The one thing I feared the most while heading for my Awarapan 2 screening was Shabana Azmi's performance. It has been a long, long time since I enjoyed watching her on screen, and Batwara 1947, which I watched and reviewed yesterday, has the most atrocious Azmi performance I have ever seen. Well, it gives me some pleasure to say that Azmi, in Awarapan 2, is just fine. With her stone-cold face that lights up when she gives a slight smile, Azmi's Nafisa Nawaz looks like an incarnation of a deadly boss lady. Whenever she is on screen, she commands your attention with a seemingly casual authority. Unlike in Batwara 1947 or Dabba Cartel, the actor doesn't fuss unnecessarily; she doesn't scream "Acting!" This is a self-assured performance—calm, relaxed, classy. It's a pity, however, that Nafisa isn't allowed to do anything substantial in the film. Her function is that of an all-seeing, all-knowing rival who knows all the dirty secrets so that she can reveal them strategically at certain points merely to move the narrative forward. She is less of a fleshed-out character and more of a tease for the future of this franchise. She is saved for the sequels; she is like that text that appears at the end of most Marvel movies: Nafisa Nawaz will return in Awarapan 3.
Perhaps that's because all the scenery-chewing moments are reserved for the central villain of this movie. He is Zorawar, played by Puran Gabbi, who looks like a cross between Vijay Varma and Purab Kohli. He is present to fill the void left behind by Kohli's Munna Malik (in Awarapan, he was one of the bad guys). Zorawar is heavily reminiscent of Munna. Why didn't director Nitin Kakkar and the writers Bilal Siddiqui and Vishesh Bhatt revive Munna himself? Or they could have created a different kind of villain for the sequel. Anyway, Gabbi is effective as a loose-screw baddie. He evidently revels in playing this character, to whom he brings a delicious dark comic streak. When Zara (Disha Patani), Zorawar's sister, plays cello in an empty auditorium at her music school, Zorawar picks up his autistic brother, Sikander (Aniruddh Rawal), and starts dancing. There is a spring in his step, and his face lights up with ecstasy—he seems to be floating in the sky. All this obstinate, spoiled kid of an antagonist dreams of is power and family. He wants a sibling with whom he can talk about his criminal activities. Since both Zara and Sikander refuse to participate in his schemes, Zorawar finds his brother from another mother in Shivam Pandit (Emraan Hashmi).
How is Shivam alive? Didn't six bullets, at the end of Awarapan, penetrate his body? Oh, um, because...sequel, creative bankruptcy, and fan service. Buddha and monks, at this point, are simply plot conveniences to rescue Shivam from fatal injuries. They are akin to "herbs" or "healing potions" that one consumes in video games to fill up one's health bar and continue playing. In Awarapan, Shriya Saran's Aaliyah Hamid loved freeing birds from their cages, and Shivam caught this bug of "azaadi" so feverishly that he rescued Reema from the clutches of human trafficking. In Awarapan 2, almost everybody is like those birds in the cages, and it's only up to Shivam to free them from their prison. This kind soul, whose sole mission ultimately becomes to give freedom to each and every victim, himself lives in a mental cage of self-pity. And oh, what self-pity it is! Shivam wears a gloomy face that severely underlines how much he is suffering. He rarely smiles; he does his job and then broods quietly. He broods so much and suffers so much that you feel guilty for laughing at the oppressively single-minded solemn tone of the film. And Shivam is beaten up so many times at an underground fight club or by some generic guys in, among other places, a prison that you also feel guilty for not bringing a first-aid kit.
Shivam willingly takes most of the hits. He loves punishing himself because of what happened in the first film. But this self-inflicted punishment gets repetitious quickly. It also doesn't arise from the "I deserve to be kicked for my failures" sentiment. Rather, its roots belong to the realm of masochism. Awarapan 2 blends heartbreak with masochism to appeal to all the Budget Romeos, who are always beating themselves up over their failed romances. Movies like Awarapan 2 and Sanam Teri Kasam invite this crowd to wallow together in a collective orgy of self-pity, which is why many would end up identifying with Shivam's self-imposed grief. I wanted to shake this man; I wanted to tell him that life is beautiful and he shouldn't waste it by sulking. It's tough, however, to talk sense into Shivam-like Devdases who would rather brood for the camera, the audience, or their friends than live passionately. Such people seem to be on some sort of a mission to prove to others that only they know how to love somebody deeply. Their pity party is frankly tiring.
But Awarapan 2 won't tell them the truth because it exploits their self-centered masochism for minting moolah at the box office. And boneheaded trade analysts posing as boneheaded film critics would use Awarapan 2's box office numbers to make a lot of noise. They will generate a mood online that would indicate that this movie is something of a big deal. At its best, Awarapan 2 serves as a nostalgia machine that reminds us that the sole saving grace of the first Awarapan was its music—the movie itself was a thin outline for a script searching for multidimensional characters and a rich story. Kakkar and team might get the Bhatt camp what Suri failed to attain with the prequel: numbers at the box office. But at their core, both Awarapan films are insubstantial, forgettable, and, dare I say, boring. These crime thrillers are nothing more than a suffering-seeking Romeo's paradise.
Final Score - [3.5/10]
Reviewed by - Vikas Yadav
Follow @vikasonorous on Twitter
Publisher at Midgard Times