Kiss

By a stroke of random happenstance, I stumbled upon Varun Grover's "KISS" solely because his name graced the credits. What unfolded in these 15 minutes felt like an embryonic, nascent directorial sketch, crafted with good intent, his writing skills unmistakably present throughout. This is neither a perfunctory attempt, ascetic minimalism, nor an avant-garde experiment, but rather a good production with palpable resources. However, it intermittently succumbs to a certain dullness. And you can't box "KISS" into a single genre. The narrative momentum occasionally sags, and once its core premise becomes apparent, the eventual ending, while pleasant, feels rushed, burdened by an overkill of a background score.

The conceit of "KISS" arrested me, its masterful ballet between time's objective march and the subjective kaleidoscope of individual perceptions. It silently screams how our personal baggage warps reality, which is genuinely interesting idea. Of course, there's a scream against censorship and more. There are three mini-stories here, but the characters? They're more like sketches, sometimes preachy, self-indulgent, and rushed, leaving me with a lot to unpack. Yeah, it's a short film, I get it. That's both its strength and its biggest problem.

Overall, the performances are largely devoid of misfires, especially with Swanand Kirkire - that guy's a legend.

Nevertheless, KISS is certainly worth a watch if you're seeking something genuinely interesting from Hindi cinema currently streaming on MUBI.

This review may probably feel longer than the film it is trying to review. This is because of two reasons.

1. I am not as good at brevity as Mr. Varun Grover is, to pack such intensely complex content within such a short film.

2. I feel it would be a disservice to this film if a viewer doesn't spend time thinking about it and writing about her / his interpretation.

Varun Grover's short film Kiss is a dissection of power, perception, and the unsettling intimacy of the gaze. What begins as a seemingly dry exchange between a filmmaker and two members of a censor board soon reveals itself as something far more layered and haunting.

The plot is minimal by design: an on-screen kiss is under scrutiny at a film screening. Its length is debated. The scene loops, from that loop rises discomfort, exposing an unravelling of deeper psychological fault lines. This kiss at the film screening, ordinary yet radical, absurd yet logical, becomes the centre of tension not because of what it is, but because of how it is being seen.

Grover cleverly shifts the narrative focus from content to cognition. Each character perceives the kiss differently, not just in emotional tone, but in actual duration. In this ambiguity, Kiss explores a quiet truth: Perception is never neutral. It is shaped by memory, fondness, shame, desire, and fear. The film understands that censorship, too, is not merely an institutional mechanism, but a deeply personal act, often rooted in one's own unresolved past.

The claustrophobic setting of the screening room with its dim lights and closed space, functions almost like a subconscious mind. There is a looping of dialogue, of glances, of seconds. Reality appears to fray, as if the kiss is a glitch in the moral matrix that these characters inhabit. This stylistic choice is reminiscent of Beckett or early Lynch: time becomes a trap, repetition a form of psychological unease.

Grover resists dramatics, with no shouting, no overt ideological clash, the film feels quiet, but with a peculiar silence which keep growing thicker with dissonance. It reveals the absurdity and violence of institutional 'protection' that, in truth, often masks personal discomfort projected onto public morality.

In the Indian context, where public intimacy is still heavily policed, both socially and legally, the kiss stands up not just for romance, but for rebellion. Kiss doesn't sensationalise this, but offers a satirical, slow-burning parable of how the personal becomes political, and how institutions can act not as filters of public decency, but as mirrors of private anxiety.

At its core, Kiss is a film about the psychology of control, about how systems don't just suppress what we express, but regulate what we feel is permissible to feel. The brilliance lies in how Grover invites viewers to sit with their own discomfort. Are we watching the kiss, or are we watching the watchers? And who, ultimately, are we empathising with?

If George Orwell had imagined a censor board meeting in 2024, Kiss might be it, drenched not in bureaucratic absurdity and the uncanny weight of silence.

In just under 20 minutes, Kiss doesn't offer resolution, but reflection. It doesn't rage, but unnerves, and in doing so, it captures the quiet violence of censorship as a policy blind to nuances that multiple perceptions can bring to art.