This opening scene is small but uncomfortable. Some might say it presents a tragic truth, where victims are forced to measure their victim-ness against one another to earn the right of justice.
The movie reminds us of the heinous masculinity of a crime aimed solely at defacing a woman in an optical culture that equates societal worth with physical beauty. It's a calculated choice that the woman is played by a mainstream actress, from a film industry notorious for fetishizing her glamour over all else; this way, the transformation hits the average viewer harder.
We don't quite get to know Malti beyond the legacy of her life's events. The story doesn't pause to know her either. She exists - in a thinner texture of flesh and blood - mostly because Laxmi does.
A storyteller's rage is not a bad thing. The intent is right, but the execution feels awkward.
The timeline feels oddly cold-blooded. It leaps from one version of Malti to another. The screenplay overcompensates for the pace. The men in the background are either stereotypical idiots (male reporters ask insensitive questions) or unrealistic angels (the surgeon is annoyingly cheerful; the lawyer's husband serves tea and parathas to the "ladies of the house" so that she can save the world).
The little touches are nice: Malti laughs with pursed lips, thereby evoking a face that had to reconstruct its smile in a way that hurt the least. She speaks less, but places more gravity on her words (because maybe that's all she has) - a trait that allows the dialogue-ish nature of her lines sound organic.
Vikrant Massey and his idealism forces her to balance it out by being a tender, soft-spoken - and better - woman. She is the ice to his fire, even though she wears fire on her face.
The movie reminds us of the heinous masculinity of a crime aimed solely at defacing a woman in an optical culture that equates societal worth with physical beauty. It's a calculated choice that the woman is played by a mainstream actress, from a film industry notorious for fetishizing her glamour over all else; this way, the transformation hits the average viewer harder.
We don't quite get to know Malti beyond the legacy of her life's events. The story doesn't pause to know her either. She exists - in a thinner texture of flesh and blood - mostly because Laxmi does.
A storyteller's rage is not a bad thing. The intent is right, but the execution feels awkward.
The timeline feels oddly cold-blooded. It leaps from one version of Malti to another. The screenplay overcompensates for the pace. The men in the background are either stereotypical idiots (male reporters ask insensitive questions) or unrealistic angels (the surgeon is annoyingly cheerful; the lawyer's husband serves tea and parathas to the "ladies of the house" so that she can save the world).
The little touches are nice: Malti laughs with pursed lips, thereby evoking a face that had to reconstruct its smile in a way that hurt the least. She speaks less, but places more gravity on her words (because maybe that's all she has) - a trait that allows the dialogue-ish nature of her lines sound organic.
Vikrant Massey and his idealism forces her to balance it out by being a tender, soft-spoken - and better - woman. She is the ice to his fire, even though she wears fire on her face.