Laxman Utekar’s Chhaava sets itself apart from the average sword-and-dhoti epic. Utekar’s Hindi biopic of the 17th-century Maratha monarch Sambhaji aggressively foregrounds the perceived brutality of the past.
There’s no room for politesse or euphemism in Utekar’s account of Sambhaji’s nine-year reign following the death of his father, Shivaji, the brilliant founder of the Maratha empire. This movie’s Sambhaji (Vicky Kaushal) is more than willing to leap into the thick of battle and fight shoulder-to-shoulder with his men.
He wears his blood-soaked robes proudly. He declares his commitment to swarajya, or self-rule, from the rooftops. When he does sit on the throne, he appears restless, as though he cannot wait to launch yet another sally against his bete noire Aurangzeb (Akshaye Khanna).
Several Bollywood historicals are hysterical. This one is angry, hostile even. Its bellicose tone is like Chandraprakash Dwivedi’s Samrat Prithviraj (2022), while some of its action sequences resemble scenes from the Partition. The thirst for comeuppance, vengeance and macho reprisal is stark, making for a frequently violent, often draining experience.
The 161-minute film spans the period between 1681 and 1689, the year of Sambhaji’s gruesome death. Aurangzeb expresses regret that with Shivaji’s demise, he has lost a worthy challenger. Aurangzeb and his courtiers, which include his purdah-less daughter Zeenat (Diana Penty), prematurely write an obituary of Maratha rule.
Sambhaji’s sacking of Burhanpur in 1681 proves Aurangzeb wrong. Aurangzeb declares a war on Sambhaji that ends in the way recounted by history books and ballads – but not before dragging viewers through scene after scene of swords eviscerating flesh.
The movie is based on Shivaji Sawant’s Marathi historical novel Chhava. Utekar’s screenplay, which he has worked on with a bunch of writers, is most alive when in motion. A cinematographer before he turned director, Utekar is attentive to visual language. At least in this regard, Chhaava scores handsomely.
Cinematographer Saurabh Goswami masterfully balances light, earthy tones and movement. A recurring motif is of Sambhaji and his soldiers surrounded by hordes of Mughal fighters, emerging triumphant despite being pinned down on all sides. An extended confrontation inspired partly by the film 300 and the Battle of the Bastards episode from Game of Thrones is a remarkably detailed depiction of a superior military force going toe to toe with a smaller bunch of highly motivated soldiers.
The scenes involving conversation, the things that kings say to their subjects or courtiers to each other, are seething with risible dialogue. None of the secondary characters is noteworthy, whether it’s Sambhaji’s scheming stepmother Soyarabai (Divya Dutta) or his loyal general Hambirrao (Ashutosh Rana). There’s an overly long scene mourning Hambirrao’s death even though we barely get to know him.
Rashmika Mandanna turns Sambhaji’s wife Yesubai into a source of untended comedy. While the film takes its Mughal-bashing very seriously, Mandanna’s attempt to appear stately while stumbling over Hindi consonants unfailingly supplies the chuckles.
Some of Sambhaji’s nobility is lost too by associating him so closely with the sweat and sinew of the battlefield. The only humanising touch to this perpetual warrior is a recurring nightmare, in which he is running around scared, guided towards comfort by his father’s wise counsel.
Apart from this psychological device, Chhaava’s emperor is stridently one-note, yelling at top volume as if to drown out AR Rahman’s deafening background score.
Played by Vicky Kaushal as a fiery-eyed brawler, Sambhaji is barely regal when holding court or rousing his followers into a holy war. Cries of Jai Bhavani drown out the adversary’s Allahu Akbars. To Aurangzeb’s proposal that Sambhaji give up his rebellion, Sambhaji has a counter-offer. Come over to my side instead, he tells Aurangzeb. You won’t even have to change your faith in the bargain.
The clash between saffron and green is never subtle. At least it’s superb to look at. Akshaye Khanna’s fine turn as Aurangzeb is a draw too, in its own way.
Aided by Shrikant Desai’s excellent make-up, Khanna plays a much-reviled figure as a man of minimal movements and a touch of intrigue. The film’s Aurangzeb is a dessicated figure, austere in manner if not in appearance, ordering carnage despite barely moving his lips, conveying his rage through his eyes.
Aurangzeb appears to age as the film progresses, pushed to the point of exhaustion by Sambhaji’s belligerence. Time moves slowly as a pinioned Sambhaji suffers through torture that is straight out of Mel Gibson’s The Passion of the Christ.
Laxman Utekar takes us through every bit of this ordeal – it’s what Chhaava has been building up to. The Christ-like imagery is apposite, given the all-round love for medieval punishment. But the film’s lack of feeling is vivid too, with shouty speechifying mistaken for heartfelt passion and sumptuous visuals confused for grandeur.
