Editorials

How ‘Kaun?’ Breaks Bollywood and Genre Conventions

September 9th, 2022 | By Sakhi Thirani

In 1999, India’s Kaun? (Who?) presented a most peculiar recipe for blood-curdling horror. Shot in merely 15 days, the film is only about one and a half hours long, defiantly contrasting Bollywood standards. A result of the collaboration between Anurag Kashyap and Ram Gopal Varma, Kaun? is a rare delicacy that moves beyond the capacities of a traditional whodunit.

Kaun? features a roster of three actors: Urmila Matondkar, Manoj Bajpayee, and Sushant Singh. The casting of Matondkar as the deviant character addressed as “ma’am” could be inferred as deliberate; the actress was usually typecast in romantic and dramatic roles prior to this film. Her performance in the film showcases the limitlessness of her acting capabilities, uplifting the amount of shock and surprise for audiences.  

Kaun? is set against the backdrop of relentless rains. It navigates different nooks and corners of one single location, a bungalow that’s linked to the name of Mr. Malhotra. Here you find the stereotypical “damsel in distress.” She obsesses over the news, talks to her overprotective mother, plays with her kitten, and feels threatened to entertain unwanted male presences.

As the film unfolds, Urmila Matondkar’s unnamed character transitions from “ma’am” to an “ajeeb ladki” (strange/peculiar girl). Drenched in elements of horror, hers is a queer identity that subverts patriarchal structures in various ways. Her delicate feminine disguise, for instance, is discomforted through claustrophobically violent nightmares. This is a violence that seeps beyond mere visions and dreams. Discreet instances such as her use of the sharp chef’s knife to butter a piece of bread are subtle but significant giveaways. 

Given her comfort with the blade that coexists with a stereotypical hysteria, “ma’am’s” fellow masculinist characters, and the viewers as well, are left slightly unsettled. The overwhelming question of kaun (who) that she incessantly engages with, thus, persists. This enables Kaun? to nurture non-normative female characterizations in a sphere that is commercially obsessed with commodifying and consuming the female body.  

Closely representing these patriarchal mannerisms are the two hypermasculine figures in Kaun?. They brand and codify the queer female body with innocence, delicacy, and hysteria. First, there is the invasive Sameer Purnavale (Manoj Bajpayee). He barges into a space where he is not welcome and orders Urmila Matondkar’s character to present food. What’s more, his sly creepiness exponentiates into condescending mock-threats, all while he addresses himself as a “shareef aadmi” (respectable man). 

The Indian adage that celebrates guests by seeing them as a guise of god here visibly sustains a patriarchal hierarchy. Drenched more in misogyny than in the rainfall, Sameer leaves no opportunity to wield the patent mannerisms of his gender. Nowhere is this more evident than in his swift transformation into the self-appointed “knight in shining armor” when threatened by another authoritative masculine presence. 

Granted, Inspector Qureshi (Sushant Singh) makes a spectacular entrance. Another intrusive presence, he quite literally performs institutional authority, pretending to be an inspector. Eventually though, he is exposed as a mere thief. Qureshi steps into the house gripping onto his phallic revolver, full of threats for Sameer. These two, while literally at each other’s throats, share a virile masculinity that ranges from patronizing benevolence to brutish machoism.

Crammed into the frame together following Qureshi’s entry, our three characters crawl across the house with loud accusations and utter chaos. They throw significant questions aggressively at one other. These interrogations reverberate beyond the screen, unnerving the audience. It is right here that spine-chilling thrill creeps up to another degree. With the characters, we collectively wonder: Who killed Sherry (the kitten)? Whose house is it really? What is each one of these characters actually doing in this house? Answers to each of these are neatly hidden in the peculiar balance between the characters’ con and the very slippery nature of kaun (of identity, that is). 

Meticulously brawling and spilling blood for a while, things take a particularly sharp turn when Sameer finally picks up the phone to call for help. Only, what lands in his grasp is the landline’s disconnected wire. Darting out to protect “ma’am” from another presence he conjures up in his head, Sameer problematically still associates her with an innate feminine stupidity. He and Qureshi, and any heteronormative viewer, err on this very premise of categorizing Matondkar’s character within the patriarchal binary of masculine/feminine.

Sameer has to literally stumble upon an abject corpse to recognize that in the “game” that’s being played out, he’s a mere pawn. One that’s soon to be slaughtered. Horror oozes out from the festering normative gender codes in the film. These codes are as dead as “Mr. Malhotra.” And further, they end up consuming the other two heteronormative figures as well.   

The constructed nature of gender in Kaun? and its very fragility are zoomed in through a precise steering of the camera. The cinematography mirrors the movements of Sherry — “ma’am’s” kitten — as it haphazardly pans the house for a significant portion of the film. Colored by a ferocious fluidity and utter control, the camera’s harrowing presence transforms into the fourth character of Kaun?. Almost a spectral presence, the lens delivers her calculated paranoia-filled performance. 

In the opening section of the film, Matondkar’s unnamed character is haunted with a sense of being surveilled. The camera, enabling this by sneakily creeping up on her, positions the spectator as a voyeur at first. This positioning replicates the toxic patriarchal lens that objectifies the female body. Kaun? duplicates the dominant ideology, but only to utterly transgress it with “ma’am’s” subtly infused fourth wall breaks sprinkled throughout scenes. These eventually explode when in the final shot of the film, “ma’am” blatantly acknowledges the audience that’s watching her. Meeting their gaze and treacherously smiling, “ma’am” metaphorically takes a bow for her deliberate performativity up till that point. 

Beyond this, the film discomforts, disorients, and destabilizes passivity from the spectator. There are staccato-esque montage sequences of different statues that serve as a reminder of the hollowness and horror stuck in stagnant stares. The statues effectively caution the viewer against this stagnancy, and Kaun? highlights a synchrony in the process of observing and being observed.

Kaun? further contrasts commercial Bollywood cinema in its use of music. The film does not include any distinct songs; instead it is continually punctuated with a spine-chilling background score by Sandeep Chowta. Urmila Matondkar’s spectacular performance throbs splendidly through this gnawing musical composition. Her petrifying nightmares and visions secrete dire thrills, claustrophobia, and grotesqueness through the intense vibrations that the score produces.

Enhancing the sensation of horror, this background accompaniment collaborates with her meticulously fabricated “feminine” performance. The score reaches a crescendo in the final moments of the film. Thus, it underscores the punctured patriarchal gaze as “ma’am” glares back at the lens, unabashed.

Intertwining intricately crafted characters, nimble camera movements, and utterly evocative music, Kaun? submerges in the peculiar and the inconclusive. We never do find out the true intentions of the male characters or who actually kills the kitten. The only thing that is discernible is a queer and destabilizing answer to the question of kaun (who). Kaun? subtly yet wholesomely engages with gender, patriarchy, and identity, evoking an instability that staggers each. Crisply shot, relatively short, and firmly written, Kaun? carries you along on a chilling psychological rollercoaster that you simply cannot afford to miss watching out.