‘Mere Husband Ki Biwi’ Movie Review: Eat, Sleep, Run-of-the-mill Romcom, Repeat

Director: Mudassar Aziz
Writer: Mudassar Aziz
Cast: Arjun Kapoor, Bhumi Pednekar, Rakul Preet Singh, Harsh Gujral
Language: Hindi

Mere Husband Ki Biwi is such a generic and run-of-the-mill North Indian production that if it were edible, it’d be a half-crispy aloo paratha for breakfast. If it were a person, it’d be Rocky Randhawa (without the self-awareness) from Rocky Aur Rani Kii Prem Kahaani. If it were an emotion, it’d be the entitled rage of drivers at the Delhi-Gurgaon toll plaza. If it were a place, it’d be a breezy mustard field — but only as a painting in an upscale art gallery. I can go on, but you get the gist. It looks like every other entry in the genre: glossy, distant, intermittently alive but ultimately soulless.

At least it’s environmentally conscious, because it recycles a whole book of tropes: the wise-ass best friend played by a comedian; a lustful Shakti Kapoor character; a quirky voice-over starting the film but disappearing after the introduction; an Amritsari girl who addresses her husband by either his surname, yaar, baby or baby yaar; a love triangle between a Chaddha, a Dhillon and a Khanna where two of them spend an entire half secretly competing with each other for the ‘prize’; a dozen slow-mo shots of them walking towards, past or away from each other with contempt and pride; an overseas almost-wedding; and so on and so (un)forth.

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The thing about Mere Husband Ki Biwi (“My Husband’s Wife”) is that it poses as an update of the popular Luv Ranjan formula. It stages love as a contest but tries to be a little woke. The triangle here features a guy (Arjun Kapoor, as Ankur), his new girlfriend (Rakul Preet Singh, as Antara) and his ex-wife (Bhumi Pednekar, as Prabhleen). A romcom is shaped by touch-me-not themes like divorce and incompatibility. There’s an airport dash at the end, but it involves three hearts rather than two. There’s a retrograde amnesia gimmick that speaks to how the human mind is wired to forget pain and remember the good times.

A still from 'Mere Husband Ki Biwi'

The best friend is a Muslim character who has no qualms making jokes about his social identity. “I’m a minority guy” he says, while trying to dissuade Ankur from using his car; he mutters, “Bismillah Inshallah boys played well” twice, an ode to former Pakistani cricketer Inzamam-ul-Haq’s famous pressers. There are two Israel-Palestine and Russia-Ukraine quips. There’s also a monologue about a failed marriage and second chances. Basically, Mudassar Aziz — a middling romcom director with some surprisingly funny movies (Happy Bhag Jayegi, Khel Khel Mein) to his name — knows what he’s doing.

But old habits die hard. It’s a man’s world, after all. Take the time Ankur comes clean with Antara about his past before embarking on a future with her. The flashback speeds through their love story and subsequently, their acrimonious split. Ankur comes across as an absolute jackass in this part — he’s sloppy and inconsiderate, acts like a man-child, resents Prabhleen’s journalism career, and blames her for all their tragedies. But the film refuses to understand that Ankur was the problem. At first, you think it does, because Antara is freaked out by his sob story and starts to avoid him. But then she reveals the reason: he’s all loved out and spent, and she wants her own fairytale. It’s a legitimate reason, sure, but is that all she gleaned from his dark story? Did he not sound like a red flag? It soon becomes clear that the film genuinely believes that both were equally responsible for the divorce. It stays oblivious to his faults because, you know, he is sad.

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It isn’t above cheap chuckles either. Ankur’s housemaid, for instance, is supposed to be a lippy young lady who asks him to fix her love life (“I always offer and you say no”). It doesn’t help that all three protagonists are rather nasty youngsters. Ankur we know about, but girlfriend Antara does not hesitate to put Prabhleen’s health in danger to win their petty contest. On one hand, the writing is desperate to convince us that Prabhleen’s feelings are heartbreaking and true; on the other, it makes a joke of her, with Antara faking loud sex in the bedroom while her ‘rival’ visits. She even invites Prabhleen to her wedding celebrations to rub it in her face.

Prabhleen isn’t innocent either; she is determined to be a homewrecker, and fakes a near-death experience to win the sympathy of everyone and get Ankur into her bedroom. In other words, it’s hard to root for any one person or partnership. They’re so busy trying to outdo each other that the heart of the film — the actual romance — is lost in the pursuit for checklist entertainment. And it’s also hard to understand why two intelligent (read: cunning) women are fighting to be with a duh like Ankur. It’s never clear what they see in him, apart from his penchant for cheesy gestures (hand-gliding, parachuting with a mic in hand) and self-pity. He’s not a toxic masculinity hero. He’s not even a Shah Rukh Khan hero.

Speaking of which, Mere Husband Ki Biwi, like several romcoms in the last two decades, has a bunch of spoofy SRK references. Ankur asks his bestie to “palat” in an early Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge nod; the two friends are seen outside a dhaba called ‘Mannat’ (the name of Khan’s bungalow) before Ankur decides to go find Prabhleen in Amritsar; he proposes by aping the entry of Raj Aryan defiantly singing the Mohabbatein title track while beating a drum; Antara’s entry montage shows her playing different sports (including bad football) like DDLJ’s Raj Malhotra. It’s almost as if such movies hope to replicate the Shah Rukh brand of chivalrous and progressive masculinity by hat-tipping him. But a romcom like this fails to get that merely reminding the audience of a persona isn’t enough. It has to walk the talk, but there’s not nearly enough charisma, skill, spontaneity and feel for acting in here.

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I suspect the issue with the modern generation of Bollywood actors is a very specific one. Most of them — including but not limited to Arjun Kapoor — seem organic, funny and fairly self-aware in interviews and talk shows. But they’re also more visible across social media. So when they appear formally on the big screen in a mainstream movie, the ‘performance’ of it all jumps out at the viewer; it looks blatant, inauthentic and uncomfortable. It’s like watching their office selves severed from their home selves. Hindi rarely sounds like their language of choice; these characters seem to be thinking and gesturing in English. I’m not sure why more directors don’t use their natural instincts instead (example: Ananya Panday). Kapoor tries to make Ankur worth the contrived situational gags, but the deadpan face and over-the-top plot further complicate matters.

Kapoor isn’t alone. Rakul Preet Singh struggles in reaction shots, wide shots, mid shots and close-ups (particularly those that involve glycerine tears); she looks far more at ease being the swaggy Veronica to Bhumi Pednekar’s Punjabi Betty. Instead of elevating the rest of the cast to her level, Pednekar seems to lower hers — and the result is a turn that strives too hard. Prabhleen is the most interesting character in the film (bringing to mind the predicaments of Rani Mukerji in Har Dil Jo Pyar Karega) because of the dissonance between her reality and feelings.

But the writing opts to present her as a colourful instrument rather than a conflicted Indian woman.

A lot of the film’s humour, too, is unintentional. Like a doctor who casually responds, “Of course, just call me when she is conscious again” when a character asks if he can see the patient. Or when everyone decides to fly to Scotland; a new character shows up at the airport and they agree to take him along (“We will figure out who you are later”). Or when Ankur sarcastically praises Prabhleen’s acting skills. Or when Dino Morea’s cameo as Antara’s protective (but zaddy) elder brother fizzles out in his second scene. Or every time Ankur’s best friend pops up to lighten the mood after a dramatic scene — the non-superhero version of Marvel movies diffusing every tense exchange with snarky punchlines. The script behaves like a variety talk-show producer who conducts a live audience with ‘applause’ and ‘laughter’ signs. But it’s perhaps no surprise that Hindi dramedies, like the country they occupy, remain awkward about being too expressive and vulnerable. If not, where will the alphas go?

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The question, then, is so simple that it’s insulting: Could Mere Husband Ki Biwi have been a better film? Yes, but only if it had better direction, performances, music, cinematography, comic timing, writing, chemistry, sound design and editing. The irony is that a romcom feels like a welcome respite in a landscape dominated by opportunistic historicals, biopics and remakes. But we live in an age where even the escape from a broken system is broken. At least Mere Husband Ki Biwi is harmless, semi-functional even. We dare not ask for more. Bottom line: I’m happy (relieved) and satisfied (safe).