October: Varun Dhawan’s finest hour, even after a decade in Bollywood

He is, for instance, the first filmmaker who discovered Deepika Padukone’s untapped potential as a serious actor in Piku. He also remains one of only two directors — the other being Sriram Raghavan — who (correctly) understood that his Gulabo Sitabo star Ayushmann Khurrana is at his best when he’s playing sketchy men and not beloved boys-next-door. In Sardar Udham, he pushed Vicky Kaushal to a point of artistic excellence that even Katrina Kaif wouldn’t have imagined. Forget everything else, Sircar got a performance out of John Abraham! But we’re not here to discuss any of those films, or those stars. We’re here to talk about Varun Dhawan, and his quietly brilliant performance in October.

It remains his finest performance in a decade-long career marred by painfully unmemorable movies. It is a career dominated by characters that can easily be slotted as quintessential Hindi film heroes — Dhawan sings, he dances, he beats up bad guys, all with that trademark smirk on his face. Even in the distinctly non-traditional October, his nondescript wardrobe is barely able to conceal his bulging muscles. For the film to be set in the Delhi winters is thematically relevant, but I can also imagine everybody heaving a sigh of relief at the excuse this gave them to hide Dhawan’s chiselled body underneath three layers of clothing.

In October, he plays a hotel management intern named Dan, who develops a what initially seems like a strange interest in a comatose colleague named Shiuli. But eventually, it turns into something so pure that it almost defies definition. Day after day, Dan shows up at the hospital and sits silently with Shiuli, perhaps not fully understanding that she is as good as dead. There is an element of blind optimism in him that awakens whenever he’s around her, which is ironic, because it’s the most hopeless cause that he could have latched onto. Dan is otherwise quite a pest to be around; entitled, mean-spirited, jealous. But his one-sided relationship with Shiuli transforms him.

Dhawan threads the film’s delicate tone quite masterfully; Dan isn’t the easiest character to understand, and consequently, not the easiest to perform. For one, his motivations are murky. But that’s mostly on us. Having been conditioned over time to treat basic decency with suspicion, it’s takes a while for the film to convince you that Dan has no ulterior motives.

It is implied that Dan is on the spectrum, but Sircar’s direction doesn’t make this a character trait. Instead, he allows Dan to find his own way through life, without ever declaring that one route is better than the other.

When he first goes to meet Shiuli at the hospital, he doesn’t say a word. The scene is underscored by the beeps of hospital machinery, and Sircar’s almost metronomic back and forth between shots of Shiuli, cocooned in a mechanical cot, and of Dan’s overwhelmed reaction at the state she’s in. Dan even counts the exact number of tubes sticking out of her: 19.

Later, when he attempts to barge into the hospital at nighttime — without the all-important night pass — he is stopped at the gate by a rude watchman. This is a great scene, which, in many ways, acts as the turning point in Dan’s evolution. After being denied entry by the overzealous watchman — something that most Indians would be able to relate to — Dan sulks on a nearby bench. A stranger offers him his own night pass, but Dan petulantly turns him down. He eventually sneaks into the building, where he is confronted by another watchman. Dan pleads with him to  let him meet Shiuli for just two minutes, and after thinking about it for a moment, the kind watchman grants him permission. “Imandaari se do minute mein wapas aa jaana,” he instructs Dan, who can’t believe his luck, mostly because he isn’t used to treating people with kindness himself. Seemingly realising this in real-time, he stops in his tracks and thanks the guard.

In any other film, the scene would’ve ended right here. But Sircar and writer Juhi Chaturvedi added a humorous coda to this tense moment that sort of defines the strangeness of this movie. Extending his hand to the watchman, Dhawan says earnestly, in his best line reading of the film, “Aap hospital ke best watchman ho yaar…” He takes a breath, and adds, “Aapka naam kya hai?” Even the watchman is weirded out; like anybody else in his position probably would, he feels like he’s being patronised.

But October wouldn’t be October with uncomfortable moments like this. It’s not easy to play awkwardness on screen, especially when the awkwardness is apparent to the entire world but yourself. Dan doesn’t think that there’s anything out of the ordinary about his behaviour, and there lies the key to how Dhawan generates empathy through his performance. He plays every scene earnestly; there’s no winking at the camera, or posturing like he’s probably used to. Over time, other characters stop perceiving him as an oddball, and slowly realise that he’s probably the most genuine person around. He dictates the morality of his own universe, and the others follow. Funnily enough, Dan’s arc is an awful lot like Michael Scott’s from The Office.

If any analyst wants to study the change in audience behaviour post-pandemic, they could look at the films of Ayushmann Khurrana, sure, but Exhibit A must always remain October. Unlike Khurrana’s films, which can be broadly slotted in the ‘family entertainer’ category — a lucrative genre in theatres — October is an aggressively weird film that would be considered ahead of its time even if it were released now.

It’s no wonder that it tanked dramatically after its opening weekend at the box office. By then, word must’ve got around about how ‘slow’ it is, or how nothing really happens. There is no false hope in October, there are no major outbursts, and no happy ending. Seasons change, that we know, but Dan’s devotion never wavers.