‘All We Imagine as Light’ and the Revision of the Western Gaze
Vying for an Oscar nomination this Thursday, Payal Kapadia’s film has redefined its reputation as an awards-season darling
An hour into Payal Kapadia’s All We Imagine As Light, there is resignation in the voices of those who inhabit Mumbai. There is also truth in the sound of a Mumbai that inhibits these voices. Juxtaposed against images of the city, you hear subdued snippets like “Spirit of Mumbai is an illusion; you have no option but to believe in it or you will go mad”. Perhaps if you listen closely, you might also hear: “I think we forget things if we have nobody to tell them to”. It comes from a lonely, long-time resident who feels like a migrant in his own city. His name is Saajan Fernandes, the protagonist of Ritesh Batra’s The Lunchbox (2013). He inhabits the environment that inhibits Malayali nurses Anu, Prabha and Konkani cook Parvati. Theirs is a shared universe, in more ways than one.
The discourse cycle around any globally acclaimed Indian film follows a pattern. First, it’s the pleasant surprise of watching a homegrown movie get noticed at international film festivals. Then it’s the unmitigated pride of seeing it impress world-renowned journalists and film-makers. Then it’s the defiant patriotism of watching it dominate awards-season chatter. Last but not least, it’s the mixed reception of its homecoming — sprinkled with condescending ‘what’s the hype?’ reactions and allegations of cultural brown-facing. Not unlike its spiritual predecessor The Lunchbox, AWIAL too has been accused of being “too European,” whatever that means. Despite Kapadia herself warning against categories and labels, her film is currently experiencing the star-crossed consequences of western validation and prestige.
But the answer to the far-reaching love for All We Imagine As Light — which includes unprecedented Golden Globes and BAFTA nominations among its accolades — lies in this aforementioned sequence. The words are lyrical, but the visuals are real. There are no familiar Gateway of India, CST, Chowpatty or Marine Drive shots. This montage instead features a noisy, chaotic festival on the streets and pavements. People are celebrating because the only other alternative is survival. The shots are blurry. There’s traffic everywhere. The composition is unplanned and shaky. It’s rainy and messy. The montage encapsulates the essence of the film. In a way, it uses a gloomy Western aesthetic to dismantle the very gaze it's accused of pandering to. They could be anywhere; it’s almost as if the metropolis is mocking its faces by replicating their anonymity. There is no sense of place because there is no place. In doing so, the film slowly lets Mumbai go from socio-political idea to physical space, from religion to region.
You can see that the characters themselves are initially hoping to romanticise the city. The first shot of Nurse Prabha (Kani Kusruti) in the local train speaks volumes; she’s standing by the door, looking tired but dreamy and wistful, like a protagonist of the fictions she’s grown up hearing about. Her gaze is foreign; she’s trying to view her settings differently. The younger Anu (Divya Prabha), too, behaves like the camera cares only for her lofty love story. But the reality of Mumbai keeps raining on their parade; it’s never as exotic as they expect it to be. It’s not the light they imagine. Prabha’s isolation is teased out by the city; Anu’s secret relationship isn’t given enough oxygen. None of their desires are realised. By the time that halfway montage emerges, the spell is broken. The pretense is gone. Mumbai dismounts the idealism attached to it. The anecdotal voices from the beginning morph into confessional ones. The ode becomes an indictment.
It’s the moment the film, too, democratises the notion of belonging. It’s no longer an Indian story; it’s a story of an India that mainstream and Oscar-bait movies are designed to appropriate. Most people who come to the city — or, like foreigners, estimate its larger-than-life impressions from afar — are seduced by art’s fetishised idea of it: the sweaty sepia-tinged filter, the vivid colour palette, the poverty porn, the political catchphrases, the shots of landmarks, the golden-hearted slum-dwellers, the rakish gangsters, the musical drama, the aspirational hustle and bustle. But the rest of AWIAL deconstructs the tropes of both ethnic and cinematic identity. It at once reveals and exposes the mythology of Mumbai. The presence of their struggle lingers like a ghost in the final act. If anything, the film reclaims the indignations of being from the cinema of being Indian. It liberates the story from the form of its making. You don’t need to understand, or interpret, a country to recognise its invisibilised contours.
It’s why the adulation for All We Imagine As Light so easily transcends languages, perceptions, cultures and narrative styles. It’s not western validation anymore; it’s human connection. In spite of harbouring a Mumbai-coded palette, the appreciation for the film is perhaps rooted in its ability to treat its viewers as people with lived-in experiences, not citizens or audiences. Following its final shot, you might imagine a wistful Prabha returning from Parvati’s coastal village in a train, bumping into a stranger at the door and saying: “I think we forget boundaries if we belong nowhere”. To which this gentle middle-aged stranger, Saajan, replies: “I think we forget boundaries if we belong everywhere”. Their whispery voices open the next montage of the city — and the film — that never sleeps. It’s a shared universe, in more ways than one.