Teen musical isn’t a Zoya Akhtar film as much as it is an engineered illusion of a Zoya Akhtar film distilled down to the most recognizable characteristics of a supposed Zoya Akhtar film that belongs to Netflix
If there is one thing that Zoya Akhtar’s The Archies — a star-kid-studded Hindi film adaptation of the eponymous American comics — proves, it is that Netflix is primarily a marketing company in India. It is interested in creating products rather than films. It is betting not so much on the distinctive vision of creators but really is more interested in milking the reputation of certain creators as an advertisement for its own brand.
The Archies, then, isn’t a Zoya Akhtar film as much as it is an engineered illusion of a Zoya Akhtar film distilled down to the most recognizable characteristics of a supposed Zoya Akhtar film that belongs to Netflix. It’s agreeable, glossy, and altogether forgettable, so consciously assembled that the strain shows in frame after frame.
This is the kind of film whose life cycle is measured not in its 143-minute runtime but in the length of the Barbie-borrowed, Netflix-mounted marketing campaign — littered with brand collaborations, music video dispatches, and fiery discourse about nepotism — that preceded it. It’s not surprising then that much of The Archies feels like a promotional pitch for a film rather than a film itself.
Style over substance
Set within the Anglo-Indian community in the fictional hill town of Riverdale, The Archies — part-musical, part aesthetic — opens in 1964 with a condensed backstory that spells out the ancestry of Riverdale and its connection with the British Raj. This is not the only time the film chooses to spell out character motivations, narrative developments, moral disagreements, heartbreaks, or even the burden of a newly-independent India nursing a colonial hangover through saccharine means.
Throughout The Archies (the story and screenplay is credited to Ayesha Devitre Dhillon, Zoya Akhtar, and Reema Kagti), its makers remain committed to assembling a stylized teen coming-of-age musical that only looks the part even when it doesn’t necessarily play the part. (Take for example: a song called “Everything is Politics” in arguably the most apolitical Hindi film of the year.)
Worryingly, at no point during the film’s runtime does the camera feel invisible. More than anyone else, the leads — a stacked cast of Agastya Nanda, Aditi Saigal (who goes by the stage name Dot.), Khushi Kapoor, Mihir Ahuja, Vedang Raina, Suhana Khan, and Yuvraj Menda — appear too conscious of the camera, performing their lines for the camera rather than emoting them. I thought Nanda was a weak choice as Archie Andrews given that he felt like the straightest character around, playing the role without any mischief or edge.
Raina, Menda, Dot., Ahuja, and Khan felt watchable in their respective parts, which is neither a compliment nor a criticism at this point. To me, the only cast member who felt most at ease in front of the camera and somewhat oblivious to it, was Khushi Kapoor — as Betty, the newcomer displays restraint, surprising with her ability to do so much with so little during the most crucial moments.
The Archies made me miss Zoya Akhtar, the director who perfected the language of carefree fun
Granted that it’s easy to justify the surface-level leaps that the storytelling of The Archies takes, given that the film unfolds from the perspective of a bunch of 17-year-olds at the cusp of adulthood. But I suspect I’d be more inclined to buy into the constant detours that the film takes every time a moment of genuine emotion or bite threatens to appear on screen if characters weren’t reduced merely to cardboard caricatures.
Hot-button issues, force-fitted storytelling
The screenplay covers a host of hot-button issues, right from climate change, privatization of public places, corporate greed, and even capitalism, but neither the storytelling nor the universe it inhabits can really stand on their own. Nearly everything feels force-fitted, in particular the focus on the Anglo-Indian community as the subjects of the adaptation. On screen, they come across as comedic relief (especially the adults) rather than full-bodied protagonists.
Which is to say, the film visibly lacks texture, personality, and a mind of its own. In the absence of a solid narrative foundation (the plotting is severely compromised in the film’s first half), its meticulous production design, colourful costumes, lavish song and dance set pieces, and sprightly tunes clash against one another violently. The sets look like sets; the clothes feel like unwilling accessories; the choreography comes across as conscious, and the severely autotuned soundtrack seems ill-suited as a candidate left to do all the heavy-lifting.
In between, “the film” is nowhere to be found — what we see on screen are flashes of a good-looking production that seems hell-bent on selling something though it’s not exactly clear what is being sold in the first place. Is it nostalgia? Is it the innocence of the simpler times? Or is it just a mood?
As I rack my brain trying to arrive at an answer, I can’t help but miss Zoya Akhtar, the light-footed filmmaker — the storyteller who could build a universe with her sheer conviction, the writer who peeked deep into the recesses of the human condition, no matter their age and ethnicity, spotlighting both the beauty and the ugliness that permeate designer clothes, loaded bank accounts, and double-faced pleasantries. But more than anything, The Archies made me miss Zoya Akhtar, the director who perfected the language of carefree fun. For a musical that revolves around seven teens, The Archies visibly struggles to transport or even sustain the idea of fun onscreen.
