June Robertson from New Zealand, who recently travelled in an AirAsia flight, wrote a letter to a Malaysian senator raising an objection to its crew's dress code. In the letter she mentioned that she felt "offended" by the way AirAsia's female staff was dressed up.
She wrote, "The European Airlines, NZ, Australian and American Airlines' staff do not wear such short skirts." She also said that she felt "disgusted" and doesn't appreciate the crew's behaviour.
In October 2017, while travelling from Auckland to Kuala Lumpur, Robertson even told a crew member to "button-up" her blouse as she felt the female staff was bending over them on purpose.
"One of the things we like about Malaysia is the fact your women do not dress like prostitutes and the people are very respectful of others," Robertson mentioned in her letter which was posted on Facebook.
Here's a copy of her letter:
Robertson questioned why a respectful country like Malaysia is allowing this kind of behaviour. The Robertson's letter was addressed to Malaysian senator Datuk Hanafi Mamat.
However, according to a report by a Malaysian Daily, there are theories related to the existence of this woman, June Robertson as well. While New Zealand Herald claims there is no existence of Robertson, Kiwi News portal reported that a woman named June Robertson is registered at the provided address.
Swara Bhaskar wrote a no-holds-barred letter to Bhansali lamenting his depiction of ‘jauhar’ in Padmaavat but at the same time, upholding the right to freedom of speech and expression. Not denying that she is a fan of his operatic storytelling, she pointed out the possibly damaging effects of glorifying the medieval practice of self-immolation.
The co-writers of Goliyon Ki Rasleela Ram-Leela and lyricists of one of the songs from Padmaavat, Siddharth-Garima responded to her letter by writing another open letter titled, An open letter to all Vaginas. The letter begins with the dictionary definition of feminism and then goes on decry the concept.
Here are some of the excerpts from the letter. After citing all the incidents in the film that depict Rani Padmini’s agency in the film as a strong queen, they continue to question ‘equality of the sexes’ and Swara’s statement about feeling like being reduced to a vagina after watching the film.
But how can anyone advocate about ‘equality of the sexes’? A woman has a vagina, the door to life. It has the power to procure ‘life’, which no man, however hard he tries, can ever do. The question of equality is settled there, once and for all.
They must have felt like a ‘vagina’ when she chose ‘fire’ over ‘rape’? It was her ‘call’, her ‘decision’ as a vagina. Right, wrong, strong, weak is up to you to interpret as a ‘penis’ or as a ‘vagina’.
What perhaps was a victory for the filmmaker was the blinding of khilji as he entered the fort precincts, by burning embers thrown at him by the women. Such was the power of their fire within that they didn’t let the enemy lay their hands upon themselves. Why make them small and guilty of an act that they chose to protect themselves in the face of lynching and a life of slavery? Why judge that day from 700 years ago with ‘what would I do today’? It’s a film based in the 13th century when women preferred and chose death to rape.
Then don’t watch historicals, here or abroad. A ‘gladiator’ would perhaps shake your sensibilities of a slave in today’s context! Or a Troy might again make you feel like some other body part… A squishy liver perhaps. Since we cant appreciate art, lets violate it. With Karni Sena on one side and the vaginas on the other.
Padmavati was not a ‘rape victim’ who was so shamed that she didn’t have a right to live, as you make it out to be in your letter. Amazing what you all make it into. Was your open letter about Padmaavat or the regressive ‘Bhoomi’?
In an open letter to Padmaavat director Sanjay Leela Bhansali, actor Swara Bhaskar decries glorification of Sati and Jauhar which deny women the right to live.
Dear Mr. Bhansali,
At the outset Sir, congratulations on finally being able to release your magnum opus ‘Padmaavat’ – minus the ‘i’, minus the gorgeous Deepika Padukone’s uncovered slender waist, minus 70 shots you apparently had to cut out.. but heyyyy! You managed to have it released with everyone’s heads still on their shoulders and noses still intact. And in this ‘tolerant’ India of today, where people are being murdered over meat, and school children are targets for avenging some archaic notion of male pride, that your film even managed a release – that is I guess commendable, and so again, congratulations.
Congratulations also on the stunning performances all around by your entire cast — primary and supporting. And, of course, the film was a stunning visual treat. But then all of this is to be expected from a brilliant auteur like yourself, a man who leaves his stamp on everything he touches.
By the way Sir, we know each other, after a fashion. I don’t know if you remember, but I played a tiny role in your film Guzaarish. A two-scene -long role, to be precise. I remember having a brief chat with you about my lines, and you asking me what I thought about the lines. I remember feeling proud for a whole month that Sanjay Leela Bhansali had asked me my opinion. I watched you agitatedly explaining to junior artists in one scene, and to the jimmy jib operator in the second scene; some minutiae of the particular shot you were taking. And I remember thinking to myself, “Wow! This man really cares about every little detail in his film.” I was impressed with you Sir.
An avid watcher of your films, I marveled at how you pushed boundaries with every film you made and how stars turned into fierce and deep performers under your able direction. You moulded my idea of what epic love must be like and I fantasised about the day I will be directed by you in a protagonist part. I was and remain a fan.
And I want you to know, I really fought for your film when it was still called Padmavati. I grant you, I fought on Twitter timelines –not on the battlefield, and I sparred with trolls not raving manic Muslims; but still I fought for you. I said to TV cameras the things I thought you were not being able to say because your Rs 185 crore were on the line.
Here’s proof:
And I genuinely believed what I said. I genuinely believed and still believe that you and every other person in this country has the right to say the story they want to say, the way they want to say it, showing how much ever stomach of the protagonist they want to show; without having their sets burnt, their selves assaulted, their limbs severed or their lives lost.
Also, in general, people should be able to make and release films and children should be able to get to school safely. And I want you to know that I really wished that your film turn out to be a stupendous success, a blockbuster breaking box office records, whose collections itself would be a slap in the faces of the Karni Sena terrorists and their ilk. And so it was with great excitement and the zeal of a believer that I booked first day, first show tickets for Padmaavat, and took my whole family and our cook to watch the film.
Perhaps it is because of this attachment and concern that I had for the film that I am SO stunned having watched it. And perhaps that is why I take the liberty and have the temerity to write to you. I will try and be concise and direct though there is much to say.
Women have the right to live, despite being raped sir.
Women have the right to live, despite the death of their husbands, male ‘protectors’, ‘owners’, ‘controllers of their sexuality’.. whatever you understand the men to be.
Women have the right to live — independent of whether men are living or not.
Women have the right to live. Period.
It’s actually pretty basic.
Some more basic points:
Women are not only walking talking vaginas.
Yes, women have vaginas, but they have more to them as well. So their whole life need not be focused on the vagina, and controlling it, protecting it, maintaining it’s purity. (Maybe in the 13th century that was the case, but in the 21st century we do not need to subscribe to these limiting ideas. We certainly do not need to glorify them. )
It would be nice if the vaginas are respected; but in the unfortunate case that they are not, a woman can continue to live. She need not be punished with death, because another person disrespected her vagina without her consent.
There is life outside the vagina, and so there can be life after rape. (I know I repeat, but this point can never be stressed enough.)
In general there is more to life than the vagina.
You may be wondering why the hell I am going on and on thus about vaginas. Because Sir, that’s what I felt like at the end of your magnum opus. I felt like a vagina. I felt reduced to a vagina–only. I felt like all the ‘minor’ achievements that women and women’s movements have made over the years– like the right to vote, the right to own property, the right to education, equal pay for equal work, maternity leave, the Vishakha judgement, the right to adopt children…… all of it was pointless; because we were back to basics.
We were back to the basic question — of right to life. Your film, it felt, had brought us back to that question from the Dark Ages – do women – widowed, raped, young, old, pregnant, pre-pubescent… do they have the right to live?
I understand that Jauhar and Sati are a part of our social history. These happened. I understand that they are sensational, shocking dramatic occurrences that lend themselves to splendid, stark and stunning visual representation; especially in the hands of a consummate maker like yourself — but then so were the lynchings of blacks by murderous white mobs in the 19th century in the US – sensational, shocking dramatic social occurrences. Does that mean one should make a film about it with no perspective on racism? Or, without a comment on racial hatred? Worse, should one make a film glorifying lynchings as a sign of some warped notion of hot-bloodedness, purity, bravery – I don’t know, I have no idea how possibly one could glorify such a heinous hate crime.
Surely Sir, you agree that Sati, and Jauhar are not practices to be glorified. Surely, you agree that notwithstanding whatever archaic idea of honour, sacrifice, purity propels women and men to participate in and condone such practices; that basically Sati and Jauhar, like the practice of Female Genital Mutilation (FGM) and Honour Killings, are steeped in deeply patriarchal, misogynist and problematic ideas. A mentality that believes that the worth of women lies in their vaginas, that female lives are worthless if the women are no longer controlled by male owners or if their bodies have been ‘desecrated’ by the touch of ; or even the gaze of a male who doesn’t by social sanction ‘own’ or ‘control’ the female.
Practices like Sati, Jauhar, FGM, Honour Killings should not be glorified because they don’t merely deny women equality, they deny women personhood. They deny women humanity. They deny women the right to life. And that is wrong. One would have assumed that in 2018, this is not a point that even needs to be made; but apparently, it does. Surely, you wouldn’t consider making a film glorifying FGM or Honour Killings!
Sir, you will say to me that I am over-reacting and that I must see the film in its context. That it’s a story about people in the 13th Century. And in the 13th century that’s what life was– polygamy was accepted, Muslims were beasts who devoured meat and women alike, and honourable Hindu women happily jumped into their husbands funeral pyre, and if they couldn’t make it to the funeral, they built a pyre and rushed into it — in fact, they liked the idea of collective suicide so much that they gleefully discussed it over their daily beautification rituals. “Verisimilitude” you will say to me.
No Sir; Rajasthan in the 13th century with its cruel practices is merely the historical setting of the ballad you have adapted into the film Padmaavat. The context of your film is India in the 21st century; where five years ago, a girl was gang-raped brutally in the country’s capital inside a moving bus. She didn’t commit suicide because her honour had been desecrated, Sir. She fought her six rapists. She fought them so hard that one of those monsters shoved an iron rod up her vagina. She was found on the road with her intestines spilling out. Apologies for the graphic details, Sir, but this is the real ‘context’ of your film.
Swara Bhasker
A week before your film released, a 15-year-old Dalit girl was brutally gang-raped in Jind in Haryana; a crime bearing sinister similarities to the rape of Nirbhaya.
You do know that acts like Sati and raping women are two sides of the same mindset. A rapist attempts to violate and attack a woman in her genital area, penetrate it forcibly, mutilate it in an effort to control the woman, dominate her or annihilate her. A Sati- Jauhar apologist or supporter attempts to annihilate the woman altogether if the genitals have been violated or if her genitals are no longer in the control of a ‘rightful’ male owner. In both cases the attempt and idea is to reduce women to a sum total of their genitals.
The context of art, any art is the time and place when it was created and consumed. And that’s why this gang-rape infested India, this rape condoning mindset, this victim blaming society is the actual context of your film, Sir. Surely in this context, you could have offered some sort of a critique of Sati and Jauhar in your film?
You will say that you put out a disclaimer at the beginning of the film claiming that the film did not support Sati or Jauhar. Sure Sir, but you followed that up with a two-hour-45-minute-long paean on Rajput honour, and the bravery of honourable Rajput women who chose happily to sacrifice their lives in raging flames, than to be touched by enemy men who were not their husbands but were incidentally Muslim.
There were more than three instances of the ‘good’ characters of your story speaking of Sati/Jauhar as the honourable choice, your female protagonist – epitome of both beauty, brains and virtue sought permission from her husband to commit Jauhar, because she could not even die without his permission; soon after she delivered a long speech about the war between Satya and Asatya, Dharm and Adharm and presented collective Sati to be the path of Truth and Dharm.
Then in the climax, breathtakingly shot of course – hundreds of women bedecked in red like Goddess Durga as bride rushed into the Jauhar fire while a raving Muslim psychopathic villain loomed over them and a pulsating musical track – that had the power of an anthem; seduced the audience into being awestruck and admiring of this act. Sir, if this is not glorification and support of Sati and Jauhar, I really do not know what is.
I felt very uncomfortable watching your climax, watching that pregnant woman and little girl walk into the fire. I felt my existence was illegitimate because God forbid anything untoward happened to me, I would do everything in my power to sneak out of that fiery pit– even if that meant being enslaved to a monster like Khilji forever. I felt in that moment that it was wrong of me to choose life over death. It was wrong to have the desire to live. This Sir, is the power of cinema.
Your cinema particularly is inspiring, evocative and powerful. It can move audiences to emotional highs and lows. It can influence thinking and that, Sir, is why you must be responsible as to what it is you are doing and saying in your film.
It was with great difficulty that a group of reform-minded Indians, and the provincial British Colonial governments and Princely States in India abolished and criminalised Sati in a series of judgments between 1829 and 1861. In independent India, The Indian Sati Prevention Act (1988) further criminalised any type of aiding, abetting, and glorifying of Sati. Your act of thoughtlessly glorifying this misogynistic criminal practice is something you ought to answer for, Sir. As your ticket- buying audience, I have the right to ask you how and why you did this.
You must be aware that modern Indian history has recorded some more recent Jauhar– like acts. During India and Pakistan’s bloody Partition some 75,000 women were raped, kidnapped, abducted, forcibly impregnated by men of the ‘other’ religion. There were numerous instances of voluntary and assisted suicides by women, in some cases husbands and fathers themselves beheaded their wives and daughters before men of the ‘other’ religion could touch them.
Bir Bahadur Singh, survivor of the riots in Thoa Khalsa in Punjab, described a scene of women jumping into the village well to commit suicide. In about half an hour, he recalled, the well was full. The women on top survived. His mother was a survivor. Singh, recalls author Urvashi Butalia in her 1998 book The Other Side Of Silence, was ashamed of his mother for living for the remainder of her life. This is among the darkest periods of Indian history and ought to be remembered with shame, horror, sadness, reflection, empathy, nuance; not with thoughtless sensational glorification. These sad tales of the Partition, too, are a less obvious context of your film Padmaavat.
Mr. Bhansali, I will end in peace; wishing that you make many more films the way you want to, and are allowed to shoot and release them in peace; that you, your actors, your producers, your studio and your audiences remain safe from threats and vandalism. I promise to fight trolls and television commentators for your freedom to express; but I also promise to ask you questions about the art you make for public consumption. Meanwhile, let’s hope that no zealot member of any Karni Sena or some Marni Sena gets the idea to demand decriminalisation of the practice of Sati!
Sincerely,
Swara Bhasker
Desirous of Life
p.s: Swara Bhasker is an award winning actress in the Hindi film industry whose filmography includes the critically acclaimed Anaarkali Of Aarah (2017), the critical-commercial success Nil Battey Sannata (2016); superhit blockbuster films Prem Ratan Dhan Paayo (2015), Tanu Weds Manu Returns (2015), Raanjhanaa (2013) and Tanu Weds Manu (2011).
She is also an occasional writer and columnist and her short stories and articles have appeared in The Little Magazine, Seminar, The Himal Southasian, The Hindu and the Indian Express.
A resolution was for keeps: breaking it was akin to dishonour, a sin, an irrefutable measure of self-failure, writes author Kavita Kane in She the People TV. Read on:
What would Ramayan be without the vow given to Kaikeyi by King Dashrath? Or would the course of events and the internecine bloodshed have been averted had Bhishma not taken his monstrous oath of lifelong celibacy and relinquishing his rights?
The premise of both the epics, interestingly, hinges on promises, resolutions and oaths. While Bhishma’s is a self-imposed vow, the one by King Dashrath becomes an enforced plea, an anguished order, and eventually a burden to be borne by his own death and the travails of his son Ram, who is exiled for fourteen years. But in both cases, the resolutions are the trigger points; they change the narrative quickly and drastically.
That brings us to the importance and impact of such heavy, humongous resolutions in the epics. Why are resolutions taken? However varied may be the answers, they were definitely not meant to be broken.
A resolution was for keeps: breaking it was akin to dishonour, a sin, an irrefutable measure of self-failure.
The vow starts as an act of gratitude by King Dashrath who gives his young wife two boons when she saves his life in the battlefield. She dismisses it but the king promises to grant them whenever she wants. She takes it at the opportune time of Ram’s coronation: she wants the throne for her son, Bharat and Ram to go in exile for 14 years.
A son does not go against his father’s orders, especially when he had given his word to his wife.
Although the vow in the form of two boons, is given by his father to his stepmother, it is Ram who has to bear the brunt of it – as intended by Kaikeyi. Breaking it is inconceivable. The resolution hardens thereby into a command, which Ram, unhesitatingly obeys, considering it his filial duty. A son does not go against his father’s orders, especially when he had given his word to his wife. Carrying out the resolution is a moral obligation, not just appeasement of it.
On this single pledge, the entire Ramayan is weaved and woven with its threads of politics and promises, devotion and disappointments, acceptance and rejection. It is this vow which makes Ram for what he is, taking with him in the tide, the fate and future of his wife Sita and his brother Lakshman. It is Dashrath’s grateful vow to his wife that takes a turn for the worst to usher in the drama and disillusionment in the royal family.
However dramatic or tragic the events unfold, it does not undermine the importance or the sanctity of that resolution.
Price Devavrat, the heir apparent to the throne of Hastinapur takes up a self-imposed oath and becomes Bhishma, the man with the terrible oath. This pledge of his paves way events to come, on which he has no control. His resolution unleashes a series of occurrences and circumstances, he himself becomes helpless victim to them. But he never ever thinks of reverting his resolution, even when it culminates in the violent suicide of Amba and the future of the Hastinapur throne, when both his brothers die an untimely death. The oath eventually becomes a curse for him and his family, yet breaking it would have been a violation of duty.
The weight of such resolutions crush the people carrying it yet lifting them to nobler heights. From Devavrat, an ordinary prince becomes Bhishma to dominate the Mahabharata for his righteousness, however misplaced. Ram takes on his father’s promise as an act of duty and a personal challenge to brave into the forest and rid it of the evil rakshasas. A vow triggers a mission in both cases. A vow entails enormous personal sacrifice, taking on hues of nobleness and virtue.
Urmila promises her departing husband, Lakshman that she will never shed a tear in his fourteen-year absence. So, does his mother Sumitra. Both choose their own private expatriation, and a worse form of exiles for themselves.
There are instances of vows being broken:
King Dushyant breaks his promise to the young, impressionable Shakuntala and never returns to make her his queen. Krishna breaks his pledge of raising weapons during the Kurukshetra war when, in amount of frustration, he decides to kill the invanquishable Bhishma on Arjun’s reluctance to take arms against his gurus and relatives. But he stops himself on time and instead gives birth to the Bhagwat Gita.
There are resolutions and there are bloodier resolutions:
If Bhisma’s oath is self-destructive, his biggest victim Amba, before jumping into a pyre, takes on a more terrible vow of vengeance – that she will be responsible for his death even if it means taking on another birth. Draupadi’s self-imposed, self-declared oath is the bloodiest of them all. Suffering her humiliation in rage and revenge, she declares her resolution in open court – that she will tie her hair only when Dushasan and Duryodhan are killed in war. Her pledge takes a gorier turn when Bhim echoes her sentiments of vengeance by promising her that he will braid her hair with the blood of the Dushasan whom he will tear apart with his bare hands on the battlefield. And he keeps his resolution as does Draupadi, her loose mane a constant taunt to her five husbands to seek revenge for her humiliation.
The narrative of both the epics are interspersed with a variety of small and big resolutions, each have its scale of importance and impact: but they all serve a purpose and moves the plot forward.
Arjun takes a vow that he will kill Jayadrath, who murdered his son Abhimanyu through subterfuge, before the sun sets the next day. Ashwattham gives a vow to a dying Duryodhan that he will annihilate the Pandav clan, and in the deathly stillness of the night, kills the two brothers of Draupadi – Shikhandi and Dhrishtadyumn – the killers of his father Dronacharya by stamping them and her five sons (Upapandavas) to death, assuming them to be the sleeping Pandavas. Karna promises Kunti that he would not kill the Pandavas – except Arjun – and that she will remain a mother of five sons. And it is he who dies in the battlefield, keeping his promise till his last breath.
On Ram’s exile to the forest, Bharat takes his own resolution – that he will not rule his brother’s kingdom but will guard it, placing Ram’s slippers on the throne. Likewise, Lakshman and the brothers follow a pledge of celibacy during those fourteen years in support of Ram’s exile.
And while numerous stories unfold for such promises to keep, without these resolutions the epics would not be what they are.
Sanjay Leela Bhansali's glorified treatment of the archaic practice of jauhar - mass suicide by fire - is a disconcerting watch. On a lighter note, if there's any lesson to take from this tragedy, it's to never send your husband shopping for jewels, writes Suhani Singh, the Senior Associate Editor, India Today, in Daily O. Read on:
After a title change, a sartorial makeover and with two disclaimers - one elaborately long and one too short and ineffective - Sanjay Leela Bhansali's film finally releases. The only shade of grey in this film is Alauddin Khilji's kohl-lined eyes. Padmaavat is essentially a simplistic take on the good versus evil duel, in which the antagonist's crazy antics not only overshadow the righteous protagonists but also expose the flaws of their ethical code.
Padmaavat is not just a tribute to Rajput courage and in hindsight their obsession with principles of war as it is to Bhansali's filmography. Scenes from Bajirao Mastani and Devdas and a song from Saawariya will come to mind while watching the epic. Like Bajirao Mastani, here too is a married king, Rawal Ratan Singh (Shahid Kapoor), who finds a second wife while away from home. He has gone to the Singhalese kingdom to procure its famed pearls for his miffed wife. If there's any lesson to take from this tragedy, it's to never send your husband shopping for jewels.
Padmavati (Deepika Padukone) comes across as more pitiable than an inspiring figure. She is a spirited Singhalese warrior princess until she runs into Ratan Singh and soon becomes Chittor's queen. The bow and arrow and forest life is discarded for one stuck in a palace adorned with embellished ghaghras and big naths. And so begins a life of domesticity, in which Padmavati endlessly stares into her husband's eyes, exchanges amorous looks, smiles coyly and dresses him up.
This leisurely choreographed and luxurious take on romance is trademark Bhansali and also now too familiar. In this case it even makes you question the Rajput ruler's leadership skills while his kingdom is under threat.
It's all too familiar and jaded for once again Deepika plays another of Bhansali's virtuous heroines with little purpose other than to showcase the purity of her love. But her character isn't the problem here. In fact right until the #NotWithoutMyHusband climax, the queen is questioning her husband's decisions and his lack of action.
But then if history has taught us anything, it's that men rarely listen to women for the male ego is paramount. And so the weakest here is Rawal Ratan Singh who believes in making history by doing the right thing. It's hard to root for a character whose valour is misguided, is easily susceptible and thanks to Bhansali's love for craft preoccupied with his wardrobe. Sadly for him centuries later his persistence with his community's obedience to "usool" and "guroor" makes him seem an imprudent king. "Rajput kabhi peeth peeche nahi jaate." Sadly the words that ring true belong to Alauddin Khilji (Ranveer Singh) - "Jug ka ek hi usool hai, jeet".
(There is only one rule in war - victory). After all one remembers the winners, not the losers, and everything is fair in love and war.
But in Padmaavat its greed and not love which gets the plot going.
Raghav Chetan (Aayam Mehta), banished from Chittor for being a sleazy baba (the one rare occasion the film has contemporary significance), tells Khilji that he can be as celebrated a world conqueror as Alexander if he gets hold of Padmavati. Obsessed with making and rewriting history Khilji is enthralled at the prospect. Khilji attacks, struggles and then comes up with a stroke of genius. Chittor retaliates with one of its own courtesy Padmavati. Male chauvinism is at its peak when Padmavati arrives in Delhi only to be reprimanded by her husband for her daredevilry. Gradually Malik Muhammad Jayasi's 1520 poem, Padmavat, plays out.
Ranveer Singh shines as the megalomaniacal, lustful, narcissistic and ruthless Sultan. Compared to the indecisive Rajputs, the Afghan-origin Sultan of Delhi is the life of the proceedings. Women to him are objects to be mistreated and territories to be conquered. Padmavati is his Kiran, a woman to be had at all costs. Singh uses the kohl-lined eyes and muscular body effectively to put on a showy act, one which with a few jarring notes, is full of engaging moments. There is fun in the terror here. In one memorable scene, he makes his irritation of seeing Ratan Singh clear with a well-timed grimace. In another, he swaps his thali with the Rajput in fear of being poisoned. This is an actor savouring each and every moment, fully aware that deranged and debauched characters like this don't come your way every day.
Giving Khilji good company in the crazy department is his devoted aide Malik Kafur (Jim Sarbh), rewarded with the best entry sequence in the film. Labelled by the enemies as his wife, Kafur's own unconditional love for the king here is juxtaposed well against Khilji's insatiable want for Padmavati. This, and not Ratan Singh, Padmavati and Khilji, is the most fascinating love triangle in the film. The relationship only reiterates the differences between love and desire. Bhansali keeps the homoerotic tension between the two minimal but it's effective in getting the point across. Sarbh's measured performance ensures this character doesn't become a caricature and its sentiments are considered.
Apart from celebrating the Rajput spirit on the battlefield, the film inadvertently also highlights the royalty's ability to change clothes at a swift pace. The creative liberties here come at the cost of continuity. Padmaavat like any another Bhansali film excels in the craft department, with Sudeep Chatterjee's gorgeous lenswork and Rimple and Harpreet Narula's costumes playing big role in adding to the visual splendour. The grand scale is tasteful and impressive, even visible in the battle sequences.
But Padmaavat is also one of Bhansali's weakest musical efforts. Barring the censored ghoomar song, none register. The picturisation of the unreleased songs lacks the Bhansali magic. The Malhari-like track on Khilji is present only to further degrade the character.
Politics is why Padmaavat suffered and it's the film's politics which is hugely problematic. Bhansali's glorified treatment of the archaic practice of jauhar - mass suicide by fire - is a disconcerting watch. All along the Karni Sena, self-appointed custodians of Rajput honour, have been worried about the repercussions the film will have on how their community is perceived and judged.
The vilification here is entirely of Khilji and his Muslim army. Boorish they may be but at least they are not dull, a feature that the power couple does have. And that's the real failure of Padmaavat. It's inability to evoke a sense of loss and empathy for its Romeo and Juliet. Khilji may not have got what he wanted but he ensures that history remembers him. By the end of Padmaavat, it's Khilji that you are thinking about. Because really in this day and age who thinks mass immolation is a victory.
