads, really.
Curiously, there are excessive allusions to coffee. At the outset, a coffee café franchise is mentioned. Then a brand is alluded to. Offers for coffee dates proliferate. And our heroine gets absolutely ghastly treatment from a black American Cruella de Vil quizzing her on latte, cappuccino or Americano at a Manhattan delicatessen. Unable to distinguish between the brews, she’s thoroughly decaffeinated. Wish she had just said, “How about a Chennai filtered?” Or smacked the quizzer on the face for insolent behaviour. Yaaaay, that would have been cool.
Mrs Godbole (Sridevi), alack, isn’t a fervently patriotic Mr India, which is why the drama is woefully short on a conflict required for a feature-length film. Worse, she’s taken for granted at home, leading her to mumble sadly, “I have enough love but no respect.” Her knee-high son dotes on her (sensible fellow) but her hep daughter and executive husband don’t. Ma-in-law makes some non-committal ghutar-ghoos in the background of a neatly appointed Pune home. Since this can’t go on forever, our laddoo-wizard housewife is summoned to help out — pronto — in the New York wedding of her niece. Not that the aunt does much eventually, except for confecting pyramids of laddoos (diabetics may go delirious with temptation). Facilely, too, she must reach NYC much before her Mr and moppets do.
Instantly, it becomes er… a cakewalk. When an American at the visa desk huffs that she won’t be able to get by without knowing English, another consulate employee chirps in, “She will... like you do in India without knowing Hindi.” Wow, shouldn’t this logic apply to all visa-seekers? On the “plane”, she’s helped out of dehydration by Amitabh Bachchan, no less, who asks the hostess for iced water. “Maya will give you all that you want,” smiles Bachchan sir. Wazzat? And he dialogue-dubs a Hollywood in-flight movie so that the lady can follow the plot till he’s told to shut up by a fellow passenger. Now that’s a first. Ditto the pre-credit title card, wishing Mr Bachchan a great 70th birthday. Will this greeting be removed after October 11? Honestly, your mind’s sooo… woozy… brightening up when Mr B ticks off an officer at the New York immigration counter to deport him if he wants. But then what about the dollars he will spend to swell the recession-ravaged American economy? Ha-ha, sure. Obama would approve. Perhaps.
Anyway, after the eventful flight our Lady settles into the pastel-colour ambience of her sister’s home. Next: a bus sign tempts her to enrol in an English coaching class where the teacher is proudly gay, later prompting a sermon on pro-same-gender-love. Clap clap. As for the other students, they are an assortment of sweets: a dozing Spanish lady, a Chinese hair designer (disparagingly described as “yellow”), a Pakistani taxi driver, an idli-starving south Indian, a silent black and a French chef (Mehdi Abbou, wasted) who flips out for our Lady Laddoo. Oooh la la, you’re even shown a clip of Liz Taylor oozing romance from the golden oldie The Last Time I Saw Paris. Next: Lady Laddoo is attracted to the Parisian homme, but sprints as soon as he attempts an Emraan Hashmi on her. No liplocks for ladies please vlease, we’re Indian.
Montages of sequences and songs, up-tilt and down-tilt transition shots and New York vistas aren’t exact fresh news. They’re exhausting. Next: Pune family arrives, tension is in the air, culminating in a wedding banquet. Oops, believe it or not, a thaali of ladoos is ruined, an American guest arrives to declare, “I am so looking forward to the laddoos. I’ve heard so much about them.” Indeed, so has everyone of us.
The laddoo thaali destruction later, the finale miraculously improves, even leaving a tiny pedha-sized lump in your throat. Ms Sridevi’s wrap-up speech is so wonderfully delivered that you’re even willing to forgive the screenplay and Shinde’s montage-addicted direction, all their countless trespasses.
Photographed slickly (but not in a special league of its own), edited decently, this mild comedy cannot boast of an outstanding music score by Amit Trivedi, in the league of Dev D or Udaan.
Of the cast, Husain Adil, as the unknowingly chauvinistic husband, is impressive. And it’s not just nostalgia and the goodwill which Sridevi continues to command in the movie lover’s heart, see her any which way, she’s first-rate. The rest of English Vinglish isn’t. It’s just about okay vokay.