Bollywood isn’t the only film industry in India; every corner of
the country has its own regional cinema, each with its own quirks. For
example, many Gujarati films, such as Aa Che Aadamkhor (2005),
are actually plays. I don’t mean plays adapted to film, I mean that
they are performed on a stage, and that performance is then filmed.
It’s a very different dynamic than your average Bollywood movie, more
suited to intimate character studies than technicolor song and dance
spectacles. (Gujarati films also tend to be too obscure for the IMDB,
so while the back of the DVD case lists the cast, I have no idea who
plays what.)
Aa Che Aadamkhor opens with the unfortunate Rahul being savagely beaten by a police inspector. Despite the inspector’s persistence, Rahul adamantly denies having killed anyone; sure, he tampered with evidence, impersonated a police officer, and tried to blackmail an innocent woman, but he didn’t kill anybody. He also insists that Vibhut isn’t guilty of the murder either. The inspector, half convinced, takes a brief break from the police brutality to muse about whom the real killer might be.
The scene shifts to a small bungalow, a few days before the beating, and we meet Vibhut. Eight months ago, Vibhut was in a terrible car accident; he’s spent much of those eight months in the hospital, and is still suffering from a number of vaguely defined mental effects, including amnesia, though he recognizes all the people around him and it’s never clear what he’s forgotten, if anything. Vibhut’s wife Kruti is incredibly supportive, determined to do whatever she can to help him get better, but equally determined to stand by him whether he gets better or not. Their doctor and friend, Bhavesh, has loved Kruti for years, but it’s a noble self sacrificing love, so he wants to help Vibhut because it will make Kruti happy.
Surendra Dalal, a solicitor, aspiring politician, and Kruti’s father, is not so supportive. He never liked Vibhut, and after the accident he considerts his son-in-law a failed project and an unnecessary drain on his finances; he wants Kruti to divorce Vibhut, marry Bhavesh, and get to work producing male grandchildren right away.
Surendra isn’t shy about making his feelings known. Soon, Vibhut has had enough and runs away from home. (Well, drives away, really.) Kruti is frantic, and Surendra is actually helpful and supportive for once; he may not like his son-in-law, but he does like his daughter.
After a few harrowing days, the police find Vibhut’s car, and soon after find Vibhut himself. He’s mostly fine, though he does have a rare case of double amnesia. He’s gone from an undefined amnesia to a very specific amnesia, having lost all memory of the last few days. This is unfortunate, because the horribly mutilated body of a young woman was found next to his car, making Vibhut the prime suspect.
The stage format has its strengths, but it also has its weaknesses; you have limited locations, a limited cast, and severely limited special effects. That’s why Greek tragedies tend to revolve around a messenger reporting that something horrible has just happened offstage. Greek tragedians can get away with this because the audience already knows the story they’re watching. When the story is original and, at least in part, a mystery, the audience needs more information.
That is the problem with Aa Che Aadamkhor. Nearly every significant development in the plot takes place offstage. At times, we don’t even get to see the messenger, we just learn that the characters have learned something significant in between scenes. And in the end, the inspector announces that he’s solved the murder offstage, using clues that he gathered offstage, he arrests then murderer, and that is that. It’s like watching an episode of CSI focused on the victim’s boyfriend, who’s cleared in the first fifteen minutes; you have some suspense, and inexplicable things happen, and then the mystery is solved by someone else, using information you do not have.
Aa Che Aadamkhor opens with the unfortunate Rahul being savagely beaten by a police inspector. Despite the inspector’s persistence, Rahul adamantly denies having killed anyone; sure, he tampered with evidence, impersonated a police officer, and tried to blackmail an innocent woman, but he didn’t kill anybody. He also insists that Vibhut isn’t guilty of the murder either. The inspector, half convinced, takes a brief break from the police brutality to muse about whom the real killer might be.
The scene shifts to a small bungalow, a few days before the beating, and we meet Vibhut. Eight months ago, Vibhut was in a terrible car accident; he’s spent much of those eight months in the hospital, and is still suffering from a number of vaguely defined mental effects, including amnesia, though he recognizes all the people around him and it’s never clear what he’s forgotten, if anything. Vibhut’s wife Kruti is incredibly supportive, determined to do whatever she can to help him get better, but equally determined to stand by him whether he gets better or not. Their doctor and friend, Bhavesh, has loved Kruti for years, but it’s a noble self sacrificing love, so he wants to help Vibhut because it will make Kruti happy.
Surendra Dalal, a solicitor, aspiring politician, and Kruti’s father, is not so supportive. He never liked Vibhut, and after the accident he considerts his son-in-law a failed project and an unnecessary drain on his finances; he wants Kruti to divorce Vibhut, marry Bhavesh, and get to work producing male grandchildren right away.
Surendra isn’t shy about making his feelings known. Soon, Vibhut has had enough and runs away from home. (Well, drives away, really.) Kruti is frantic, and Surendra is actually helpful and supportive for once; he may not like his son-in-law, but he does like his daughter.
After a few harrowing days, the police find Vibhut’s car, and soon after find Vibhut himself. He’s mostly fine, though he does have a rare case of double amnesia. He’s gone from an undefined amnesia to a very specific amnesia, having lost all memory of the last few days. This is unfortunate, because the horribly mutilated body of a young woman was found next to his car, making Vibhut the prime suspect.
The stage format has its strengths, but it also has its weaknesses; you have limited locations, a limited cast, and severely limited special effects. That’s why Greek tragedies tend to revolve around a messenger reporting that something horrible has just happened offstage. Greek tragedians can get away with this because the audience already knows the story they’re watching. When the story is original and, at least in part, a mystery, the audience needs more information.
That is the problem with Aa Che Aadamkhor. Nearly every significant development in the plot takes place offstage. At times, we don’t even get to see the messenger, we just learn that the characters have learned something significant in between scenes. And in the end, the inspector announces that he’s solved the murder offstage, using clues that he gathered offstage, he arrests then murderer, and that is that. It’s like watching an episode of CSI focused on the victim’s boyfriend, who’s cleared in the first fifteen minutes; you have some suspense, and inexplicable things happen, and then the mystery is solved by someone else, using information you do not have.
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