Filmi Geek

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 name 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.

Teesri manzil (1966)

तीसरी मन्ज़िल

I love the 1960s - I love mod.  I love bouffant hair, cat's-eye makeup, and cigarette pants (on guys too). It's no accident that my favorite Hollywood movie, when it comes to style, is Breakfast at Tiffany's, and my favorite Hindi film Jewel Thief.  Lucky for me, the mind behind Jewel Thief, Vijay Anand, had more than one stylish thriller in him in the 1960s. Teesri manzil ("third floor") is not quite as perfectly delicious as Jewel Thief but it does have a great deal of tasty 1960s style to offer.

One night a girl named Rupa plummets from a third floor window of a posh resort hotel.  Her death is put down as suicide until a year later, when Rupa's sister Sunita (Asha Parekh) turns up to investigate.  Sunita believes that Rupa was driven to suicidal despair by her love for a musician named Rocky who seduced and then jilted her.  Meanwhile Rocky - also known as Anil Kumar Sona (Shammi Kapoor) - is attracted to Sunita, and hides his identity from her as he tries to win her over.  As the investigation unfolds, a number of suspects come to light - Sunita's angry fiance Ramesh (Prem Chopra), originally promised to Rupa; a dancing girl named Ruby (Helen), herself jealously in love with Rocky; a mystery man who, the police inspector on the case (Iftekhar) reveals, left physical evidence at the scene of Rupa's death.  Soon Rocky finds his own life in danger as he gets closer and closer to the truth. 

The twists may not be as wild as in Jewel Thief, but Teesri manzil is, nevertheless, a satisfying and entertaining noir thriller with a generous helping of romance and style.  The characters inhabit a nighttime fantasy world of smoky nightclubs and cabarets with outrageously trippy sets, a perfect mise-en-scene for shady dealings, dark jealousies, and, ultimately, murder.  Yet these elements are offered up in contrast with Rocky and Sunita's sunny hilltop romps.  The result is a film of shifting moods, the kind of pastiche that perhaps only a Hindi film can pull off. 

The actors and their characterizations form no small part of the pleasure of Teesri manzil.  Shammi Kapoor here does what he does best - he romances earnestly, dances spastically, and is an all around charming good guy.  His character indulges in the Bollywood staple of stalker romance, and while a guy's refusal to take no for an answer often grates, Shammi somehow always makes it work with his inherently reassuring and non-threatening sweetness.  Asha Parekh handles her role with the right amount of poutiness, but she's not given as charming a character to work with.  Sunita is a little stupid; her grand plan to avenge her sister's death is to lure Rocky into a remote mountainside where a troupe of schoolgirl athletes await to beat him senseless with hockey sticks.  ("Rocky - hockey; it's perfect!" she exclaims.)  The best scenes in the romance, and its turning point, come when Rocky finally loses patience with her - a refreshing twist in the standard romance line, acknowledging that a pretty face isn't enough to make an appealing heroine.   

What will remain with me most from Teesri manzil is the outstanding soundtrack by R.D. Burman, already a favorite before I saw the film and made that much tastier with the over-the-top picturizations, in which the film's beehive-and-cigarette-pants 1960s aesthetic is most aggressively on display.  (Once again, more on the music can be found over at Sanket's Desi Music Club.)  There's something ineffably wonderful, for example, about the the filmi adaptation of the mashed potato in "Aaja aaja main hoon pyar tera."  The very best song is "O haseena zulfonwali", staged on a set that is beyond elaborate and that occupies three-quarters of the cabaret theater in which it is located.  The centerpiece of this stage is a magnificent giant blue eye, so enormous that it has dancing girls for eyelashes.  This song features the gyrations of Helen, who is positively delicious in her non-musical scenes as well - but to see her framed in the pupil of that humongous eye is sublime, a concentrated moment of pure 1960s Bollywood bliss.   

Jab jab phool khile (1965)

जब जब फूल खिले

Sometimes a film can leave the thinking and feeling portions of my brain disaligned.  Such films are hard to write about.  Jab jab phool khile ("whenever flowers may bloom") is one such, with an anti-modernity  and possibly anti-feminist message that is hard for me to swallow.  And yet I loved the film for its emotion and tenderness, and I'm inclined to give it a pass for any moral aspects that don't set right with me. 

Rita (Nanda), having finished her studies in America, ventures to Kashmir for a little vacation time, and rents a houseboat from a simple local boy named Raja (Shashi Kapoor).  Raja is smitten instantly, and eventually a mutual affection develops.  Rita's vacation eventually ends, but she returns the following summer, this time in the company of the irritating Kishore (Jatin Khanna), the self-important dandy Rita's father wants her to marry.  After a showdown with Kishore, Raja declares his love, and travels to the city to present himself to Rita's family.  Rita dresses him in western finery and instructs him in some of her family's modern customs, but when Rita's father sets him up for an embarrassing evening, Raja realizes that he cannot adjust to Rita's world.  It's up to Rita to figure out a way to keep their relationship alive.

Jab jab phool khile pits the emancipated go-go 60s against good old fashioned country conservatism, and it's in no way a fair fight.  On the side of traditionalism we have the charming Raja, earnest, innocent, and handsome.  He looks after his pre-teen younger sister and manages their houseboat rental business with an ethic of hardworking honesty; he's not even comfortable accepting tips.  Meanwhile, we are shown very little of value in modernity and Westernization.  Rita may be educated, but she's vapid and selfish.  It's not Raja the country rube who is a boor, it's Rita, who abuses servants and whines petulantly each time she doesn't get her way.  Also on the side of modernity is the sniveling, entitled Kishore, not to mention Rita's wealthy scheming father, who is not satisfied merely to refuse to his daughter to Raja but must also put the rustic in his place.  The deck is stacked so heavily in favor of Raja's simple country living that there's no question which kind of life the film is advocating.  In one song, expressing his discomfort with the modern trappings, he even makes an explicit contrast between Rita's milieu and what is properly Indian life, asking "kaise bhuul jaaun ki main huun hindustani" - how can I forget that I am Indian? 

It's statements like that which make it hard for me to judge the apparently anti-modern, anti-feminist sentiments of the movie.  How can I forget that I am not Indian?  In the end, it's not my place to declare that this cautionary tale is too cautionary.  Rita's over-accessorized, Audrey Hepburnized 1960s splendor is appealing, but I don't know what the threat of western homogenization really looked like from the perspective of this film's original, intended audience.  And I don't think the film is necessarily saying that all Westernization or modernization is bad, just the all-or-nothing, un-nuanced brand adopted by Rita and her orbit. 

In real life, if a relationship between a "sophisticate" like Rita and a "bumpkin" like Raja were to have a ghost's chance of success, a great deal of compromise on both sides would be required.  It's certainly problematic and perhaps a little dissatisfying that in the end of Jab jab phool khile, it's Rita who makes all the sacrifices.  (Beth has more about this.) And yet somehow in the film's own narrative context it makes perfect sense.  Both Raja and Rita are extremely naive and narrow-minded; neither one of them is particularly good at seeing the perspective of the other.  But at least Raja has an excuse for his simplicity; in Rita, supposedly so worldly and educated, the presumption is less forgivable.  And Raja does try to join Rita in her world, even though he discovers that it doesn't suit him.  Of the two, he seems to be the one who has tried harder, done all the work, and done all the thinking for the both of them.  It seems only just that in the end he gets all the reward.

Jab jab phool khile is quite clearly the antecedent of the 90s hit Raja Hindustani, but it is by far the better and more delicate movie, without the masala excess of the more recent film.  The greatest strength of Jab jab phool khile is this:  Shashi Kapoor is simply a superb actor.  He registers Raja's emotional  transitions in the subtlest changes in his face - from wide open, boyish innocence to wounded mistrust to anger.  The scene in which he chastises Rita after his humiliation in the company of Rita's urbane family and friends is among the most moving in the film - the most explicitly anti-modern, anti-western views are given voice here - and Shashi delivers it perfectly, wringing tears from me even as I squirmed at his sentiment.  In the film's songs he is a bit raw and unformed; having not yet developed his own style, he channels his brothers in turn, now Raj's smooth sophistication, now Shammi's wild gyration.   In the dramatic scenes, though, he is fully in his own element, one of the finest actors there is.  Jab jab phool khile is a Shashi fan's film - he looks beautiful and does all the emotional heavy lifting - and it's as a Shashi fan that I most enjoyed it. 

Kashmir ki kali (1964)

कश्मीर की कली

When discussing Kashmir ki kali ("Blossom of Kashmir"), it's essential to get this out of the way:  The plot is unimportant.  The twists are absurd, the coincidences unlikely; the storyline swirls in the film's second half into over-the-top madness. But Kashmir ki kali is a complete delight nevertheless, thoroughly fun and stupendously entertaining.   

After Rajeev Lal (Shammi Kapoor) inherits the reins of his family's massive industrial empire, his mother decides that it is time for his marriage.  Rajeev, uninterested in surrendering his bachelorhood, flees to the family's lakeside bungalow in Kashmir.  There he meets a local flower-seller, Champa (Sharmila Tagore), and instantly falls in love.  He woos her aggressively, but to avoid intimidating her he hides his identity, telling her that he is Rajeev Lal's driver.  Champa warms to him quickly.   But their romance is thwarted by a scheming lumberman, Mohan (Pran), who wants Champa for himself.  He blackmails Champa's father (Nasir Hussain) by threatening to disclose dirty secrets of Champa's parentage.  But there are surprises in store for everyone before the rivalry is resolved.

The pleasures of Kashmir ki kali are entirely star-driven.  I'm not completely on the Shammi Kapoor train - he's too pudgy and spastic to really have much appeal for me.  Here, though, he is quite loveable, chasing Sharmila with an intensity that is entirely sweet, not creepy-stalkerish as filmi romance can sometimes be.  His comedy antics as he avoids engagements by feigning drunkenness - or even madness when expedient - are genuinely - sometimes hysterically - funny.  His gyrations seem spastic but they are clearly not uncontrolled - he is talented at physical comedy, and uses it to great effect in set pieces and songs alike. 

And if Shammi is amusingly charming, Sharmila - here in her first Hindi film - is adorable beyond compare.  Though her Champa is an ingenue, she's spirited and game for adventure.  Some of the most delightful scenes come when she submits to Rajeev's antics, as in the fabulous balle-balle song in which they give Mohan the slip by spontaneously joining a dance troupe at the local fair.  I've been nursing a growing crush on Sharmila Tagore and this film was just the thing to goose it along; she's good enough to eat as Champa, wearing traditional Kashmiri costumes and smiling with delight and wonder at the whirling dervish of romance that has burst into her life.

Indeed, the songs are far and away the best thing about Kashmir ki kali, the delightful songs come fast and thick in the O.P. Nayyar soundtrack, and each picturization is more colorful and energetic than the last.  Even if I never watch this film straight through a second time, I know I I'll be watching the songs again and again.  Many of them, like Rajeev's anthem "Kisi na kisi se" and his manic declaration of impatient love "Tarif karun kya uski," in addition to the appeal of the Shammi and Sharmila, also showcase the unparalleled beauty  of the film's uncredited star - the gorgeous Kashmiri landscape itself.  It is the songs and their picturizations, more than anything else, that makes Kashmir ki kali a sparkling gem.  (See Sanket's concurrent post at Bollywood Music Club for more.)

Gunga Jumna (1961)

गंगा जमना

Some movies, I find, do not translate very well.  Gunga Jumna was a massive hit in India - but it left me somewhat cold. 

Ganga and Jumna are brothers living a hardscrabble village life.  Ganga spends his days working with his mother as a servant in the home of the zamindar's obnoxious family, while Jumna, a promising student, focuses on his schoolwork.  After their mother passes, Ganga pledges himself to supporting his younger brother as they grow to adulthood.  The adult Ganga (Dilip Kumar) is a spirited and hardworking fellow, unafraid to take on the zamindar when necessary, while his brother Jumna (Nasir Khan) is more measured and cautious.  Ganga sends Jumna to the city to study, and supports him with funds that he earns driving an oxcart and making deliveries for the zamindar.  But things get complicated when Ganga saves a local girl, Dhanno (Vyjayanthimala), from the zamindar's lecherous assault.  The zamindar (Anwar Hussain) gets his revenge by trumping up a robbery charge against Ganga, landing him in prison.  Upon his release, Ganga learns that his brother has become destitute, and attacks and robs the zamindar in a rage.  Soon Ganga finds himself an outlaw, and, with Dhanno at his side, he joins a gang of bandits camping out in the wilderness.  In the meantime, Jumna meets a fatherly police officer (Nasir Hussain) and becomes a police officer himself.  It isn't long before Jumna's professional wanderings take him back to the village of his birth, where he must square off against his outlaw brother, in a showdown between duty and family.

With its tale of brothers on opposite sides of the law, Gunga Jumna perhaps resonated with the house divided that was India in the years following independence and partition.  There's an allegory in the divergent personalities and approaches to life of the two brothers.  The social message is hinted by the brothers' names - they are named for the Ganges and Jamuna rivers, the mythological and geographical axes of India, the junction of which has a rich symbolism in Indian tradition and culture.  The suggestion may be that the nation's vitality springs from the juncture of the fiery passion of Ganga and the steady, duty-bound earnestness of Jumna. 

For me, though, the film's symbolic content was obscured by the fact that it was just a chore to watch. There were times when I was tempted to fast-forward through some excruciatingly slow, yet utterly predictable, sequences.  And the characterizations were too indelicate; Ganga is an unthinking idiot - he reacts to offense like a three-year-old, except that he's violent and anti-social - and Jumna is a feelingless android.  The result was that I didn't terribly care what happened to either of them, and couldn't get caught up in the allegory either.

Gunga Jumna does have its qualities.  There is enough substance to the story to make it compelling at times.  Dilip Kumar's performance is quite good, despite a lot of shouting - it is not his fault that his character is obnoxious.  Vyjayantimala's performance is outstanding - only during her emotional scenes did I feel any stirring within myself.  And the music is stellar.  A highlight in that department is a mujra by Helen - I've only ever seen her perform this kind of dance once before, and she's great at it. 

Helen:

(Gunga Jumna is available for download at Jaman.com.)

Aadmi (1968)

आदमी

The themes of friendship and loyalty, love and sacrifice figure in many Indian movies.  Aadmi ("Man") is a standard-issue exemplar of that genre, in which the themes are amplified by a melange of melodramatic devices - an accident caused by homicidal sabotage and leading to debilitating injury; multiple suicide attempts; and one man's a consciousness of guilt that looms so large that it even takes corporeal form.

Shekhar (Manoj Kumar) apparently has everything going for him.  A dashing young doctor, Shekhar wins a prestigious hospital appointment thanks to the influence of his patron and friend Rajesh (Dilip Kumar), a rich landowner who is both shrewd in business and large of heart.  Shekhar eagerly courts and wins the daughter of one of Rajesh's servants, the straight-spoken Meena (Waheeda Rehman).  But when Rajesh falls for Meena and determines to marry her, Shekhar's sense of duty - and Meena's as well - stops him from telling his friend about his arrangement with Meena.  As the wedding day approaches, Rajesh is beset with increasing doubt and anxiety, fueled by the efforts of both a jealous accountant (Pran) and Rajesh's own demons, who keep him awake nights with bitter taunting.  Soon everyone's loyalties are put to the test.

It's a dreary story, and it makes for a dreary film.  Waheeda Rehman, as Meena, is lovelier than lovely, but her perpetually furrowed brow is a downer and so is Meena.  She not only suffers every hardship fate throws at her; she seems to take them up willingly, refusing to extricate herself from them even when the opportunity to do so honorably is offered to her.  Dilip Kumar is not much better.  In Rajesh's happy moments, he delivers his lines in a barely audible mutter through clenched teeth; for far more of the film, though, he is gripped by overwhelming angst, white-knuckled and wide-eyed.

Rajesh's night terrors are perhaps the most peculiar part of the film.  For the most part it is not clear whether the voices that plague him are supernatural, literal ghosts from his past, or merely the projections of a guilty conscience.  At their climax, they appear bizarrely in physical form, as a 30-foot-tall Dilip Kumar looming over Rajesh's cowering figure.  Rajesh is not merely his own worst enemy; he is tormented by a monstrously amplified version of himself.

Even the songs do not add anything; composed by Naushad, they have nothing near the sparkle of the wonderful and memorable songs from Mughal-e-azam, the only other Naushad soundtrack I know at this writing.  Instead they are very ordinary songs with uninspired picturizations; indeed, the picturizations of the first and second songs are nearly identical scenes of Waheeda communing with nature.

The upshot is that despite the angst, the life-changing accidents, the loyalty, the treachery, and the three-storey Dilip Kumar, Aadmi still emerges a dry, bland, milquetoast film.  The seasonings are there, but they just fail to blend into a crisp, engaging whole.

(Aadmi is available for download from Jaman.)

Bahurani (1963)

बहुरानी

Bahurani ("Daughter-in-law queen", a respectful address) is a sweet little film about the triumph of innocence and honesty over cruelty and greed.  It's an unsubtle morality tale - the sort of story in which the bad guys get forgiven rather than punished - but it is immensely enjoyable, due in no small part to Guru Dutt's sensitive acting and Mala Sinha's tough, rash, but straightforward village girl turned zamindar's daughter-in-law.

A wealthy landowner - in Hindi, zamindar (Nazir Hussain) - has two sons - Raghu, by his first wife (who is dead), and Vikram, by his second wife.  Raghu (Guru Dutt) is "pagal," crazy, which in Hindi films often seems to mean the same thing: he's an arrested development case, a grown man with the mind of a four-year-old child.  Vikram (Feroz Khan) is arrogant, selfish, and greedy - he always carries a whip or a riding crop and beats anyone who doesn't immediately succumb to his whim, including servants, villagers, and even Raghu.  Vikram's mother dotes on her son and reviles her guileless stepson Raghu. 

After Vikram has a run-in with the tough village girl Padma (Mala Sinha) who is the first person to actually stand up to him, the zamindar has the brilliant idea of marrying Vikram and Padma.  Vikram's mother flatly refuses, however - her son is too good for a penniless villager - and Padma ends up married to Raghu instead.  When she sees the tyranny with which Raghu has been treated, she vows to set things right, falling in love with the gentle Raghu in the process.

Bahurani's portrayal of mental illness (and of curing it) is too simplistic and its villains - Vikram and his mother - are both too cartoonish and too cheaply redeemed.  But as allegory the film works well, and it's both touching and engaging.  Padma encapsulates the traits of a variety of Hindu goddesses - the courage to stand up against injustice, a love of and dedication to education, nurturing mother-love, limitless capacity to bear hardship and limitless capacity for forgiveness.  (Thanks to crazyone at BollyWHAT? for enumerating some of these traits for me.)  And Padma tirelessly nurtures Raghu's innocence, bringing him to enlightenment and healing without compromising his basic goodness and inherently gentle nature.  Even the film's evildoers find redemption in the light of Padma's justice. 

The best thing about Bahurani may be Guru Dutt's performance.  Raghu is not just a whiny, stunted head-case; his innocence shines in his eyes.  Mala Sinha also strongly conveys Padma's fiery combination of tenderness and indignation.  Carefully constructed symbolism lends reinforcement to the film's themes.  For example, Vikram's ever-present riding crop is a symbol of his internal doubt and secret impotence.   In one scene he sits astride a horse who chafes and bucks, suggesting that even the animal is unhappy succumbing to his will.  Finally, Bahurani offers some very lovely music, including a cute but bittersweet-sad childish song by Raghu, a suggestive qawwali picturized with a tasty mujra by Vikram's tawaif girlfriend, a lullaby picturized on Mala Sinha, and a number of others, a generous total for a film only a little more than two hours long.

(Bahurani is available for download from Jaman.)

An Evening in Paris (1967)

Like the contemporaneous Jewel Thief, An Evening in Paris taps into a certain "occidentalism," an Indian fetishization of the west that is the mirror reflection of the west's orientalist exoticization and fetishization of the east.  It is a whirlwind tour of romantic locales - strolling along the Seine, skiing on the Jungfrau, water-skiing at a posh resort in Beirut, and spinning to a dramatic climax in the swirling rush of Niagara Falls. 

Deepa (Sharmila Tagore) is a wealthy Indian debutante out for a sojourn in Paris.  Tired of the endless gold-digging suitors who pursue her only for her wealth, Deepa longs for true romance, for a man who will love her for who she is and not what she has.  Enter Sam (Shammi Kapoor), a bold and manic Indo-Parisian who aggressively courts the recalcitrant Deepa; following her around Paris and ultimately to the rest of the film's locales, donning disguises and pulling off elaborate schemes in his efforts to woo her.  Meanwhile Shekhar (Pran), the son of Deepa's family servant, is down on his luck and in debt to some very dangerous gangsters.  To pay them back, he determines to woo Deepa and her riches for himself.  The gangsters, though, have other plans - they are looking to kidnap Deepa and sell her back for ransom.  Thrown into the mix is Deepa's twin sister Rupa, kidnapped years before when the sisters were tiny children, and now a hard-boiled nightclub dancer and gangster's moll known as Suzy.  From there, romance, adventure, mistaken identity, and other familiar masala elements take the action around the globe. 

Like Sharmilee a few years later, An Evening in Paris packs a social message into its disposition of the twin sisters - Deepa, despite her jet-setting independence, is always an upstanding Indian girl at heart, while Suzy's skimpy clothes and sharp, westernized edge are paid for with an ambiguous fate.  Indeed, in a sequence in which Suzy impersonates Deepa, it is her cigarette - a evocative symbol of the errant bad girl - that gives her away to the amorous Sam.  (The same device reveals the evil twin's deception in Sharmilee as well.)  And yet this moralizing is set against the backdrop of the lush western romanticism of Paris and the film's other exotic locations.  Deepa enjoys her exotic jaunt to the fullest, but even when she falls in love her good-girl instincts never falter; she is scandalized by the sight of Parisians kissing in public, and despite Sam's gentle encouragement insists that such enjoyments wait until after marriage.

Aside from this social message - which really accounts for only a fraction of the movie - An Evening in Paris is a solid, entertaining masala meal, particularly in its first half, which is driven by Sam's relentless pursuit of Deepa.  While I can see, with his wild gyrations and floppy hair, why Shammi Kapoor is sometimes compared to Elvis, he is a notch too tubby for my taste.  Still, his antics in this film are charming enough, and the song density is unparalleled - the rocking tunes, like this one, come every fifteen or twenty minutes through the film's first half.  Adding to the fun are crowds of perplexed Europeans in the background during the songs that were actually shot in broad daylight the streets of Paris, watching the dances.  Unfortunately, as is often the case with masala thrillers, the film gets bumpier when the plot, such as it is, gets going in the second half - but the dramatic climax at Niagara Falls is worth hanging on for. 

Padosan (1968)

पड़ोसन

Padosan (lit. "female neighbor," i.e., "the girl next door") is a simple-minded, warm-hearted slapstick comedy that doesn't ask much of its audience, and doesn't really offer much in return.  At its heart is a dim-witted hero, his cadre of even stupider friends, a pouty, vapid heroine, and a passel of broadly-drawn stereotypes that are unfortunately more mystifying than amusing to a non-Indian viewer like me.

Simple-minded Bhola (Sunil Dutt), after reading religious philosophy, decides that at twenty-six years of age, he should be starting a family.  Casting about for a suitable girl, Bhola's eye lights on the lively young Bindu (Saira Banu), and he is instantly smitten.  He soon discovers, to his delight, that Bindu lives next door to Bhola's aunt, with whom he is staying, and his bedroom window opens directly opposite Bindu's.  Bhola's initial attempts at courting Bindu are not terribly successful, though, so he turns for advice to his friend Vidyapathi (Kishore Kumar), a spastic, paan-chewing theater director.  Noting Bindu's love of music - Bhola's main competition for her attention is Bindu's excessively amorous southern dancing-master, Pillai (Mehmood) -  Vidyapathi hits upon the scheme of hiding beside the window and singing, while Bhola performs in lip-sync - just like a film hero.  This does get Bindu's attention - at least for a while.  But there is still the dancing-master to contend with, plus Bhola's hale and hearty uncle (Om Prakash), who, unbeknownst to all, is working with a marriage broker to arrange his own match with Bindu. 

Padosan's hero is aptly named - "Bhola" means guileless or innocent - and though he is almost insufferably stupid at first, as the film wears on his naive sweetness does grow on the viewer just as it grows on  Bindu.  The best parts of the film are the songs, a bright and clever collection of early R.D. Burman melodies.  The couple of songs in which Vidyapathi backs Bhola's performance (like "Mere samnewaali khidki") are a charming send-up of the Bollywood playback convention; there is a pleasant self-referentiaity in a tune sung by Kishore Kumar, picturized on a Kishore Kumar character, who is singing it for someone else to perform.  The other standout songs include "Ek chatur naar", a hysterical musical duel between the dancing-master and Bhola (well, Vidyapathi) that pits Carnatic against the north Indian style, and Saira Banu's cheeky bathtime frolic, "Bhai battur".

Beyond the songs, though, Padosan isn't really for me.  Much of the humor derives from broad stereotyping - the exaggerated accent and mannerisms of the Tamil-Brahmin dancing-master, the paan-juice perpetually dribbling down Vidyapathi's chin, Bhola's uncle's Rajput pride - that is largely lost on me.  The rest is of the shouting-and-slapstick variety of Indian comedy that is not much to my taste.  The result, I fear, is that much of what is side-splittingly funny in Padosan is just lost in translation.  And from a purely superficial perspective, neither the hero nor the heroine are particularly nice to look at.  It was fun enough while it was happening - and the soundtrack is definitely a keeper - but it's not a film I expect to return to again and again.