Filmi Geek

Pyar to hona hi tha (1998)

प्यार तो होना ही था

After some weighty discussions about feminism and Partition, it was definitely time to write about something with a bit more levity.  Fortunately Pyar to hona hi tha ("Love had to happen") was there to do the job.

Sanjana (Kajol), an orphaned Indian living in Paris, is engaged to her sweetheart Rahul (Bijay Anand).  Rahul's business takes him on a trip to India, where he is swept off his feet by a sexy modern vixen named Nisha (Kashmira Shah), and breaks his engagement to Sanjana.  Heartbroken, Sanjana heads to India to win him back.  On the way, she meets the roguish thief Shekhar (Ajay Devgan), on the run from his one-time friend, Police Inspector Khan (Om Puri).  Circumstances conspire to strand Shekhar and Sanjana in Shekhar's village, where she learns that inside scoundrel there beats a heart of pure gold.  Shekhar agrees to help her win back her lost love.  Sanjana and Shekhar pretend to be lovers to make Rahul jealous.  But as the film's title suggests, it's not long before the pretense becomes reality.

Pyar to hona hi tha is an innocuous and pleasant romance.  Like any romance, its charm depends upon the appeal of its principals, and they deliver well enough to make the movie engaging and sweet.  Kajol is talented at physical comedy, and that talent is put to good use in Sanjana's clumsy streak; her klutziness is cute and funny (though, unfortunately, it has no real bearing on the story).  And Ajay Devgan is better here than in some films where he broods and mopes incessantly; Shekhar is permitted moments of insecurity that show through his facade of cool.  The result is an endearing pairing that the viewer can really root for.  

I've been told that Pyar to hona hi tha is a remake of a Hollywood romance flick called French Kiss.  I've never seen the original, but most people seem to think the filmi touches are an improvement.  I guess that Bollywood really does have a way with romance.  Some of the better filmi elements in Pyar to hona hi tha are the songs, which are very cute; they are mostly innocuous pop, but surprisingly catchy.  There are entertaining picturizations too, especially the village engagement party and a trippy song that takes place on an airplane.  The latter includes segments having different musical styles, including a qawwali and a uniquely filmi adaptation of the Macarena.   The less felicitous additions from the filmi bag of tricks include a couple of lengthy car chases and a random, unnecessary shooting and hostage sequence in a shopping mall.  On balance, though, Pyar to hona hi tha offers a pleasant helping of everything one might require of a Hindi popcorn romance. 

Greta of Memsaab Story, with whom I watched Pyar to hona hi tha, considers the film a sentimental favorite; here's what she has to say about it. 

Taal (1999)

ताल

In the bestiary of rich-poor romances, Taal  ("rhythm") is a lackluster specimen.  Laden with cliches, sodden with obnoxious product placement, and burdened by a bland heroine and a pompous hero, Taal's only distinguishing features are a zany performance by Anil Kapoor and a soundtrack by A.R. Rahman that far outshines the forgettable film it supports. 

Manav Mehta (Akshaye Khanna) arrives in a Himalayan hill town from his education abroad, joining his family of industrial titans - including his formidable father Jagmohan (Amrish Puri) - for a vacation.   There, he meets Mansi (Aishwarya Rai), the poised daughter of a singer named Tarababu (Alok Nath).  Manav is instantly smitten and successfully woos Mansi, promising her that he will overcome the inevitable resistance of their families to their pairing.  After the Mehtas retreat to their massive palace in Bombay, Tarababu and Mansi make a visit to the city to discuss the possibility of a relation.  A standard-issue poor-but-noble versus rich-and-snooty culture clash ensues (helped along by some of Manav's smarmier relations), and Manav and Mansi renounce one another, each feeling that the other's family has given insult. 

Instead of returning to their village, though, Tarababu and Mansi fall in with a famous producer-performer-composer named Vikrant (Anil Kapoor), who wants to give modern arrangements to Tarababu's songs and make a singing-dancing-modeling star out of Mansi, which he does, practically overnight.  Mansi, still smarting from her broken relationship with Manav, adapts well to her new, successful life, until a marriage proposal from Vikrant forces her to face the possibility that her first love is lost to her forever.  But a contrite Manav pledges that Mansi, Jagmohan, and even Vikrant will come to bow to the power of his love - that Mansi will return to him and the others willingly give their blessing.

There is a strain in recent Hindi films of movies whose characters are singing stars - not merely musicians, but giant superstars - providing a justification for breaking out into elaborate production numbers, but offering nothing of import to the story.  This strikes me as defensive, an answer to perceived criticism (from westerners, perhaps) that songs come randomly from nowhere in Hindi films.  "Look," these films seem to say, "the character is a singing star - now the songs aren't coming out of nowhere!"  Particularly egregious examples that leap to mind include Dil to pagal hai and Hum tumhare hain sanam, but even better movies like Tehzeeb have submitted.

Taal suffers terribly under the weight of this needless conceit.  Mansi rockets overnight from a simple village girl to an international MTV sensation with legions of screaming fans.  This transformation would induce whiplash in a normal young woman, and would certainly have wrought some changes in Mansi's character or behavior in a well-written film in which her status as a musician was of any significance.  In Taal, though, there no perceptible response to Mansi's drastic change in circumstances.  Mansi's instantaneous stardom added nothing to the story apart from a platform for an army of backup dancers in flaming spandex bodysuits. 

The production numbers were entertaining enough, but a good film can stand on the strength of its narrative and be enhanced by such storytelling traditions as musical scenes, without need of distracting and convoluted explanations for the songs.  Unfortunately, Taal is not that film.  The conflict generated by Manav's slimy relatives and Mansi's simple, proud father is beyond eye-rolling, an embarrassing slop of rehashed and recycled parts.  The romance in the film's first hour is mildly charming, but Manav's arrogance quickly grows tiresome.  Akshaye Khanna, with his crooked smile and soulful eyes, is better used as vulnerable and confused young men like Dil chahta hai's Sid; here, as cocky as a Shah-Rukh-Khanish dandy, he is perhaps even less charming than Shah Rukh Khan himself, and uninteresting as a hero; what use is a character with absolutely no doubts about himself?  Aishwarya Rai adds little to the mix either, but then, she's given little to work with; whatever potential her story has is squandered in service of a cheap plot device.

The only interesting element in the film is the spastic Vikrant, and even interesting doesn't necessarily mean good.  Anil Kapoor has his moments, but these are equal in number to the moments that too far over-the-top or that simply make no sense.  Taal is fortunate to have a top-notch, pulsing soundtrack by A.R. Rahman which saves the film from utter uselessness.  The soundtrack is helped along by some creative (if over-spandexed) picturizations, especially the first rendition of "Ishq bina", which is thrilling and acrobatic before it unfortunately turns into an ill-placed Coca-Cola advertisement three quarters of the way through. 

Ek doctor ki maut (1991)

एक डाक्टर की मौत

Some people dismiss Indian art films as ponderous and boring.  I'm usually an enthusiastic cheerleader for art cinema - the more variety of films available the better.  If I wanted to convince a mainstream film-lover that art films weren't ponderous, though, Ek doctor ki maut ("Death of a doctor") would not be the place to start.  This tale of a maverick scientist going up against the establishment just falls flat. 

Dipankar Roy (Pankaj Kapur) is a physician who practices in a government hospital.  He's not that interested in clinical medicine, though - his passion is his research on a vaccine for leprosy.  He works into the wee hours - to the chagrin of his long-suffering wife Seema (Shabana Azmi) - in a tiny makeshift lab in his home.  Huddled amongst the caged lab animals, dusty reference volumes, and burbling beakers, Roy toils away night after night, his work punctuated by verbal sparring matches with Seema.  One day he has a breakthrough - he has discovered that females inoculated with his compound give birth to offspring immune to leprosy, and what's more, the compound has a secondary effect of reversing certain kinds of sterility in females.   His results are published by an eager science reporter (Irrfan Khan), but the reception in the scientific community is chillier than Roy anticipated.  Specialists in leprosy are skeptical of his findings, and gynecologists are incensed by his speculation that the compound may treat sterility.  Instead of getting a fair hearing for his work, Roy is shut down by his superiors in the health ministry, cut off from his work, forbidden to share it with the international medical community, and transferred to a remote village. 

That sounds like a pretty good story, and having summarized it just now I am struggling to understand why the film in execution is so gratingly dull.  Part of the problem lies in script and direction.  The film is shot in a hyper-realistic, hyper-literal style; there is no artistic camera work, no symbolism, nothing to layer the dialogue or add depth or allegory to the events unfolding on the screen.  It is more like reading a newspaper article than watching a piece of cinematic art.  And, like a newspaper article, Ek doctor ki maut presents its events in words - Roy explains his results to his friends; Seema orates her frustrations with her marriage, puts her threat to leave Roy in a letter, and then expounds, in words, on why she decides to stay.  All the verbiage smothers the lovely, subtle performances of both Pankaj Kapur and Shabana Azmi, the latter especially; she seems to want to show Seema's conflict in body language in the kind of performance that she can give better than anyone, but the script won't let her stop talking long enough to do it. 

Stylistic matters aside, as a former scientist, I was nonplussed by the film's treatment of the process of scientific discovery and review.  In the U.S., when scientists choose to present their work via the press rather than in a peer-reviewed publication,  they frequently meet with a skeptical response - not without reason, as illustrated by Fleischmann and Pons's now infamous announcement of cold fusion.  So I don't perceive any great injustice in the response in the medical community's circumspect reaction to Roy's self-published results.  This leaves me somewhat at a loss to interpret the message of Ek doctor ki maut.  Perhaps the practice of scientific research is different in India from my own experience, so that in the film's context it's clearer just what is being criticized.  To my eye, though, other researchers are justified in viewing Roy with some suspicion; he appears to be more eccentric than not, puttering in a makeshift homemade laboratory, forgoing  peer review, and lashing out in anger at any who dare challenge him. 

Ek doctor ki maut is not all bad; I've mentioned the delicacy of the actors' performances, and there were a few excellent moments shining in the film's bland substrate.  In one excellent sequence, Roy steals Seema's sterno cooker out from under her when he runs out of propane for his Bunsen burner; later, he predictably scolds her for failing to cook his dinner, and the skirmish is a poignant microcosm of their entire relationship.  And in the closest thing to a character arc there is in the film, Roy later demonstrates a growing awareness of his reliance on Seema and her need for some reciprocation.   This is best shown in several tender interactions between  them, one during her visit after his exile to village practice, and another in the film's final scene.  If the rest of the film had been handled as delicately, Ek doctor ki maut might have felt less like two hours of squandered potential. 

(Ek doctor ki maut is available for download at Jaman.  Also please see this post at Sounds Like Power for a more Shabana-centric look at the film.)

Bombay (1995)

बम्बई

There is something about sectarian violence that pushes all my buttons.  I am not Indian, and I am neither Hindu nor Muslim, but for some reason stories of communities torn apart along that particular axis simply breaks my heart.  By the end of Mani Ratnam's Bombay I was in tears - not merely weeping, but crying huge, hot, racking sobs.   I haven't bawled like that at the end of a film since 1947: Earth.  As I said, there's something about sectarian violence.  Bombay is very different from Earth in most ways - it's lot more hopeful, for one - but it's also less remote, covering events in recent memory.  And like Earth, its characters are so lovable that their anguish sears that much more. 

Shekhar (Arvind Swamy) has finished school and returns to his village to tell his family of his plans to take a job at a newspaper in Bombay and attend night classes in journalism.  Before he returns to the city, Shekhar catches a glimpse of a young burqa-clad Muslim woman, Shaila Banu (Manisha Koirala) when her veil flutters off her face in a seaside breeze.  Shekhar is instantly captivated; he sees her again at a village wedding and then contrives to meet her, learning that she returns his interest.  Rebuffed by their furious fathers - his a respected orthodox Hindu pandit, hers a devout Muslim brick-maker - the couple elope to Bombay and marry in a civil ceremony at a municipal office.  Disowned by their parents, they build life of modest contentment and are blessed with twin sons.  Then internecine tensions spark the Bombay riots of winter 1992-1993 - Hindus and Muslims tear after one another with Molotov cocktails and machetes, upending Shekhar and Shaila Banu's peaceful little world.

Bombay is more a series of beautiful moments than a story.  Some of these moments are warm and sweet, others harrowing, others unbearably sad.  But they encapsulate the full range of the human experience, from exuberant joy to unbridled anguish.  They also demonstrate the depth of tenderness that can exist within a family and that can develop even to bridge the widest gulf.  The film offers these elements in a measured and balanced mixture, gently retreating just when the pain seems too much to bear.  So, for example, as the sectarian hatred tears violently through the streets of the city, it is held in counterpoint by good-natured and humorous sparring between Shekhar's father and Shaila Banu's.  And when the destruction of the riots reaches its apex,  Shekhar's father risks his life to save the other man's Koran. 

The first time I watched Bombay I felt it was perfect, an engaging story told beautifully with a solid-to-outstanding soundtrack by A.R. Rahman and stunning performances by its principals.  Arvind Swamy brings an everyman sensibility to his role; pudgy and relatively ordinary-looking, he is nevertheless completely appealing, and his face registers every emotion perfectly.  And Manisha Koirala is not only gorgeous; she is one of the most skilled and expressive actors I've seen.  The film seemed utterly flawless.

On second viewing (the very next day) I had to acknowledge its imperfections.  Like many a filmi romance, Shekhar's and Shaila Banu's is based on little more than a glance and developed, in shorthand, in a song.  And the film offers their mixed-religion household as an idyllic haven, free from the tensions that plague the rest of the city - absent is any sign that compromise or adjustment is necessary to make a marriage work between two people raised so differently.  Shaila Banu declares dreamily that Allah gave her children "two gods," but in real life one would expect some conflict between the life cycle rites and customs of the two religions.  Bombay sweeps these details under the rug, establishing instead a simple dichotomy where home is pluralistic and safe while the outside world is full of hate and venom.

But on first viewing, critiques like these were beside the point; the movie just enthralled with its beautiful and symbolic moments, carefully crafted and perfectly rendered - like the moment in the gorgeous song "Tu hi re" where Shaila Banu's cloak, the last remnant of her burqa, catches on an anchor as she runs along the shore, and she must shed it to make her first secret meeting with Shekhar.  Or the heartbreaking and terrifying moment when one of Shekhar and Shaila Banu's twin boys, riding on the shoulders of his Hindu grandfather, furiously wipes the tilak from the old man's forehead when the pair are confronted by a group of Muslim rioters.  At its best, Bombay is a gripping succession of breath-stopping moments like these, and a simply unforgettable film. 

(A note on language:  Bombay was originally shot in Tamil and dubbed into Telugu and Hindi - the latter being the version that I saw - which is why I've included it in the "regional" category.  I suspect it would have been even better in Tamil.)

Dharavi (1992)

धारावी

This gritty film by Sudhir Mishra offers a window into life in the titular Bombay slum.  It's harrowing yet compelling, and though its focus is a depressing tale of defeat and loss, it somehow achieves a hopeful tone at its conclusion. 

Rajkaran (Om Puri) is a cab-driver living in a tidy, one-room Dharavi shack with his mother (Anjana), his wife Kumud (Shabana Azmi), and their son.  Rajkaran yearns for success in business and a better life; he is gathering funds to buy a small cloth-dying factory.  When one of his partners pulls out unexpectedly, Rajkaran reluctantly accepts a loan from the local underworld boss Tiravi, whose goons are suspected to be behind any number of neighborhood beatings and murders.  Now indebted to Tiravi, Rajkaran finds himself drawn into ever more shady dealings, to the despair of Kumud, whose brother dared to stand up to Tiravi's tyrrany and was murdered for it.   Kumud finds solace in the peaceful company of her first husband Shankar, with whom she had parted ways years before, and who has returned to Dharavi helpless and partially paralyzed after suffering a stroke.  On the verge of losing his livelihood and alienating his family, Rajkaran grows ever more desperate.

What is most fascinating about Dharavi is its slice-of-life look at Bombay's slums.  In small but vivid details as well as in big-picture themes the film illuminates this world that is so different from my own.  The slum neighborhood itself is like a village, where everyone is all up in everyone else's business - you cannot keep secrets, and you can't cross the thugs and heavies who rule over the place; there is violence almost daily.  Kumud engages in a daily struggle with the local corrupt water-mongers; they illegally tap the municipal water supply - there are no official municipal services in Dharavi - but they won't let Kumud take more than one bucketful without a fight.  But there's also a strong sense of community; women gather in the streets to make pappadums and gossip, and in the evenings, everyone gathers in a little alley movie theater to watch escapist movies starring the likes of Anil Kapoor and Madhuri Dixit.  Rajkaran has romantic dreams in which he and Madhuri (who plays herself) roll around in mustard fields, he confiding his troubles to her, she confessing her love for him. 

Rajkaran and Kumud live in a tiny one-room corrugated shack, reminiscent of the shantytown dwellings I saw in the South African film Tsotsi.  But Kumud keeps it tidy and neat; there is a pretty little rug on the floor and potted plants on the sill, and other small comforts that can help preserve one's sanity and dignity when living in squalor.  Kumud works in a small oppressive tailor shop, like the old sweatshops of the lower east side tenements in New York, working a sewing machine while sweat beads on her forehead.  As hard as their life is, though, Kumud seems to manage it - early on, she questions why Rajkaran isn't satisfied, why he has to try to push for more - she doesn't seem, at least at this point in the movie, to share her husband's eagerness to get out of Dharavi.  But while his ambition might be inspiring, it enrages him when his industrial dreams begin to crumble, and his rage drives away everyone around him.  The message of the film is therefore a little ambiguous - should one just accept one's lot and leave well enough alone, or should one try to make something better for one's self and family?  The film resolves this ambiguity for the best by allowing Rajkaran to emerge from his trials bruised and set back, but not defeated.

Rajkaran dreaming of Madhuri:

And, a look at Shabana - I'll post a few more over at Sounds Like Power.

Dharavi is available for download from Jaman.com.

Antareen (1994)

Antareen ("confined"), a quiet and literary Bengali film by Mrinal Sen, examines a peculiar relationship that arises between two profoundly isolated individuals.  They connect and affect one another, in a demonstration that the effects of human contact can traverse both distance and anonymity.

A young writer (Anjan Dutt) arrives for an extended stay at the isolated, palatial home of a friend, who has given him the run of the house while he and his family are away.  Completely alone - save for the occasional company of a servant and the servant's grandson - the writer settles in for late-night, tea-fueled writing sessions.  One night the telephone rings, and though the other end is silent, the caller rings again the next day, and soon the young writer engages nightly in cryptic, languid conversations with the woman at the other end of the line.  She is a rich man's mistress (Dimple Kapadia) whose lover has apparently lost interest in her.  Still, he keeps her in a luxurious high-rise apartment, and also supports the rest of her family, from whom she is estranged.  The young woman is lonely and depressed; she never leaves the apartment, and reaches out only to random strangers on the telephone.  Their conversations, and the effect those conversations exert on each of them, is the focus of the film.

Though the film's pace is deliberate at best, it is intriguing enough as it unfolds, especially as the details of the woman's life come gradually into focus.  Through the woman's conversations with the writer, she slowly overcomes her inertia and begins to pull the pieces of her life together.  For the writer's part, in the beginning his interest in her appears somewhat mercenary, seeing her cynically, as grist for his writing.  But he comes to truly care for her, as we are shown, for example, by his distress when she fails to call for several days.  The dynamics of their relationship are constantly shifting.  He has the power to reach her emotionally, offering observations that strike close to home.  But for most of the film she holds the ultimate control over their interactions - she has his telephone number, while he does not have hers.  The moment when she relinquishes that control marks a clear turning point in their interaction, and by the end of the film both of them have been thoroughly transformed by the experience.

What is less clear is the statement that Mrinal Sen intends to make with the film.  It may be a statement about the randomness of human relationships, how we can be touched by input from completely unexpected and even virtually unknown sources.  I can't help but feel that if I were acquainted with Bengali literature I would have a better sense of the film's message, as it contains numerous explicit references - and probably even more implicit ones - to the short stories of Rabindranath Tagore, among others.  Without that background, Antareen is more of a mildly interesting curiosity than a truly compelling film. 

Antareen is available for download at Jaman.com.  The film is less than 90 minutes long; Dimple Kapadia is as pouty and lovely as ever in it; and the download is free - so if you are a fan of Dimple's it's definitely worth a look. 

Sarfarosh (1999)

सरफ़रोश

In 1947, in the process of yielding the governance of Hindustan, Britain divided the subcontinent into primarily Hindu India and primarily Muslim Pakistan, formalizing a religious and nationalist divide that has caused millions of deaths and that today still dominates politics within the two nations.  Part of the legacy of Partition is a host of entangled relationships among numerous Hindu majority communities in India, the Muslim minority that stayed in India after Partition, and various communities in Pakistan.  The complexities of these interactions are both fascinating and of vital importance to the region.  And so it is no surprise that they are a fertile source of material for good movies, like Sarfarosh, that explore them. 

When Ajay Singh Rathod (Aamir Khan) is a young college student, his brother is killed and his father gravely and permanently injured by terrorists.  Ajay is inspired to enter law enforcement - every criminal, he says, reminds him of the men who tore apart his family - and quickly rises to the rank of assistant commissioner.  He is assigned to crack a weapons-smuggling operation that is arming bands of village militiamen, backed ultimately by Pakistani intelligence service, with the assistance of a network of local elements within India.  On Ajay's investigative team is a brooding Muslim police inspector named Salim (Mukesh Rishi).  Ajay also meets a contemplative, philosophical ghazal singer whom he has admired since boyhood, Gulfam Hassan (Naseeruddin Shah), and enjoys a sweet romance with Seema (Sonali Bendre), a girl he had a crush on in college.  As Ajay's investigation gets closer to the truth, he comes into greater and greater peril, and learns that some of his friends are not as trustworthy as he thinks. 

Sarfarosh means "one who is prepared to die for a cause," and indeed, Sarfarosh is most compelling not for the story itself (which, though it provides an interesting glimpse into the infrastructure of terrorism, is not particularly suspenseful), nor for the fight scenes (which are violent and plentiful), but rather for its variations on the themes of religious and national identity.  Inspector Salim is passionately patriotic, but as a Muslim he suffers from the prejudice and unwarranted suspicion of his fellow officers.  When one of the smugglers escapes after a shootout with Salim, the inspector is accused of allowing the culprit - a fellow Muslim - to escape, and temporarily removed from the investigation.  Salim is deeply wounded, and lashes out with a moving speech in which he admonishes Ajay to "never tell a Salim that this is not his country."   

Gulfam sahib's story also raises the identity question.  He is a Muslim whose family was driven from its ancestral palace during Partition; he fled across the border to Pakistan.  He is revered as one of Pakistan's national treasures, yet, he tells Ajay, even fifty years later he is still held apart as a muhajir, a refugee.  He is no longer Indian and yet not fully Pakistani as well.  He is an engaging character, and the sad eyes and smile of the perfectly cast Naseeruddin Shah add depth to the sense that Gulfam sahib is something of a lost soul.

The gun-running story provides the canvas on which Gulfam sahib's and Inspector Salim's inner conflicts are painted.  Indeed, the film could have been even better had it been more about them, and less about Ajay, who is too fresh-faced to be believable at his elevated rank in the force, and too flawless to be a compelling character.  Ajay's romance with Seema, while very charming, is a distraction that is completely unnecessary except perhaps to provide a few moments of peace - for both Ajay and the audience - between rounds of gunfighting.  (In one delicious scene, Seema teases Ajay for being old-fashioned when he comments on her short short skirt; moments later, she blushingly insists that she can't meet Ajay's mother that day because "my skirt is too short!")  Also enhancing the mood is some beautiful desert cinematography and a hit-and-miss assortment of songs by Jatin-Lalit.  The standout here is the song that plays over the opening credits,  "Zindagi maut na ban jaye" ("may life not become death"), an upbeat and patriotic call to arms that plays over the films opening scenes, which are a menacing overview of the smuggling operation's clandestine transport of automatic weapons.   The film has some weaknesses, but on balance it is a solid and substantial piece. 

My thanks to Amit for comments that helped refine my initial impressions of the film.

Sarfarosh is available for free download at Jaman.com. 

Khamoshi: The Musical (1996)

ख़ामोशी

This movie is so lovely I hardly know where to begin.  Driven by the truly outstanding work of its actors, Khamoshi: The Musical tells a story that in its particulars is specific to the concerns of its deaf-mute characters, but that nevertheless resonates universally for anyone who has parents or a child.

Joseph (Nana Patekar) and his wife Flavy (Seema Biswas) are the deaf-mute parents of a hearing daughter, Annie (Manisha Koirala).  In the film's opening scenes Annie is gravely wounded in a car accident.  As she lies in a hospital bed clinging to life, the narrative shifts into flashback, and Annie recounts her life story.  When Annie was a young girl, her love of music was fostered by her singing, dancing grandmother Maria (rendered adorably by the legendary Helen).  As she grows up, and her family weathers hardship and tragedy, Annie becomes distanced from her music.  Her parents - especially Flavy - grow to resent the music because they cannot hear it; they fear that it will pulls her away from their world and from them.  As an adult, Annie meets Raj (Salman Khan), a musician and music producer.  Raj falls in love with Annie's voice, and with Annie, redoubling the tension between Annie and her parents.  Raj wants both to record Annie and to marry her; Flavy hates music, Joseph hates Raj, and Annie is agonizingly torn between her love for and responsibility to her parents on the one hand, and her need for autonomy and for music on the other. 

The film's story is poignant and well-executed; like other films by Sanjay Leela Bhansali, it is melodramatic and a little bombastic, but unlike some of his others, the melodrama and bombast are deflty executed in just the right measure to magnify and project emotions rather than parodizing them.  (Contrast Bhansali's terrible Devdas, which I can hardly believe was made by the same person.)  But more than anything, it is the stellar work of the actors that makes this film so powerful.  Nana Patekar and Seema Biswas, as the deaf-mute couple, had a difficult job to do - conveying their emotional states with their faces and hands instead of with words - and they were simply mesmerizing.  The tenderness between them was beautiful, and their interactions with their daughter - whether sharing joy or locking horns - were just gripping.  I can't tell you how many times the work of the actors stopped my breath while I while watching this film. 

Manisha Koirala was outstanding as well.  Anyone who has seen Dil se knows what Manisha can do.  She was excellent throughout Khamoshi but one scene stands out and haunts me particularly; after a dispute with her father Annie stands outside their house screaming out her frustration through the door and signing frantically, even though Joseph can neither hear nor see her.  It's a moving speech bringing to the fore the undercurrents of Annie and Joseph's relationship; Annie suppressed a lifetime of resentment at Joseph for using her as a mouthpiece, for wanting to keep her a child, for stifling her music, and it came bursting magnificently forth in this one intense scene. 

Khamoshi: The Musical is ironically and evocatively titled; "khamoshi" means "silence," and so the tension between the silent world of Joseph and Flavy, and Raj's music-filled world is compressed into the film's title.  But while the details of the story turn on Joseph and Flavy's deafness - their fear of interacting with the hearing world and their fear of losing their daughter to it - the film's themes translate to generational conflict more universally.  Parents sometimes fear losing their children to pursuits they don't understand; children sometimes experience guilt at seemingly abandoning their parents to pursue their own lives, marriages, careers.  Khamoshi addresses these universal conflicts touchingly, through its story of a family that has faced more than its share of difficulty and yet still bonds together with tremendous love. 

If there is a weakness in the film it is the music, which is largely unmemorable and ordinary, and at times worse than that.  This is frustrating to me, because I have often found that movies about music - where you might expect particular attention to be given to this aspect - nevertheless have poor music.  This was an irritation in Morning Raga and Tehzeeb and it is an irritation here as well. Still, this is a minor quibble - the movie is so fantastic otherwise that a couple of middling songs are easily overlooked.

(Khamoshi: The Musical is available for free download at Jaman.com)

Kuch kuch hota hai (1998)

कुछ कुछ होता है

When I sat down to watch Kuch kuch hota hai ("something happens"), although I had seen nearly 100 Indian films, I was a Karan Johar virgin.  "K-Jo," as the filmmaker Johar is sometimes called - both affectionately and contemptuously - is a polarizing figure  among Bollywood fans.  He has created a number of massive hits, but some dismiss his work as "candyfloss" - emotionally manipulative, saccharine fluff.  Others adore it in spite of - or perhaps because of - the very characteristics that engender those criticisms. 

There was no particular reason that I'd missed the K-Jo boat; I hadn't deliberately avoided his films.  For a while I was under a self-imposed moratorium on Shah Rukh Khan (who stars in every one of Johar's films), but if a friend had invited to me to watch a K-Jo movie I would not have refused.  I just never got around to it.   When I decided it was time to take the plunge, I chose Kuch kuch hota hai, because it is the beloved favorite of several people who I think are really, really smart.  What I found in Kuch kuch hota hai is a film that is cheesy, sentimental, and manipulative - in all the right ways. 

Rahul (Shah Rukh Khan) and Anjali (Kajol) are college students, best friends, and friendly rivals.  The tomboyish Kajol is forever challenging Rahul to games of pick-up basketball - and winning - while Rahul, for his part, teases her mercilessly.  Enter Tina (Rani Mukherjee), the glamorous foreign-educated daughter of the school's principal (Anupam Kher).  She brings out the gentleman buried beneath Rahul's rough-and-tumble, boys-will-be-boys exterior.  Inevitably, they fall in love, leaving poor Anjali out in the cold, as she realizes that she is in love with Rahul as well. 

We know from the film's opening sequence - the college story is told in flashback - that Tina died shortly after giving birth to a daughter, whom she instructed Rahul to name "Anjali" after their college friend.  On her deathbed Tina wrote eight letters to be given to little Anjali on each of her first eight birthdays.  Now eight years old, little Anjali receives the final letter, setting forth her mother's dying wish: that Rahul be reunited with the elder Anjali.  Little Anjali hatches a scheme to fulfill Tina's request, with her spunky grandmother (Farida Jalal) as her partner-in-crime.  The conspirators have their work cut out for them; while it doesn't take much for Rahul to realize what he could have had in grown-up Anjali, in the meantime she has become engaged to a gentle sweet fellow named Aman (Salman Khan). 

The story may not sound like much, and its resolution holds no surprises, but the film's message is a bit refreshing.  Rather than supporting the romantic but depressing notion that there is just one perfect match, one true love, for everyone, Kuch kuch hota hai acknowledges that even romantic love can come in different forms, and losing one's true love doesn't necessarily mean never having true love again.  Rahul recites the old saw a couple of times, insisting that love is a once-in-a-lifetime venture - but he's proven gloriously wrong.  (The bloom comes off this rose somewhat when it is considered that the mature Anjali has shed her track suits and tomboyish ways for a sari and a job as an instructor of Indian classical dance; Rahul never noticed her until she transformed into a girl who couldn't beat him at basketball.) 

For me - as neither Shah Rukh Khan nor straight-up romance is really my cup of tea - Kuch kuch hota hai is not more than a solid timepass.  Still, I appreciate some of what sets it apart from other films of its ilk.  It has the standard college film conceits - the college is a place for basketball, track meets, cheerleaders, and dance competitions, but not much in the way of classes or studying.  There's also a comically bumbling principal and an overly flirtatious sexy teacher (who even gets her own leering sound-effect every time she takes the screen).   And it seems that every stop is pulled out in achieving the apex of Bollywood bombast - ominous thunderclaps to signal significant moments, swelling music playing out the characters emotions, glorious and lush wedding preparations, even divine intervention when needed.  Somehow, though, the film maintains a sense of humor, a tone of self-awareness.  It's over-the-top, but it's over-the-top with a wink at the audience.  Combine that with the sweetness of the story, and the result is that it's very easy to play along. 

(For a terrific analysis of Kuch kuch hota hai through the lens of postmodern theory, have a look at Meredith's post on the board she runs, the BollyWHAT? forum.) 

Dilwale dulhania le jayenge (1995)

दिलवाले दुल्हनिया ले जाएँगे

Occasionally a film comes along that hits a powerful resonance with its audience.  Such a film can be a trendsetter, making superstars of its cast, changing the direction of an industry, and even, to an extent, of a society.  Dilwale dulhania le jayenge ("The brave-hearted one shall carry away the bride") is such a cinematic bellwether, striking a perfect chord at a particular crossroads of Indian society where foreign influence meets domestic traditionalism.  It's a very important film, and it is also a reasonably enjoyable one.

Simran (Kajol) lives in London with her family, but she's been raised to be a seedhi-saadhi Punjabi ladki - a nice upstanding Punjabi girl.   Relatively unaffected by the influence of her western setting, Simran understands her duty to her family - to her strict, serious father (Amrish Puri) particularly - and submits to her engagement to a boy selected for her at her birth, the son of her father's close friend in India.  Before her marriage, though, she begs her father for one month to live life on her own terms, traveling through (continental) Europe on a tour with some of her school friends.  Her impassioned request - combined with a lifetime of never once defying him - softens her father and he reluctantly agrees.  Then she meets Raj (Shah Rukh Khan), another London-dwelling Indian who is brash, impulsive, and immature, but also apparently good-hearted - and love happens.  When her father learns of this upon Simran's return, he whisks her away to India for immediate sealing of the marriage that was planned for her twenty years prior.  Raj follows, and undertakes a systematic plan to win the hearts of Simran's family - even her unyielding father.

Dilwale dulhania le jayenge's message is one of balance between the hip, modern, foreign influence on the one hand, and respect for the traditional foundations of Indian society on the other, and at the time of its release, it inverted a number of prevalent filmi cliches.  At the core of the film is Raj's refusal to run away with Simran, even when she begs him to elope; he is determined to win the approval of her father and will not marry her until he does so, even though failure would mean losing her forever.  Elopement followed by tragic end was a common filmi theme at the time; in Dilwale dulhania le jayenge, Raj rejects the temptation of that course in favor of deference to tradition.   In another twist on convention (as noted by crazyone on the BollyWHAT? forum), the foreign-raised Raj is the good guy, while Simran's homegrown, all-Indian fiance is cruel, promiscuous, and dishonest.  I suspect that these twists lie at the heart of what gives this film purchase to be the industry-changing, enduring success that it has been, especially among Indians living outside of their homeland and therefore necessarily surrounded by the influential forces of foreign culture.    

The film's message is undermined by the tactics chosen by Raj to win the approval of Simran's family.  He engineers a deception to infiltrate the inner circle of the two families preparing for the wedding, and continues ingratiating himself to them with exaggerated kindness to the elder family members, sweetness to the girls, and chumminess with the guys.  It is all a grand ruse and deception, however, and the film begins to fall apart if one thinks too hard about what it means that the guy who supposedly espouses traditional values is lying and cheating right and left in an attempt to demonstrate them.  His act casts doubt on the veracity of the upstanding-Indian-boy persona itself; one cannot be sure that he isn't lying to Simran just as well as he lies to her family. 

When such thoughts can be suppressed, though, the film is charming and engaging; the romance works, and I found myself rooting for the pairing despite the fact that I didn't particularly like either of the principals as individuals.  The film's unquestionable greatest strength is that Raj and Simran do have some staunch allies among their parents; Raj's father (Anupam Kher) and Simran's mother (Farida Jalal) are determinedly on their side and do everything within their limited power to grease the wheels, and this prevents the film from devolving into the timeworn "us vs. them" intergenerational slugfest.  But "limited power" is the key phrase.  In the film's standout scene, Simran's mother delivers a heartbreaking speech in which she declares that while she promised herself she would secure autonomy and happiness for her daughter, the lot of an Indian girl is not within her power to change.  She brought tears to my eyes with the wonderful line main to yeh bhuul gayi thi - ki aurat ko vaada karne ki bhi koi haq nahin hai - "I forgot this: that a woman has no right even to make a promise."

Finally, a word on the music of Dilwale dulhania le jayenge - this is a soundtrack I always want to like more than I do.  It is packed with catchy tunes and hummable melodies, like "Ho gaya hai tujhko to pyar," and the mega-mega-hit "Tujhe dekha to yeh jaana sanam."  But the soundtrack grates despite its strengths, for one overwhelming reason: Lata Mangeshkar was far past her prime.  She's warbly, shrill, and overdubbed, and doesn't always hit her pitch.  I adore Lata ji's beautiful work through the 50s, 60s, and 70s - but Dilwale dulhania le jayenge is Exhibit A for why I think she should have retired after the 1980s.   

(Post script:  As usual, reading Philip Lutgendorf's commentary on his Philip's fil-ums website makes me wonder why I bother; in this case, his astute discussion of Dilwale dulhania le jayenge makes several outstanding and interesting points.)