What a ho-hum hungama

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Heroine

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Heroine.JPG [2]

Choke. Disturbed women smoke. They ooze the scent of booze, rumble tumble in bed with married men. And oh ma, they detest their own mummyjis. Plus, they pop pink and purple pills to chill.

So see, there’s every patented cliché here that’s as old as the hills. How about telling us something we don’t know, please? Huh?
Truly Madhur Bhandarkar’s Heroine is stale, a late delivery already pipped to the post by the far more incisive The Dirty Picture. As for film award politics, umm, that was lately evidenced in Raaz 3, wasn’t it? And although black-and-white photos of Marilyn Monroe are glimpsed as a part of the set décor, the rise and fall of Mahi Arora has more in common with the harrowing life of Hollywood’s Jean Harlow (portrayed in a 1965 version, which tanked calamitously).
And there are traces of the Angelina Jolie TV film Gia, which were also detected in the writer-director’s Fashion. Needless to carp, more below-the-belt, undoubtedly malicious references are made to Bollywood’s fading heroines buying IPL teams, former editors writing star biographies (whozzat?). And for some more kicks, the big bad media is constantly beaten black and boo-hoo. Gossip, gossip, gossip, it’s moaned, is in their bloodstream. Unsolicited advice: all subscribers to this misconception should get a hold of the literary giant Saadat Hassan Manto’s essays on Hindi filmstars of the 1940s and ’50s (Bitter Fruit, 2008). The frank profiles of the stars are outstanding. Compared to Manto, today’s “muckrakers” are kindergarten toddlers.
Be that as it may, chalo welcome to Bhandarkarwood. Surfacially — as in Fashion — he critiques the tough, unkind, inhuman ways of show town. Indeed, such avarice can be extended to practically every other profession in the cosmos. Take advertising or corporate executives. Backbiting, career machinations, sexual exploitation, it’s everywhere, buddy. But then… as the hackneyed credo goes — in show business, the intrusion into private space is infinitely more fierce than in any other profession. What to do Madhurbhai? We know, we know. Life’s like that only.
More than obvious traits of moviebiz are repeated ad nauseam, like the age-old paradox of stars loving their spoons (aka chamchas) and detesting the daggers (aka fault-finders). In addition, Bhandarkar’s infallible penchant for sensationalism is evidenced in a coy lesbian encounter, for which apologies have to be tendered the next morning. Woohoo, the director strives to get bold, only to retreat into the regressively old. Mercy be, at least the women don’t weep, “Hum se badi bhool ho gayee..”
More: at the end of the film, we’re left with the conviction that a fiercely insular industry can never be “exposed” beyond a point. To put it in another way, those who live in glass houses cannot throw stones. If they do, the impact is that of a rubber pebble at best — flung at heroes who control the female casting, meddle in the final edit and pretend to be faithful to their trophy wives. Also it frazzles no one if corporate financing is mocked (who or what financed Heroine?... rsvp), an action flick’s director has as much personality as a paper clip, and a fashion stylist — you guessed right — is caricatured as a limp-wristed gay geek. Eeeek.
Aah, and what about those much-ballyhooed journos? Again they’re stereotyped: as supplicant sorts thrilled with “exclusives”, vindictive dumb belles preening at press conferences, and a TV presenter who serves as the film’s narrator, exuding empathy for our “bipolar” Mahi Arora (Kareena Kapoor) who’s madly in love with this hot-happening-but married hero (Arjun Rampal). Love hurts. They go pffft.
A cricketer obviously modelled on a serial starlet-addict (Randeep Hooda) enters the scene. They go pfffft2. And so it’s left to a ruthless but imaginative publicist (Divya Dutta, smoking ciggies galore) to rescue Mahi from the dumps. How-o-how? Ignite a right royal sexy controversy, of course. End of story material, certainly insufficient for a 150-minute film which drags like those deep, lengthy cigarette puffs, especially after the intermission. The editor (the film’s, that is), quite alert till then, appears to have gone into deep slumber with the incessant slightly happy-majorly unhappy close-ups of La Kapoor. What an overdoze really.
The thunderous “dialoguey” number arrives when Mahiji berates the press for jumping to conclusions: if an actress gets a new car it is presumed that it has been gifted to her, and if she wears a new diamond ring ditto. Hello, but such reports haven’t been fabricated. They have happened. So there we go again — hit out at fact by calling it fiction. For some nostalgic those-were-the-days speechlings, there’s good ole Helen, who’s rudely despatched to the pearly gates. Not fair, she seemed to be in the pink.
Coming to the widely publicised Halqat jawani item numero, it doesn’t really get going because of the mundane choreography. As for Salim-Suleiman’s music score, it may have you hemming and hawing, not humming.
So far, so hooey-hum. But but but… there are at least four major redeeming factors which elevate this woman’s suffering saga to a level above the average. One is the avoidance of Mahi’s rise to fame back-story. Already related through flash-cuts, the screenplay doesn’t have to dwell on how Mahiji got her big break or broke away from her swishy mother (Lilette Dubey, smoking like a chimney, too). The daughter resents Mom Swishy’s affair with a Cabinet minister but subsequently uses that to her career advantage cleverly. Every breath a film person takes, it is indicated, is need-based. “Matlab ki hai yeh duniya saari,” Kaifi Azmi’s imperishable refrain for Kaagaz Ke Phool pops to the mind. Bhandarkar’s lyricists and co-writers aren’t even remotely eloquent… but the script situations do renew the Guru Dutt mantra to a degree.
The second saving factor: The men aren’t made out to be hounds from hell, be it the adulterous actor (Arjun Rampal) or the hopelessly romantic cricketer (Randeep Hooda). Both enact their roles with gallant restraint. Of all the males on display here, though, a temperamental Bengali director is absolutely dot-on, a cameo excellently performed by Ranvir Shorey. A brief appearance by Shahana Goswami, as a worldy wise arthouse actress, is nothing short of impressive.
Next: On the tech front, Mahesh Limaye’s cinematography is glam-sham in sync with the theme, and for once is quite unobtrusive, opting for neat, moodily lit visuals than camera dazzlery. The set designs opt for an authentic look for the plush penthouses, the award show venue, a red light area and studio sets.
And the last reason to see Heroine, if at all, is Kareena Kapoor. She is near-flawless, achieving mood swings spontaneously. The screenplay makes her out to be a victim of the Bollywood system, but the manner in which she plays it — with her body language and eyes — she’s to be saluted, not pitied. It’s a brave, tour de force performance. Heroine is worth a ticket just for her. Along with Jab We Met it’s a tie for her career-best.