Peeved pipers

Blame an over-protective mother,DD Bangla and Sundays that refused to end. While we were born long after LPs made a silent migration from music stores to antique dealers around Chandni Chowk...

Written by PiyasreeDasgupta

March 6, 2010 02:22 AM IST

4 min read

Blame an over-protective mother,DD Bangla and Sundays that refused to end. While we were born long after LPs made a silent migration from music stores to antique dealers around Chandni Chowk,and grew up on a diet of mu sic videos aired every weekend on Doordarshan,it wasnt very difficult to figure out why Dad beamed at the sight of the collection of dusty records fighting for space in a closet filled with rag dolls,colouring books and Enid Blytons. Even though we would wait a whole week for 30 seconds of Akshay Kumar gyrating to Tu Cheez Badi Hai Mast Mast on Superhit Muqabla,we would also spend summer afternoons feasting on Doordarshans archives and the likes of Anthony Firingi,Jalshaghar,Dewa Newa. And today,even as we lend ourselves to a Fossils or a Miles hammering on our senses and glow in the shared achievements of Bangla bands,it becomes a little difficult to completely understand 033. Call me a nostalgia-digger,but I would squirm at the thought of tampering with Tomai Dilam (A Gorer Math classic). I dont wake up dreaming of my own little film every morning,but I would want a film on music to bathe in the rousing obsession that we un-lyrical people think is the birth-right of musicians. I dont want my bassist to count stars while strumming the guitar,I dont want my vocalist to head-bang like a college fresher discovering ways to look spunky and lure girls. I want their music to speak for their fire,not their tattoos or unruly,blonde locks. I want them to stir up the niggling feeling of jealousy as their fingers fly over the guitar; their bodies threaten to topple the mike stand. But yes,its a little unfair to heap expectations on somebody elses vision. Its just that,I dont either share or feel compelled to surrender to Birsa Dasguptas vision. Though,on a few occasions I am tempted to.

Dasguptas 033 revolves around its namesake band of five (Rudranil,Dhruv,Parambrata,Shaheb and Mumtaz). Enter Mrinalini (Swastika) from Delhi,who comes to find out why her fathers creation (Tomai Dilam re-christened as Rhododendron) has been tampered with,or modernised by the band,especially its lead vocalist Shome (played by Parambarata). Her quest for justice turns out to be a journey to find her own roots. She starts spending time with the 033 members and starts becoming involved in their conflicts,in their aspirations.

For music to graduate into a character from just another movie staple,it has to be given a life. A life that doesnt survive on songs,but on the endearing involvement that its patrons have with it. In Dasguptas film,the individual histories of the band-mates are told through the many conversations the characters have between them he doesnt dwell on them,reason why relating to their conflicts becomes a laborious exercise. Dasgupta further alienates his audience with some heavily rhetorical dialogues and sequences that somehow refuse to fall in line with the general mood of the film.

Rudranil is a revelation in the film his comic timing is perfect,his body language easily gives out the story of Rudras life. Dhruv Mukerji shines in the few scenes he is given we wish he was given a story to tell too,but is sadly sidelined as a comic prop. Swastikas dialogue delivery was probably intended to be stilted to highlight her non-residential Bengaliness,but comes across as affected and unconvincing. Parambrata and Shaheb do their bits,just that.

Dasgupta uses nice psychedelic frames,sepia tones,stylized dream sequences as allusions to conflict,he gives Sankarapur a brush of poetry not innate to it,he tries telling a story probably close to his heart,but gets so preoccupied with rhetoric that the story remains his and fails to take us in its fold.

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Kolkata talk