Filmi Geek

Aag (1948)

आग

Raj Kapoor's Shree 420 is one of my all time favorite movies. It strikes a marvelous balance between entertainment and message, between substance and spectacle.  It took Kapoor a few tries to master that mix, however.  Awara, a few years before Shree 420, is too dire, plodding, serious.  And his first film as auteur, Aag ("Fire"), misses the mark entirely. It is weak on substance and poor in entertainment, but loaded with pretension and dripping with self-importance.

Aag tells the story of Keval Khanna (Raj Kapoor), a man gripped by two obsessions that trace to his childhood: a passion for the theater, and an idealized love for his childhood sweetheart, Nimmi. Both these obsessions stem from the same formative event; the young boy version of Keval (played deliciously by Shashi Kapoor) stages a play with Nimmi, complete with elaborate sets and other accoutrements of a real theater. But on opening night, Nimmi never shows - her family has suddenly moved away from their village - and Keval is left heartbroken, without a heroine, laughed at by a packed house of mean, mocking children.

The grown Keval spends the rest of the movie trying to recreate this event and rectify his loss.  He bucks his father's expectation that he will study law and follow a conventional path, instead forging a life in theater and searching for his Nimmi.  Keval works his way through several Nimmi candidates, molding each one in his mind to match the fantasy he has constructed of the girl he hasn't seen since childhood.  The first surrogate Nimmi, Keval's college classmate Nirmala (Kamini Kaushal) abandons him just as his childhood Nimmi did, this time to engagement.  Later, Keval meets a dejected woman (Nargis) who has lost her home to Partition.  Eager to put that trauma in the past, the woman insists that she does not even have a name. (In Aag's favor, it is noteworthy that the rifts of Partition are already appearing in the movies, at a time when the wounds are still bleeding and fresh.)

Keval is taken with this sad, nameless woman, whom he of course dubs Nimmi, and stages a play around her.  Keval's business partner Rajan (Prem Nath), an artist, also sees in her the woman he has long dreamed of painting.  This is the great art of Aag - two men each projecting their idealized fantasy onto this woman, so conveniently without identity of her own to get in their way.  The audition sequence in which Keval rejects a parade of women, one after another, with nothing more than a superficial glance, is bad enough.  What is over-the-top just revolting is that the idealization of Nargis's character by both men is presented as triumph of art, rather than the despicable objectification and usurpation of a vulnerable woman's independent existence.

Yecchh.

Kapoor attempts to lend the movie some depth with a disjoint pair of bookends in which Keval, disfigured by the titular fire (which he sets in a fit of lunatic rage at the very idea that Nargis's character might not be exactly the woman he has projected upon her), laments that he is hated for his ugliness as much as he used to be loved for his beauty. This Keval, incidentally, is not a modest man - his own supposed beauty is as much an obsession for him as his Nimmi.  And what is with Kapoor's fascination with beauty disfigured by flame? Between Aag and Satyam shivam sundaram, it seems this notion had special resonance for Raj Kapoor.  At any rate, the scenes do not relate much to Keval's twin passions that make up the rest of the film, and Aag  is too far up its own ass for this tacked-on attempt at a message to be anything but flimsy.

If there are reasons to endure this festival of pretension, they are Nargis and little boy Shashi Kapoor. Nargis is simply wonderful with her wildly frizzy hair and wide-eyed beauty.  It is such a long way from this unadorned natural gorgeousness to the meticulously styled and coiffed heroines one usually encounters in the movies.  In one of Aag's rare charming details, Keval is often shown playing with an arrant lock of Nargis's hair, smoothing the curls with his palm or twirling one around a finger.  As striking as she is, though, the almost feral rawness of Nargis's character leaves her that much more ripe for asborbing the indentities that the two men construct for her.

  
They just don't make them like this any more. 

As for proto-Shashi, some 9 years old when the film was shot, he is just plain adorable.  He gets so many scenes of substance, from delight to inspiration to anxiety.  When he sasses his mother, the cheeky mannerisms that made him an explosive charmer 20 years later are already on full display.  One sequence in which the young Keval tries to sneak out of the house to watch a play, evading discovery by his intimidating father (Kamal Kapoor), is especially delightful.

 
Cho chweet!

The unfortunate fact, though, is that Aag plummets rapidly downhill about half an hour in, as soon as Shashi's scenes are done.  The movie might be worth sitting through for the cuteness of Shashi, the beauty of Nargis, some notable cinematography, and some lovely songs.  But don't expect the sparkle and immersive charm of Raj Kapoor's best movies.  His vision for Aag was clearly expansive, but his pretension even more so.   It's enough to leave you growling "Aaaaaaargh!"

Kismet (1943)

क़िस्मत

Gyan Mukherjee's taut, bold drama Kismet ("fate") was a mega-hit in its time, and held the crown of the longest-running movie for more than three decades before being deposed by Sholay.  Even 70 years later, it's not hard to see why.  Kismet is fascinating, influential, and even subversive.  Ashok Kumar delivers an engaging performance as a morally ambiguous character.  The songs are stirring - and, in one case, gutsy.  And the film introduces Hindi-movie audiences to a number of devices and themes that resonate through the movies for decades to come.

Shekhar (Ashok Kumar) is an unrepentant thief.  Released from his third stint in prison, he banters with the inspector (Shah Nawaz) that he'll be back soon enough, and heads right back to his pickpocketing life on the streets of Bombay.   Soon Shekhar meets a sad theatrical performer named Rani (Mumtaz Shanti).  Rani, a former lead dancer, suffers from a leg injury that relegates her to the side of the stage, as a backup singer.   Shekhar is moved by Rani and her troubles, and gives her an extravagant necklace that he steals from the wife of the theater owner, Indrajit (Mubarak).  When this thievery is discovered, Rani feels betrayed by the man she thought was an angel.  But Shekhar is determined to care for her - he wants to steal enough to pay for a surgery that will restore Rani to her former glory as a dancer.  Shekhar escapes from custody, intending to turn himself in after carrying off one last heist for Rani's sake. 

Roshmila Bhattacharya's article on Kismet (captured and linked by Memsaaab) notes that Shekhar is not a hero but an anti-hero.   A nearly remorseless criminal, Shekhar is nevertheless a charming gentleman with a heart readily moved by the suffering of others.  Shekhar's sympathy for the sad plight of Rani's father (PF Pithawala), an alcoholic former music-master who holds himself responsible for Rani's injury, leads him to his initial acts of kindness.  And Shekhar's love for Rani drives him both to donate the proceeds of his thievery and, eventually, to go straight. There are some genuinely touching scenes as Shekhar, the criminals he associates with, and even the police inspector realize that love for a woman has inspired him to mend his ways where even multiple imprisonments could not.  Bhattacharya credits the fresh, bold, subversiveness of this character with the immense and unexpected popularity of the movie.

Much of what is moving about Shekhar emerges from the gentleness of Ashok Kumar's performance.  Writing on Indian films tends to indelibly attach certain labels to certain actors; Ashok Kumar is often heralded as a "natural" actor, but nowhere more than in Kismet is the aptness of this label apparent.   Kumar has crept up of late to become one of my favorite actors.  Here, in the rising arc of his stardom, he is no less fascinating.  His performance in Kismet has less gravitas than he shows later in his life; the performance is more tentative, and perhaps more deserving of the tag of "natural" acting.  Despite the drama inherent to his profession and the melodrama that swirls around him, Shekhar moves through the story like an ordinary man.  His young face is fresh, open, and honest - Kumar emotes, but does not play to the back of the house, does not amplify emotions in the classic melodramatic style.

The naturalness of Ashok Kumar's performance is even starker in contrast to Mumtaz Shanti, who as Rani gives a true midcentury melodramatic turn.  Her performance is classic soft-focus tragic acting, gazing moist-eyed at an imaginary horizon while delivering words of hopelessness in slow, gauzy, breathy tones. This is not a style I normally find effective; it tends to feel anemic and mealy, and here it renders Mumtaz Shanti the weak link in an otherwise superb movie.  But it is a matter of style; it is certainly of its time and place, and in the context it is not too terribly distracting.  And on the rare occasions when she smiles, as in the movie's gorgeous lullaby "Dheere dheere aa re badal," Mumtaz Shanti is radiant.

Shekhar's heroic criminality is not the only boldly subversive element of Kismet.  Rani's sister Leela (Chandraprabha) becomes pregnant by her lover Mohan (Kanu Roy), the son of Indrajit, who opposes their marriage because of Leela's poverty; he cruelly informs Rani that he can get a 10,000 rupee dowry from another girl.  Not only is Leela not punished for this transgression, but her pure heart earns her a happy ending with Mohan.   (It is both moving and fascinating that in confessing her pregnancy to Mohan, Leela cannot bring herself to say she is going to be a mother; instead, she scratches the word "maa" into a wall with her fingernail.) 

Even more subversive is the magnificent patriotic song, "Door hato aye duniyawalo, Hindustan hamaara hai."  Bhattacharya's article claims this aggressively nationalistic and anti-colonial song got past British censors because the only nations it identifies by name are Germany and Japan, Britain's enemies in the war which was then raging around the globe.  This seems too facile to me; that one line doesn't erase the otherwise obvious pro-independence message of the song (whose set features an enormous map of pre-Partition India).  Perhaps the censors were somewhat sympathetic to the cause of independence; or, perhaps they really were too complacently paternalistic to see the song as a rabble-rousing threat. 

 

Finally, Bhattacharya credits Kismet with introducing Hindi cinema to a number of tropes and themes that resonated so with Indian audiences as to become a staple of Manmohan Desai and other filmmakers throughout the years.   Principal among these is the backstory of Indrajit's wayward son, Madan (Mehmood in his first role!), who disappears as a young boy and is reunited with his family at the movie's end, identified through such devices as a tattoo and a locket, which are now masala clichés.  (No points to the seasoned filmi fan for guessing which character Madan grows up to be.)  It may be correct that Kismet marks the first time such a story was presented in an Indian movie.  But given the strong cultural resonance and enduring popularity of such concepts, it's difficult to believe that they don't have their origins in older stories that are woven into the tapestry of India's many cultures.  Isn't Karna of the Mahabharata raised apart from his brothers, only to learn of his true parentage as an adult? 

Even if it does draw on earlier sources, though, Kismet clearly blazed a path that thrilled audiences and that filmmakers returned to for decades to come.  Shekhar is a model for numerous filmi incarnations of the rogue with a heart of gold (surely also an ancient archetype).  For instance, a scene in which he pleads with the inspector to release him - asking for 48 hours to save Rani with a promise to turn himself in -  is nearly quoted in Tezaab with Anil Kapoor.  There must be countless other references over the past 70 years, direct and indirect, to this fascinating and influential  movie. 

For information on how to watch Kismet with subtitles, see Memsaab's post about the movie. 

 

Mahal (1949)

महल

Madhubala.  Ashok Kumar.  The oldest Hindi movie I've seen to date, my first from the 1940s.  How could Mahal ("mansion") be anything but fascinating?  The answer is:  A plodding pace, lengthy expositions of nonsense nonlogic, and a bizarre storyline in which every character seems to suffer from one or another form of mental illness conspire to create a movie that is, in the words of my Twitter friend Gobbledyspook, "Atmospheric, but meh." 

Hari Shankar (Ashok Kumar) has inherited a moody mansion on the outskirts of Allahabad. On his first night there, his gardener narrates a peculiar story of love and tragedy that climaxes with the mysterious disappearance of the home's builder and his lover.  Hari is stunned to discover, from a portrait blown off the wall by a stormy gust, that the man of the tale is a dead ringer for himself.  Late that night, he is bewitched by a ghostly singing, and entranced by the apparition of a young woman, Kamini (Madhubala).  On urging of his barrister friend Shrinath (Kanu Roy), Hari abandons the mansion and leaves for Kanpur, where he marries Ranjana (Vijayalaxmi), the woman his father has chosen for him.  But Kamini's eerie singing haunts him - Hari returns to the mansion on compulsion, driven in late night trances to follow Kamini throughout the grounds.  The story she tells him terrifies and enthralls him - he is the reincarnation of the mansion's builder and Kamini, trapped between worlds (or something) when he died, has been roaming the mansions twisting corridors ever since, waiting for his return.  Hari is driven to ever more bizarre lengths to uncover the secret that will reunite him with his eternal love - maybe even driven to murder.

I wish I were a funnier writer so that I could do true justice to this bizarro movie.  Reviewing it straight just won't convey how weird and off-the-rails the story really is.  The DVD print opens with this contrite confession:

But if it were completely honest, it would say: 

Hari's symptoms are more indicative of mental illness than janam-transcending love.  He suffers from night sweats, auditory hallucinations, and a mysterious somnambulic state that causes him to wander nightly at 2:00 AM and repeatedly fall down sets of stairs.  None of the lengthy and outlandish sequences of exposition explain this strange behavior, but insanity seems to run in his family - in one particularly weird sequence, his father hands Hari a loaded revolver and orders Hari to kill him on the spot.  Kamini, too, is not quite right in the head. In her bizarro-world logic, she and Hari can be reunited only if her spirit occupies the body of the girl who serves Hari's tea, and Hari murders this girl.  Go ahead and read that sentence again - I'll wait.  I'm fairly sure it won't make any more sense the second time around. But the besotted Hari buys it hook, line, and sinker.  He even produces his own, even more nonsensical, embellishment upon it at the movie's tragically ironic conclusion, which feels like something O Henry might have written under the influence of profound depression. 

There seems to be no one in this film who is not deranged in one way or another.  In an attempt to distract Hari from his fixation on Kamini, Shrinath hires some women of dubious repute to seduce his friend.  The result is an uncanny song set in the creepiest brothel ever, populated by women whose dead-eyed expressions are not the least bit tantalizing.

Hari is understandably unimpressed, and flees the place at the stroke of 2, when Kamini's uncanny voice again calls to him from the ether.

Ranjana, Hari's beleaguered bride, suffers from debilitating depression as well, but at least hers is well-founded - Ranjana, after all, is married to a psychotic man who is obsessed with an apparition, and who drags her on endless exhausting treks into the mountains.  There, he visits mystics and primitive priests, hoping to find - well, whatever it is that he is hoping to find.  Poor Ranjana is horrified by one ritual he forces her to witness, a brutal trial and capital punishment of an allegedly adulterous mountain woman.  The young woman is forced to dance (and looks preternaturally cheerful doing so, considering the circumstances) while a man who looks like an extra from Amrish Puri's grotesque scenes in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom chucks knives at her. 

It's no wonder that Ranjana loses her shit - anyone would, married to such a certifiable nutjob as Hari.  (My friend Sonal, with whom I watched Mahal, points out that it was rather brave of Ashok Kumar to take on such a demented role during the upswing of his career.)

Mahal is not all a gruesome parade of horribles.  Ashok Kumar and Madhubala, after all, are both impossibly beautiful, and there are worse fates than spending the duration of a movie gazing at their lovely faces, especially as young as they are here.

Madhubala's transcendent beauty matches well with the hauntingly lovely strains of "Aayega, aayega," perhaps the only worthy legacy of this movie.  But even these quickly become repetitive, as highlighted by Minimal Bollywood Poster's coincidentally recent take on the film.

There is some creative and wonderful cinematography in Mahal - shots from interesting angles, and shots cleverly framed through arches and wrought-work.  

All of this does contribute to the dark, spooky atmosphere of the film, which begins on the proverbial dark and stormy night, and pretty much stays parked in that lot throughout.  Indeed, the movie feels like an extended two-and-a-half hour cinematic Bulwer-Lytton award.   

The movie's pacing is an attempt, too, to establish the otherworldy atmosphere of a ghost tale - it's rare to see a film where characters consistently talk and move quite so slowly.  In one excruciating scene, Kamini takes Hari on a tortoiselike ambulation through the mansion's secret passageways, during which she explains their past-life relationship.  She walks him up a stone stairway, step by languorous step, only to turn around at the end and return, just as ponderously, to where they came from.  It's atmospheric, all right, but the atmosphere is stifling.

In short, even ever-increasing pyaar for the Ashok-Madhubala jodi isn't quite enough to make me glad I gave a few hours to watching Mahal. But it isn't a total loss - I had a much better time writing this review than I did watching the movie.  And between this and Ek saal, I have the seeds of a nice collection of shots of Ashok Kumar gazing at pictures of himself.

(The latter from Ek saal.)