When a nameless tenant (Prateik Babbar) moves into a vacant upstairs room at a Fort Kochi estate, his presence greatly disrupts the traditional family dynamic. The stunning and mysterious heartthrob catches the attention of Tanay (Neelay Mehendale), the middle child of the family and an aspiring poet, as well as Anuja (Anjali Sivaraman), the youngest, tomboyish sister whose heart lies on the hockey fields. 

Cobalt Blue is a queer-tinged family drama written and directed by Sachin Kundalkar, based off of his own novel of the same name. Released by Netflix, the film never quite shakes its melancholy air despite the bright and bold use of primary colors, beautiful landscapes, and stunning camera work. In that way, the film is very reminiscent of a first love, when the world seems to open up in new ways, yet it is almost understood that it will never last. In its construction and atmosphere, there are shades of Call Me by Your Name (2019), though Cobalt Blue goes deeper than that, rather it is an understated questioning of traditional ideals when pitted against modern relationships, especially given the mid-1990’s setting, a generation before the legalization of homosexuality in India. 

Mehendale’s Tanay is our window into this film. He is soft-spoken, does well in school, and has attracted the attention of his literature teacher (Neil Bhoopalam) who becomes a supportive role in the growth of Tanay’s talents as a writer, though it also enters a moral grey area as the two also share a few secret encounters. It is Mehendale’s narration of Tanay’s poems that help guide the narrative forward, his flowing words couple perfectly with the scenery and also add to the tender yet exhilarating first touches shared with the new neighbor upstairs. While the goody-two-shoes falling for the mysterious bad boy is a dynamic done half to death in gay and straight stories alike, Cobalt Blue does not treat Tanay like a perfectly innocent protagonist throughout. In the third act, the film takes off on a surprisingly frantic arc which finds Tanay at his most confident in his identity and he wields that confidence like a weapon against the society that would require him to conform. He does so in a tonally dark shift displaying a fascinating power grab from a character who was set up as a one who would collapse under the weight of expectation.  

What is one of the more notable things in the film is how Kundalkar moves his camera and how voyeuristic it is. The film is not without scenes explicitly sexual in nature, but more often than not Kundalkar opts to show the longing gaze, the light touches, the more secret moments shared between the two young men that, however innocuous to those around them are incredibly meaningful and charged to each other. It is, not surprisingly, focused on the poetry of a budding relationship. The coming together of strangers with stomachs full of butterflies until one makes the first move that acts as a nuclear catalyst of emotions between the two. These brief moments are so meticulously constructed to fit into the greater feel of the film that, even when the narrative begins to thin, Kundalkar keeps us engaged with the emotional intensity of the film.  

The final point of the love triangle takes the form Anuja. Sivaraman’s role here is one of the most layered and fascinating ones in the film. Our introduction to her is as a sporty spitfire who keeps her hair cut short in a boyish do that initially seems like it stems more for its utility on the field, but as the narrative unfolds we see it is her own subtle form of rebellion. According to tradition, Anuja must be married before her oldest brother, Aseem (Anant Joshi), can be wed to his fiancé. She rejects her rich suitors – one from New York City, the other from California – in pursuit of her career in field hockey. It is very nice to see that the film does not treat Anuja as some pseduo-antagonist for wanting to pursue her own ambitions, but instead allows for two very interesting moments that help to explain her own predicament and mindset. One is a short scene shared with the nun (Poornima Indrajith) who assists at the estate who we later find out was only given to the sisterhood because she was preventing a marriage in her own family. The second element that takes up a little more screen time, is Anuja’s realization of her own sexuality with the addition of Babbar’s tenant into the household dynamic. There is a scene early on in which the matriarch of the family (Geetanjali Kulkarni) confronts Tanay about why he has a face cream meant for girls in his wardrobe. Later, in a very tender moment shared between Tanay and Anuja, the brother lends her the cream and body spray so that she may make herself more appealing to the new neighbor; a tragic realization that we have along with Tanay, their love will never be accepted. 

Cobalt Blue is a very simple story at its core, but the artistry of the narrative and the atmosphere of the film elevate it to something truly special. One of the running themes of the film is a version of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata incorporating traditional Indian instruments and it creates the perfect opening to the film. Whimsy seems an inappropriate word to use to describe the carefully constructed dream-like imagery the film displays, but it is hard to define this perfect balance of fantasy that never feels overly manufactured. The camera sweeps and swoons over the idyllic landscapes and as we take in the beautiful colors, we feel like we are witnessing a memory and a daydream all at once. Through a brief epilogue, we are left with a heavy yet hopeful heart towards the family we spent the last 112 minutes with, and while the sting of regret is certainly felt, there is evidence of growth and strength so that we can look back at the romance we saw blossom before our eyes and smile.