So, of course, when an effervescent Richa, a dance teacher, enters the family, she has to let go of every dream and desire with each round of dishwashing, cooking, dusting, and cleaning
A still from Mrs
Movie: MrsDir: Arati KadavOn: Zee5Cast: Sanya Malhotra, Kanwaljeet Singh, Nishant DahiyaRating: 4/5ADVERTISEMENTIndigestion. Heartache. Restlessness. No, these aren’t the symptoms of an illness. This is what one is left feeling after watching director Arati Kadav’s gut punching feminist drama, Mrs. Every second of this Sanya Malhotra-starrer features food, which looks relishing but feels repulsive. It’s hard to recall the last time such gorgeous and intimate shots of different food items were on screen, yet there was nothing appetizing about them. Because when was the last time a Hindi filmmaker turned the gaze towards the dehumanising labour that goes into serving that finger-licking ‘home cooked’ food. Of course The Great Indian Kitchen did, the 2021 Malayalam gem, written-directed by Jeo Baby, that also inspires Mrs. But in Hindi cinema, Mrs stands tall and perhaps alone in showing the ugliness of a neat, clean, educated Indian household, where the gynaecologist husband doesn’t let his wife enter the kitchen during her periods, the economics graduate mother-in-law sacrifices her chance at a career to make her son a doctor, and the father-in-law knows every recipe but never enters the kitchen. So, of course when an effervescent Richa, a dance teacher, enters the family, she has to let go of every dream and desire with each round of dish-washing, cooking, dusting and cleaning. And while she is at it, she also has to also smell good and look desirable for her husband to want to make love to her, not treat her as a means to make a family. Kadav’s sensitive and soft treatment of the hardness that Richa ia subjected to on a daily basis is aided by the adapted screenplay by Anu Singh Choudhary and Harman Baweja, also the film’s co-producer. Choudhary, who has also penned the dialogues, employ gentleness even while dropping uncomfortable truths. The bit about Richa teaching a house help’s daughter about the power of prime numbers that gets a powerful call back towards the film’s end both breaks as well as heals the heart.
And the scene, where the domestic help mentions how her circumstances ensure she can’t take a break from work during her periods and no one is ever even bothered if she is in pain, shows the degree of invisibilisation of women also depends on their caste and class.
Every scene of Mrs is a story that almost every woman of every generation in a North Indian household has lived and rarely told. It’s to the credit of Choudhary and Kadav that they never villainise Richa’s mother or mother-in-law. They, after all, perpetuate what they have learnt or forced to by generations before them. The conditioning is so pervasive that even with all the progressiveness held close to heart, one expects the same role-play from her mother that she stands against. It’s visible in a scene where Richa’s mother-in-law visits her daughter at the time of her pregnancy and she takes to kitchen exactly how she did back home.
One of the highlights of Mrs is how Choudhary shows that almost every man in the Kumar family knows how to cook– he has recipes learnt by heart– but they are only recited to teach an ‘amateur’ cook Richa, not to ever execute themselves. And God forbid they do, there will be mess, which has to be cleaned by the women of the house.
The suffocation felt by Richa is brilliantly conveyed by Malhotra, in her career-best turn. The actor is excellent in portraying how the spirit of a hopeful bride dims and dulls with each passing day living in what can be best described as a cage. There’s no other actor in Hindi cinema taking as many chances with every new character and consequently improving her craft, at a stage in her career, where commercial success is advised as the benchmark to chase. With Mrs, Malhotra has come of age, giving her most mature and controlled performance. Not just her face, the actor masterfully uses her body language to expresse Richa’s frustration and eventual hopelessness.
She is supported by equally effective Dahiya and Singh, who trigger rage with the littlest of nuances. The performances cannot be spoken about without the mention of the terrific Varun Badola. The actor is the most natural as the brother-in-law, who masks his patriarchal beliefs behind urban politeness, humour and a faux sense of consideration towards the women in the family.
What, however, is a let down in an otherwise exceptionally crafted film is the crucial dance sequence that is intended to be an expression of Richa’s reclaimed independence. For a story that emphasises on its protagonist’s love for the art form, which also lends her ambition and a sense of identity, it’s disappointing that the one time when Richa breaks free and owns the stage and her story, her dance performance fails to epitomise it, leaving one underwhelmed. Neither is the choreography flattering, nor is Kadav’s lens on it, which end up making the moment forgettable.
Another minor grouse is how in a film that never preaches, the sequence where the protagonist finally breaks down and speaks up, it suddenly sounds unpleasantly didactic. Of course, this happens to be the first time Richa directly questions the inequality that begins at home, but the tension in the scene is cut-off by a sermon on patriarchy, which could have been avoided, especially when even the long moments of silence in the film are arresting.
Mrs is a mirror that reflects a distorted, dystopian portrait of what it is to be a woman. But it’s also a mirror if looked deep into, can help clean the patriarchal stains.
ADVERTISEMENT
Indigestion. Heartache. Restlessness. No, these aren’t the symptoms of an illness. This is what one is left feeling after watching director Arati Kadav’s gut punching feminist drama, Mrs. Every second of this Sanya Malhotra-starrer features food, which looks relishing but feels repulsive. It’s hard to recall the last time such gorgeous and intimate shots of different food items were on screen, yet there was nothing appetizing about them. Because when was the last time a Hindi filmmaker turned the gaze towards the dehumanising labour that goes into serving that finger-licking ‘home cooked’ food. Of course The Great Indian Kitchen did, the 2021 Malayalam gem, written-directed by Jeo Baby, that also inspires Mrs.
But in Hindi cinema, Mrs stands tall and perhaps alone in showing the ugliness of a neat, clean, educated Indian household, where the gynaecologist husband doesn’t let his wife enter the kitchen during her periods, the economics graduate mother-in-law sacrifices her chance at a career to make her son a doctor, and the father-in-law knows every recipe but never enters the kitchen.
So, of course when an effervescent Richa, a dance teacher, enters the family, she has to let go of every dream and desire with each round of dish-washing, cooking, dusting and cleaning. And while she is at it, she also has to also smell good and look desirable for her husband to want to make love to her, not treat her as a means to make a family. Kadav’s sensitive and soft treatment of the hardness that Richa ia subjected to on a daily basis is aided by the adapted screenplay by Anu Singh Choudhary and Harman Baweja, also the film’s co-producer. Choudhary, who has also penned the dialogues, employ gentleness even while dropping uncomfortable truths. The bit about Richa teaching a house help’s daughter about the power of prime numbers that gets a powerful call back towards the film’s end both breaks as well as heals the heart.
And the scene, where the domestic help mentions how her circumstances ensure she can’t take a break from work during her periods and no one is ever even bothered if she is in pain, shows the degree of invisibilisation of women also depends on their caste and class.
Every scene of Mrs is a story that almost every woman of every generation in a North Indian household has lived and rarely told. It’s to the credit of Choudhary and Kadav that they never villainise Richa’s mother or mother-in-law. They, after all, perpetuate what they have learnt or forced to by generations before them. The conditioning is so pervasive that even with all the progressiveness held close to heart, one expects the same role-play from her mother that she stands against. It’s visible in a scene where Richa’s mother-in-law visits her daughter at the time of her pregnancy and she takes to kitchen exactly how she did back home.
One of the highlights of Mrs is how Choudhary shows that almost every man in the Kumar family knows how to cook– he has recipes learnt by heart– but they are only recited to teach an ‘amateur’ cook Richa, not to ever execute themselves. And God forbid they do, there will be mess, which has to be cleaned by the women of the house.
The suffocation felt by Richa is brilliantly conveyed by Malhotra, in her career-best turn. The actor is excellent in portraying how the spirit of a hopeful bride dims and dulls with each passing day living in what can be best described as a cage. There’s no other actor in Hindi cinema taking as many chances with every new character and consequently improving her craft, at a stage in her career, where commercial success is advised as the benchmark to chase. With Mrs, Malhotra has come of age, giving her most mature and controlled performance. Not just her face, the actor masterfully uses her body language to expresse Richa’s frustration and eventual hopelessness.
She is supported by equally effective Dahiya and Singh, who trigger rage with the littlest of nuances. The performances cannot be spoken about without the mention of the terrific Varun Badola. The actor is the most natural as the brother-in-law, who masks his patriarchal beliefs behind urban politeness, humour and a faux sense of consideration towards the women in the family.
What, however, is a let down in an otherwise exceptionally crafted film is the crucial dance sequence that is intended to be an expression of Richa’s reclaimed independence. For a story that emphasises on its protagonist’s love for the art form, which also lends her ambition and a sense of identity, it’s disappointing that the one time when Richa breaks free and owns the stage and her story, her dance performance fails to epitomise it, leaving one underwhelmed. Neither is the choreography flattering, nor is Kadav’s lens on it, which end up making the moment forgettable.
Another minor grouse is how in a film that never preaches, the sequence where the protagonist finally breaks down and speaks up, it suddenly sounds unpleasantly didactic. Of course, this happens to be the first time Richa directly questions the inequality that begins at home, but the tension in the scene is cut-off by a sermon on patriarchy, which could have been avoided, especially when even the long moments of silence in the film are arresting.
Mrs is a mirror that reflects a distorted, dystopian portrait of what it is to be a woman. But it’s also a mirror if looked deep into, can help clean the patriarchal stains.
