The Namesake: Rich Colors, Pale Storytelling
The Namesake begins with the image of Sanskrit characters being painted in lush, dramatic brushstrokes. This visual introduces the signature tactic of the entire movie: striking images that symbolize something deeper. The screenplay seems restless and meandering, spanning several generations and cultures, so it’s helpful that the focus of the film is director Mira Nair’s evocative visuals.
Though the story mainly follows the character Gogol (Kal Penn), it seems to equally belong to his mother, Ashima (Tabu). The narrative begins with her arranged betrothal to a staid, intellectual man, Ashoke (Irfan Khan), and their move to America. The years melt away as we watch their marriage develop into something like love. They have a family, starting with a son whom Ashoke names Gogol after his favorite author. From there, the focus alternates between Gogol and Ashima’s experiences, with Ashoke as the keeper of both their hearts. It would seem the script is character-driven, but in fact, the characters are not really in charge. To find out why, read more
Irfan Khan plays Ashoke with deference and truth, sometimes removed, sometimes sweetly vulnerable. As Ashima, Tabu provides such a richly textured performance, I would have been content to watch a film about her. Instead, there is this whole other life to concern ourselves with — that of Gogol. In many scenes, Penn understands what he’s doing; as a righteous, silly teenager, he strikes me as someone I would have been friends with. In the later years, however, he can’t seem to take the weight of Gogol’s adult life and give it to us. If there is more substance going on inside him, he isn’t sharing it. It is a particularly flat moment when Ashoke tells Gogol the truth about his name, which is deeply disappointing for anyone who has read the book by Jhumpa Lahiri and knows the hefty importance of that story.
Imagery is exhaustively used to reflect the characters’ inner journeys: the depiction of India with its vibrant colors and crowds of chatty family members contrasts starkly to images of New York, mostly swathed in wintry drabness. This is meant to show Ashima’s interior struggle with her move to America and subsequent loneliness. Much of the movie is devoted to shots of trains, train stations, carts, airports — places of transportation and images of transience — to the point where I almost sighed with exasperation. We get it: These are people ever in transit, belonging to neither country, only to each other. The reason I never did become frustrated is because the film is wonderful to look at, every shot framed with careful intention. Thus, I say: Go for the story, stay for the beauty.
