Fatima Sana Shaikh has one of the most beautiful faces on this planet. Her already radiant features become even more luminous thanks to that smile and those dimples. The camera doesn't capture her; Shaikh simply melts its lens. When she appears on screen, she makes our hearts skip a beat. Like Rajkummar Rao's Kabir in Ludo, R. Madhavan's Shrirenu Tripathi in Aap Jaisa Koi, and Vijay Varma's Nawabuddin Saifuddin Rahman in Gustaakh Ishq, our eyes widen in awe, and we freeze in place as Shaikh walks into the frame like a waking dream. Vibhu Puri made the right choice by casting her in a film about the beauty of Urdu and the elegance of poetry. Shaikh, after all, looks like the physical manifestation of graceful verse. She is a sophisticated line in motion; she is the very definition of exquisite. One emerges from Gustaakh Ishq with lingering images of Shaikh's Minni gazing into the distance, picking a lock with mischief in her eyes, and smiling at Nawabuddin as he hides his underwear or fumbles with a tiffin. She is, unsurprisingly, the best reason to watch this film.
This doesn't mean Varma, Naseeruddin Shah, or Sharib Hashmi come across as weak. As Nawabuddin, Varma brings an air of freshness and excitement to the film. He's like a handsome jester who electrifies the story's conventional, monotonous rhythms with his charm and spirited energy. If Minni is perfectly poised, Nawabuddin is energetic, impassioned, dynamic. He's a bundle of joy with a heart that bleeds for poetry. In a way, he's the archetypal artist who cherishes talent over money. He runs a printing press on the verge of shutting down permanently. A titillating, sexually suggestive story could save the shop and help his family pay the bills, but Nawabuddin has no interest in printing cheap literature (even if such stories possess their own salacious poetry). What he wants to print are the poems of Aziz Baig — a character who, in Shah's hands, looks simultaneously like a sprightly Casanova and a wise sage. The only problem is that Aziz refuses to publish his work. He, too, is a true artist. Fame and money don't interest him. And he has his reasons — which I won't mention here, since they tread into spoiler territory.
As for chemistry, the one shared by Shah and Varma forms the emotional core of Gustaakh Ishq. It's a film about the relationship between a fan and an artist. It also examines what it means to be a "pure writer" in a time when sensationalism earns far more profits than genuine creativity. Jumman (Mohan Verma), Nawabuddin's brother, represents the practical thinkers — people who believe talent alone doesn't pay the bills. He recognizes Aziz's brilliance and is drawn to a smutty novel at the same time. But ask him to choose between the two, and he'll pick the latter. After all, he reasons, Aziz doesn't want to be published, so why waste so much time on him? Nawabuddin, needless to say, disagrees. He uses deception to secure a "yes" from Aziz. That deception takes the form of posing as a student eager to learn poetry.
How does one become a poet? Why, ask Aziz. He tells Nawabuddin: "Jeb mein kalam rakhne se shaayar nahi bante; kalam zakhmon par rakhni padti hai." Like it? Here's another: "Raat agar chaand chura le toh amavasya ho jaati hai." Puri, along with co-writer Prashant Jha, unleashes a torrent of lyrical lines. Some are even funny, like when Aziz says, "Sharab akele piyo toh zeher hoti hai," and Bhoore mocks him with, "Haan, aur saath mein piyo toh chyawanprash ban jaati hai." I was surprised I never grew tired of these lines — they can easily become overkill. But they don't in Gustaakh Ishq, and that's because the actors keep the dialogue peppy, organic, and alive.
The film is set in the late '90s; a character mentions a new kid named Karan Johar and his film. The choice of period isn't only aesthetic — it's nostalgic. Puri wants to recapture the glory and innocence of those pre-smartphone days, when people read, talked, and formed relationships through face-to-face conversations. The setting also allows him to recycle old tropes, such as the one where a man can't inform a woman of a family emergency, leading her to think he has abandoned or betrayed her. Puri's nostalgia for the past, however, remains superficial. He fails to channel the necessary moods into the film. There is a disconnect between the lines the characters speak and the images meant to hold those words on the screen. The dialogue is sharp, incisive — it bites. The visuals, on the other hand, are bland, serviceable, and merely pretty. They observe the characters and their circumstances, but from a distance. Puri keeps everything breezy and light. Moments that should erupt with vehemence simply dissipate silently. The emotions remain muted, yet the insistent (and sometimes irritating) background score tries hard to move the audience.
Still, the movie remains afloat thanks to Puri's goodwill and general inoffensiveness. I liked the easygoing loveliness of "Ul Jalool Ishq," the only song that stayed with me as I left the theater. Shilpa Rao and Papon lend their voices beautifully. Another film currently running in theaters also features a terrific Shilpa Rao song — and it, too, has the I-word, which means "love," in its title. Both movies even feature Jaya Bhattacharya, albeit briefly. Talk about coincidence and movie magic.
Final Score- [6/10]
Reviewed by - Vikas Yadav
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Publisher at Midgard Times