Because it is sweet, you fool.
Albeit this fondness is subjective, overdose will invariably make anyone nauseated.
At first sight the fresh lead female reminded me of that great British football club based in Old Trafford – may be because of the brilliant red dresses she will wear later. She is obsessed with the sweetness of this Barfi lad. Ya ya, umang, tarang, jeena sikhaya, life is beautiful, that itching sensation, we know all that. Daughter to the new-age two-husbanded Draupadi, she dares to equal her mom. Her chance gone, thanks to her mom, she remains the eternal haddi to the kabab of a happy couple. She lied about not having any photograph of her crush, which even inspires the very first scene of the movie. But later she reveals a whole album of folded photographs. You should know how I hate liars, or for that matter inconsistent scripts. No amount of penance, not even managing a children’s home, or making sweet origami to a child with Down’s syndrome can earn you forgiveness for that.
We all agree, acting as an autistic girl is tough. More so if the actor is a glamorous Miss World. But just because she is playing an autistic, does not necessarily make the rendering lovable. With all sympathies to the character and apologies all autistic people in the world, I did not like it. Though I liked the well researched laterally inverted B she writes. She successfully clears the Barfi Heart Entrance test, which everyone else had failed earlier. I will bet on anything my dear Barfi: she did not even notice that falling log! She was dreaming of the damn Filmfare award Oscars, holding your God knows what.
This Barfi guy himself is a really sweet entertainer, rendered with utter perfection by the actor – no satire in that. He measures his affinity to an individual with the controvertial log test, sometimes putting his orientation in question. You did your part. Let others do theirs.
For a setting in the ’70s, anachronisms are there, but comparatively rare. A transistor radio, Murphy or otherwise, on a bicycle basket in 1972? I doubt if there were any, if at all affordable, available anywhere in India – let alone Darjeeling. Number plates could not have started with WB 20 in the 70’s, neither could so many the cable lines crowd the lampposts, nor did Calcutta trams and buses sport those fluorescent schizophrenic non-Red color. Can’t complain, as even Hollywood classics get along with bigger goofs. The persistence of the filmmaker on avoiding scenes, locales, and angles which hint at the present is commendable. This includes finding a vintage location right next to the Howrah Bridge, old cars with left hand drive and cycles without mud-guards – I loved it all. Or Keventer’s for that matter – you should have a cup of Second Flush there. But my real crib remains that cheap jute wig which the British football club was wearing as an oldie. The half-bald mother of my granny’s maid uses a better one.
Stretching the storyline is the moral of this story. It is rumored that the script writer was inspired by a popcorn machine, and the producer had thrown a champagne party when the team announced that the film would span more than two hours, to hold you and someone else at ransom, twice. Using a shaky camera may make you look Hollywoodish, but please don’t hire a butcher to edit that film. The editor minced the film in a fashion that to follow the story – you will need to keep track of a dozen frames of reference, all presented in a intertwined spaghetti. And to seal the end with real senti, desi style, two handicapped lovers die in each other’s arms. I sobbed. All my expectations generated till the intermission were raped in the darkness of the theater that night.
Back to the topic. To quote Penny, “Handicapped people are nice, Leonard, everyone knows that!” Now that’s sweet!
Honest Blabber 