Prathyush Parasuraman
It is why Tu Jhoothi Main Makkaar swoons as long as it remains musical. As we lunge into the second half, the joy leaks from the edges, slowly, then quickly, along with the music. Not just music. Romance, too, is scant as we swim through the initial conflicts of the later half. A charmless collection of cameos — yes, Kartik Aaryan is there and so is Nushrratt Bharuccha — and mind games, the film slips into the familiar territory of Ranjan faux pas. Rohan’s saintly, solid personality and saintly, solid family — including Dimple Kapadia and Boney Kapoor — and Nisha’s shaky intentions feel like overripe fruits left on the kitchen counter. Rot begins to fester.
To be fair, the shadow of Ranjan’s filmography falls on how we posture towards every scene. As if on guard, we are suspicious of how he is going to treat women, of how he is going to present their inscrutability to the male protagonist. While Nisha does come across as a character whose lacking clarity can feel like female cruelty, like male victory, Rohan’s sacrifice can feel like masculine greatness. Under the impact of both these forces, the film turtles quickly, as though someone pulled the chain realizing the need of the hour, and brought in the music, balming over our suspicions with joy. The camera, helmed by Santhana Krishnan Ravichandran, is so excited by the scale of the songs, it keeps cutting between the topshots, whispering the intimidating scale of these songs, and close-ups of the actors, whose faces light up with a density of feeling.
It is as though Ranjan reminded himself that he needs to not just be original — which his voice is, undoubtedly — but sincere and kind, too. He cannot build an entire career out of male cynicism. That wave dries out. A cooing climax at the airport is required. Love that feels like love is required. Only romance is the antidote to cynicism.
Because to romance in cinema is to romance each other as characters, but also to romance us, the audience. To watch love, but also to feel it. To forgive flaws by pretending they blur into the force of their personality. The camera helps set the gaze. The music helps set the mood. We are both voyeurs and participants. Often characters are looking directly at us, breaking if not splintering the fourth wall. Their moony, drunken gazes and showy, poetic proclamations of love are flung at us to lap and lick. Tu Jhoothi Main Makkaar, at its best, at its most musical, at its most charming, allows that — a rare beast that sells love as necessary, even if it is tempestuous. Perhaps because it is tempestuous.