KAMA SUTRA: A TALE OF LOVE
A film review by Scott Renshaw
Copyright 1997 Scott Renshaw
(Trimark) Starring: Indira Varma, Sarita Choudhury, Naveen Andrews, Ramon Tikaram, Rekha. Screenplay: Mira Nair and Helena Kriel. Producers: Mira Nair and Lydia Dean Pilcher. Director: Mira Nair. MPAA Rating: R (nudity, sexual situations, adult themes) Running Time: 119 minutes. Reviewed by Scott Renshaw.
It is a frequent lament of critics that movies today seem to be churned out on conveyor belts, each new release looking and sounding just like the one which preceded it. Rare is the film to appear on American screens which shows audiences a completely different world, a world like the 16th century Indian kingdom which is the setting for KAMA SUTRA: A TALE OF LOVE. In this case, however, I think I understand _why_ we have never seen this world before: apparently, it was the Cradle of Monotony. KAMA SUTRA is a ridiculously tedious study of Indian power politics in which writer/director Mira Nair manages to take exotic locations, torture and plenty of sex and weave them into an uninvolving bore.
KAMA SUTRA is the tale of a friendship between two young women in India -- Tara (Sarita Choudhury), a high caste princess, and a servant named Maya (Indira Varma). Maya's beauty and sensuality inspire great envy in Tara, but it is Tara who is taken in marriage by the powerful prince Raj Singh (Naveen Andrews). An angry Maya seduces Raj Singh on his wedding day, and finds herself exiled when her actions are discovered. Maya is then taken in by a sculptor named Jai Kumar (Ramon Tikaram), and the two begin an affair which Jai finds hard to reconcile with his artistic life. When Maya is rejected by Jai, she decides to train with Rasa Devi (Rekha) to become a concubine, and eventually finds herself once again entangled with Tara and Raj Singh in a struggle for power in the palace.
For about ten minutes, the glorious production design of Mark Friedberg and the cinematography of Declan Quinn might allow you to forgive the plodding pace. Relish those minutes as you would relish water in the desert. KAMA SUTRA rolls along like a block of granite, moving from scene to scene with a wearying lack of grace. Nearly every character is one-dimensional, and that one dimension tends to be sullen and unlikeable; Indira Varma at least has a certain fresh appeal, but the script turns her into a Disney cartoon heroine trying to find something more from life (though I don't imagine Uncle Walt would approve of that "something" being life in a harem). The relationships and conflicts between the characters don't provide much more worth caring about, displaying the kind of melodrama which would make Aaron Spelling blush. As KAMA SUTRA wanders into its second hour, you may find yourself at your watch every five minutes and feeling as though it were moving backwards.
You'd think that a film named after an ancient book of sexual wisdom at least might generate some heat, and unfortunately you would be sadly mistaken. There is a fair amount of skin in KAMA SUTRA, and a few lengthy sex scenes, but without any real passion or connection developed between the characters Nair's direction makes those scenes look like the soft-core porn of a Playboy instructional video. Even those scenes don't make sex seem as abstract and impersonal as the occasional snippets of Kama Sutran erotic philosophy dispensed by Rasa Devi. Overseeing the kind of classes which would definitely get her in hot water with any P.T.A. in this country, Rasa Devi holds forth on the mystical nature of sexuality like a cross between Dr. Ruth and Yoda, except slightly taller. If someone from another culture were to learn from KAMA SUTRA, it is that a droning lecture on sex can be just as soporific as a droning lecture on any other subject.
The most distressing thing about KAMA SUTRA is what a conventional story it turns out to be, its unique setting notwithstanding. Peel away the fuzzy-focus scenes of toe kissing and back scratching and you have a predictable romantic four-some complicated by class, like a Jane Austen novel with saris. Nair and co-scripter Helena Kriel seem so desperate to make KAMA SUTRA seem like a metaphor for something that they toss in a military sub-plot about intrigue to overthrow Raj Singh which gives the film an overtone of RICHARD III; there is even a hunchback prince as a particular reminder. Perhaps the libidinous, opium-smoking Raj Singh is meant to represent the corrupting influence of lust untempered by love, which may at least provide a whisper of a message in keeping with the Kama Sutra. It's still not nearly enough to make KAMA SUTRA worth two hours of your life, even with the opportunity in the final moments to see a man executed by being stepped on by an elephant. If this is what passes for showing us new worlds in the movies, sign me up for another year of National Geographic.
On the Renshaw scale of 0 to 10 Indian burns: 3.
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