If you think that superheroes come only from Marvel or DC, prepare for a delightful, heart-warming shock. "Superboys of Malegaon (2024)" is not your typical caped-crusader flick. It’s the true story and an inspired tale of a band of everyday dreamers from the small town of Malegaon, a city in western India, who, armed with a camera cheaper than a superhero’s lunch, homemade costumes, and boundless enthusiasm, decide to make their own films. Their mission? To tell their own stories, fight their own local villains (like the dreaded Gutka King), and in doing so, reclaim their joy and identity. It’s a story about the act of creation itself, against a backdrop where despair would be an easier choice.
Lights, Camera,… Reality!
Directed by the visionary Nasir Shaikh (who also plays a version of himself), the film is a meta-masterpiece. It’s a movie about the making of a movie, blurring the lines so seamlessly you forget where the script ends and real life begins. The cast, largely comprising non-professional actors from the town, brings a raw, unvarnished charm that no acting school could ever teach. Their laughter is real, their frustrations palpable, and their triumphs feel like our own.
The soundtrack, a quirky blend of local folk tunes and hilariously overdramatic background scores that the "superboys" themselves compose, is a character in its own right. It winks at the audience, fully aware of its own absurdity and celebrating it.
While the movie didn't break box office records in the traditional sense, it became a monumental critical darling, winning the National Award for Best Film on Social Issues and the coveted Audience Choice Award at several international film festivals. The film-makers, in their acceptance speeches, echoed the movie's spirit: "We didn't have a budget, but we had a story. That is the only special effect you need."
There was a minor controversy, of course, when a certain political group claimed the film portrayed Malegaon in a "poor light." The irony was lost on them that the film is a radiant love letter to the town, proving that its true light comes from its people, not its perception. For movie lovers, the excitement lies in its pure, unadulterated creativity, a reminder of why we fell in love with cinema in the first place.
One standout scene involves the crew trying to film a flying sequence. With no CGI, they resort to having their "Superman," Shankar, jump off a ladder onto a pile of sacks. He lands with a comical thud. As he lies there, groaning, he looks into the camera and says, "In Malegaon, even our Superman falls down. But we always show him flying in the movie. That’s the point."
This is where our review takes a theological detour. That line, "we always show him flying in the movie", is more than just a funny, thoughtful moment. It is a modern-day parable of the Prophetic Voice, a theme deeply woven into the fabric of Christian scripture.
In the Bible, the prophet isn't a fortune-teller. He is, as theologian Walter Brueggemann says, one who engages in "the vocation of arousing the disappointed imagination." Prophets like Isaiah, Jeremiah, and Amos looked at a world of exile, injustice, and despair, and against all visible evidence, dared to "show it flying." They spoke of a suffering servant who would redeem, of valleys being exalted, and of a peace that the world could not give. They told God’s story of hope into a situation of hopelessness, much like the Superboys film a story of heroic triumph over the mundane struggles of their town.
The movie mirrors this perfectly. The forces they face, poverty, obscurity, cynicism, are their "Gutka Kings," their Babylonian exile. The act of picking up a camera is their prophetic act. It is a whisper against the roar of reality that says, "You can't." It is the voice of John the Baptist crying out in the cinematic wilderness, preparing the way for a different narrative.
In a world dominated by what the article calls the "Four P's": post-truth, polarisation, and populism, the simple, joyful truth-telling of the Superboys is a radical act. It is peace-making, not through passive silence, but through active creation. Their stitched-together costumes are a laughable, tangible sign of hope, much like the five loaves and two fishes, insufficient for the crowd, but transformative in the hands of Christ.
They are not just making movies; they are participating in a kind of sacramental imagination. They are making the invisible visible, the dignity, the dreams, and the resilience of their community. They are, in their own wonderfully wacky way, echoing the creative Logos, the Word through whom all things were made. Their film set is their parish, and their camera, a pulpit from which they preach a gospel of "what could be."
As the movie comes to its conclusion and you wipe away a happy tear, a question lingers, one that can guide us toward a more meaningful life: In the parts of your own life that feel grounded, where despair seems more logical than hope, what is the 'flying scene' you are called to film anyway?
