‘Forget Me Not’: A tale of love, regret, and Gen Z modernity

On a quiet evening, Aurthee slapped Fahim, abruptly severing an old connection before their relationship had a chance to unravel completely. Above them, Dhaka's newest urban marvel, the metro rail, glided by as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a final glow over the day. As the sun set, so did their story. The screen flashed the title, "Forget Me Not", in a raw, unpolished font.

Produced by Chabial and released on the OTT platform Chorki as part of the "Ministry of Love" series, "Forget Me Not" is a web-film conceptualised by Mostafa Sarwar Farooki and directed by Robiul Alam Robi. Premiering on September 5, the film delves into the complexities of modern relationships against the backdrop of Dhaka's evolving urban landscape.

The narrative progresses linearly, peppered with flashbacks that add depth to the story. These flashbacks introduce us to Mortuza and Aurthee, a corporate couple on the verge of marriage. Their seemingly perfect life is upended by the sudden reappearance of Aurthee's ex-lover, Fahim, after a six-month absence. Fahim arrives just in time to witness the exchange of engagement rings between Aurthee and Mortuza, sparking the story's central conflict. The plot then unfolds through parallel flashbacks, reminiscent of classic Bangladeshi TV dramas, revealing the history of Fahim and Aurthee's university romance, Fahim's involvement in protests, and Aurthee's rise as a career-driven individual.

Their relationship, though passionate, is plagued by issues—differences in social class, diverging ambitions, and their inability to heal the cracks in their bond. This narrative mirrors the struggles faced by Gen Z, a generation at the forefront of Bangladesh's recent socio-political movements. While their public activism is noteworthy, the film turns its gaze inward, focusing on personal relationships and the unresolved tensions unique to their generation.

As a member of Gen Z, I can relate to the challenges our generation faces in maintaining relationships and managing personal lives. "Forget Me Not" captures these struggles authentically. Fahim, for example, leads a protest to reduce university tuition fees, but it's in his personal relationships—with his mother and girlfriend—where he feels most vulnerable. The film's conclusion is poignant, though not unfamiliar. At times, the portrayal of a unique perspective feels forced, such as the subplot involving corporate rules against intra-office marriages or the portrayal of a generation seemingly over-adapted to corporate norms.

Despite its occasional stumbles, the film excels in capturing the fragility of personal relationships. Fahim's mother is unaware of his academic troubles, and Aurthee doesn't realise Fahim's mother has remarried. Robiul Alam Robi deftly weaves these narratives together. In contrast to Bangladesh's recent socio-political upheavals, the film's lighthearted tone, avoiding heavy-handed societal commentary, is refreshing. For viewers tired of political drama, "Forget Me Not" offers a return to the simple pleasures of storytelling.

While the film's relevance is acknowledged, its screenplay lacks the vibrancy needed to sustain its narrative. Dialogue often rushes into conversations without allowing emotions to fully develop. Some scenes, like Aurthee searching for Fahim's sketch, are predictable, and others, like consecutive abrupt transitions between scenes, feel amateurish. While lines such as "If I ever get lost, what would you do?" resonate universally with romantic audiences, the film's reliance on old-fashioned clichés like hiccupping when caught lying detracts from its modern aspirations. Cinema today should captivate with realistic storytelling.

Robiul Alam Robi's direction portrays upper-class life, released at a time when figures like Abu Sayed—an ordinary boy without an urban accent—are celebrated as national heroes. In contrast, "Forget Me Not" continues the cinematic trend of showcasing middle or upper-class Gen Z lives. This isn't just a cinematic issue; even in recent Bangladeshi social culture, there's an increasing emphasis on aesthetic and class appeal. However, as our country progresses, I hope our films will start portraying the stories of common people—the very generation that fought against inequality.

Throughout the film, Robiul Alam Robi introduces a sense of regret. This emotion isn't one that grows from apology into revolution; rather, it lingers subtly, reminiscent of the style seen in Kim Ki-duk's "The Isle". Robi channels this feeling of guilt into the film, something rarely seen in Bangladeshi cinema.

Mehazabien Chowdhury portrays Aurthee, a character torn by past love, present engagement, and future uncertainty. While we've seen her tackle these roles before in Bangladeshi dramas, she attempts to bring freshness to her performance here. Yash Rohan plays Fahim, the film's protagonist, whose vibrancy in flashbacks contrasts sharply with his present-day brokenness. Despite limited screen time, Yash delivers a memorable performance.

Irfan Sazzad as Mortuza, Aurthee's fiancé, offers a balanced performance, though a less robotic approach could have added more depth to his character. Partho Sheikh and Bijori Barkatullah also deliver solid supporting roles.

Cinematographer Ishtiaque Hossain's visual storytelling is a mixed bag. While the familiar shots of Mehazabien through car windows may test viewers' patience, his artistic flair shines in other moments, particularly in the bench scene with samosas and the poignant hospital street shot. The interplay of light and shadow creates moments of introspection, adding a poetic layer to the film.

However, sound work by Rajesh Saha and Sajib Ranjan Biswas falls short in key moments. Foley inconsistencies and missing ambient noise break the film's immersive quality. Music and mixing by Rasheed Sharif Shoaib, though initially slow, blend effectively with the narrative once it finds its rhythm. A standout is the whimsical tune "Fahim and Aurthee," which encapsulates the film's bittersweet essence.

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As the film nears its conclusion in a graveyard—a setting recently overused for existential dialogue in cinema—it leaves us wondering whether we're confronting taboos or missing the opportunity to address more pressing societal issues.  

"Forget Me Not" speaks to personal remorse and hints at something grander—a collective desire for change. It asks whether we can rise above our past and forge a new future. As we move forward, this tale of love and regret may serve as a reminder of the conversations we must begin.