Review of Akshay Kumar-starrer Gold: Contrived tale about Independent India’s first ever pursuit of Olympic glory

by Shreehari H

Akshay Kumar likes to break into an occasional jig or two. In Gold, he might happen to be playing the role of an Indian hockey team manager, but that doesn’t necessarily preclude him from baring his thighs and gyrating in a manner that would put Shakira’s much-vaunted hips to shame. “Dil mein mere phutte hain masti ke waterfall. Aaj na puchho haal mera bas dekho meri chaal,” declares this leader of independent India’s first ever successful pursuit of Olympic glory, even as he goes on to unbutton his tuxedo, squeeze his wife’s cheek, stick his tongue out, and flap his outstretched hands vigorously like a crow struck by lightning mid-flight.

Given how marvelously things panned out for Tapan Das, the aforementioned manager, in the 1948 Summer Olympics in London, I guess this is a routine that ought to be co-opted by other successful mentors of his ilk. One can, for instance, imagine the mortifying spectacle of Sir Alex Ferguson exhorting upon his Manchester United boys to embrace English Premiership stardom by breaking into a moonwalk each time they step out onto the field. If the sheer ludicrousness on display in Gold is anything to go by, Reema Kagti’s movie serves up a contrived, melodramatic account of what might have initially been conceived as an inspiring tale about a nation’s quest for its sporting identity.

The year is 1948, and in a series of expository shots, we see some of the events that have led up to the film: Satyagrahis shout “Inquilab Zindabad” and distribute pamphlets proclaiming “humko aazaad karo”, before being lathi-charged into submission; the Fuhrer is saluted by all and sundry whenever he decides to impose his presence upon the proceedings; Germany declares war upon Poland; the Helsinki Olympics are called off; the trio of Mahatma Gandhi, Maulana Azad and Jawaharlal Nehru are arrested; the Second World War comes to a close with the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki; and the Indian Independence Act of 1947 is signed at long last.

The air is rife with unintentionally hilarious nationalistic bombast as well. “Toh hamaara team Angrez ko London mein haraake apna do sou saal puraana ghulaami ka badla lega,” Akshay Kumar informs an understandably stupefied wife with that characteristic Cheshire cat-like grin of his, and given how buffoonish he is in this film, he might as well be saying “fit hai boss” in an advertisement for Dollar Big Boss innerwear. As in most banal sports films, the wife here exists only to berate her spouse for aspiring to lofty heights, and Mouni Roy is largely wasted here (as is the rest of the supporting cast) in a by-the-numbers, unremarkable portrayal of a woman whose nostrils never cease to flare.

The dialogue is consistently cringeworthy as well. “Very good, huh? Very good,” Akshay praises Amit Sadh at one point in the film, to which the latter replies, “Hum touch mein rahenge.” The only fine moment that the former has in this movie is one when his eyes moisten on seeing the tricolour unfurled instead of the flag of the Union Jack, and even then the film overplays its hand by forcing its protagonist to bellow a full-throated “Vande Mataram”, because, in case you missed the point, that’s what all patriotic managers do. One of the only saving graces in Kagti’s film – besides the well-intentioned story at its core, of course – is its rich, meticulous period detailing, from Victorian-era buildings to antiquated clocks. Nevertheless, it remains fatally flawed because of how its characters mostly represent stereotypes, who mouth spiel like “What a player you are!” and “Bahut naam-roshan karega. Khud ka bhi aur desh ka bhi.”

The expression ‘fool’s gold’ originally came into coinage to denote the presence of iron pyrite, a  mineral whose pale brass-yellow sheen often confounded observers into mistaking it for its more coveted metallic counterpart. But, in the light of Kumar’s tragically flawed film, this phrase might as well take on a whole new significance of its own.

One of the many simplistic storytelling manoeuvres in this movie is that of reducing Tapan Das to a stock Bengali-spouting stereotype. This, naturally, necessitates that zero be pronounced as jeero, gutter as gautter, final as phinal, and London as – yes, you guessed that right – Laundon. Given this proclivity for the overenunciation of syllables, it’s rather ironical how Kumar never once mispronounces the name of our national sport. This film has hokey written all over it.

Rating: 2.5 out of 5