Review of the film “Amar Singh Chamkila”: A musical story that is brighter around the edges

Virtuoso A.R. Rahman characterized “Amar Singh Chamkila” with a philosophical, lyrical brevity in a pre-release interview with this critic. “It reminds me of a butterfly—brief but exquisite,” When I saw Imtiaz Ali’s musical story, which is undoubtedly the director’s comeback to form if nothing else, the metaphor flew through my mind.

 

The art of a musician and his sweetheart results in their deaths. If it weren’t true, this story was only waiting for Ali to conjure it up. However, the narrative appears to move with an unneeded hurry, with the exception of a few opening sequences. The film’s opening moments of contemplative silence are marginalized as the story gains momentum. There’s much to discuss and hear, but nothing really compelling. Fiction often takes banal twists because to facts. Though Chamkila’s existence is shown to us in all its glory, there are still unanswered concerns concerning what constituted its core. Nothing stays behind. The butterfly can’t wait to move on to the next bloom.

The life tale of Chamkila starts when he passes away. We saw what happened in the hamlet of Mehsampur, Punjab, on March 8, 1988. His wife and musical companion Amarjot Kaur (Parineeti Chopra) exits the couple’s recognizable gray car in anticipation of a performance, but she is shot in the head. Diljit Dosanjh’s character Chamkila had a similar ending. A sepia-toned memory appears, showing him lying on his back with blood all over him and the killer’s rifle nozzle aimed directly at his face. A couple arguing over an affair is seen by the young vocalist. His mother gives him a spanking for being curious about erections. On the other hand, he witnesses her laughingly applauding in a different scenario when ladies are singing about the joys of marriage. We get a peek of an artist’s early years in these fleeting photos, which are blurry at the edges like a memory becoming foggy (cinematography by Sylvester Fonseca). But when the rhythms of Mohit Chauhan’s Baaja pick up speed, the script doesn’t wait for things to really sink in. There’s a lot of work to be done and little time.

During one night, friends and critics of Chamkila and Amarjot tell their narrative as their corpses lay cold, ready to be cremated. However, it’s a templated telling. In a moment that has become into a cliche for performing artist biopics (most notably, Bradley Cooper’s Maestro), Chamkila gets lucky when his ustad, a seasoned singer, is running late for a performance. His earthy tunes quickly become popular, and his critics grow in number. However, all of these forces—the militants who were presumably offended by his songs, the competitor artists who were envious of him, and the self-appointed saviors of society who sought to correct him—remain on the periphery.

The 1984 insurgency also mostly functions as a quiet observer; individuals are often seen being on the lookout for invading militants, but this is about all that exists. The movie tries to be lighthearted and pop, with animations reminiscent of comic novels replacing situations. It seems like Ali is more interested in the era than the individual based on the black-and-white images and video from the time. The tale of Chamkila is still being painted with the colors of what is going on around him rather than the shades of what is going on inside of him.

Diljit portrays Chamkila with the endearing docility and tenderness that are appropriate for the part. The international talent confidently croons the late singer’s own tunes, clearly at ease on stage. As a character, Amarjot doesn’t change. Because of the lack of her exploration in the movie, Parineeti’s performance is just adequate.

But A.R. Rahman’s score and Irshad Kamil’s lyrics bring the story to life. Tu Kya Jaane plays in the background while Amarjot and Chamkila’s love nestles in. When the movie begins to lag, Ishq Mitaye picks it back up. Despite having a festive visual, my favorite Naram Kaalja seems more like a haphazard insertion into the narrative and would be better served as a stand-alone music video.

Additionally, this is Ali’s first biopic. The fictitious story is often taken over by the real study, which renders it stagnant. The linear plot doesn’t really surprise much when the movie’s finale is revealed in the first scene. In its silences, Chamkila radiates. In sequences when we witness men hiding in fields of thick grass and ladies cowering under beds in fear after an assassination, or when the film’s title character sits on a cart and hums a song. It works best in little doses, with certain sections providing more context than the whole story. A buddy likened the movie to a bouquet of flowers, including a variety of hues and scents. All I wanted to do was discover a rosebud.