Filmi Geek

Charulata (1964)

চারুলতা

Among the many trademark expressions of Satyajit Ray's artistic genius is the exploration of a singular imprisonment:  that which confines the minds of bright young women in the households of rich, intellectual, Victorian-era high society.  Ray's sumptuously-appointed Victorian interiors stifle sumptuously-dressed young Bengali women, and hint at a kind of oppression particular to the upper classes.

In both Ray's Ghare baire and Charulata, a man concerned about the loneliness and intellectual satisfaction of his young, intelligent wife attempts to broaden her sphere by introducing her to a vibrant outsider.  In both movies, the foundations of identity and home and marriage are shaken, with catastrophic results.  And in both movies, the counterpoint of relationships is a proxy for the the complex dance of East and West.  In Ghare baire, the tension is epitomized in the woman's English studies and repetition of an English song.  In Charulata, it is captured in (among other ways) a scene very early in the movie, in which the titular Charu (Madhabi Mukherjee) peers through lorgnettes between the slats of the shuttered windows, watching a stereotypically ordinary Bengali man strolling by.  Something about him - his freedom, his ordinariness, his Bengaliness - captivates her attention, and she flits bird-like from window to window in her lushly filigreed European parlor to keep her gaze fixed upon him.  

Charu's husband Bhupati (Sailen Mukherjee), insted of inviting her to join his world of politics and newspaper editorials, indulges Charu's love for literature though he does not share it.  Curious to know whether she harbors real literary talent, Bhupati enlists his dreamy, indolent cousin Amol (Soumitra Chatterjee) to teach and encourage Charu to write.  The result of this experiment is both affirming for Charu, when her writing is successfully published, and devastating, when her growing love for Amol threatens her identity and her marriage.  The movie concludes on an ambiguous note, without resolution for Charu and Bhupati.  And Charu's literary and emotional awakening reminds me - as stories in this vein so often do - of Kate Chopin's The Awakening, whose protagonist has nowhere to go but into the sea once she has tasted freedom of spirit and body and mind.  Charu's ending is less tragic, but it carries just as strong a sense that there is no returning to her old life.  It takes only a tiny gesture to release a bird from its cage; coaxing her back in is another matter entirely.

As for the catalyst of Charulata's awakening, Amol himself is detached, sarcastic, even bratty.  Charulata's love for him reflects  her own immaturity more than a real emotional connection.  This is not a tragic love story of soulmates kept apart by the deep injustice of circumstances or society.  Rather, the story presents a talented but incompletely formed young woman with a sort of jealously competitive crush on a young man whose only advantage over her (and it is not an inconsequent advantage) is that he is male, and therefore more worldly and educated and confident than she.  Despite his own immaturity and indolence, however, Amol represents the hometown side in the East-West struggle that threads through the film. He wears Bengali clothes and writes in Bengali.  He sings Rabindrosangeet - even his "Ami chini go chini," nominally a love song to a foreign woman, is delivered with a sarcastic, mocking air.  He even refuses a generous opportunity to travel and study in Europe.  All of this is in stark contrast to Bhupati, in shirtsleeves and suspenders, penning English-language newspaper editorials about the English politics of the English rule over Bengal.  When Bhupati chides Amol for his literary passions, insiting that politics is far more important and real, Amol smirkingly plays "Good Save The Queen" on the piano.

The pleasure of Charulata, and indeed the pleasure of any Ray film, lies in the density of content and meaning that is packed into a movie of relatively few words. An incredibly rich, layered assemblage of visual imagery, subtle cues, and symbolism paints a story that operates on multiple canvases at once.  Commentaries on the value of literature and the futility of politics, on the tension between Bengali and European modes of thought, on the nature of youthful infatuation and ambition, on the frustrations of the idle upper-class life especially for women, all these threads mingle and cross at many points of juxtaposition and harmony.  Recurring symbols like Charulata's birdcage, stormy weather, and the newspaper itself highlight the movie's important themes.  One of the most touching visual metaphors contrasts Amol's confident, fluent writing with Charu's initial halting effort; when he writes, the words flow out of the pen in an effortlessly beautiful script, while her words scratch and blot the page.

Unlike movies made by mere mortals, where emotions are too often spelled out in explicit, expository dialogues, Ray requires you to divine characters' internal states of mind from expressions and circumstances.  He demands of his audience a great deal of thought, empathy, and theorizing.  The result is a movie-watching experience more akin to voyeurism than to being told a story.  It is both unsettling and compelling, and it is what makes Ray's movies so deliciously rewarding of rewatching.  Ray's films are packed with overloaded symbols, subtle cues of meaning, visual metaphors, and allegories that operate on multiple levels.  Charulata, in this respect, is perfect vintage Ray - a beautiful and beautifully crafted movie that reveals more and more of its richness with every viewing.

Aradhana (1969)

आराधना

There is a subgenre of Hindi movies in which horrible things happen to blameless, flawless women.  Canonical among these is the classic Amar prem, in which Sharmila Tagore plays a saintly prostitute with an apparently limitless capacity to endure pain, and Rajesh Khanna plays her philosophizing patron.  Aradhana ("worship") features the same stars and explores similar thematic space - a woman endures terrible misfortune, yet maintains grace and dignity throughout. Her reward for all this forbearance is the ultimate prize for women in this sort of movie: recognition of her status as a mother.

 Aradhana's first hour is an appealing, uncomplicated romance in a picturesque mountain town. A dashing air force officer, Arun (Rajesh Khanna), falls in love with Vandana (Sharmila Tagore), the charming daughter of a doctor. Not a lot of substance happens, but the courtship is a pleasure to watch, packed with lovely songs and glorious scenery. And I mean glorious scenery even apart from Sharmila Tagore herself, who certainly is good enough to eat, whether being coyly charmed by Arun as he serenades her on a train in "Mere sapnon ki rani kab aayegi tu,"

 

or dancing playfully in the snow in "Gun guna rahe hain bhanware."

 

After a whirlwind courtship of just a few days, Arun and Vandana are caught in a rainstorm, and allow their passion to get the better of them in one of the hottest sequences I have ever seen in any movie, Hindi or otherwise - the superb song "Roop Tera mastana." Go ahead and watch this one. Really. I'll wait. If you've not seen it before, you need to, and if you have, isn't it time you watched it again?

 

This gorgeously erotic single-cut sequence conveys tremendous desire and intensity. The dim firelight, the fine sheen on the actors' skin, the slow deliberation of their movements, their locked gazes - all these elements combine for a sensuous, thrilling several minutes of cinema.  I've said before, I am not a great fan of Rajesh Khanna, but even I have to admit that he's downright spicy here.  Even throughout the rest of the movie he's not that bad - he occasionally flirts with the kind of droopy-lidded, mumbly frogginess that I dislike about him - but in this song he simply fires on all cylinders.  The song isn't lip-synced - Arun doesn't sing it to Vandana, it's just playing as the backdrop for their desire - and this enhances the intensity and realism of the sequence. It's just phenomenal.

It is also very nearly the last happy moment of Aradhana. Arun is killed in action before he and Vandana can be married, but she is carrying his child.  The boy is adopted by a sympathetic man, Saxena (Abhi Bhattacharya), who allows Vandana to serve as the boy's nurse and governess, so that she can stay close to him and help fulfill Arun's dream that the boy grow up to become a fighter pilot.  Soon, Saxena's lecherous brother-in-law tries to have his way with Vandana, and is killed in the resulting scuffle with Vandana and the child Suraj. Vandana takes responsibility for the death, and is thrown in prison for a dozen years.  Now she has no way to watch over Suraj, and no hope that Suraj will ever know that she is his mother.

Vandana's suffering is tempered by the extraordinary kindness shown to her by two men.  The first is Saxena, who allows her to stay close to her child and care for him.  Saxena continues to believe in Vandana after her conviction for murder, saying that he can see in her eyes the purity of her soul and her intentions.  Then, on her release from prison, her jailer (Madan Puri) extends another remarkable kindness, inviting Vandana to join his household, as his "sister", to help look after his daughter Renu (Farida Jalal).  Like Saxena, the jailer perceives and is moved by Vandana's purity and dignity, despite the poor hand she's been dealt.  These phenomenal kindnesses temper the harsh cruelties that Vandana endures.  The universe is not blind to Vandana's goodness, and this fact balances Aradhana's tragic elements and makes the message bearably somber, rather than unbearably sad.  Even though life may take dreadful turns, if you endure them with a pure heart, the karmic balance is restored over the course of a lifetime. 

The tone of Aradhana shifts between realism and melodrama, sometimes abruptly, but the changes are not distracting.  Rather, they make the movie operate on two levels.  In its more delicate, realistic moments, Aradhana is a sad story about a very likeable woman and the losses she endures over her liftime.  The movie also invokes some of the usual improbable filmi tropes, the most notable of which is that Renu's beau is Vandana's lost son, Suraj, now grown into a dashing fighter pilot who is the spitting image of his father (and is of course also played by Rajesh Khanna).   When it becomes more filmi, Aradhana evokes its grander themes of balance, purity, and the dignity of motherhood.  And it works splendidly on both levels, not least because Sharmila Tagore is a skilled actor who shifts effectively between these two storytelling modes.

Just as the mean realities of Vandana's life are tempered by the kindnesses and redemption she experiences, so the tragic second half of the movie is balanced by the frothy, adorable charms of its first half.  Although there is a part of my brain that feels I should not be thoroughly charmed by a movie in which a woman's only joy and ambition is to be recognized as a mother and fulfill her dead husband's egotistical dream of molding his male child in his own image, I just can't get too worked up about that.  After all, it's just one story about one woman, and given everything that she endures, it's not a terrible thing for her to have a relatively simple and sacrificing approach to happiness.  And besides - Sharmila Tagore! 

As if the pleasure of Sharmila Tagore weren't enough, there's a charming appearance by Filmi Geek favorite Ashok Kumar as Arun's commanding officer, who seems mostly to drink scotch, play billiards, and dispense avuncular advice.  This role is delightful, very similar to his hilarious role in Chhoti si baat.

The result is a very satisfying movie with lots to sink one's teeth into, the perfect blend of romance, tragedy, levity, and sexiness, all packaging a thoughtful message and showcasing a whole lot of pretty. 

 

Aamne saamne (1967)

आमने सामने

I have said this so many times: I love the 1960s. I love thrillers. I love Shashi Kapoor. And I simply adore Sharmila Tagore, who ranks on the list of filmi women who melt my shorts. So when Amrita told me that Aamne saamne ("face to face, opposite") had all that plus Sharmila on waterskis, I knew I had to watch it. And when I sat down to it, my expectations were high. Despite that great potential, though, I have to admit that Aamne saamne comes up a little short. I watched it with Memsaab, and her review fairly thoroughly covers all the half-assed devices and wrong turns the movie takes. But what can I say - I enjoyed myself all the same. I am a sucker for all that pretty - and with "the ShaSha" (thanks, Amrita) rocking magnificent 60s style, there is loads of pretty to go around.

One terrible night, a woman is murdered. Her husband Deepak (Shashi Kapoor) is caught at the scene, and tried for her murder. Deepak is acquitted in court, but he inherits his wife's wealth, and for that reason is convicted in th court of public opinion. He heads to Bombay to start a new life with a new name, Gopal. Gopal whiles away the hours stalking his pretty young neighbor Sapna (Sharmila Tagore), who finds him rightly creepy and annoying at first, but in grand filmi tradition, warms to him in time. Sapna's brother Pran (Madan Puri) wants her to marry her eager suitor Prem (Prem Chopra), and they threaten to kill her if she doesn't comply. So Sapna and Gopal elope to Kashmir, where they frolic happily - and gorgeously - until shades of Gopal's mysterious past begin to cast looming shadows of suspicion.

It is undeniable that Aamne saamne does not have much to offer in the way of substance, and that the plot, such as it is, is loaded with problematic tropes.  For example: there is not a single man in this movie who does not, at some point, threaten to kill Sapna if she refuses to do as he commands.  This is bad enough coming from the film's nominal villains, Pran and Prem; it's downright appalling when even Gopal gets in on the coercive action. 

And Gopal's pursuit of Sapna is creeptastic, a particularly egregious example of filmi stalking.  Which is not to say he doesn't look lovely doing it:

 

Indeed, only Shashi Kapoor could find a way to be adorable and creepy at the same time, as he does during the stalkalicious song "Aaj kal humse roothe".

It's very easy to be blinded by the pretty here and forget that what's really going on is quite twisted and skeezy.  After all, Shashi himself looks good enough to eat - good enough to make me question my sexuality several times over.   And if that's not enough, he's not just perving on Sapna - he's perving on Sapna in a bubble bath.

Good lord, isn't she a delicious frosted cupcake?  Between this and Vidya Balan's bathtub romp in The Dirty Picture, well, I'll be in my bunk.  (If someone can think of a movie with Shabana Azmi in a bubble bath and complete the hat trick for me, I'll die a happy woman.) 

This creepy side of Shashi is rather enjoyable at first.  Typically, only in relatively early films of big stars does one get to enjoy them playing rather unsavory characters.  It's something I love about Amitabh Bachchan's Saudagar - admittedly a very different sort of film from Aamne saamne - in which he plays a truly reprehensible character that one could never imagine him playing just a few years later at the peak of his stardom. Likewise, I took some pleasure in watching Shashi look dark and sinister early in the movie.  But the truth is there is no payoff, no substance behind it.  Gopal is not dark, and not sinister - it's all a big fat red herring, contrivance for the sake of manufactured suspense that is neither particularly effective nor sustained by the story. 

Aamne saamne does have, like many movies of its era, a noisy comedy side plot.  This one features Rajendranath as a rather bumbling Bengali chap who appends himself as a sort of valet to Gopal.   I haven't seen a ton of Rajendranath but I loved him to death in Tere ghar ke samne and even his brief appearance in Chhoti si baat.  So I was ready and delighted for more when I saw his name in the credits.  His turn here, though, is largely a broad Bengali stereotype that falls somewhere between "I don't fully get it" and "it's just not that funny."

And yet despite all that meh - the lackluster plotting, the unfunny comedy, the creepy unromantic romance, the multiple instances of extortion in the name of love - I can't say I had a bad time watching Aamne saamne.  It has some truly outstanding songs - Shashi absolutely kills in his white stove-pipe pants in Rafi's superb "Nain milakar chain churana," a song which also features some epic pouting by Sharmila.

 

As if that's not enough, this song follows an interlude in which Prem Chopra attempts to dance the Mashed Potato.  Later in the film there is also a truly bizarre "African dance" featuring Laxmi Chayya and a bunch of blackfaced men.  The 60s just don't get any better than this, folks.

And then there is "Mere bechain dil ko chain tune diya," ostensibly the reason I watched this movie in the first place:

But Sharmila is just as tasty fully dressed as she is in that swimsuit. 

And as a pair, the ShaSha romp around Kashmir as well as anyone.

What can I say?  When the payoff is this kind of pretty, the movie doesn't have to be all that good to get the job done.   Aamne saamne may not have a ton going on in the substance department, but it earned itself what is likely the most pic-spammy post in Filmi Geek's history.  That's got to be worth something. 

Tere ghar ke samne (1963)

तेरे घर के सामने

On the long flights back from India, not wanting my trip to be over, I kept my head and heart there by watching a couple of Hindi movies.  Vijay Anand's Tere ghar ke samne ("Opposite your house") turned out to be an excellent choice - its postcard-perfect scenes of Delhi brought me right back to exploring that city on the first days of my trip.  I kept saying, "Hey, I was there!"   And if that weren't enough, I got a delightful movie in the mix - full of belly laughs, excellent songs, and the inimitable charm of Nutan.  What's not to love?

Seth Karamchand (Harindranath Chattopadhyay) and Lala Jagannath (Om Prakash) are bitter rivals after they buy adjacent Delhi plots at a heated auction.  Each is determined to build a house that stands taller and more magnificent than the other's.  To that end, each wants to hire Delhi's most fashionable architect, the young prodigy Rakesh Kumar (Dev Anand).  Rakesh can't say no to either man.  On the one hand, he is in love with Karamchand's lithe, witty daughter Sulekha (Nutan).  On the other, the stern, pious Jagannath is his father!  Rakesh must find a way to please both clients, while keeping them in the dark about his double-engagement.  And keeping secrets from Sulekha is a dangerous game that threatens their budding romance. 

Tere ghar ke samne, for all its levity and comedy, addresses the prime cultural conflicts that make so many of the movies of the 1960s - including Vijay Anand's other films, like Jewel Thief - so fascinating.  The tension between East and West, between tradition and modernity, is made explicit in Rakesh's relationship with his father, Jagganath, who heartily complains that Rakesh has forsaken his values of temperance and piety during his time studying in America. In the end, though, the younger generation bands together to pull a fast one on the grown-ups, forcing them to reconcile their shallow enmities.  The kids in Tere ghar ke samne do not wish to abandon tradition and follow their pleasure regardless of their parents' wishes.  Rather, they are determined to convince the parents to see things their way, acceding to modernity while remaining true to their traditional roots.  It is possibly over-reading to see a post-Partition allegory in this, but several people I spoke to in India comented that it is the younger generations who are beginning to heal the rifts of partition; perhaps Vijay Anand anticipated that phenomenon with this tale.   

Unlike Kahaani or Howrah Bridge, which evoke Calcutta as an additional character in their dramatis personae, Tere ghar ke samne does not offer a strong sense of Delhi as a vibrant city.  Its characters occupy the rarified space of extremely wealthy New Delhi, frequenting cabarets and garden clubs.  The city of Delhi is presented not so much as a living entity, but rather as a parade of famous landmarks in the opening credits, or glimpsed through windows in the background of indoor scenes.  Still, Vijay Anand puts this setting to magnificent use in the sequence shot at Qutub Minar, and especially the wonderful song "Dil ka bhanwar kare pukar".  By the time I got to Qutub Minar, the tower itself had been closed to visitors for 30 years, but I got to vicariously enjoy Rakesh and Sulekha's flirtatious, romantic climb to the top and musical descent. 

And, while I am on the subject of charming romantic songs, the movie's title song is utterly delightful - a lonely, pining Rakesh sings to a shimmering apparition of Sulekha in his glass of whisky.  The attention to detail in this song is simply masterful - in one especially wonderful moment (beginning around 1:10), the image of Sulekha reacts with a chill to an ice cube dropped into her glass.    

In Vijay Anand's Jewel Thief, just a few years later, Dev Anand feels like an aging hero, and is beginning to show a slightly creepy air - as much as I love that movie, there is something of the dirty old man about him.  In Tere ghar ke samne, though, it's clear why he is thought of as one of the most charming leading men of his era.  His Rakesh is jaunty, sweet, and earnest as he romances Sulekha.   And as Sulekha, Nutan is simply delicious.  She doesn't have a lot to do except look beautiful and flirt slyly, but she delivers both perfectly, lighting up the screen with her smile - and she does get a few good zingers in, as Sulekha resists (but not really) Rakesh's wooing banter.  The supporting cast adds a lot of richness as well.  Rajendranath is hilarious as Sulekha's soldier brother Ronny, who is big and loud and preternaturally cheerful.  Om Prakash is an absolute riot; he delivers Jagannath's pious speeches with a squeak, as if they are too much even for his copious breath.  And yet, even in all this comedic bluster, he brings a touch of poignancy to his relationship with Rakesh.  It is remarkable that such a broad performance can be at the same time subtle and moving. 

 

Half Ticket (1962)

I don't think I can give a more fitting synopsis of this adorable madcap comedy than the one on the box of my Ultra DVD, which begins thus:  "Vijay (Kishore Kumar) was born reverse.  Seth Lalchand, a millionaire business magnate of Jubbalpur, who fathered this abnormal addition to mankind, began suffering its chain reactions right from the day Vijay acquired mobility with the postures of a quadruped.  Years later, when Vijay was skipping about rather too vivaciously on his hind legs, his antics and acorabaties (sic) were immeasurably greater than those normally found in the average biped animals."  The movie makes a little more sense than that - only a little - but it matters not at all, as Kishore Kumar's limitless zany energy, Madhubala's irresistible charm, and several absolutely superb songs combine to make Half Ticket a delightful and hysterical ride.

Vijay (Kishore Kumar) is a relentless troublemaker.  His antics get him kicked out of college, and when they embarrass his father (Moni Chatterjee), they get him kicked out his home as well.  Left to fend for himself, he decides to head for Bombay by train.  To con his way into a reduced fare "half ticket," Vijay dresses as a young boy and poses as an arrested development case, and caromes around as a zany man-child.  A jewel thief on the lam from police, Raja (Pran), sneaks a stolen diamond into Vijay's pocket, thinking that Vijay, an apparent mental patient, will be easy to manipulate and recover the diamond from.  Trying to escape from Raja, Vijay meets a performer named Asha (Madhubala), who also goes by Rajni, and charms her into protecting him.  Asha's marriage-obsessed aunt (Manorama) sees a match between Vijay and Asha too good to resist.  But just when Asha begins to fall for this peculiar fellow, Raja and his girlfriend Lily (Shammi), scheming to recover their stolen diamond, interfere to set Asha against Vijay. 

So much for the story, which is light, improbable, and totally beside the point.  The point, rather, is Kishore Kumar horsing around, donning goofy costumes, making silly noises, and just generally being funny.  And he delivers many laughs indeed, both on his own and with the help of the rest of the cast.  Sometimes the shouting-and-slapstick variety of Indian comedy doesn't work on me, but Kishore Kumar brings a transcendent ability to the screen - his wild flailing is utterly manic, yet he performs with perfect physical control.  He really is a riot. It's difficult to choose just a few scenes to highlight, but some of the best include a scene in which Vijay squirms away from Lily's aggressive grab-ass tactics as she tries to pluck the purloined diamond from his rear pocket.  Another comes in the form of a magnificent song, "Aake sidhi lagi," in which Vijay (fleeing from Raja), and Raja (fleeing from police), stumble into a gypsy camp, don costumes, and perform a love song together.  This song really has to be seen to be believed - you have not lived until you have seen Pran and Kishore romancing each other. 

(click for full size awesomness)

Madhubala is good with physical comedy too, and Asha's reactions to Vijay's antics are delightful.  There is something ineffably charming in watching a poised and competent young woman like Half Ticket's Asha (or Nutan in Dilli ka Thug, whose character is also called Asha) slowly and incredulously falling, against her better judgment, for one of Kishore's completely loonytunes characters.  Madhubala is masterful - and delicious - with facial expressions, especially in her two delightful songs with Kishore, like "Aankhon mein tum."  There are not enough superlatives to describe how beautiful Madhubala is in songs like this one.  And speaking of mastery of facial expressions, Half Ticket offers a generous helping of Manorama at her best as well, especially in the film's climax, where she drives a crane from which poor Vijay is dangling. 

On reflection, it occurs to me that Half Ticket offers less in the way of substance than other Kishore comedies I've seen - Chalti ka naam gaadi has a lot more going on, and even Dilli ka thug has a mild social context (the villains are purveyors of tainted medicine).  No matter - Half Ticket is chock full of deliciousness, laughs, and absolutely amazing songs - I can't neglect to mention "Woh ek nigah", which features Helen conspiring to protect Vijay from Raju.  (How can you not love a  movie that has not just one, but two Pran songs?)  Some of the humor is even a little less broad - there is very comical dialogue (including one great scene where Vijay scares away a pandit intent on finding him a bride), and some wonderful sight gags as well - look for the moment in "Woh ek nigah" where Raju pulls off Vijay's fake mustache, and Vijay reaches into his pocket to pull out a fresh one.  With all of this going for it, Half Ticket is naturally an instant favorite.

More screencappy goodness - once again, as always, click to enlarge.

Woh Ek Nigah Kya MiliWoh

Junglee (1961)

जंगली

An unabashed Shammi Kapoor star vehicle, Junglee ("savage", "wild") is mostly uncomplicated by usual masala elements such as babies switched at birth, long-lost relatives, and the like. Instead, it is a rather simplistic but entertaining story about the power of love, with a message of populism tossed in for good measure. 

Shekhar (Shammi Kapoor), a very serious young man, returns from studies abroad to take over his family business.  His mother (Lalita Pawar) is even more stern than he.  She raised him in the shadow of his deceased father, forbidding laughter and merriment of any kind from their household.  She intends for Shekhar to marry a princess (Azra) to whom he was betrothed as a boy, though unbeknownst to Shekhar's mother, the princess's family has become destitute and turned to cons and ruses to get by.  Shekhar's sister Mala (Shashikala), a lively girl who chafes against the household strictures imposed by their mother, is secretly married to one of Shekhar's employees, Jeevan (Anoop Kumar).  While they don't know of the marriage, Shekhar and his mother know that something is up with Mala.  To set her right, they send her on a jaunt to Kashmir under Shekhar's watchful eye.  In Kashmir, Mala gets some startling news - and Shekhar finds his tense heartstrings finally loosened when he falls in love with a local girl (Saira Banu) who happens to be named Rajkumari (meaning "princess" - misunderstandings naturally ensue).  Now all Shekhar has to do is convince his mother that his new-found love and joy is more important than her stale, ancient, and joyless family principles.

Wild gyrations and mad physical antics mark Shammi Kapoor's performances through the 1960s.  Yet Junglee is the only movie I can think of where these are actually explained by the plot.  In the movie's first half, Shekhar is mean and unsmiling, but he is anything but stiff.  His face and body contort in rage as he berates his terrified employees or scolds his sister.   He seems a caricature of his father Prithviraj Kapoor at his most constipated, as in Awara. There is undeniable cleverness in using a character's pathological absence of humor for comic effect, and it works - the physical comedy of the first half of Junglee delivers plenty of laughs.  And when Shekhar finally cuts loose with a wild "Yahoooo!" during the film's jubilant title song, the manic excess almost makes sense - after all, it's the first time in his life he's felt or expressed joy. 

Saira Banu is surprisingly appealing as well, here in her debut role.  I've seen a couple of her later films (such as Padosan) and never found much to like about her, but here she brings a good balance of charm to the table, and is playful and clever without too much dimple-poking ingenuity.  (If Rajkumari had been played by Sharmila Tagore, Junglee might be one of my favorite films - but fortunately I've got Kashmir ki kali.)  The movie wrings a few touching moments out of young Rajkumari teetering on the brink of womanhood.  Her song on the subject, "Ja ja ja mere bachpan," is sweet despite being overloaded with thin dupatta-flinging symbolism.  The song follows what might be my favorite moment of the film; it is a lovely brief scene that perfectly captures Rajkumari's transitional child-woman nature - she takes a long, serious look at herself in a mirror, before sticking out her tongue and running away. 

The rest of the characters are fairly well-rendered as well.  Shashikala is very charming as the beleaguered sister trying to make a life for herself despite being trapped in the house of unmirth.  Anoop Kumar's star may not have soared a fraction as high as that of either of his brothers, but I think he's a cuteypie.  And Lalita Pawar is appropriately over-the-top as Shekhar's elitist, joyless mother.  She is almost unbearably stern; it is difficult not to roll your eyes when she delivers a literal "over my dead body" speech when Shekhar announces his intent to marry Rajkumari.  The burden of the film's anti-classism message falls squarely on her shoulders - her obsession with not being common is the driving force of the plot, and she is the one who must be convinced of the film's two messages.  The first is that regular folk can be honorable, while well-bred folk can be crooks and schemers.  The second, of course, is that love and laughter must always win the day.  That's a lot of substantive resolution for a broad caricature to carry, but Lalita Pawar has ample presence to pull it off. 

In short, Junglee offers a better-than-average masala sort of story, delivered by an appealing cast, with the attention to visual style that make so many movies of the 1960s satisfying on multiple levels.  (For example, one shot draws your attention to a fabulous wall clock in the shape of a sunny-side egg.)  As if that's not enough, there is a vaguely Flamenco-inspired Helen song on a magnificent set, a giant artist's palate with a Van Gogh backdrop.  It's hard to ask much more from an afternoon with a movie. 

 

Waqt (1965)

वक़्त

I love 1960s Bollywood, with its grand homages to modern style and its riffs on the tension between tradition and modernity.  My favorite Hindi films of that era delight me with their heady fusion of East and West - not to mention stars in cigarette pants dancing the Mashed Potato or driving flashy mod roadsters, and sets decked out in elaborate mood-lit pastels.  And for a generous helping of all of these, the multi-star hit Waqt ("time") absolutely delivers.  

Lala Kedarnath (Balraj Sahni) is on top of the world.  With a booming retail business, a beautiful wife Laxmi (Achala Sachdev) whom he adores, and three adorable little boys, Kedarnath believes that fate has dealt him a winning hand, and life will only get better.  But, the film tells us in the opening voice-over, time's "moving finger" has other plans for Kedarnath.  A terrible earthquake destroys Kedarnath's business, and his family is scattered in its aftermath.  Laxmi wanders through refugee camps with their youngest son, eventually finding work as a seamstress, and the boy Vijay grows into a serious young graduate (Shashi Kapoor).  The middle son is taken in by a wealthy childless couple, growing into Ravi (Sunil Dutt), a playful young man on the threshold of a career in law.  The oldest son Raja, after a brief stint in an orphanage run by a cruel schoolmaster (Jeevan), escapes to a life on the streets.  Taken under the wing of a crooked diamond dealer named Chinoy (Rehman), Raja matures to become a suave hustler (Raaj Kumar).  After learning of Raja's treatment at the orphanage, Kedarnath murders the schoolmaster in a fit of rage and frustration, and spends upwards of twenty years in prison.  But destiny works toward reuniting the star-crossed family.  Raja and Ravi both fall for the same girl, Meena (Sadhana), the beautiful daughter of an upstanding jurist.  And Ravi's adoptive sister Renu (Sharmila Tagore) meets the studious Vijay in school and pursues a romance with him.  Vijay, eager to earn some money to help the ailing Laxmi (and to be worthy of Renu), takes a job as Chinoy's driver.  Soon, Chinoy's shady dealings bring the three unknown brothers together, with lives hanging in the balance.

The box cover of the Waqt DVD claims that the film is a pioneering multi-starrer that defined the Yash Chopra style for decades to come.  I can easily believe this.  Waqt is truly enormous in scope, with equal attention given to all its numerous stars.  (Though, I couldn't resist the thought that the movie could have been even more epic had the brothers been played by Shashi, Shammi, and Raj Kapoor.)  Even the parents get a song of their own, the beautiful qawwali "Ae meri zohra jabeen", picturized on a dashing Balraj Sahni and a blushing Achala Sachdev. 

The movie's ultimate message is that the wheel of fortune never stops turning, and even its happy ending is tempered by Kedarnath's somber reminder that joy in the moment is only fleeting, and luck can change in an instant.  In addition to that sobering idea, such themes as destiny, sacrifice, familial devotion, and transcending of class barriers that characterize many Yash Chopra (and, later, Aditya Chopra) films are amply explored in Waqt as well.  Young Vijay is prepared to sacrifice his career prospects, his love for Renu, and even his principles to save his ailing mother - and his piety protects both of them, in grand dramatic style, when he breaks down after swearing on a copy of the Bhagavadgita.  Ravi initially turns up his nose at Vijay, telling him that a driver should know his place - but he is set straight by a chastisement from the democratically-minded Renu.  Even the hardened Raja is not immune from the pull of fraternal responsibility, willingly laying everything he values (including Meena) at the feet of Ravi when he learns of their true relation.  Three decades before Karan Johar made a film under the Yash Raj banner, Waqt was all about loving your family.  

Even more than that, though, Waqt is about epitomizing the visually sumptuous style of its time.  In a competition that feels almost prescient of American Graffiti, Raja and Ravi drag-race their tiny convertibles with high mid-century elan.  Vijay and Renu's adorable dockside song "Din hai bahaar ke" exemplifies the style as well.  From Meena's colorful outfits to the lavish decor of her home, from Raja's tailored tuxedos to Ravi's cigarette pants and V-neck sweaters, every lovingly-composed scene in Waqt is packed full of mod.  The screen capture at the top of this post offers a taste, and while I don't normally use a lot of screen captures in my posts, it's unfair to Waqt not to, so here are a few more (click to see them larger).  

Brahmachari (1968)

ब्रह्मचारी

As Shammi Kapoor vehicles and stylish 1960s movies go, Brahmachari ("celibate man," also the main character's name) is not the most memorable exemplar of either category, compared to gems like Teesri manzil or Kashmir ki kali.  For the most part, it is a series of entertaining set-pieces knit together fairly loosely.  Supplemented by a terrific soundtrack and entertaining supporting cast, though, Brahmachari is a satisfying enough movie for smiling away a rainy afternoon. 

The young man who calls himself Brahmachari (Shammi Kapoor) has opened his house to a passel of orphaned children.  He devotes his life to caring for them and finding ways to provide for them - whether by selling his photographs to the newspaper, singing in a nightclub, or sweet-talking the landlord (Asit Sen) into giving them a break on the rent and an extra Rs. 200 besides.  When he comes across Sheetal (Rajshree) on the brink of drowning herself in the sea, he has a new waif to care for.  The source of Sheetal's distress is her rejection by the rich playboy Ravi Khanna (Pran), to whom she was engaged to marry when both were children.  Observing that Ravi's tastes run to westernized sorts of women, Brahmachari offers Sheetal a complete makeover, giving her a brief education in how to dress, dance, and eat like a modern girl.  The plan works, and Ravi falls for Sheetal - but not before Brahmachari's unique kindness to her and the children begins to turn Sheetals's heart in a different direction.  To get what he wants, the powerful and unscrupulous Ravi stops at nothing to drive a wedge between Sheetal and Brahmachari, and hits Brahmachari where it hurts most - threatening the well-being of the children. 

Brahmachari is an obvious antecedent to Mr. India, which followed it two decades later.  In that film, too, the hero selflessly devotes himself to caring for helpless orphans, and fast-talks his landlord into letting them stay and providing them with favors.  However, where the villains in Mr. India engineer injustice on a grand scale - tainting food supplies in a hostile takeover bid aimed at the nation itself - Brahmachari's injustices are writ smaller.  Nevertheless, there is still a sense of grandness in them, a hint of the struggle between traditional Indian goodness and western wickedness that was so commonly addressed in movies of the 1960s. Sheetal's demureness and Brahmachari's self-sacrifice are presented in sharp relief to the wicked western ways of the libertine Ravi Khanna. Another of Ravi's innocent victims, a girl named Rupa (Mumtaz) whom he married, impregnated, and cast aside, is caught between the two worlds - an innocent victim but also perhaps a cautionary tale.

Whatever there is in the way of broad social theme, though, is not what feels first and foremost as Brahmachari careens from bit to comical bit (including a funny, but too long, comical side plot involving a reformed pick-pocket trying to win over his girlfriend's father).  Shammi Kapoor is in fine form, charming and adorable and somewhat less manic than he is in some other movies (such as his spastic performance in Kashmir ki kali).  His interactions with the children are funny and sometimes very touching, as when he sings them to sleep with the haunting and lovely "Main gaoon tum so jao."  His antics as he investigates Ravi Khanna offer some laughs, too, despite the cringe-inducing blackface disguise he wears.  There's no danger of forgetting it's the 1960s, either, as he shakes it to the superb "Aaj kal tere mere pyaar" with a bee-hived, twisting Mumtaz.

The Pygmalion-esque sequence in which Brahmachari teaches Sheetal to wear western clothes, to dance, and to eat with a fork is good for several laughs too, although one should not think too hard about why he's doing it.  After all, by that point he's had a good look at what sort of a jerk Ravi Khanna really is.  I do wish the Pygmalion aspect of the story had been a stronger thread - there are brief scenes of Sheetal struggling with each of her lessons, but the film jumps to her complete mastery of western self-presentation, and that's all we get - there's nothing like My Fair Lady's "Move yer blooming arse!" scene to make comedy hay after the transformation is complete.  No matter, though, as Brahmachari is not at all short on entertaining moments.  Fans of trippy, nonsensical song picturizations will not want to miss "Dil ke jharoke" which features men in Robin Hood getup competing with men in lizard costumes for the pleasure of dancing with women in evening gowns.  And rounding out the random bits of fun is the send-up of Mehmood's song from Gumnaam that earned the child actor Junior Mehmood that nickname. 

Gumnaam (1965)

गुमनाम

Gumnaam ("unnamed, anonymous") is a slapdash, inadequately scripted, totally non-suspenseful mystery. It is nevertheless great fun to watch, thanks entirely to a passel of thoroughly entertaining songs and fun comic performances by the likes of Helen and Mehmood.  

A group of strangers at a masquerade party are delighted when they are chosen, apparently at random, as winners of an exciting foreign vacation.  The trip gets off to a rough start, however, when an emergency forces their plane to land in a remote wilderness.  And things take an even more sinister turn when the plane takes off, leaving them stranded.  Soon they find an isolated mansion, tended by a valet (Mehmood) who knows their names and seems to have been expecting them.  A mysterious diary in the mansion reveals the reason they are there:  It says they are each responsible for an unjust death, and will be forced to pay the ultimate price.  And sure enough, one by one the travelers begin to die violently ... and the murderer must be among them.  

Gumnaam takes Agatha Chrtistie's Ten Little Indians as its inspiration. It follows that classic story fairly faithfully, but Gumnaam is very light on the plot details that made the original tight and compelling.  There is no real payoff - the killer's motivation for assembling this particular group is stated, but with a few exceptions we are told neither whose deaths they caused, nor why the killer thinks justice is his responsibility.

One result of the slapdash plotting is an utter lack of suspense, which is compounded by the travelers for the most part not behaving as if they fear for their lives. The other filmi touches, like Mehmood's broad South Indian caricature and other roles (like Pran's and Madan Puri's) played for laughs, don't bolster the story.  But unlike Raat aur din, where filmi touches detract from what could have been a taut psychological drama, in Gumnaam they are the saving grace of what would otherwise be a dreadful film. 

The best thing about Gumnaam is the film's songs, most of which are upbeat, splendid fun.  Helen, as one of the doomed guests, gets three of these, including Mehmood's fantastic dream sequence, an adorable beachside romp, and the rare treat of a drunken buddy-song in which the revelers are both women (Helen and Nanda). And no discussion of the songs of Gumnaam is complete without mention of the wild, mod goodness of "Jaan pehechaan ho".

Gumnaam is a masala film, and so of course a romance thread is woven through as well.  This thread is wasted, though, on the film's milquetoast hero and heroine, Manoj Kumar and Nanda.  Greta (of Memsaab Story; thanks to her for the screencap) commented that Gumnaam would have been a totally different movie if Shammi Kapoor had been the hero, and I have to agree.  It could possibly have been an all-time classic on the level of Teesri Manzil or Kashmir ki kali - with Shammi as the hero and Asha Parekh, Sharmila Tagore, or really anyone else as the heroine.  Nanda and Manoj's songs are entertaining enough, but they pale in comparison to the other songs in the film; Manoj attempts Shammi-like moves, but even though he's younger and slightly less chubby, he lacks the energy and charisma that Shammi brought to his best movies.

In the end, though, even to critique a movie like Gumnaam is to ask too much of it. It is thoroughly amusing while it's happening - at its best moments, it shines - and that's all it sets out to do.    

Raat aur din (1967)

रात और दिन

The psychological drama is a genre I've not seen much in Hindi films.  Satyen Bose's Raat aur din ("night and day") is not the finest psychodrama ever, but as a rare Hindi example of the form it holds its own, thanks to a rangy and vibrant performance by Nargis.  

Varuna (Nargis) is a sweet, if melancholy, country girl, who meets Pratap (Pradeep Kumar) when his car breaks down near her mountain home.  Though Pratap is on his way to Shimla to meet his betrothed, he is taken with Varuna, and quickly breaks his engagement to marry her instead.  But Varuna has a dark double life; by night she transforms into a vivacious boozer who calls herself Peggy; she sneaks out of their Calcutta home to dance at swanky, Anglophone night clubs, and awakens with no knowledge of these escapades.  With the help of Dilip (Feroz Khan), a man who meets "Peggy" during one of her nights on the town, and a pair of tenacious psychiatrists (Anwar Hussain and Harindranath Chattopadhyay), Pratap and Varuna return to Shimla in hopes of uncovering the root of her mysterious split personality.

With its echoes of Alfred Hitchcock's Spellbound (as well as prescient shades of Sybil, which came somewhat later), Raat aur din is both chilling and compelling.  The inherent creepiness of the subject is enough to glue one's attention to the screen, and the film offers enough hints at the nature of the trauma that splintered Varuna's psyche that I found myself guessing at the analysis, eager to find out whether I was correct.  It suffers, though, under the burden of some filmi touches that detract from the tautness of the psychodrama.  For example, Anoop Kumar is somewhat fetching as a hapless doctor overwhelmed by the willful Peggy, but his broad physical comedy is out of place and distracting at points when psychological tension could have been building to great effect. 

Nargis's performance, though, stands out and makes the film worth watching.  Apart from one instance of classic movie-madness - wild cackling giving way to violent sobbing - she presents a chillingly engaging portrayal of her character's split personality.  Her Varuna is sad and troubled; though unaware, consciously, of her illness, she nevertheless appears melancholy and ill-at-ease, as though the demons that drive her nighttime excursions swirl precariously just below the surface.  And her "Peggy" is not a care-free party-girl; there is a desperation in her thirst for alcohol, music, and stimulation that is palpably pathological.  Raat aur din is Nargis's film, and it is a showpiece for her skill. 

Raat aur din also features a handful of very nice songs by Shanker-Jaikishen, like the lovely and plaintive title song and the jaunty "Awaara ae mere dil," which reminds you that it is the 1960s.

I watched this movie with Greta of Memsaab Story; you can read her comments about it here. Thanks to Greta also for the screencap.