In Janardan Jakhar a.k.a. Jordan, the lead character of his latest film ‘Rockstar’, Imtiaz Ali has created a singular character, one that is fuelled by raging fires trying to fill up an endless void within. It is a void created out of love and longing, but as Ranbir Kapoor plays it, it seems to be borne out of something much deeper and more extraordinary. I agree that love and longing can go as deep as anything, but the way it is portrayed in this movie, it doesn’t appear so, especially in comparison to Jordan’s implacable angst. That is exactly where the two halves of the story don’t match up to each other. The result is a movie that dazzles us at its best, but leaves us feeling incredulous at its worst.
The film begins artfully with grainy documentary footage showing scenes from a carnival before an epic Jordan concert. The screen then widens to show us actual aerial scenes of the Colosseum of Rome(?) getting ready for the concert. Meanwhile, the man himself is being chased and thrashed around by the local police on the streets of Rome. He somehow manages to escape from his captors with a few bloody scratches and gatecrashes his own concert to a tumultuous welcome from surging crowds. He hasn’t uttered a single word yet. Springing up onto the stage, he slings his guitar carelessly across his chest and approaches the microphone. With the first pluck of his fingers on the guitar, the scene segues via an astounding jump cut into one several years back and we see a fresher-faced, younger and more callow version of the man strumming a simple acoustic guitar before a bus stand in Delhi. The song is ‘Jo bhi main kehna chahoon’. Very interestingly, the film follows him singing the same song at different venues at various points of time, in a series of abruptly cut scenes. Though his external appearance and his surroundings change, the song remains as whole and complete as ever.
One of the earliest words he utters is the name ‘Jim Morrison’, a man who intrigues Janardan to the extent that, much later, he feels compelled to emulate him. But just then, he is an awkward Jat boy from Pitampura studying in Delhi University, with an unlikely passion for strumming the guitar and singing. This is the subject of much ridicule, none less than from Khatara bhai (Kumud Mishra), the canteen owner. He gruffly provides him with wisdom about all great works of art being borne out of great sorrow and heartbreak. Janardan is so impressed by him that he actually wonders whether he has suffered anything of consequence. The answer, to his enormous disquiet, is a stark NO. In his desperate bid to undergo heartbreak, he wilfully accosts the unbelievably beautiful Heer (Nargis Fakhri), the serial heart-breaker on the campus and lamely proposes to her. The most typical scenes of Hindi romantic films follow, with the lead couple hoping against hope that they do not fall in love, laced with Imtiaz Ali’s characteristic humour, and they develop an unlikely friendship. This gradually settles uncomfortably into a proximity that is undefined, and offset only by a kind of innocently nervous humour that has been practically invented by Ali.
Heer is a Kashmiri Pandit who is weeks away from marriage. And so, like most Imtiaz Ali heroes, Janardan too accompanies her to her wedding set amid the unfailingly stunning locales of Kashmir. Minutes before the actual wedding, they pledge to meet up in Prague where Heer is to head after her marriage.
Upon returning home, Janardan’s boorish brothers waste little time in throwing him out of the house over a petty squabble. Thus begin his physical peregrinations as well as musical odyssey. A chance sighting at Hazrat Nizamuddin Dargah by shehnai maestro Ustad Jameel Khan (Shammi Kapoor, in a patrician, magisterial final cameo) lands him a contract with a major music label on the Ustad’s recommendation, despite Janardan’s tempestuous relationship with the slimy label owner Dhingra (Piyush Mishra).
The remainder of the film depicts his subsequent meetings with Heer and the effect of his relationship with her on his music and career.
Imtiaz Ali seems to suggest through Khatara bhai that talent alone is not quite sufficient to create enduring art. Love completes it. Unrequited love, even more. Might very well be true. But it is in the depiction of this very form of love that the film falters. The story between the leads is, to state it baldly, banal. Déjà vu. We have been inured to such tragic stories of love since time immemorial. What is always more fascinating to me is the effect that such love has on the persons involved. In the case of Heer, the effects are disappointingly trite. Tragic, yes, but trite, nonetheless. She cries, sniffles, pines away, sickens, her blood count drops and she can barely stand up. As always, she is torn between the concepts of true love and of fidelity to her lawfully wedded husband. As always, it is upto the guy to set things right, to defy society, and carry her off so that when she regains her consciousness he has done all her work for her. It doesn’t help one bit that Nargis Fakhri is simply awkward with her facial expressions in all her scenes. Her body language and lack of self-consciousness are admirable, though.
In Janardan’s case, the effects are way more exciting. It gives birth to a certain impotent rage, impotent because it is inexpressible, except through music, in which it ascends to the level of existential angst manifested in jewels like ‘Naadaan Parindey’ and ‘Aur Ho’ and the overblown, though perfectly placed ‘Saadda Haq’. He becomes an anguished, wandering minstrel, ceaselessly travelling, always observing, absorbing, blending in, equally at ease amidst Czech gypsies, devout sufis, maata-bhakts, prostitutes, not so much of a rockstar, except in simplified, generalized, explanatory terms to a society that embraces and demonises him in equal measure, but largely fails to empathise with him. The cock-a-snook irreverence, bad boy antics, continual rebellion against authority, on stage rages are inherent symptoms of a failure to connect with people and stridently averse to building a certain image. Ustad Jameel Khan recognizes this very quality early on and cryptically says as much.
Ranbir Kapoor’s performance is one of the great elemental performances of Hindi film, untouched by blemishes in the script or the need to strut and show off. As Jordan, he is all bruised heart, and blazing, imploding (and occasionally exploding) feral energy. Just watch him at the beginning, looking curiously, yet oddly detachedly, as Khatara bhai and his friends debate over his future and imminent doom. Or when he bursts into helpless laughter at Dhingra’s vainly obnoxious tactics to intimidate him. Or when he storms off stage barely managing to finish a stirring performance to steal a few moments of passion with his beloved. Or the way he vibrates as intensely as he sings the sedate ‘Jo bhi main’ as when he sings the aggressive ‘Saadda Haq’. Or his utter immersion while trying to match notes with the shehnai legend. The list is endless. A nearly-frozen tableau of Ranbir exiting a car in ultra-slow-motion while projectile-vomiting after binge-drinking onto a red carpet before a stupefied crowd belongs to a time capsule. After watching it, I dare anyone to wonder aloud why Ranbir is so good. Forget awards (though I strongly suspect he will be inundated with them), his performance will brand itself into the collective consciousness of the Hindi-film-viewing populace as a landmark one. It is of the kind that invades dreams. In fact, I can think of no greater compliment for him than that he elevates even A.R. Rahman’s songs to another level.
Which brings me to the accomplished genius himself. When people quibble about his music not being as great as his last great work, the moment his music hits the stands, they forget the fact that he is a film music composer. (I myself was guilty of the above crime, until the piece ‘Dol Dol’ from ‘Yuva’ reformed me forever in that regard.) His fidelity is to the film entirely and it is not until we see the film with his music that his genius truly, completely reveals itself to us. This is especially so in a film like ‘Rockstar’. ‘Naadaan Parindey’ is the crowning glory and a fitting resolution to the tortuous and, sometimes, uneven journey of Jordan. Irshad Kamil’s lyrics are simple yet profound. I still can’t get over ‘Jo bhi main kehna chahoon, barbaad kare alfaaz mere.’
The supporting cast ranges from good to mildly irritating. The achingly lovely Aditi Rao Hydari is under-utilised as the journalist who is powerfully drawn to Jordan, yet is not above reporting his misdemeanours with vicious ardour. Hers was a character with amazing potential, but is sadly lost amidst the convoluted storytelling. Yet she shines (and looks jaw-droppingly lovely,I might add) in a touching scene with Jordan in his trailer. Piyush and Kumud Mishra are reliably good. Heer’s family members seem to be as awkward as her in emoting with their faces except for Shernaz Patel who plays a variation of her ‘Black’ character again.
Technically, Imtiaz Ali has experimented quite a lot. There is a lot of chaotic hand-held camerawork, as well as sweeping overhead shots, a few violently swinging crane shots, some ultra-slow-mo shots, speeded-up shots (like the South Indian masala films, yes), shots through diffused acid-green frames, lots of monochrome neon-tinted frames, freeze frames. Music serves to propel the story forward and is very effective. Surreal imagery is used too, with a blood-and-wine red guitar slowly being consumed with flames as Jordan sits alone in a tub of water. The editing pattern is convoluted (in places to a fault), mostly in a roundabout narrative style, eclectic, random, purposefully so, to indicate the diverse influences and experiences that have shaped and rounded the artist at the centre of them all. The various concerts look authentic enough and are ably supported by the sound design that renders their frenzied clamour quite accurately.
Ultimately ‘Rockstar’ is a piece of art that, to use a popular phrase, ‘seems to have been torn out from the insides’ of its auteur. It is undeniably a labour of love. There are several sticky spots, places where the narrative deliberately seems to have been forced into Ali’s comfort zone to make it acceptable to audiences. The ending is left open, and, perhaps because of the editing, serves more to confuse than to provide the audience with a sense of sureness. But, at its real heart, this is an untamed gypsy of a movie, fiercely individualistic, perhaps the only Hindi film, so far, to capture the essence of being an angst-ridden rocker, f*** the stardom. In that sense, the title is ironic.
What else would explain the scene when Khatara bhai drags an unkempt Jordan out of a whorehouse and, in his vexation, screams whether he, Jordan, wants people to run away from him? As if on cue, Jordan is mobbed by passers-by on the road and he triumphantly looks at the aghast Khatara bhai and moves on. But not for a moment does he pause to interact with his fans, or even so much as acknowledge their presence.
What could explain Jordan's utter lack of interest when his debut album is titled 'Negative' ( a canny marketing strategy to save face and cash in at the same time on Jordan's stint in jail by Dhingra) and the cover artwork features his face behind bars? Or the fact that his second album is titled 'Noir', evoking brooding world-weariness and disillusionment?
