On paper, this premise is playful and genre-friendly. But it also has a twist that’s more of a statement than a revelation – a commentary on Parasite-style class rage and, if one digs deeper, the moral tragedy of being an outsider. It’s meant to be a reminder, not a surprise. Yet, when viewed through the prism of Bala’s free-flowing cinephilia – from the title and tropey character arcs to the vintage opening credits (“And Above All”) over a cabaret number; from an eerily authentic Seventies-inspired soundtrack to the nods to Psycho (1960) – Monica, O My Darling recalibrates life as an expression of the movies we love. But not in a way one might imagine. It likens the social hierarchies of living to the social ladders (and snakes) of narrative fiction. This film implies that, just as mega corporations overlook the value of lower-level workers, or just as elite households grow blind to their own privilege, elaborate movie plots tend to neglect the agency of their fringe players. The identity of what we see – the deaths, deceit, drama and the protagonist’s rollercoaster ride – often consumes the identity of what we don’t see: the aspirations of vamps and sidekicks, the reaction shots, the inconspicuous blue-collar faces who operate the machines that might replace them.
For instance, Jayant is so preoccupied by his own rags-to-riches journey that he barely notices – or suspects – those beyond his immediate eyeline. The writing cements his illusion as the primary story. He is resented by the supporting characters of his life, the ones relegated to the sidelines of such movies. Like unapologetic gold-digger Monica: “You’re not talented, your story is good”. Like bitter rival Nishikant: “Unlike you, I don’t have any garbage to get out of”. Or even like investigating officer Naidu: “Seasoned criminals never use ready-made backstories”. As a result, in his own head, Jayant is on the brink of emulating all those famous noir strivers – from Andhadhun’s (2018) Akash and Gehraiyaan’s (2022) Zain to Johnny Gaddaar’s (2007) Vikram and Baazigar’s (1993) Vicky Malhotra. He feels entitled to a few lapses of judgment, evident from the manner he nearly confesses to his affair by using his sad childhood as a prelude. He treats his small-town roots like an irritating mosquito; his behaviour with his sister, Shalu (Zayn Marie Khan), is dismissive at best. He never considers the possibility that she, too, is a parallel story.
But Monica, O My Darling bursts the genre bubble. It cushions the blow of a blunt twist by asking: What about the stories hijacked by selfish protagonists? The film actually opens with a seemingly unrelated incident in the robotics lab. You can tell that this is the original narrative, until a six-months-later cut reduces it to a footnote in Jayant’s flashy journey. He has, in a way, stolen the limelight. The rest of the film is defined by the invisibilization of the opening narrative – and its ability to hide in broad daylight. (Leopards and cobras make cameos, almost as though the killer were flaunting nostalgic mediums of murder in the face of a corrupt robotics company). The killer even appears in the second act, ending the mystery long before the climax, only to be perplexed by the fact that his/her presence fails to influence the flow of the thriller. Most movies are determined by the search for a murderer; here, the murderer is determined by the search for a film.
