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‘Chhaava’ review: Vicky Kaushal historical is a loud slog
Laxman Utekar’s period action film shouts itself hoarse without breaking any new ground
Chhaava opens with a Maratha raid on a Mughal town. As he slashes his way through enemy ranks, Sambhaji (Vicky Kaushal) notices a crying boy caught in the skirmish. He returns the child to safety. I knew this image would return in some way and it did, about an hour later. A little girl herding goats on Maratha land wanders out of the frame. In the next shot, she’s staggering back, set on fire by advancing Mughal troops.
There’s no such thing as a moral army, only propaganda and the tales we choose to tell ourselves. A French traveler to India in the early 18th century wrote about the devastation of one Maratha raid: “We camped out next to villages reduced to ashes… Women clutching their children in their arms, men contorted, as they had been overtaken by death… a sight of horror such as I had never seen before.” We see such a scene in Chhaava—but done by the Mughals. When the Marathas in Laxman Utekar’s film (based on a 1980 novel) burn down a town, there isn’t a human in sight, and the only casualty is property.
There were cruel Maratha raids, just as there were cruel Mughal and Rajput and East India Company raids. But Chhaava, like most other Hindi historicals, is determined to cast Indian history from the 12th century onwards till 1947 as a freedom struggle. The word swaraj (self-rule)—most commonly used in the context of resistance against British rule in India—is heard repeatedly through the film. Sambhaji is fighting to keep intact the empire his father Chhatrapati Shivaji created. But the implication is that he’s defending India—like Prithviraj Chauhan, Sadashivrao Bhau, Bajirao and other biopic protagonists—against Muslim invaders.
The idea that Mughals were still invaders after having been in India for 200 years is tenuous, but try telling that to the vaguely middle-eastern voice that starts ululating whenever Aurangzeb is on screen. Akshaye Khanna as the emperor is great stunt casting, but Utekar isn’t interested in the campier possibilities this offers. Aurangzeb shows up every half hour, learns of Sambhaji’s latest victory, kills the messenger, and disappears.
The Sambhaji we meet at the start is fully formed, a warrior and a moral leader (some accounts suggest a wayward youth, but this isn't even hinted at here). There’s nothing resembling a flaw; even his decree of death by elephant is couched in righteous terms. No matter how much Kaushal seethes and yells, he’s as uninteresting as Shahid Kapoor in Padmaavat or Arjun Kapoor in Panipat. Barring a betrayal or two, Sambhaji’s followers—which includes the general Hambirao (Ashutosh Rana) and poet Kalash (Vineet Kumar Singh)—are drearily upright and steadfast. As befits a Valentine’s Day release, much of Chhaava is men with moustaches coming up with new ways to call each other brave. This leaves little space for traditional romance: Sambhaji’s wife (Rashmika Mandanna) is reduced to saying she wishes she could be his mother.
Chhaava has a lot of bloody action, overwhelmingly in favour of the Marathas. The speed ramping gets monotonous, but some of the film’s more creative flourishes come during these set pieces. The most exciting passage is when the Marathas launch a series of nature-themed attacks, swinging from trees, sneaking up in the fields, bursting out from the soil and the river. Later, there’s a striking fight indoors, the hall packed with soldiers hacking at each other.
Sambhaji’s torture at the hands of Aurangzeb is historical fact and should be included in a film on his life. But showing it at excruciating length serves little cinematic purpose. It does have an ideological thrust. Over the last decade, Hindi films have offered a conception of history almost exclusively aligned with right-wing political thinking. Aurangzeb is the final boss of dynastic historical villains, referenced by everyone from low-level rabble rousers to the prime minister. But it hardly matters if it’s Abdali or Khilji or Babar as the antagonist—the cruelty comes preprogrammed if it's a Muslim ruler.
Samrat Prithviraj also ended in a Hindu king’s torture by a Muslim victor, Padmaavat with Rajput women killing themselves to escape the degradations of slavery. The idea in all three films is the same: look at these brave sons and daughters of the land, look at these barbaric foreigners. Given the possibilities, Chhaava’s Aurangzeb is more restrained than I expected. Khanna sneaks in one great deadpan moment though, remarking midway through his rival’s torture: mazaa nahi aaya. I didn’t enjoy myself either.
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First Published:14 Feb 2025, 04:39 PM IST
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