It pains me endlessly when good intent is undercut by shoddy storytelling. Anushree Mehta’s directorial feature film debut Mrs Undercover is the latest example of how terribly poor execution and lazy filmmaking can ruin fascinating possibilities.Mrs Undercover is the story of Durga , a housewife living in Kolkata who was trained to be an undercover agent 12 years ago but was forgotten by the secret services, courtesy systemic ineptitude and apathy. Now deeply domesticated and caring for a family wholly dependent on her — old, ailing parents-in-law, a sexist, incorrigible pig of a husband, and a school-going son — she is suddenly called on duty to nab a psychopath who goes by the alias ‘Common Man’ and thrives on killing independent, empowered women.It has been over a decade since Durga held a gun but the chief of the special forces is convinced that she can help them crack this case. Why? Because Common Man has killed all their other field agents and because Durga was off the radar and her cover of a housewife was so impenetrable , that she is all they have. Thus ensues the drama.Written by Mehta and Abir Sengupta, Mrs Undercover tries so hard to be a funny social comedy with a strong feminist message that it fails spectacularly on both fronts. It is unfunny and preachy, so much so that it hurts. The characters, especially Sharma’s Rangeela — yes, that’s the name they decided to go with for the chief of special forces, this film is that desperate — breaks into a monologue glorifying housewives every chance he can.I appreciate the intent. It is noble and needed; we can never have enough stories about women. But this film has the gravitas of a helium balloon gone awry at a toddler’s birthday party. Also, the number of times all the characters say housewife in Mrs Undercover can easily beat the atrocious number that Alia Bhatt’s Isha calls out Shiva in Ayan Mukerji’s Brahmastra.The story is as predictable as a mundane weekday. Within the first 10 minutes, you know how the film will pan out. But that’s not its worst folly. Kshitij Tarey’s background score is. That’s saying something for a movie that doesn’t even bother to reveal why its villain is the way he is or what it is that drives his manic killing spree. But I digress. The background score is so appalling that I feel Mrs Undercover could have been an entirely different film in the hands of someone who knew better than to string together Tom & Jerry-esque sounds for a film on women empowerment. Abhinav Shekhar, Amit Sawant, and Ankit Shah’s songs do not help either. They stick out as sore thumbs — misplaced, uninspired, much like the rest of the film.At 105 minutes, Mrs Undercover begins like Anubhav Sinha’s Thappad and ends like Sujoy Ghosh’s Kahaani . It tries to borrow from their worlds but it is nowhere even remotely close to their universes. For all that happens in between, Mrs Undercover doesn’t quite know what it wants to be or where it wants to go. Sandeep Kurup’s editing feels more like patchwork and Abhimanyu Sengupta’s cinematography has little personality of its own. The only aspect that truly shines in this forgettable fest is Radhika Apte.It’s nothing short of remarkable how fully she commits to the project even if it fails her repeatedly. As Durga, she is malleable, vulnerable, lithe, and portrays the thanklessness of being an invisible mother, wife, and daughter-in-law with aching spiritedness. But an actor of her calibre and verve deserves to headline a better film. The same is the case with Sumeet Vyas. He does what he is given with sincerity but it’s so little that there isn’t much for him to do. The film sacrifices his character arc and screen time for Durga’s cheating husband. So as the it progresses, instead of a key character, he is reduced to an afterthought.At the beginning of Mrs Undercover, Durga wakes up to a recurrent dream of her fighting goons as a secret agent, a scene straight out of a cheap comic book. The ludicrousness of this film is that her reality is no less absurd. Mrs Undercover is available for streaming on Zee5.Read other pieces by Sneha Bengani here.
