I Want To Talk Review

The screen lights up as a nurse leans in and asks Arjun Sen (Abhishek Bachchan), a marketing guru battling laryngeal cancer, "When you get your life back, what will you do?" The answer, stark and unflinching, blazes across the screen: I Want To Talk. With those words, director Shoojit Sircar ushers us into a world where survival is not just an act of defiance but a relentless struggle against fate's cruel hand.

I Want To Talk is based on the true story of Arjun Sen, a motivational speaker whose life saw serious turbulence. An IIT-alumnus-turned-cynical-salesman who thrives on sardonic declarations like "people are dumb" and "marketing is bullshit", Arjun has his sharp edges dulled when the devastating diagnosis shatters his life. What begins as laryngeal cancer spirals into a succession of 19 brutal surgeries. Yet Arjun, much like the battered body he drags through each day, refuses to collapse entirely. He turns stoic.

Arjun's transformation is nothing short of startling. He gains weight, loses his hair, and moves with a faltering gait that suggests a man struggling to trust his own limbs. It's not the grand heroism of cinematic triumphs but a quiet, stubborn persistence. One character even quips, "Tumhara naam hona chahiye Surgery Sen," a darkly humorous nod to Arjun's endless medical battles.

Yet, the film resists sentimental portrayals. Arjun is not the saintly figure of Rishikesh Mukherjee's Anand, where life's brevity is celebrated with memorable flamboyance. Instead, he is a stoic survivor, sometimes bitter, sometimes painfully ordinary, who teaches not through grand gestures but through his refusal to give in. In one chilling scene, he sits in silence, his eyes brimming with fear and regret - a haunting moment that encapsulates the film's tone.

Sircar's signature touch lies in finding extraordinary poignancy within the mundane. Take the scene where Arjun's daughter, Ria (Ahilya Bamroo), forgets her shoes at her mother's house. The late-night drive to retrieve them unfolds as a microcosm of their fractured lives. Arjun's exasperation mingles with Ria's quiet anguish, a tender yet aching depiction of the emotional toll of divorce.

These understated moments are where Sircar excels, crafting a narrative that feels lived-in rather than staged. Much like Piku celebrated the ordinariness of bowel troubles, I Want To Talk finds its soul in the unremarkable rhythm of survival. Johnny Lever, in a refreshingly subtle role as a handyman, adds a touch of warmth, helping Arjun navigate his endless hospital runs.

But the deliberate pace, while reflective of Arjun's journey, risks testing your patience. Sircar avoids climactic crescendos, opting instead for a subdued portrayal that mirrors the stillness of October. This approach, while evocative, leaves parts of the narrative feeling inert. The repetitive cycle of surgeries and recovery begins to weigh down the story, diluting its emotional impact.

Even the dialogue - a mix of Hindi, English and Bengali - occasionally falters, with some lines feeling stilted. The film's American setting, though novel, doesn't entirely escape the constraints of familiarity, making certain interactions feel predictable.

However, Sircar once likened his films to classical music, explaining that they take time to grow on you, unlike the immediate allure of pop. I Want To Talk embodies this philosophy. It's a symphony of resilience and quiet defiance, a story that demands patience but rewards with moments of profound beauty.

Bachchan, Bamroo and Jayant Kripalani dominate much of the film's runtime, each delivering strikingly different portrayals that linger in memory. Bachchan, in particular, opens as a confident, carefree salesman - his swagger palpable in just a few fleeting moments. Yet, as the narrative unfolds, his character takes a sharp turn, evolving into an impassive, almost emotionless figure. This isn't wooden, blank-faced emotionlessness, but a contemplative stillness that conveys depth without words. Occasionally, his sorrowful eyes betray his grief and cowardice in ways dialogue could never achieve. It's a masterclass in restraint, and Bachchan excels. Remarkably, this was his first attempt at such a role.

Jayant Kripalani, portraying the surgeon who performs multiple operations on Arjun, is a picture of nuance. As a suave, affable doctor with a sharp wit, he uses humour to ease Arjun's turmoil, often taking playful jabs at him. His Westernised demeanour, free of Bollywood clichés like stethoscopes and white coats, lends authenticity to the role. Midway through the film, his character undergoes a subtle shift - from the jovial professional to a golf buddy who begins to empathize deeply with Arjun's struggles. Kripalani's performance balances levity and gravity with finesse.

Bamroo, as Arjun's daughter Riya, is a revelation. In her debut role, she captures the essence of a brooding, impulsive teenager with striking conviction. Riya's rebellious spirit, raw emotions and occasional unruliness create a character who is as exasperating as she is endearing. Beneath her free-spirited exterior lies a fiercely loving daughter, and Bamroo navigates this complexity with surprising ease for a first-time actor.

For moments of levity, Johnny Lever steps in as a grumpy yet helpful character who pops in and out of the story. His brief appearances are perfectly timed, ensuring the audience bursts into laughter just when it's needed the most. Lever's comedic flair and endearing grouchiness make his scenes a delightful respite in the otherwise intense narrative.

The movie features five songs, each lasting just 2 to 3 minutes, but you'd hardly notice them. They're so seamlessly woven into the background that calling them "songs" feels like a stretch - they're more like an understated extension of the background score.

Though the movie was shot entirely in the US, as the story demanded, the film deliberately avoids showcasing iconic landmarks. Instead, the visuals are grounded and intimate, taking you to the sterile operation theatres of a hospital, the classrooms of a college, a quiet golf course and stretches of ordinary roads. The lack of grandiose imagery ensures the focus stays on the narrative rather than the setting. Visually, it's not about spectacle but subtlety.

The production values are modest yet effective, complementing the story's grounded tone. There's no choreography - either for songs or for fights - because the film avoids extravagant musical or action sequences. The songs exist only as part of the score, and there isn't a single action scene in sight.

Interestingly, very few scenes appear dubbed. The natural acoustics of operation theatres, golf courses and college halls lend authenticity, with the captured dialogues often being of production-quality clarity. This aligns with the Hollywood norm, where full-fledged dubbing is rarely employed these days. The film's minimalistic approach - both visually and sonically - proves to be its quiet strength, pulling you into its world without distractions.

In the end, I Want To Talk isn't a tale of victory but of survival. For all its flaws - its inertia, its lack of dry humour and its muted climax - I Want To Talk lingers, much like the lessons it seeks to impart. It may not overwhelm with dramatic flair or wit, but it quietly insists on being felt. It reminds us that heroism isn't always loud; sometimes, it's simply about finding the strength to keep going, one day at a time. This is not a feel-good movie to unwind with, nor will it leave you on an emotional high. Instead, it might draw you into a sense of existential dread. Yet, it's undeniably worth a one-time watch.