Among all genres, fantasy is the hardest to crack. A filmmaker not only has to depict an extraordinary and imaginative world, but also render it credible. They must take us to a galaxy far, far away and simultaneously establish a connection with us mortals through earthly stakes and sentiments. That is why the best artists don't overrely on visual effects to conjure a new place or a new dimension. Instead, they exhibit and express their ingenuity through multidimensional characters, detailed inner lives, and tangible aspirations. In that respect—and in many others—Tumbbad, the 2018 period folk horror directed by Anand Gandhi and Rahi Anil Barve, beautifully excelled. On one side, there was the magic of technical brilliance (eerie sounds, a palpable and haunting atmosphere), and on the other, recognizable characters who lent weight to the text and subtext.
The real beauty of Tumbbad, though, lay in how the text and subtext bounced off each other through the actions of its characters. It was, by all means, a stunning, breathtaking achievement. To expect something similar on that scale again—even from the same team—would be setting oneself up for disappointment. Still, I love keeping tabs on unexpected breakouts like Gandhi and Barve, eager to see what such filmmakers do next. What challenges would they undertake? How would they reinvent themselves or further polish their talents? For this very reason, Barve's Mayasabha—The Hall of Illusion was on my list of the most anticipated films of the year. I was so giddy with excitement that I couldn't wait to watch it in a theater. Now that I finally have, I must say I'm quite underwhelmed.
For starters, Barve's writing here often feels like subtext screaming for attention. Like Tumbbad, Mayasabha is a father–son story set amidst gold and greed, and like Tumbbad, the son eventually escapes the shadow of his father. But while Tumbbad's ideas were seamlessly embedded in a delightfully macabre tale, Mayasabha mostly presents ideas warming up our intellect. The gold, for instance, is not hidden in a womb-like cave; it's stashed in a toilet—inside a filthy toilet seat whose stench one can practically smell in the theater. The metaphor is clear: gold is as dirty as a commode; it makes men so blind that they'll happily embrace a toilet seat if you tell them it's gold-plated.
Parmeshwar Khanna (Jaaved Jaaferi) is often seen spraying DDT into the air. If you're thinking "smoke screen," that's precisely the intention—reinforced by a line about how it's easiest to hide something by keeping it in plain sight. Parmeshwar, exhausted by parasites who enter his dilapidated movie theater with lust for wealth, uses the spray to ward off mosquitoes, both figurative and literal. These greedy intruders, in their own way, are bloodsuckers.
Two such "mosquitoes" who befriend Vasu (Mohammad Samad), Parmeshwar's son, in hopes of discovering the treasure's location are Ravrana (Deepak Damle) and Zeenat (Veena Jamkar). It's no accident that Ravrana sounds like Raavan. As for Zeenat, she evokes Vinayak Rao's mistress from Tumbbad—only this version is more hypnotic and more memorable. She cackles like a witch, dresses in black, wears black lipstick, and comes across as an unscrupulous seductress. She quietly lifts her dress to reveal her legs, hoping to entice Parmeshwar. In that moment, she smiles and speaks like a woman supremely confident in her sexual charm. Jamkar nearly steals the film from her co-actors. Her Zeenat expresses herself freely and spontaneously, and she's the only character who consistently draws chuckles from the audience. Watch her face when Parmeshwar rebukes her for confusing "cuckold" with "kukkad," or when she prepares for a physical confrontation near the end. Zeenat becomes a natural, almost accidental comedian. Her feminine wiles are the highlight of this arty affair.
This isn't to say Barve is entirely sober. His comedic rhythms are wildly unpredictable—flowing, stopping, then flowing again in unconventional patterns. He aligns the film's tone with Parmeshwar's behavior: a man who can suddenly erupt into screams or flash an unsettling smile. You never quite know how he'll react from one second to the next. Jaaferi's casting is smart in this regard. Known largely for his "funny guy" image, the actor is placed in a sufficiently serious, highbrow context, and Barve knowingly plays with that dissonance. The clash between the Jaaferi we know from films like Dhamaal and the Jaaferi we see here keeps us off-balance. Barve even pokes fun at filmmaking conventions by staging expository monologues in which Ravrana and Zeenat listen to Parmeshwar ramble from the toilet.
And yet, Mayasabha frequently reveals a Barve who doesn't fully trust his audience. This version—the one that fears losing us and therefore overexplains what's already evident—saps the film of whatever joy it intermittently generates. I rolled my eyes when Parmeshwar explained the meaning of a Kabir doha whose significance, both thematically and narratively, was already obvious. Later, Barve unnecessarily underlines a character's homosexuality. I understand the intention, but the moment stretches beyond its breaking point and carries a distinctly hand-holding quality. It's already clear that Ravrana and Zeenat are ingratiating themselves with Parmeshwar and manipulating his son to locate the gold, yet Barve insists on spelling it out in bold letters.
I find these choices especially curious because Barve, through Parmeshwar, suggests that audiences don't know what they want—a sentiment cinephiles may read as "bad movies become blockbusters," and political students as "people don't know how to elect their leaders." But does Barve himself know what he wants? Does he aspire to be a sophisticated filmmaker who trusts that his work will find discerning viewers, or does he want to chastise the public for poor taste while still craving their validation? Like Barve, I've often blamed audiences for letting good films flop. Yet the people at my screening of Mayasabha were excited, attentive, and patient. They walked in with trust and expectation. When the film ended, I sensed a collective disappointment. "Is that it?" we all seemed to ask, in the same tone, the same voice.
Interestingly, the last time I experienced such palpable letdown was during a screening of Crazxy. There, too, the audience exited with a hollow feeling, cheated by an inane climax. I mention this because both Crazxy and Mayasabha were sold as films from the makers of Tumbbad. That 2018 film doesn't merely set expectations; it has become a kind of dirty gold itself—mined by these filmmakers for credibility and monetary rewards (then again, this is common practice in this business).
One can, of course, embellish Mayasabha with interpretations. Why set the story in a shabby movie theater? Perhaps because theaters are dying as OTT platforms take over. Vasu tells Zeenat that plants accustomed to dirty water will die if given clean water—maybe a comment on Parmeshwar, or on citizens acclimatized to social and political germs. All that smoke could gesture toward our worsening AQI. After all, we're responsible for every form of pollution. Like Parmeshwar, we've surrounded ourselves with smoke. The trouble with this kind of intellectual masturbation—at least here—is that the more one indulges in it, the more detached one becomes from the specificity of the onscreen characters and their environment.
Who is Parmeshwar beyond a has-been filmmaker and a man with a particular sexual orientation? Does he have relatives or friends? How did he enter the film industry? Was he self-taught or formally trained? How was his relationship with his parents? Who was he before he became a demented Devdas? And what about Vasu? Did he attend school, or was he home-schooled? What is his level of education?
Barve's characters, alas, are thinly sketched. They aren't filled with the stuff of life; they resemble museum pieces. They serve the script and Barve's intentions, but they don't sustain dramatic engagement. By keeping us at a distance, Barve offers a tasteful vision of human folly and innocence that looks impressive yet feels bland. He shows an original eye for decaying sets and employs a camera that suffocates you like a gas chamber. His concepts, however, aren't particularly original—they reek of dinner-table intellectualism. What Mayasabha needed was the artistic madness of an imaginative filmmaker. What it delivers instead are the ramblings of a theatrical mind asking the viewer to fill in blanks to impose coherence on a self-conscious project. For all its allusions to grand ideas, Mayasabha is a resounding dud.
Final Score- [5/10]
Reviewed by - Vikas Yadav
Follow @vikasonorous on Twitter
Publisher at Midgard Times