 "Shamitabh")
What can one expect from a film named Shamitabh? A tribute to Amitabh Bachchan, right? So why would I want to watch it when my time could be better spent in the lovely winter sun? My answer to that would be: the writer and director R Balki, who I adored after Cheeni Kum. While the director met my expectations adequately, I hadn’t expected to actually enjoy the three-odd hour run of the film , alone in the theatre no less. Shamitabh is a film about a boy named Daanish (Dhanush) from Igatpuri in Maharashtra who realised as a school kid that he wanted to be a Bollywood “hero”. The catch is that he’s mute. Enter Amitabh Sinha (Amitabh Bachchan), who, by a stroke of fate, medical miracles and epic un-realism, becomes the voice of Daanish. Without going into the complicated science of things, Daanish gets a device implanted in his throat that can echo Sinha’s voice, rendering the duo inseparable, were Daanish’s superstar dreams to be realised. To facilitate the proximity, Sinha becomes Daanish’s “valet”, or personal assistant. Akshara, played by Akshara Haasan, is the conduit for this “rags to riches” story who flits in and out of the script depending on when it needs her.
But what is “Shamitabh”? Daanish plus Amitabh (Sinha) makes “Shamitabh”, a portmanteau name that is “numerologically appropriate” and assumes the role of an overarching trope in the film. For example, the “sh” in “Shamitabh” represents the silence that is Daanish. In another scene, Sinha writes “Shamitabh” on a piece of toilet paper with the “sh” smaller than the rest of the letters. This becomes representative of the egos of both Daanish and Sinha and their symbiotic relationship that doesn’t allow either to survive without the other. P C Sreeram’s cinematography captures this idea with a quirky, attention-grabbing technique, much like films from South India. This brings in an interesting juxtaposition — the characters are fighting off corny scripts and are captured doing so through a camera that pans through their faces in the most “filmy” fashion.
The film also has a subtle meta-theatre quality, with tiny details and themes in dialogues, constant references to the Bollywood industry, including personal relationships. The first few minutes are dedicated to a discussion on Dhanush’s own persona — he’s short, his face, unlike classic Bollywood heroes’, is not chiselled nor does he flaunt an eight-pack. At an awards ceremony, there is ample commentary on how awards are “bought”, and how actors should learn from Aamir Khan and boycott these ceremonies. When actor Rekha (as herself) hands out an award to Daanish (as Shamitabh), she reacts very visibly to his voice, calling it “God’s own”. Most of this is introduced in the first half of the film, leaving very little to be dealt with in the second half. Shruti Haasan, Akshara’s older sister off-screen, lends her voice to a song called “Sannata”, whose lyrics themselves are a tribute to the entire industry, including Shruti herself. Dhanush looks eerily like Prabhu Deva of yesteryears in “Mukkala mukabla”.
The dialogues, though sometimes slapstick, are witty for the most part. Ilyaraaja’s music and background score teams up well with the script, without making the very Bollywood songs seem unnecessary. Bachchan seems comfortable in the shoes of a cynical, bitter character, without much scope to ham his way through melodrama. Seeing him drunk on-screen, though, brings a sense of déjà vu. He calls his voice the “rare whiskey” to Daanish’s “paani everywhere”, another theme that is neatly brought together in the end. While Haasan attempts a sincere acting debut, much of it is actually forgettable. This could partly be because of an unfortunate haircut that lets only half of her face show during most of the film. Dhanush is impressive, and carries Bachchan’s voice surprisingly well. He plays the impaired boy with a refreshing dose of spunk, not letting his small-town heritage bring him down or make him obsequious in the least.
The biggest let-down is the conclusion to the film. When Akshara asks Daanish if a particular script is “too classy and not massy enough”, it seems to be a cue for the “massy”, tear-jerker of a climax that the audience is largely unprepared for. The last scene with Bachchan is an emotional theatrical presentation, but not particularly necessary. Balki somewhat makes up for this with a final little detail in the closing credits — acknowledging the actors’ valets perhaps as a tribute to the many faces behind the scenes that go completely unnoticed.
