Kabir Singh: A step back to the angry young alpha-male
The problem with films like Kabir Singh isn’t only that they celebrate toxic masculinity, but that they’re persuasive in the way they suggest that this is the only variety of masculinity that’s desirable
The next time someone tells you that these damned feminists are just sucking the fun out of the world at large and entertainment in particular, please point them towards London where David Mamet’s new play would like us to feel sorry for an overweight, much-feted film producer who is accused of sexual misconduct (all resemblances to Harvey Weinstein are, of course, coincidental). For all the #MeToo ruckus that may have been raised in 2018, its actual impact is clearly questionable because Mamet’s play has not only been handsomely produced despite its subject matter, it has an actor of John Malkovich’s calibre in the lead role. Of all the projects that Malkovich could have picked to return to London’s West End after a 30-year hiatus, he picked a play in which he has lines like, “You want me to make you the Asian Audrey Hepburn, and you won’t kick back one b*** j**, which would take one minute.”
Closer home, Kabir Singh, a love story featuring an angry beard, abs and a woman-shaped doormat, enjoyed a fabulous opening. The film is a remake of the 2017 Telugu film Arjun Reddy and earned ₹20.21 crore on its first day, which is more than what Padmaavat managed despite all the publicity and threats it got from the likes of Karni Sena. While the gender breakup of Kabir Singh’s audience is not known, it appears that a vast section of the paying public in India thinks love is a big, hairy predator with anger management issues. Just what is going on in the real world of Indian heterosexual relationships in India that this is what passes for idealised love?
If you’re a survivor of any kind of intimate violence, steer clear of Kabir Singh (and Arjun Reddy) because the film is basically 186 minutes of triggers that culminate in epic disappointment. The film’s hero is a tantrummy, violent, alcoholic, ab-flashing vat of testosterone whose only redeeming quality is that he doesn’t actually rape anyone. Yes, that’s how low we’re setting the bar. No wonder when the heroine is finally reunited with him, she just can’t stop bawling.
Curiously enough, when actor Shahid Kapoor was asked about his character’s questionable behaviour, he put forward the argument that everyone criticising Kabir needed to remember that in Jab We Met, it was the woman who was “aggressive”. It’s been a while since I saw Jab We Met, which is a delightful romantic comedy, but I don’t remember Geet being emotionally, verbally or physically abusive towards any male character. Neither can I recall a scene that gave the impression that she considers Aditya her property, which is essentially the basis of Arjun/ Kabir’s relationship with Preet(h)i. We can only hope Geet kissing Aditya (who she knows is in love with her) doesn’t evoke in Kapoor the kind of alarm that Arjun or Kabir’s behaviour should inspire in any sane person with a functional fight-or-flight response.
The problem with films like Kabir Singh isn’t only that they celebrate toxic masculinity, but that they’re persuasive in the way they suggest that this is the only variety of masculinity that’s desirable. There is a very conscious effort being made to cement this idea when Kabir Singh’s storytelling team decides to retain all the deviant behaviour of the original Arjun Reddy. It also reveals intent and the film industry’s agenda in a subtle manner. After all, Kabir Singh downplays the issue of caste and ups the ante of violence by including a scene in which Kabir actually slaps Preeti.
Commercial cinema has a long tradition of dubious wooing techniques from heroes and a worrying absence of the fight-or-flight response in the heroines. Arjun Reddy and Kabir Singh are the latest in the line of alpha males who have treated women as possessions and the miracle isn’t that this character is still being written in 2019. As more and more women speak up, tell stories from their perspectives and demand equality, the fantasy presented by films like Arjun Reddy and Kabir Singh – of an infantilised woman who suffers in silence – is a comfort to many. It holds out the possibility of resisting change and rewinding to the familiar inequalities that have served men in the industry so well for so many decades.