How ‘jhund’ challenges what we expect from mainstream cinema

How ‘jhund’ challenges what we expect from mainstream cinema

As I watched Nagraj Manjule’s Jhund, moved by the force of its storytelling and aesthetics, I couldn’t help but wonder what “smart” film consumers would think of its unusual duration and narrative style. Remarks about “unnecessary” diversions have indeed appeared in many reviews. What is the plot? Is it a film about a retired professor and sports coach (Amitabh Bachchan) who mentors the youth of a neighbouring slum? Or is it the story of Dalit youth finding in football a drive and a means to overcome the many challenges in their life? For some, it is about a society that presents relentless obstacles and pushes people to the margins. For many others, Jhund is a powerful unearthing of a physical and emotional world that we seek to repress in ourselves and others.

One of the most interesting aspects about Manjule’s film is its length and shifting pace. Jhund makes us experience “time” in a way that we have moved far away from; not the numbing time in which OTT platforms offer film after film, series after series; but the spread-out time in which we suffer the jaw-clenching frustration of failures and nothingness and the full spectrum of joy, grief, love, hope, and the life that happens between struggles. Time and the resilience to endure time is not the same for everyone. In the second half of the film, the temporality of each character is shaped by their individual struggles. The vulnerability of Ankush Masram (played by Ankush Gedam), whose passion for football is threatened by the world of crime and drugs, is shown in a way that is both empathetic and frustrating. Unlike the singular narratives of commercial cinema, Jhund appears to be bursting at the seams from the pressures of conflicting moralities. The final scene at the airport summarises the exasperating trajectory of Masram’s story and those whose lives he represents. Profiled and made to step through the metal detector multiple times, the scene discloses something that is profoundly real, yet unseen when it happens around us at airport terminals. Earlier in the film, a character tells Don, “It isn’t necessary to win every time”. While this is a piece of advice on the wisdom of choosing one’s battles, it is also a reflection on how surviving in caste society is a lifetime of battles for those on the margins. And how that makes it difficult to define victory, when behind each triumph is not just the historical reality of oppression but the everyday obstacles of humiliation and judgement.

The predominant gaze in today’s mainstream films is, in a way, familiar, even when we struggle to relate to them. Popular cinema’s notion of entertainment has largely been to distance people from their own cultures where they can seek out joy and celebration, as if these very cultures are at the root of people’s social and existential distress. With the vibrant depiction of Ambedkar Jayanti in Jhund, Manjule has broken through mainstream cinema’s wilful silence over figures and histories significant to the oppressed majority of this country. In addition to that, he creates a picture of festivity that not only has nothing to do with oppressive caste Hindu cultures but is opposed to it.

The mastery of Jhund is in its ability to hold multiplicities, of stories and genres, and of languages, skin tones, hair, bodies, genders and abilities. As it spreads out horizontally to the lives of its numerous characters, the film thickens in texture. Both impressive and baffling is how people weave in and out of narrative focus at any given point. The stories of Monica (Rinku Rajguru), who struggles to get her passport made, the young Muslim mother’s stubborn battle with patriarchy, or the railway track where skirmishes with life and death are lost and won are elemental aspects of the world(s) being represented in the film. And yet these tales are organised in such a way that they defy any logic of hierarchy or priority. Even Amitabh Bachchan’s stardom fails to outshine the manifold brilliance of Jhund.

One has to believe that films can be made differently; but more importantly, as film watchers, one has to believe that films can be watched differently. A film is not just about navigating through finite options of repackaged formulas; it is about finding in cinema the potential for art and life. Manjule’s Jhund opens the doorway to that engagement, taking forward a conversation on our society that he started with Fandry and Sairat.