Chhaava Review: Vicky Kaushal Soars in a Film That Isn’t as Brave as Its Subject
'Chhaava' starring Vicky Kaushal hit theatres on 14 February.
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There are two primary things to discuss while talking about Chhaava – one is the film’s merit as a piece of ‘art’, as cinema is assumed to be, and the other is the story’s handling.
Chhaava, starring Vicky Kaushal in what could be called a titular role by some measure, is a cinematic adaptation of the Marathi novel ‘Chhava’ written by Shivaji Govind Samrat) and as such, tells the story of Sambhaji Maharaj – the second Maratha ruler and the eldest son of Chhatrapati Shivaji.
The film opens with the news of Shivaji’s demise reaching Mughal ruler Aurangzeb’s court – seemingly triggering the Deccan wars, a series of conflicts between the Mughal Empire and Shivaji’s descendants. Aurangzeb (Akshaye Khanna) is the only person who doesn’t celebrate, instead he mourns the loss of a worthy adversary. This is where Sambhaji comes in – with a ruthless attack on a Mughal outpost where Maratha warriors emerge victorious.
Who wouldn’t want to make or watch a film about that? But will that film be watchable is the real question. And it’s a question you find yourself asking frequently, especially once you step out of the theatre and realise that the film was perhaps 85% sword fights and (light) gore.
Laxman Utekar, who started his career as a cinematographer, brings his expertise of visual language to this film as well. With Utekar at the helm as the director, cinematographer Saurabh Goswami creates a spectacle out of this film – every fight sequence, repetitive as they are, is masterfully shot. Every swish of a blade, every switch in strategy gets captured. Some of the fights take place at a massive scale, in sprawling fields, and others take place in cramped quarters – Goswami manages to keep the tension high in both, all while expertly balancing the play of light and shadow.
One particularly impressive sequence involves an indoor clash between Maratha and Mughal warriors – shields come up to create a canopy of sorts and everyone gets pushed together, a wall of bodies closing in from all sides. It’s suffocating to watch, the background score is muted, almost like it’s reaching the audience from a distance. It’s the scene that finally made me want to completely invest my energy in the film – it’s a pity that it shows up much too late.
The rest of the film plays out much like you would expect it to – the film’s name ‘Chhaava’ (here) translates to a ‘lion’s cub’. Shivaji is the metaphorical ‘lion’ and his chhaava will take forward his legacy – not only as a Maratha ruler locking horns with the Mughal empire but as a king taking his father’s dream of the Hindavi Swarajya.
These are both massive undertakings – ones that don’t just require valour or courage, they also need master strategising. And this strategising is hinted at in the film, especially before the Maratha soldiers decide to opt for guerilla tactics to overwhelm the attacking forces. But the entire discussion is overtaken by each of Sambhaji Maharaj’s subjects, rather poetically, declaring how the terrain of their respective regions will help them cinch victory.
As a one-off set piece in a historical epic, perhaps it works, but for a viewer expecting to get even the simplest of glimpses into war-time strategy, it’s disappointing. The set pieces of this guerilla warfare are more impressive in their execution but appear disjointed because we have no idea of how or why they came to be.
And that’s because the film isn’t interested in painting a story, it’s interested in the reverence of a ruler and that doesn’t make for an interesting film. There’s a clear hesitation to actually delve into the life of its subject and that’s why, the more the film tries to tell you this story in its way, the less inclined you are to trust it.
For instance, ‘swarajya’ as a concept is much more complicated than the film paints it out to be. This is an idea that managed to have such a strong hold on the minds of Shivaji’s people and descendants that they were willing to lay their lives down for it and even something as crucial as that doesn’t translate.
‘Swarajya’ or ‘self-rule’ is an ideology that was even adapted to India’s freedom struggle; the longevity of an India like that deserves some space in a film like this. Chhaava isn’t interested in nuance – the stilted storytelling, fitting seamlessly into the kind of filmmaking we’ve come to expect from historical biopics over the past decade, is obvious.
The Maratha and Mughal soldiers and rulers are all painted in black and white – there is no place for analysis or discussion. And that makes everyone so painfully one-tone. The only deviation from this ‘norm’ is in Neil Bhoopalam’s turn as Akbar.
The scenes between Sambhaji and Akbar are the only ones where the film hints at how complicated the relationship between their empires – how it wasn’t as simple as a rebel force and a ruthless adversary.
Even an actor as effective and versatile as Vicky Kaushal is reduced to acting out the same tones in different settings. It is a testament to his skill that he still manages to eke out an exemplary performance. If the film’s intention was to create a god-like figure of its protagonist, Kaushal succeeds on all fronts.
He looks the part and feels the part. He is constantly screaming, in rage, in indignance, in victory, and it becomes dizzying after a while. It’s no surprise that the only few times the film manages to evoke any semblance of a connection between Sambhaji and the viewer is when he’s humanised – when he mourns the loss of his family, for instance.
But the other characters don’t fare so well. Visually, Rashmika Mandanna as Yesubai is as regal as can be but barring the sentimental exchange towards the film’s climax, it’s difficult to buy into the idea. Diana Penty as Zinat-un-Nissa Begum, who played a crucial role in his reign, is reduced to reaction shots in the first half of the film and meting out cruel orders of torture in the second.
Akshaye Khanna, with some exemplary prosthetic magic at play, is nearly unrecognisable as the actor, and is striking as a performer in his own way. Emoting primarily through his eyes and gradual signs of exhaustion entering his frame, Khanna cuts an imposing and terrifying figure. Pity, again, that he doesn’t get to explore the range of his performance.
Ashutosh Rana as his loyal general Hambirrao and Divya Dutta as his stepmother Soyarabai or ‘Rajmata’ are both underutilised.
The blood and gore in the battle sequences is easily digestible if you’re someone not extremely bothered by ‘gore’ as a genre.
The sequences themselves are well-choreographed with few held back by shoddy editing. The film is clearly suffering from a Mel Gibson and Tarantino hangover with its treatment: the Gibson shadow works, the Tarantino-esque attempts mostly don’t.
This is owing severely to the ill-fitting background score by AR Rahman – in isolation, perhaps these tunes, loud as they are in the film, could work. But on screen, in a film set after 1680, it’s so disjointed. This is a soundtrack for a modern film; not a period drama.
It feels so brutally out of place and the experience is only further hampered by how loud and overwhelming it is. By the time the The Passion of Christ inspired climax makes it to the screen, you’re left feeling exhausted. And what the film rewards you with for your patience is more of Kaushal's expert performance and even more of what zapped the energy out of you in the first place.
The only respite, once again, is the interaction between Sambhaji and his trusted friend, poet (an effective Vineet Singh) who earned the title of Chandogamatya – the connection the duo shared is essayed through poetry. It’s in moments like these, and there are quite a few, where you mourn the film Chhaava could’ve been.
But unlike its protagonist, who often runs into battle like a man possessed even when the odds seem stacked against him, the film simply wasn’t brave enough to take that leap.