The first film that I watched in the cinema hall was David Dhawan’s Mujhse Shaadi Karogi, a romantic comedy starring some big names of Bollywood. I was four, and the experience was bigger than ever. The characters portrayed on screen seemed closer, almost like my friends. The film had a major impact on me, to say the least. I continued to ‘ship’ the lead actors, Priyanka Chopra and Salman Khan, for the longest time, secretly hoping they would end up together in real life, just as they did in the film—the line between cinema and reality had blurred for me. The next few years were spent watching more of Salman Khan’s action, Govinda’s comedy, and Mithun Chakraborty’s family dramas—all thanks to my cinephile father—until I grew up to make my own choices. 

Over the course of years, I have developed a little theory about cinema enthusiasts. Most, if not all, developed an affinity, borderline passion, for films during their childhood. Those experiences in the formative years translated into lifelong vigor for cinema. Award-winning director Pan Nalin substantiates this idea majestically in his latest film Chhello Show (Last Film Show) (2021), which was shortlisted for the Best International Feature Film category at the 95th Academy Awards—the first Indian film in 21 years and the 4th film in Indian cinema history to be shortlisted for the Academy. 

Nalin’s directorial—currently streaming on Netflix in India (or to rent on Amazon Prime in the US)—opens with glimpses of nine-year-old Samay’s life in a remote village in Gujarat, India. The sharp-eyed boy strolls around meadows, naps in the grass, walks on railway tracks, and gazes into the landscape, killing time in serenity. At other times of the day, he helps his father stay afloat by apprenticing at his tea stall. The slow, unruffled life is overturned after a rare visit to the local theater with his family. Samay (Bhavin Rabari) is mesmerized, as were so many of us after watching our first film on the big screen. It is the larger-than-life music scores, the action sequences, and the myriad colors first, and eventually, the joy of telling stories that takes precedence in Samay’s pursuit to explore cinema further. “I want to make movies,” he declares right after. And naturally, his father (Dipen Raval)—clenching to his Brahmin roots—opposes. 

Undeterred, the nine-year-old searches for ways to stay close to his newfound passion. His peers are his audience, and insignificant odds and sods—like matchboxes emblazoned with illustrations—become his tools to tell stories. The burgeoning storyteller wants to keep returning to the cinema (‘Galaxy Cinema’), except there isn’t any money to spare for a film ticket. After being thrashed out of the hall once by the owner for watching a show without a ticket, Samay’s desires are momentarily shattered until he meets Fazal, Galaxy’s projectionist. Played by a soulful Bhavesh Shrimali, Fazal is willing to allow Samay into the projection booth in return for delicious home-cooked vegetarian food. Thus, baa’s delicacies are savored by Fazal, while the films become fodder for Samay’s appetite. The deal goes a long way to fuel the little boy’s interest and ardor. 

Fazal and Samay’s arrangement instantly reminded me of an anecdote my father narrates cyclically every now and then. As a young adult, my father would often visit the local theater and watch films without buying a ticket by telling the people working there that he was the owner’s son—who, in reality, was his friend. After watching a couple of films, the friend came to know, and he was debarred from the cinema. My father still chuckles every time he is done telling this story, and it makes me think how there is a Samay in all of us—how all of us have some way or the other step outside the boundaries to pursue a passion. 

Galaxy Cinema becomes Samay’s new school, where he learns about reels, projectors, and the importance of light in bringing a story to the screen. “Stories come from light and from stories… movies,” he tells his father. The knowledge garnered at Fazal’s grim booth goes a long way in helping Samay and his friends put together their own theater. Created with assembled bulbs, mirrors, a white saree, and stolen reels—Samay’s experiment is a hit, but redemption hits soon. The shift from analog to digital comes as an awakening. 

Chhello Show also throws light on caste in the Indian rural landscape. Class struggles are also prominently dealt with. “Will we ever leave this village?” Samay asks his father, occasionally though earnestly. For a small boy to map the distance from the rural to the urban is a struggle in itself, let alone step into the world of cinema that is still exclusionary. Therefore, in the end, when we see the small boy climb into the train to the city as a step toward his dream, he appears more mature than ever. His eyes no longer shimmer with naivety, for there is a dream they harbor. In silence, we hope for Samay not to let go of this passion because in Samay’s win lies a victory for the spirit of cinema.

Article Courtesy of Anjani Chadha