As such, biography is a notoriously tricky genre to tackle, where filmmakers find themselves walking a fine line between the strict, ritual baring of facts on one hand and on the other, the understandable need to demonstrate a certain amount of creative freedom so as to amp up the material for the big screen. If there is a tug-of-war between these two opposing inclinations, it should never be evident in a well-made biopic. Indeed, efforts to this end are clearly seen in the recently released Acharya—Prashant Rasaily’s directorial debut—based on the life and times of music legend Bhajan Shiromani Bhakta Raj Acharya. And if the marriage between the historical and the theatrical is not always seamless here
, it still represents a valiant attempt all the same.
It is clear from the get-go that Acharya isn’t your run-of-the-mill Nepali movie (and thank god for that). It forms part of a new wave of films—ones that have recently crept into an industry long characterised by glitzy song-and-dance routines and cop-on-bad-guy action sequences—operating under the express intention of hacking away at stereotypes and offering more character-driven narratives and higher-quality cinematography. And although still at a nascent stage, films like Acharya are certainly instrumental in championing a much-needed evolution of Nepali cinema.
Acharya opens in 1942 in Dhankuta, where the singer was born. We are given the outlines of his circumstances: his father’s death, the family’s financial problems and their eventual journey to the tea estates at Dooars in search of work. The young Bhakta is a quiet, unassuming child, whose first encounter with music—through a village performer—has serendipity written all over it, particularly considering he lives in a place where music isn’t all too accessible and locals fall over themselves when a radio crackles to life. Quickly becoming obsessed with singing, Bhakta is driven to improve markedly within a short period of time. Once old enough (played by his son Satya Raj from here on), he decides to move to the city to try his hand at recording at Radio Nepal. Things don’t go too smoothly, and he is forced to return to the village, dejected. But soon frustrated with the pace of life and burdened by unrealised ambitions, he makes up his mind to leave for Kathmandu again, and this time to stay on no matter what.
The rest, as we say, is history.
This first half of the film carries on somewhat sluggishly, with very little by way of conflict. While filmmakers have tried to incorporate a non-linear depiction by playing with the chronology—alternating between the conversations of present-day Bhakta with a journalist (Sunil Pokharel) and flashbacks from his past—the staid recollections of travelling back and forth from Sikkim to Kathmandu
gets tedious at times and could perhaps have been shortened. Another factor that adds to Acharya’s already substantial minutes are the long-winded establishing shots, which—while beautiful in terms of visual aesthetics—feel rather redundant. Slow panning views of tea-gardens and mountains and temples occur all too frequently, doing little to move the plot along.
That said, things do pick up in the second half, where we learn how the singer got his famous scars, and about the disease that ended his 16-year career. The aftermath of having his tongue amputated is particularly heartrending—albeit shortlived—and gives that touch of poignancy to the story that was missing initially. And the cameo by the real Bhakta Raj towards the end is a nice surprise, bringing the circle to a neat close.
Satya Raj’s casting as the lead was a particularly smart/strategic call, given its symbolic value. While his acting graces might not be the most well-honed, he plays his father with an understated, likeable sincerity. Smaller roles in the film have mostly been assumed by Gurukul veterans, who are, as always, spot on. And there is a certain old-fashioned authenticity to the film, wrought as much by the production design as by the music, and of course the sepia-toned visuals.
Admittedly, there’s room for improvement. Dialogue is a bit stilted and sound quality rather iffy (what was that constant rumbling noise?), and I could’ve done without the insistent ‘ambient’ musical score that tried to over-dramatise the smallest of scenes. But it is still a pleasant film overall, particularly for fans of the singer, or those who have been curious for more of a glimpse into his personal life. One thing is for sure, in terms of technical and artistic sensibilities, Acharya is eons ahead of your typical Nepali film and surely a sign of good things to come.
Acharya is currently being screened at QFX Cinemas.
, it still represents a valiant attempt all the same.
It is clear from the get-go that Acharya isn’t your run-of-the-mill Nepali movie (and thank god for that). It forms part of a new wave of films—ones that have recently crept into an industry long characterised by glitzy song-and-dance routines and cop-on-bad-guy action sequences—operating under the express intention of hacking away at stereotypes and offering more character-driven narratives and higher-quality cinematography. And although still at a nascent stage, films like Acharya are certainly instrumental in championing a much-needed evolution of Nepali cinema.
Acharya opens in 1942 in Dhankuta, where the singer was born. We are given the outlines of his circumstances: his father’s death, the family’s financial problems and their eventual journey to the tea estates at Dooars in search of work. The young Bhakta is a quiet, unassuming child, whose first encounter with music—through a village performer—has serendipity written all over it, particularly considering he lives in a place where music isn’t all too accessible and locals fall over themselves when a radio crackles to life. Quickly becoming obsessed with singing, Bhakta is driven to improve markedly within a short period of time. Once old enough (played by his son Satya Raj from here on), he decides to move to the city to try his hand at recording at Radio Nepal. Things don’t go too smoothly, and he is forced to return to the village, dejected. But soon frustrated with the pace of life and burdened by unrealised ambitions, he makes up his mind to leave for Kathmandu again, and this time to stay on no matter what.
The rest, as we say, is history.
This first half of the film carries on somewhat sluggishly, with very little by way of conflict. While filmmakers have tried to incorporate a non-linear depiction by playing with the chronology—alternating between the conversations of present-day Bhakta with a journalist (Sunil Pokharel) and flashbacks from his past—the staid recollections of travelling back and forth from Sikkim to Kathmandu
gets tedious at times and could perhaps have been shortened. Another factor that adds to Acharya’s already substantial minutes are the long-winded establishing shots, which—while beautiful in terms of visual aesthetics—feel rather redundant. Slow panning views of tea-gardens and mountains and temples occur all too frequently, doing little to move the plot along.
That said, things do pick up in the second half, where we learn how the singer got his famous scars, and about the disease that ended his 16-year career. The aftermath of having his tongue amputated is particularly heartrending—albeit shortlived—and gives that touch of poignancy to the story that was missing initially. And the cameo by the real Bhakta Raj towards the end is a nice surprise, bringing the circle to a neat close.
Satya Raj’s casting as the lead was a particularly smart/strategic call, given its symbolic value. While his acting graces might not be the most well-honed, he plays his father with an understated, likeable sincerity. Smaller roles in the film have mostly been assumed by Gurukul veterans, who are, as always, spot on. And there is a certain old-fashioned authenticity to the film, wrought as much by the production design as by the music, and of course the sepia-toned visuals.
Admittedly, there’s room for improvement. Dialogue is a bit stilted and sound quality rather iffy (what was that constant rumbling noise?), and I could’ve done without the insistent ‘ambient’ musical score that tried to over-dramatise the smallest of scenes. But it is still a pleasant film overall, particularly for fans of the singer, or those who have been curious for more of a glimpse into his personal life. One thing is for sure, in terms of technical and artistic sensibilities, Acharya is eons ahead of your typical Nepali film and surely a sign of good things to come.
Acharya is currently being screened at QFX Cinemas.
