Fairy Folk: A provocative film about marriage’s suffocating confines, repressed desires

There are directors who keep making the same film over and over again and then there are directors who keep refining their first film in every film they make. Over the course of the 100-minute Fairy Folk, which released in theatres earlier this month, Gour posits himself as a director who falls somewhere in between — a storyteller intent on disintegrating and expanding the identity of his own stories.

The result is an independent film (Gour has written, directed, edited, composed music, and co-produced the feature; the kind of entrepreneurial filmmaking that signals a complete disregard for creative compromise) that is nothing like what Gour has made before or will make again. Fairy Folk is at once, mind-boggling, weird, provocative, playful, poetic, and utterly distinct, suffused with the kind of tension, humour, and emotional conscience that fully embraces and encompasses the tragedies of human existence.

This is a film about the shackles that humans construct in the name of gender, politics, domesticity, desire, stability, morality, and the frustrations that accompany once we realize that the shackles are of our own making. Fairy Folk, then, is as much a compelling coming-of-age tale as it is a competent survival thriller.

The exposition of dormant desire

The action begins with a breakdown, both literal and metaphorical. Late at night, Mohit (the incomparable Mukul Chadda) and Ritika (Rasika Dugal) are left stranded as their car comes to a halt in Aarey Colony. As the couple bicker over booking an Uber to go home, a creature appears in front of them. In a state of panic, the couple flee the spot only to realize that the creature has followed them home. The next morning, Mohit inspects the creature in his living room and we learn that their new guest has a human form although no genitals or an affinity for clothing.

Dumbstruck by the absurdity of the circumstances, Mohit and Ritika confide in their friends about the new house guest and are promptly told to get rid of it, advice that appeals to neither of them. With time, Mohit starts to bond with the genderless being, as if acquainting himself with a subservient pet: he orders it around, trains it to be a server at his house parties, and observes its mannerisms with the precision of a scientist. But it becomes easy to discern that Mohit is neither a thoughtful host or a caregiver, rather an emasculated man desperate to exert power in a household where his wife is the sole breadwinner.

As Mohit gets more and more obsessed with pushing the buttons of this genderless being, he ends up crossing the line one night. The morning after, Mohit and Ritika wake up to another house guest: a younger, physically attractive man who claims to be Mohit (Chandrachoor Rai) and seemingly possesses his memory and mannerisms. And when Ritika embarks on a relationship with their new guest, it eventually exposes the extent of her dormant desires, setting Mohit up for further emasculation.

The uplifting chemistry between the real-life couple

I want to say as little as possible about the direction that Gour’s script takes from here because it is arguably, one of the most sparkling, original turns of narrative build-up in Hindi cinema, one that should be experienced and felt without any warning or hesitation. But I will say this: It is in these portions that Gour displays his keen eye as a filmmaker, carefully calibrating the illusion of Mohit and Ritika’s stable companionship only to gently break it, allowing viewers to read between the lines of the couple’s mechanical existence.

Still, it is truly astounding the existential depths that Fairy Folk manages to uncover within the bare bones of its structure. Working with his extraordinary lead performers, Gour inspects thorny, complicated questions about desire and repression that both play into and dispel the heteronormative gaze.

There was more than one instance when I read Mohit’s sexless existence as the effect of a closeted life — a culmination of the kind of patriarchal conditioning that has left him too afraid to confront himself. But I liked that Gour’s screenplay and staging hints at this possibility rather than outrightly confirming it, giving viewers just enough ammunition to imagine vivid backstories for both Mohit and Ritika without flattening the textures of these perspectives.

Nearly all of it is possible because of the spirit of collaboration that is enshrined in the mere existence of Fairy Folk. Gour has cast real-life friends in the film as well as being resourceful and economical in shooting within the confines of a house, decisions that depend on the agility of gifted collaborators. The casting of real-life couple Chadda and Dugal is undoubtedly a masterstroke, especially considering their electric chemistry and generosity as scene-partners who work together in every scene with an eye toward lifting the material.

Why it deserves the spotlight

I wasn’t really surprised when I found out that most of the dialogue was improvised by both actors — Chadda’s experience with theatre and Dugal’s relaxed subtlety make them the perfect candidates for bringing alive the duality of suffocation and stability onscreen, something that could have been an uphill task for most actors.

Chadda, in particular, is extraordinary in conveying Mohit’s moral timidity without any embellishment: he plays Mohit as both a saviour and someone in dire need of saving with the light-footedness of someone in complete grasp of his craft. That is to say, Dugal and Chadda don’t act in the film as much as they perform with every fibre of their being, delivering layered turns while making it look a little too easy.

In 2024, Fairy Folk is exactly the kind of film that should be supported by the influx of streaming platforms, a work of note by a plucky filmmaker invested in sharpening his distinct voice (most of the film’s imperfections are directly a result of the lack of any support for independent filmmakers). It is the kind of film that deserves the spotlight and also the kind of film that will barely be afforded any.

Like most independent filmmakers working in the margins of the Hindi film industry, Gour spent an unusually long number of years making the film with limited resources, clearly having to fight tooth and nail to eventually afford a theatrical release.

It’s impossible then, to laud the kind of courage behind a film like Fairy Folk without also acknowledging the apathy of a film industry that still doesn’t serve the interests of such films. How many more risks do storytellers have to take for their labour to be even acknowledged? I hope the film industry finds that answer soon enough.