Filmi Geek

Krrish (2006)

Krrish is a film in the vein of many recent superhero films that have come out of Hollywood.  But it is not a cheap knock-off; while it draws on a wide range of classic superhero tropes - a young man with super powers, an establishment interested in exploiting him, an evil mastermind toiling away for decades on a remote island -  it gives those tropes a completely Indian spin.  And although I am not now and have never been interested in the superhero genre, this film's hero is engaging, earnest, and sweet, and the result is a pleasant and sometimes quite charming timepass.

Krishna (Hrithik Roshan) is a gifted young man; he runs alongside horses, leaps through treetops, and scampers up cliffs with superhuman ease.  When Krishna meets a young woman Priya (Priyanka Chopra), on holiday from Singapore, he is instantly smitten, but Priya, who works in TV production and whose job is in jeopardy, sees in Krishna an opportunity for career advancement.  Telling Krishna that she returns his love, Priya lures him to Singapore in hopes of introducing the "Indian Superboy" to the world's television audiences.  Krishna's protective grandmother Sonia (Rekha) reluctantly allows him to go, but insists that Krishna conceal his powers from everyone he meets, and with some prodding, she explains why:  Krishna's father Rohit, now dead, was given (apparently hereditary) superpowers by a kindly space alien, but he was exploited by people who wanted to use his powers for their own personal gain.  This cost Rohit his innocence and, ultimately, his life, and Sonia cannot bear to see the same happen in Krishna.  In Singapore, Krishna unwittingly becomes the superhero Krrish when, saving some children from a horrible fire, he dons a circus mask in order to keep his promise of anonymity.  Soon everyone wants a piece of Krrish - the public longs to cheer for the mysterious hero, Priya is still eager to make television history, and the mastermind who orchestrated Rohit's exploitation is on the verge of a new breakthrough of his own.  The challenge for Krishna is to maintain his goodness and innocence in the face of all of this. 

Krrish is a sequel to 2003's Koi mil gaya, which I haven't seen, but fortunately Krrish pauses about forty minutes in and, in a rush of exposition and flashback, brings the viewers up to speed on the story of Krishna's father Rohit, who was the protagonist of the earlier film.   This makes Krrish essentially a freestanding story, and it stands fairly well.  Its greatest strength is the performance of Hrithik Roshan.  Early in the film his wide open smile conveys an engaging sense of wonder, joy, and innocence.  Krishna's physical powers set him apart from other young men, but his heart is clearly different as well; he is pure, unsullied by cynicism, completely open to the beauty of life.  Later in the film, as his innocence erodes, his face changes, developing an edge, but also a sense of loss and sadness.

Krishna's sweetness is, I think, what sets Krrish apart from superhero films in the western mold, whose protagonists tend to be dark, brooding creatures of the night nursing troubled pasts and restless souls.  Krishna does ultimately find himself on a mission of vengeance, but despite the sinister turn his adventures in Singapore take, he never completely compromises his gentle nature.  And it's the appeal of this character, and of Hrithik Roshan's performance, that makes Krrish completely delightful at moments, despite being stuffed with comic-book cliches.

The music is hit-or-miss, but it almost doesn't matter what the songs sound like as long as Hrithik is permitted to dance; he is an extremely skilled dancer - the most dancerly of all Bollywood heroes - and it is a treat to watch him exercise his phenomenal balance and control.  "Dil na diya" showcases these skills in a fun, manic circus setting. 

Pakeezah (1972)

पाकीज़ा

The noble courtesan is a very common incarnation of downtrodden yet elevated womanhood of the sort I discussed in connection with the film Amar Prem.  Rekha's Umrao Jaan is a canonical example of this kind of character, but a decade earlier there was Pakeezah.  Pakeezah means "pure" or "chaste," and thus the film's very title evokes the concept of unsullied womanhood despite the most debasing circumstances.

Shahabuddin (Ashok Kumar) marries Nargis, a courtesan he loves, in an attempt to save her from the tawaif's life.  When his family rejects her, though, she runs off and dies in a cemetery, but not before giving birth to a daughter.  The infant is taken by Nargis's sister and also raised in a brothel, growing up to become the famous tawaif Saheb Jaan.  When Shahabuddin learns many years later that he has a daughter, he tries to save her too, but her aunt - not wanting to lose such a lucrative member of her household - ships her off to another brothel, to become the exclusive entertainment of an aging nawab.  On the rail journey to her new home, the sleeping Saheb is spotted by a mysterious traveler (Raj Kumar) who leaves her a tender note.  She clutches the note close to her heart, and harbors a romantic fantasy that the traveler will come for her.  When circumstances finally do reunite them, he commits himself to saving her, and Saheb must decide whether she wants to be saved.

Some things about Pakeezah are very, very beautiful.  Some of the shots are just lovely - a sky full of spectacular color, a sweeping landscape, Meena Kumari languishing with her hair floating in a fountain.  And its soundtrack sparkles, both the beautiful songs and Meena's sensuous mujras.  (I never tire of well-done courtesan songs.)  The film is excessively romantic, but this does not detract; rather, it contributes to a sense of otherworldliness that the colorful sets and languid, dreamy tone that the film creates. 

All of the positives notwithstanding, the story is a little bit frustrating.  Saheb Jaan seems to be the anti-Umrao Jaan; as much as Umrao was determined to get out of the tawaif's life, Saheb never really believes herself worthy of anything else.  The result is that overarching tone of the film is depressing and hopeless.  Saheb never does anything to help herself, and she never develops any inner strength - she isn't saved except when men save her.  She has a famous dance on glass, but even this comes across as self-flagellation and punishment, not a display of strength and resolve (as was Hema Malini's dance on glass in Sholay).  Saheb Jaan is a character made up of sadness and poor self-esteem, and Pakeezah offers her no arc away from that depressing place.

Avtaar (1983)

अवतार

Hindi art films are often referred to as "parallel cinema," but it was watching the mainstream film Avtaar that made me feel I had stepped into a parallel universe. A parallel universe in which Rajesh Khanna is a mechanic with a healer's touch at fixing cars. A parallel universe in which flashbacks-within-flashbacks are a sensible way to tell a story.  A parallel universe in which Shabana Azmi dances around trees.

Unfortunately, that last aspect - the most straight-up-dashing-hero-swooning-heroine romantic song picturized on Shabana that I had encountered the time I first saw Avtaar - was close to the most interesting thing about this movie, and even it was not exactly good, not compared to some of Shabana ji's full-on masala performances of the 70s.

Avtaar Kishen (Rajesh Khanna) is a hardworking, pious, salt-of-the-earth type of guy.  He's an auto mechanic with a master touch.  He is happy and satisfied with his life - he has a beautiful, adoring wife of twenty-five years, Radha (Shabana), and two grown sons for whose success he has toiled and of whom he is very proud.  The domestic joy is fleeting, however - Radha and Avtaar's children selfishly betray them, leaving them destitute.  With the help of their loyal servant Sewak (the name actually means "servant"), Avtaar gets back on his feet and builds himself a wildly successful business, which he then manipulates to exact revenge from his sons.  On the more charitable side, he founds a home for elderly folks who have been abandoned by  their children, and employs its residents in his company.  His sons eventually relent and seek forgiveness - and Radha tires of estrangement from them - but Avtaar is a very proud man, there may be too much water under the bridge for this family to repair itself. 

The message of this peculiarly bitter film seems to be:  Old folks, don't trust your adult children, because they will screw you.  I'm all in favor of moralizing about the lack of respect that each generation shows for the one that came before it, and I can understand the need for social dramas that address the problem of erosion of the family, but it seems like there are more productive ways to send the message than in an angry cautionary tale.  The sense that the film's message is displaced is only enhanced by the fact that Avtaar and Radha, supposedly the elderly victims of youthful indifference, are played by a 40-year-old actor and a 32-year-old actress, made up - not very convincingly - to look some 25 years older.  Why not give the roles to some neglected older actors?  This, and similar details, lend the film an amateurish air, as it simply isn't a good enough movie for such details not to be distracting.

The music, which can sometimes be the sole redeeming feature of an otherwise unforgettable film, did little here to ease the squirming sense I had of suffering through a very bad movie in the name of fangirlish completism.  The picturization of the aforementioned romantic song, "Din mahine saal," was clunky and inelegant.  Another song, picturized on the members of the younger generation celebrating their freedom the annoying burden of their parents, was among the worst choreography and most embarrassing dancing I've seen in a Hindi film.  The one picturization I very much enjoyed featured Avtaar and Radha (in their younger, flashback form) carrying their seriously ill baby up a steep mountain trail in pilgrimage.   The song was pretty, and Shabana nailed perfectly a sense of exhaustion and despair.  But apart from a very few such effective moments, unless you are a raving fan of one of its principals, this film has little to recommend it.  I certainly am, and it pushed even my limits of tolerance.

Amar prem (1971)

अमर प्रेम

One of the recurring archetypes of Hindi film is that of the saintly courtesan, forced by circumstance into a degrading way of life, yet capable of pure and unconditional love.  She stands for downtrodden, misunderstood womanhood, for inner purity that shines through the most miserable debasement.  She might stand for Mother India debased by colonial rape.  She is almost certainly an overdetermined symbol, with meanings that resonate far more deeply than the recent memories of the British Raj and Independence, meanings rooted in the ancient mythologies of India.  Amar prem ("Undying love") draws on this archetype, and while I enjoyed the film, I can't help thinking I would have appreciated it much more if I knew enough to fully unpack the metaphor. 

Pushpa (Sharmila Tagore) is thrown violently out of her husband's home after he tires of her apparent infertility and brings home a shrewish second wife.  Pushpa returns to her home village to a lukewarm reception; even her own mother is predisposed to believe that her exile is due to some bad conduct of Pushpa's own, and she is treated as a fallen woman:  shunned, disrespected, and molested.  Desperation leads her to a brothel in Calcutta, where she quickly earns the regular patronage of a wealthy, married businessman named Anand (Rajesh Khanna).  Meanwhile a family from Pushpa's village moves in across the street, including a little boy named Nandu who is shunned and mistreated by his stepmother.  Pushpa takes to Nandu, treating him to sweets and samosas when his stepmother is too busy or too angry to feed him. 

The remainder of the film chronicles the reverberations of Pushpa's kindness on Anand, Nandu, Nandu's father, and others, throughout their lives.  Pushpa's saintliness is truly boundless.  She cares for Anand, whose cryptic pronouncements make him something of a sphinx - a squinting, drunken, pontificating sphinx.  Late in the film Pushpa is thrown back into contact with the husband whose cruelty started her on the path to degradation and suffering, and she takes the magnanimous road in that circumstance as well.  Indeed, I would have found Pushpa a more interesting character had she shown any weakness at all, rather than a limitless capacity for both enduring pain and dishing out love.  It is this unreality of Pushpa that leads me again to the conclusion that she is pure allegory, pure symbol, and it is only because of my own ignorance of her antecedents that I do not fully appreciate her.  In the end of the film a direct identity is established between Pushpa and the goddess Durga; I do not know enough of the mythology of Durga to understand what this identity is telling me about Pushpa, about suffering, and about motherly love.

In short, Amar Prem, with its themes of mother-worship and woman's limitless capacity to endure suffering, is so very Indian as to be almost inaccessible to me, as a relatively ignorant outsider after less than two years of exposure to Indian films.  This is not an indictment of the film, however - rather, it incites my curiosity, because if very Indian themes had no resonance with me at all I would not have spent the better part of the last two years watching them and writing about them.  And so I invite all of you who can to offer any insight on what a film like Amar Prem has to say to an audience that understands the metaphoric language in which it speaks. 

The one thing that I could unequivocally appreciate about Amar Prem - other than the loveliness of Sharmila Tagore - was its beautiful soundtrack by the incomparable R.D. Burman.  Unlike other Burman soundtracks of the era, with their funky fusion sounds, there are no rockout tunes in Amar Prem - just one sensuous, haunting melody after another, with a thoroughly Indian yet fresh and contemporary sound.  The songs lack the flashiness of Burman's other popular endeavors, but the soundtrack is nevertheless one of his finest, a slow burn that works its way gradually into one's heart.  I could only find two examples, via YouTube:  "Chingare koi bhadke", and "Yeh kya hua," neither of which is my favorite, but they are lovely nevertheless.   

Shatranj ke khilari (1977)

शतरंज के खिलाड़ी

International relations, domestic relations, and the game of chess.  There are elements shared by all three - strategy, tactics, sacrifice, give-and-take, the necessity of patience.  Satyajit Ray's Shatranj ke khilari ("The Chess Players") is an excellent little film that spins layered metaphors from these commonalities. 

It is the late 1850s, in Lucknow, capital of Awadh, the seat of elite Muslim culture in northern India, and two elite Muslim gentlemen - Mirza (Sanjeev Kumar) and Mir (Saeed Jaffrey) - have discovered the brilliant game of chess.  They play all day and deep into the night, with little awareness of the toll their obsession is taking on their marriages, and only slightly more awareness of what is happening on the larger political scene.  The latter is that the British East India Company has decided that it is time for King Wajid (Amjad Khan), the last semi-autonomous ruler in Hindustan, to step down.  Wajid, who now regrets having devoted less of his attention to affairs of state than to the music, dance, and poetry for which Awadh culture is famous, must decide whether his next move shall be to accede to the Company's proposal - he is offered a handsome pension - or pull together an army and go to war. 

And so there are chess matches at at least three different levels.  There are the literal chess games between Mirza and Mir, and there is the metaphorical chess match on the international scale between King Wajid and the British. Mirza and Mir's domestic situations map to chess games as well.  Mirza's wife Khurshid (Shabana Azmi) engages in a variety of tactical maneuvers to recapture her husband's attention; she feigns illness, attempts seduction, and even hides his chess pieces.  Mir's wife Nafisa (Farida Jalal), meanwhile, plans a more proactive attack: she takes a lover, and Mir makes the strategic blunder of misinterpreting her enthusiasm for his long nights out playing chess, mistaking it for wifely support of his intellectual pursuits.   

Mirza and Mir's clueless indifference to domestic matters is set forth in a strong parallel to King Wajid's neglect of his realm as the Company takes over.  The message seems to be a gentle criticism of India for its complacency in allowing the British to gain so much power, underscored by Mir and Mirza's casual decision to abandon the Hindustani rules of chess in favor of the speedier and more aggressive English rules with which we in the West are familiar today.  I say "gentle criticism" because Mirza and Mir are hapless and sympathetic characters, akin to Shakespearean buffoons in presentation, and their interactions - especially the desperate lengths to which they will go to put together a game - are airy and genuinely comical (thanks in no small part to the brilliant work of Saeed Jaffrey and especially Sanjeev Kumar, who was one of the finest actors ever in Hindi film).  As a result the film never feels heavy-handed, despite the fact that it swirls with metaphor; there is a always lightness and a balance tempering the many variations on the theme. 

Shatranj ke khilari is a delight to watch, for many reasons.  It is, I have been told, Satyajit Ray's most Bollywood-ish offering, and the cast is packed with faces familiar from Bollywood and beyond - in addition to Sanjeev, Shabana, Saeed Jaffrey, Amjad Khan, and Farida Jalal, there are also turns by Victor Banerjee, Farouq Sheikh, and even Richard Attenborough; as if that weren't enough, Amitabh Bachchan lends his distinctive voice to the film's narration.  The film is also visually appealing, shot for the most part with generous lighting and a clean style.  It is a terrific film that I expect to watch again and again.

Finally, regular Filmi Geek readers know by now to expect the following indulgence:

Namak halaal (1982)

नमक हलाल

Like many great masala films, Namak halaal ("Loyalty") is not easy to describe.  Its characters are broadly drawn archetypes and the plot makes little sense.  But none of that matters, because Namak halaal has but one ambition: to entertain its audience.  And that it does, charmingly.

It's almost pointless to attempt to summarize the story, but I will do so anyhow, if only to introduce the characters and the cast.  Arjun Singh (Amitabh Bachchan) is a village bumpkin raised by his grandfather (Om Prakash), who sends Arjun to Bombay to make a name for himself.  There, Arjun finds work in a swanky hotel owned by Raja (Shashi Kapoor).  A shadowy cadre of bad guys led by a rich eccentric mastermind is trying to kill Raja.  They have manipulated the circumstances to make Raja believe that the attempts on his life originate with his foster mother Savitri (Waheeda Rehman), who (unbeknownst to everyone, including herself) is also Arjun Singh's birth mother.  Arjun Singh smells a rat; he either doesn't believe a woman would scheme to assassinate her own foster son, or he detects  some preternatural connection to Savitri - the film isn't clear which - and pledges his loyalty to both Savitri and Raja to suss out who is behind the attacks.  Arjun also has fallen in love with one of the hotel's employees, Poonam (Smita Patil), and won her heart by defending her honor against the advances of an aggressive hotel guest.  Meanwhile, the shadowy bad guys hire a cabaret singer Nisha (Parveen Babi) to get close to Raja and execute him, but she ends up falling in love with him instead.

The density of Bollywood cliches and time-worn tropes - families separated and reunited, criminals softened by the power of love, epic struggles of good against evil, the triumph of virtue, the value of loyalty, and on and on - is as high in Namak halaal as in any film. With a generous dose of good humor, though, Namak halaal keeps it all in good fun.  One review likened this film to an acid trip, and though I don't have direct experience of my own I appreciate the analogy; it's best not to think too hard while watching, or the whole thing will bounce off the rails in short order.  A viewer who relaxes and surrenders to the experience will be rewarded with some very entertaining musical set pieces and some truly funny comedy sequences.  In one hysterical scene, as Arjun fakes his way through a demonstration of English proficiency, he spits out a lengthy soliloquy of nonsense.  This almost puts to shame Amitabh's occasional bursts of gibberish in "My Name is Anthony Gonsalves" from Amar Akbar Anthony.  In another very funny scene, Amitabh throws his gangly frame and long, long limbs into a masterful exhibition of physical comedy when Arjun loses his slipper in the hotel ballroom's elaborate water-feature.  These moments are ample enough to be well worth enduring the relatively minor pain of trying to follow the story.

I am lately fascinated by the masala turns taken by actors that I think of as giants of the art-house -  National Film Awards are nice but hard-hitting social dramas are not the surest way to keep body and soul together - so Smita Patil's role in Namak Halaal is a particularly nice treat.  I am accustomed to her work in smoldering, distraught roles; watching her spin about in a cheeky, sexy wet sari number with Amitabh induces a very pleasant cognitive dissonance.  Indeed, all the music was great fun - in addition to Amit and Smita's steamy rain dance, the film features Amitabh at his grandest in the wild disco qawwali  "Pagh ghungroo".  There's also a trippy disco number, "Jawaane jaan-e-mann," in which Parveen Babi dances while odd, ghostly duplicates of her flit and twirl across the screen.

Update:  here are a couple of bonus screencaps to better convey the trippiness of the Namak halaal experience (click on the images for slightly larger versions).

The far out sea anemone set of "Jawaane jaan-e-mann," including multiple copies of Parveen Babi.

The disco qawwali band.

Arjun showing Poonam that she resides in his heart.  I've since been told that this startling imagery is a direct allusion to the Ramayan, in which Hanumaan demonstrates that Sita and Ram reside in his heart by ripping it open for all to see:

I suspect that there are many more Ramayan references in Namak halaal; I wish I knew enough to recognize them.

Guru (2007)

गुरू

How much can you play the system and still be a good guy?  Is it okay to bribe, cheat, and defraud your way to the top, as long as you help out a few other people along the way?  That's the question clearly presented by Mani Ratnam's new film, the rambling bio-pic Guru.  What is less clear is what answer the viewer is meant to take away.

Guru spans decades in the life of its titular character, village bumpkin Gurukant Desai (Abhishek Bachchan), as he builds himself an industrial empire and fights off friends-turned enemies who try to take him down.  Early in the film, Guru marries Sujatha (Aishwarya Rai), a feisty girl from his village; her father is offering a handsome dowry, and Guru wants the money to set himself up in business.  Guru ends up truly in love with Sujatha - their sweet, spicy romance is one of the film's strengths - but his marriage is far from the last time that Guru uses morally questionable means which he attempts to justify with beneficial ends.  He makes a name for himself by taking on the corruption that keeps the Bombay textile business a closed shop, and quickly establishes himself first as an importer of polyester and later as a manufacturing mogul.  But he achieves those successes with the help of an influential newspaper publisher Manik Das Gupta (Mithun Chakraborty), and when Das Gupta starts to feel that Guru has taken advantage of the editorial power of his newspaper, an epic battle is begun.  Das Gupta deploys an ace investigative reporter, Shyam Saxena (Madhavan), who begins to uncover bribes and accounting irregularities that have fueled Guru's own meteoric rise.  Slowly the pillars upon which Guru's empire stands begin to crumble.

The film's title implies that Guru has something to teach us about how to do business, how to confront our enemies, and how to interact with bureaucracy.  But the film's ultimate bias in favor of its hero leaves us cheering for a man who apparently falsifies business records to evade taxes, bribes officials to turn a blind eye on his accounting irregularities, and has his friends in the press publish false accusations about his business enemies.  A subplot about Manik Das Gupta's granddaughter Meenu (Vidya Balan), a lovely young woman suffering from MS, attempts to restore balance to the story; she serves both as a bridge that keeps Guru and Das Gupta connected no matter how bitter their battles become, and also as a means for demonstrating the reporter Saxena's tenderness and humanity.  Ultimately, though, the film cheats in favor of Guru just like another bribed official, and the viewer is left puzzling over the film's troubling message.

In spite of the peculiarities of its moral, though, Guru is nevertheless a very enjoyable film to watch. It excels in many technical aspects.  Virtually every actor shines, especially Abhishek and Aishwarya.  Mani Ratnam enjoys a reputation for extracting stellar performances from middling actors, and he demonstrates this power in Guru, allowing his stars to showcase the best of their ability.  Individually they effectively conveyed their characters' arc from dreamy innocence through world-weary strength, and together lit up the screen with both tenderness and passion.  This stands in stark constrast to JP Dutta's Umrao Jaan, released just two months before Guru, in which this this same pair , presented in a supposedly epic romance, fizzled and fell flat - Aishwarya lay about looking pitiful with bloodshot eyes, glycerine tears streaking kohl down her cheeks, while Abhishek displayed as much life as a plywood plank and about as much range.  The director makes all the difference.

The side actors, too, gave energetic and believable performances, especially Mithun Chakraborty, whom I think of as the disco hero of the 80s and have never seen play a grown-up part; I would now like to see him in more roles like this one.  And A.R. Rahman's soundtrack includes a few sparkling, textured, and just plain catchy songs, especially "Tere bina," beautifully and colorfully picturized on Abhishek and Aishwarya and hordes of dancing villagers.  The film was beautifully shot as well, especially the songs, which washed the screen with bold and saturated color.  All of this contributed to the film's entertainment value, and it was indeed quite enjoyable as it was happening.  But questions linger once the house lights come up, and the viewer is left wondering what message Guru is trying to send. 

Bobby (1973)

The story of this film is built upon one of the most overplayed tropes in the movies - romance between a rich boy and a poor girl whose families do not want them together.  Yet Bobby, despite its hackneyed theme, was a giant hit in its time, introducing audiences to one of India's most beloved screen pairs, Rishi Kapoor and Dimple Kapadia. 

Raja (Rishi Kapoor) was a troubled child whose jet-setting parents paid little attention to him, eventually exiling him to boarding school.  Upon returning home after graduation, he meets sixteen-year-old Bobby (Dimple Kapadia), the granddaughter of his former governess, and falls in love with her immediately.  After a joyful courtship, they decide to seek the blessing of their fathers.  But Raja's father Mr. Nath (Pran) is of the paranoid zillionaire mold, and is convinced that Bobby's fisherman father Jack has orchestrated a scheme to trap Raja in order to get access to his wealth.  Jack, in his turn, is gravely insulted by this supposition.  The result is that both fathers want the youngsters to have nothing to do with one another.  Several misunderstandings and one motorcycle-riding elopement later, Jack and Mr. Nath force the issue, and Raja and Bobby get set to demonstrate just how far they will go to defend their love. 

I suppose I can understand why Bobby was such a massive success upon its release - there is something inspiring about these fresh-faced kids standing up for the right of the younger generation to determine its own destiny.  But in the end I found myself taking only an intellectual interest in the film and its characters, without any emotional connection.  I felt I was watching it out of a sense of respect for its place in Bollywood history; I cannot honestly say I enjoyed it.  Dimple Kapadia was spunky and pretty, but too young and girlish yet to be a truly compelling heroine - she is far more interesting as an adult.  Rishi Kapoor came across as effete, sluggish, and weak, not at all the compact (even if pudgy) bundle of energy that he portrayed so adorably in Amar Akbar Anthony.  Pran, too, whose angry tycoon routine worked well in Amar Akbar Anthony's broadly comedic context, in Bobby was only cartoonish and grating.   

Bobby had a few strengths.  It features a beautiful, emotional soundtrack by Laxmikant-Pyarelal (the prolific team who also penned Amar Akbar Anthony's brilliant songs), which includes such evergreen hits as "Hum tum ek kamre mein bandh ho" and the beautiful "Main shayir to nahin."  There are even a couple of fun picturizations, notably "Jhoot bole kawa kaate" and "Ae phansa."  The latter, which I unfortunately cannot find on YouTube, was a real highlight of the film - it features hordes of dancers in trippy, nightmarish costumes that are highly evocative of the troubled mood Raja is in when the song is performed for him - he has just learned that his father has agreed to marry him to a mentally disturbed girl as part of a business transaction, and he is indeed feeling phansa - trapped.   "Ae phansa" is lusciously picturized on Aruna Irani, whose character is another of the film's highlights.  She is a seductive vamp who, though at first interested in Raja, ultimately develops sympathy for the young lovers and proves their only ally. 

Despite these enjoyable moments, though, I am sorry to say that on the whole I found Bobby dull and uncompelling.  For the sake of my continuing Bollywood education I am glad I took the time to see it - but that is hardly a ringing endorsement of a film.