October is the closest that contemporary Hindi cinema has come to resembling an E. E. Cummings poem. Listen to the last verse of his famous poem – somewhere I have never travelled, gladly beyond. Cummings writes:
(I do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands)
This could have been written for Dan and Shiuli, though even at the end of the film, I had no idea how well they really knew each other. Both are management trainees in a Delhi hotel. She is bright and lovely. He is sweet and a little strange. What happens between them is tragic and tender and like life, accidental. There is no explanation and no drama either. The sadness unfolds gently until it has engulfed you entirely. That is the beauty of this film.
I’ll be very honest here. October is an acquired taste. Not everyone will enjoy it. October meanders. It does not use heartbreak to drive passion; rather, it is a meditation on the difference between these two emotions.
October is a study of contrasts – it deliberately reflects the unerring functionalism of its two primary spaces: a hotel and a hospital. On the face of it, there could not be two more contradicting expressions of humanity. But these spaces, at some level, are irrevocably connected – by the kind of intrinsic binomial thread that usually connects flawed heroes and super villains. One services the body, and the other, the ego. Both demand a cocktail of customized empathy and controlled detachment from their employees. Both pay strangers to take care of – as opposed to “care for” – strangers. And both are commercial symbols of displacement. Not unlike the seasons that converge in the month of October, their corridors accommodate stories that are yet to reach a destination.
Therein lies the beauty of October. The meditative tonality and melancholy reflects in the score (masterfully composed by Shantanu Moitra) and helps paint a portrait which is as restless as it is dynamic.
In the current scheme of things, in a world where sentiment succumbs to the necessity of definition and tags, Shoojit Sircar has made something that belongs a little to all of us. The trick is to perhaps allow it to address – change – our derivative outlook of attachment.
But this is the sort of film that will divide audiences – for some, it will play as painfully pretentious. For others, it will evoke a depth of emotions. If you belong to the latter, you will thoroughly enjoy this film.
-Anant Shri
