Avinash Arun seems content to translate Sumit Roy’s text with a sense of responsibility and conscientiousness.
Given the complex situation in which India has found itself for some years now, it is understandable that filmmakers—much like many ordinary citizens—feel the need to express their frustrations through cinema. Some, such as Anurag Kashyap and Anubhav Sinha, use social issues as a springboard for personal expression, simultaneously expanding the scope of their own style and subject matter. Others, like Pulkit and Vijay Krishna Acharya, buckle under the weight of their own good intentions, resulting in mediocre, self-indulgent work.
Director: Avinash Arun
Writers: Dushyant Arora, Sumit Roy, Vishal Tiwari
Stars: Wamiqa Gabbi, Jaideep Ahlawat, Rajkummar Rao
Even Sriram Raghavan and Imtiaz Ali have released films this year that feel more like a "fulfillment of duty" than an act of artistic expression. This sense of "duty-bound" filmmaking is evident once again in *Prahaar: The Untold Story of Ujjwal Nikam*; its director, Avinash Arun, appears satisfied with simply translating Sumit Roy’s text with responsibility and conscientiousness. What this "model student" approach overlooks is Arun’s talent for crafting striking compositions that yield images of profound emotional resonance. *Killa* leaves the viewer in awe with its almost tactile texture, transforming a coming-of-age tale into a deeply relatable story.
*School of Lies* is remarkable for how it evokes a world that—even beyond the frame of the camera—seems to be in constant motion. *Paatal Lok* leaves one speechless, thanks to its superb balance between politics and intimate human emotion, offering an experience that is both tender and tragic. And even *Three of Us*, with its small-scale warmth, leaves the viewer with a sense of fulfillment. It is, therefore, equally disappointing and baffling that *Prahaar* comes across as a film that could have been made by practically anyone. The fact that it is directed by Arun is all the more surprising, given that the film entirely lacks the sensibility so characteristic of his work.
The story follows Ujjwal Nikam (Rajkummar Rao) and his efforts to prove the guilt of Ajmal Kasab (Lalit Prabhakar) in court; however, Arun and Roy use the opportunity to address more contemporary issues: the controversy surrounding the imposition of the Marathi language in Maharashtra (a waiter tells Ujjwal that he does not understand the language, to which Ujjwal replies that it does not matter, before continuing to speak in Hindi); the tendency to label every single Pakistani citizen as a terrorist (a Pakistani lawyer, Chaudhary Zulfiqar Ali, shows as much interest as Ujjwal in uncovering the identities of those responsible for the 26/11 attacks); and the skepticism regarding the alleged futility of courts and democratic institutions (the film counters this cynicism by presenting a virtuous image of India, in which constitutional guarantees and the judiciary ensure—at least in theory—that criminals are tried through fair procedures, logical arguments, and scientific evidence, leaving no room for prejudice or irregularities). The filmmakers construct dialogue and scenes that faithfully convey these ideas, but mere adherence to a brief cannot compete with creativity.
I could not shake the feeling that Arun is carrying out his work out of pure obligation, as if he were simply ticking off a series of required boxes—not with the intent to move the soul, but rather to deliver a sermon. How do we know that Ujjwal is a workaholic? Because he is shown talking on the phone even when he is with his family. How do we know that Kasab is unraveling internally and losing his sanity? Because he hallucinates worms in his food and on his feet.
There are no other visual devices of this kind elsewhere in the film; these "worms" seem like nothing more than a box that had to be ticked. How do we know that Abbas Kazmi (Sikandar Kher) has put himself in a precarious position by defending a terrorist? Beyond the contemptuous glares from those in the courtroom or his own colleagues, there is a scene where, while Abbas is at a restaurant with his family during Eid, a man confronts him—specifically—for having defended Kasab and ruined the reputation of Muslims.
Abbas’s family also appears uncomfortable in the face of these taunts, but *Prahaar* shows no interest in what Abbas’s wife or daughters might actually have to say about the matter. Are they aware that Abbas is simply doing his job, or do they, too, question his decision every single day? The film remains silent, showing no curiosity whatsoever regarding these questions; it merely leaves behind breadcrumbs for the viewer to gather and—perhaps over dinner—assemble into some sort of half-baked, pseudo-intellectual analysis.
To avoid accusations of veering into hagiography, Roy includes scenes in which Ujjwal lashes out at his son for being a "mama’s boy," and portrays the lawyer as someone who has failed to pay enough attention to his family. Yet, these supposed flaws are shrewdly framed as the very sacrifices that render Ujjwal an exceptional, hardworking man. After all, if he is busy and ill-tempered, it is only because he is laboring for the good of the nation.
What does it matter if he wasn’t constantly attentive to his wife? What does it matter if he shouted at his son for spending time with his mother instead of working on the case with him? Ultimately, all these reactions stem from Ujjwal’s fervent commitment to ensuring that justice is served. How could a viewer possibly find fault with him? To start looking for flaws in his character is to fall into a trap—one set both by the filmmakers and by oneself. *Prahaar* is, therefore, a full-blown hagiography—one that nonetheless maintains the illusion of possessing imperfections, which, upon closer inspection, prove to be nothing more than a clever cosmetic artifice.
Why did Arun choose this film? Is it perhaps an attempt to engage with commercial cinema—a way to secure funding for more ambitious projects that might satisfy the artist within him? I sincerely hope so; for, coming from a director who—at his best—was capable of evoking tangible emotional worlds through a lucid, precise, and beautiful aesthetic, this film sees Arun resorting to trite, conventional clichés to stir the audience.
When a young girl recounts the harrowing experience of watching her mother die before her very eyes, *Prahaar* not only recreates the event through a flashback but wrings every last drop of melodrama from the scene—employing overly sentimental music and a protracted depiction of the characters' suffering—until the viewer finally gives in and bursts into tears. It is a technique typical of a soap opera; its inclusion here reveals either a lack of confidence on the part of the filmmakers in their own material, or a lack of confidence on the part of Arun in his own abilities.
I am not entirely sure what to make of Rao’s performance. On one hand, it is commendable how perfectly he captures the gait and walk of a man with a potbelly. On the other, his Marathi accent, theatrical speeches, and constant scowl draw so much attention to his acting that I was, at every moment, acutely aware that I was watching an actor pretending to be someone else. I found Kher and Prabhakar more compelling, likely because they embody far more complex characters. The film, of course, fails to do justice to that complexity; yet, there is something remarkable in their performances—something that makes *Prahaar* at least mildly interesting to reflect upon after the screening.
One character remarks that individuals like Kasab are "manufactured" in a factory; and Prabhakar’s Kasab, upon encountering the "real" India, comes across as a conscious, broken, and dysfunctional robot that suddenly realizes its code has been programmed incorrectly. Whenever *Prahaar* abandons any pretense of catering to a mass audience, something intoxicating and humanistic manages to seep through the screen. Unfortunately, this feeling does not last; it fades away quickly. The real question, then, is why those responsible for the film decided to shoot themselves in the foot. That is the answer worth seeking. That is, in fact, the true “untold story.”
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