Filmi Geek

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.

Shree 420 (1955)

श्री ४२०

This is the second time in a couple of months that I've watched a movie and loved it so much that I had to wonder why I didn't get to it sooner.  While the other one, Parvarish, was only a silly, fun piece of masala candy that tickled me for personal reasons, Shree 420 is one of the all-time classics of Hindi cinema, one that helped me understand why Raj Kapoor is Raj Kapoor, and why Nargis is Nargis.  And I can't believe I waited this long.

Raj (Raj Kapoor) is a guileless, carefree vagabond, wandering the streets of Bombay in search of work.  He has a college degree - he carries his diploma in his pocket, along with a medal for honesty that he earned as a child.  In his wanderings Raj meets a merry band of beggars and working folk, the den mother of whom (Lalita Pawar) is charmed by his innocence and takes him under her wing.  They live on the footpath in front of the home of the blustery tycoon Seth Dharmanand (Nemo), who is kept awake nights by the vagrants' cheery singing.  Raj also encounters the beautiful Vidya (Nargis), a down-to-earth schoolteacher who has fallen on hard times, selling her books and her trinkets to the local pawn dealer to make ends meet.  Sparks fly between Raj and Vidya, but Raj frets that he cannot offer her a financially stable future. Opportunity knocks when Raj meets the vampish, scheming Maya (Nadira), a greedy socialite who recognizes in Raj a talent that she can exploit to separate others from their money.  From Maya's small-time cons Raj graduates into full-scale employment as a master of fraud with Seth Dharmanand, selling bogus shares in bogus companies and running other big-time schemes.   (The film's title, "Mr. 420," refers to section 420 of the Indian penal code; "420" is vernacular shorthand for a crook or a con.)  Raj is making real money, but it may cost him Vidya, who doesn't fit into his high-rolling world - and who anyway wants nothing to do with Raj as long as he is a con-artist and a fraud.

Shree 420 is rich with symbols of the promise and pitfalls of post-partition India.  Raj's emergence at the beginning of the film from his rural ramblings into the hard bustle of Bombay represents the country's transition from its traditional grounding to modern government and economics - and it is no coincidence that Raj is immediately taken advantage of upon his arrival in the city.  There is a running semiotic pun based around Raj's honesty medal as he pawns it and redeems it; Raj's honesty itself is for sale.  For most of the film, Raj is caught between a traditional simplicity, represented by Vidya (whose name means "knowledge") and the glitter and spangle of high-tone, high-stakes capitalism, represented by Maya (whose name means "illusion, trick, deceit").   The film pits pure, hardworking, homegrown virtue directly against the exotic, westernized world of greed and fraud.   Ultimately the film weaves a complex and powerful social message, exhorting the everyday people - who in the film literally sleep on the doorstep of the fat-cat's opulent home - to work together to build an India that is modern and yet free of exploitation by that greedy element. 

The richness of the narrative and its symbolic arsenal is matched - even exceeded - by Shree 420's pure entertainment value.  Raj Kapoor is a masterfully physical performer, moving fluidly between Chaplinesque antics and Cary Grantish suavity as quickly as changing a mask (another of the film's recurring symbols).  He is a delight to watch.  Nargis, one of the greatest stars of the era, has an ineffable grace that transcends beauty, a riveting poise and a presence.  She ranges from firmly proud in her early meetings with Raj, to bashfully passionate as their romance develops, to heartbreakingly wounded when she is insulted by Maya.  In either of the stars' performances it is clear why this film is a revered classic.  Nadira is car-wreck compelling (and maddeningly sexy) in her career-defining vampish turn as the bitter, manipulative Maya (screencap below).  Finally, there are the film's timeless songs, from Raj Kapoor's iconic "Mera joota hai japani," to the tender declaration of love in "Pyaar hua ikraar hua," to the exuberant peasant dance of the vagrants in "Ramaya vastavaya," to Nadira's seductive call to the dark side, "Mud mud ke na dekh".   I haven't named them all and I don't doubt that someone will chime in with another favorite - they are all that special.   My friend Sanket at Bollywood Music Club has more about the delicious music of Shree 420

There are volumes more that could be said and have been said about this film, its place in Hindi cinema, and the significance of its social commentary.  But if you haven't seen Shree 420, don't spend any more time reading about it - just go and watch it. 

Filmi Geek metapost

Namaste dosto!

I'm interrupting the reviews with a metapost today because I have two announcements I want to make.

First, I am both excited and sheepish to report that I've founded a new blog which will be a place for me to channel the shameless gushing and worship of Shabana Azmi that occasionally pops up here.  As far as I know there is no blog or fan site dedicated to her and I figured if anyone was going to start one, it ought to be me.  Reviews of her films, of course, will still live here, but now I have a place to put other thoughts, links, news items, pictures, and the like that's just about her.  If you're curious please come check out Sounds Like Power.  I look forward to seeing you there. 

Second, I'd like to include another gentle plug for Jaman, the excellent on-line service that offers downloads of movies from all over the world, including an excellent - and growing - South Asian collection.  Jaman has recently added about 20 titles from the National Film Development Corporation (NFDC) that include some of the finest art films India has ever produced - films by the likes of Satyajit Ray, Shyam Benegal, Mrinal Sen, and others. 

Jaman will give you three free movie rentals just for signing up.  In addition, if you follow this link, you can get five more free tickets, even if you are already a member.  So please consider giving Jaman a look. 

Okay, now back to the reviews for a while.  Up next:  Raj Kapoor's outstanding Shree 420, one of the finest films I've ever seen.  I've been stalling on the review because it was that good - I'd like to watch it again before I try to write about it! 

Hum tum (2004)

हम तुम

I have been told that this sweet romantic comedy lifts many elements from When Harry Met Sally.  I have not seen that film, so for me Hum tum ("me and you")  stands on its own as a cute and entertaining timepass.

Hum tum spans seven years in the lives of Karan Kapoor (Saif Ali Khan) and Riya Prakash (Rani Mukherjee).  (The subtitles rendered her name as "Rhea," but the film's characters were so clearly saying "Riya" that I cannot make myself adopt the odd westernized spelling.)  Karan draws a comic strip about the timeless battle of the sexes; Riya is a fashion student and later, as the film jaunts first the US and then to Paris, a designer and boutique owner.  Karan and Riya first meet on an airplane and instantly drive one another crazy; during the course of the film they meet and fight, and meet and fight several times over.  A number of obstacles interfere with the development of their relationship - geography, for one, and Riya's marriage for another - but the main stumbling-block on their road to destiny is Karan himself, who has all the poise and maturity of his arrested adolescence.  As a result for much of the film Riya does not take him very seriously, even when it is apparent to the audience that he is crazy about her.  Eventually, though, Riya and Karan learn to communicate with one another, and accept that they were made for each other. 

For a romantic comedy to work, it needs the audience to buy into the romance.  Because the resolution of a film like Hum tum is a foregone conclusion, the audience has not only to like the characters, but to have a rooting interest in their winding up together.  Hum tum's romance achieves this because whatever their initial attraction on first meeting, Karan and Riya grow and change over the seven-year span of the film, and their love is ultimately based on the very solid foundation of friendship that develops between them.  They are not merely two kids who met while traveling; they have weathered responsibility and loss.  Karan, who comes into the romance with more to prove - he's a breezy, arrogant player at the film's beginning - steps up for Riya when she really needs a good friend.  This makes the film's denouement satisfying,  as the romance grows along with the characters, and it can be genuinely believed that they have a future together.

With its modern characters and international settings, Hum tum is of the recent breed of Bollywood films that perhaps appeal more to young middle class urbanites (and Indians living abroad) than to other sectors of the Indian movie-going public.  A device that becomes available as a result of this - and that helps make Hum tum a more grown-up love story than, say, Dilwale dulhania le jayenge - is that of sex.  Sex is not rampant or gratuitous in the film, but Riya and Karan do have a sexual encounter at a key point in their relationship, and their respective (and perhaps anti-stereotypical) reactions to it make for the most interesting portion of the film.  Riya, who has been married, sees it as an elevation of their relationship, an affirmative step that they have taken from friendship and into couple-hood, and one that she is glowingly happy about.  Karan reacts with shame and horror, fearing that he's taken advantage of Riya and crossed an unforgiveable line.  The misunderstanding poignantly illustrates that love and connection is not sufficient, without clear communication, to foster a healthy relationship.

A weakness in Hum tum is its pedestrian and completely unmemorable music, which interferes with the story more than it should (and far more than well-done music often does in very good Bollywood films). Also interrupting the stories are short animated sequences featuring the bickering of Karan's cartoon characters "Hum" and "Tum;" these are cute enough, but don't add very much that couldn't have been conveyed in live action by Karan and Riya themselves.  These are not a serious drawbacks, though, as the film is on balance funny and entertaining, its characters appealing and sweet. 

 

Mausam (1975)

मौसम

For all the zany masala and bombast of Hindi film in the 1970s, there is a subtler side as well, a delicate strain of films that explored the raw places where human emotions intersect.  Setting the standard in this kind of sensitive cinema are films by the likes of Hrishikesh Mukherjee and the brilliant Gulzar, who was the auteur of Mausam ("season").

Dr. Gil (Sanjeev Kumar), a successful doctor and marketer of an eponymous pain remedy, arrives in Darjeeling for an extended vacation - with a mission.  His objective is to track down the love of his life and seek forgiveness for abandoning her nearly a quarter of a century before.  In flashback we are shown the nascence of that old romance, between the young medical student Gil and the the village pharmacist-healer's daughter, Chanda (Sharmila Tagore).  As the middle-aged Gil follows the trail of Chanda's life since he left her, he discovers that she has died after a prolonged descent into madness brought about, Gil is horrified to learn, by her miserable pining over the false promises of her faithless lover.  Forced into an abusive marriage, Chanda left behind a daughter, Kajli (also Sharmila), who Gil finds plying the world's oldest trade in a coarse, ratty brothel.  Gil - without revealing his connection to her mother - buys her time indefinitely, dresses her in good clothes, and attempts to mold her into the upstanding girl her mother had been when he knew her.

Stories about rich men attempting to transform prostitutes into proper ladies are usually unappealing to me, as they are often sodden with obnoxious moralistic subtext:  a sexually uninhibited woman needs a male savior to rescue her by teaching her to conform to societal norms.  But Mausam is a little different.  Gil seeks his own redemption, not Kajli's - he is trying not so much to repair Kajli for her own good, but rather to reconstruct her mother, so that he may ask her forgiveness for the wrong he did her so many years before.  This lends a sadness and desperation to his efforts at rehabilitating Kajli, a very different approach to the Pygmalion-esque elements of the tale.

Mausam also works because Sanjeev Kumar is one of the finest actors in Indian film.  His controlled touch ensures that the film remains sensitive even as Dr. Gil leans heavily toward the paternalistic.  Gil is wounded and confused; he comes to Darjeeling hoping to ride off into the sunset with his beloved Chanda - not to rescue from brothel life a daughter he never knew Chanda had.  Sanjeev Kumar's nuanced performance preserves Gil's pain and uncertainty as he navigates the unexpected twists in his own fantasy.  It also makes plain Gil's implicit sexual attraction to Kajli, who is after all the doppleganger of her mother as Gil last saw her.  There is an everyman quality to Sanjeev Kumar that makes his portrayal of human pain that much more effective and real; this is as evident in Mausam as it was in Silsila, in which he stole the show from stars with much more conventional charisma.

Sharmila Tagore's performance stands up as well; after seeing her astonishing performance as a young teenager in Apur sansar, her deep sadness in Amar Prem, and her jaunty work in another double role in An Evening in Paris, I am starting to believe in her completely as an actress.  Here, she ranges from coarse crossness to wonderment to confidence, doubt, tenderness, resentment.  There is a palpable difference between Chanda's flouncy innocence and Kajli's world-weary demeanor, exhausted and broken, until she is refreshed by her bond with Gil.  The result of all this fine work by both actors, together with Gulzar's script and direction, is a touching and lovely film; at its climax I wept as I rarely have at a movie.  It is a delicate story, about delicate characters, delicately told.

Finally, Mausam is rounded out by some truly wonderful songs, especially "Dil dhoondta hai," in which the middle-aged Gil reminisces, watching a younger version of himself frolicking in the woods with Chanda. There is also an adorable song in which Kajli tries to entertain Gil with a jaunty mujra.  Her dance is both sensuous and a little bit graceless; by Kajli's own admission she is not a very good dancer, but she is clearly in her element performing for Gil, and it makes for a charming scene.

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. 

Maya (2001)

Watching Maya made me think of spirited discussions I have had on the BollyWHAT? forums about the films of Deepa Mehta, like Fire and Water.  Some critics charge that Mehta's films are exploitative and manipulative - that they pander to a patronizing Western art-house audience by portraying India as a backward, unsophisticated, vicious and superstitious monolith.  I strongly disagree with this assessment of Deepa Mehta's films  - I find them nuanced, allegorical, and rich.  If I ever have seen a film that merited this criticism, though, it's Maya.

Sanjay (Nikhil Yadav) and his cousin Maya (Nitya Shetty) are carefree village kids.  They spend their days creating trouble, as kids will, throwing rocks and stealing sweets.  They are gently scolded, but clearly loved, by Sanjay's mother (Mita Vasisht) and father (Anant Nag).  Their life is idyllic and warm.  But when Maya reaches puberty, everything changes in the space of just a few days.  The family heads to the neighboring village of Maya's parents to prepare for a mysterious ceremony marking Maya's transition to womanhood.  Maya, who only dimly understands what happening to her, is told that she is no longer a child, and discouraged from her familiar play with Sanjay.  Sanjay, with even less understanding, chafes against the separation from his playmate and acts out, angering his father.  Then, when the day of the ritual arrives, over the terrified protests of Sanjay, Maya is subjected to a trauma that is truly shocking and horrible.    

It is shocking and horrible - but perhaps only tenuously related to any real practice.   We are told by a title card at the very end of the film that no particular practice has been portrayed; instead, the film is loosely inspired by a variety of religious practices that may or may not still be in currency.  Indeed, the film is vague about both time and place, leaving me wondering what its point was supposed to be.  All we are shown is an exaggeratedly horrific abuse of an innocent child taking place somewhere in India, amongst a village full of adults complicit in the horror.  No one, not even a token character - except a powerless small child who doesn't even understand what is going on - stands up and speaks against the horrors that are presented as accepted and commonplace religious ritual, or even questions them in the slightest. 

The result is a film without depth, without allegory, without a message; a film that serves only to shock and disturb its audience with some vaguely presented notion of Indian village life and unspecified, mysterious rituals performed in the name of Hindu gods.  The nature of the ritual is kept mysterious until the film's climax, and no explanation or justification is offered - what is the rationale behind the practice?  Are all girls subjected to it?  If so, why?  If not, how are girls selected - why is Maya selected?  The complete absence of information or context reinforces the impression that the film's principal goal is to shock rather than to enlighten.  Maya could have had depth; it could have made a compelling point about the status of women in rural India, about progress that has been made and steps that still need to be taken.  Instead, it's just nasty and shocking and not a whole lot else.  It's a terrible waste of so much potential - a waste a talented cast, especially the child actors; a waste of a realistic (up to a point) glimpse of village life; a waste of some very lovely cinematography.  Maya is a truly disappointing film.

Maya is available for download at Jaman.com, but I can't say I'd recommend it. 
 

Kaagaz ke phool (1959)

काग़ज़ के फूल

This bleak but often lovely film is the gloomy story of a depressed filmmaker who spends his life lonely, unappreciated, and plagued by demons - not unlike the tragic biography of its  tortured auteur, Guru Dutt. 

Director Suresh Sinha (Guru Dutt) is making an adaptation of the classic Indian tragedy Devdas. His heroine doesn't share his artistic vision - she wants her character glammed up, with luscious sarees and a sophisticated hairdo.  After she walks off the set, Suresh stumbles across the heroine he has been looking for in Shanti (Waheeda Rehman), a young working woman without a family.  Suresh becomes Shanti's mentor and father figure, and a tenderness grows between them as well.  Just when that tenderness appears poised to blossom into real love, though, Suresh's young daughter Pammi (Kumari Naaz), who is kept from Suresh by his estranged wife (Veena) and who harbors a fantasy that her parents will reconcile and reunite, prevails on Shanti to leave Suresh.  The film covers a span of years as Shanti and Suresh, who seem destined for one another, nevertheless attempt to navigate their lives apart.    

Kaagaz ke phool ("Paper flowers") is in many ways an exceedingly beautiful film.  It is poetically written, touchingly acted, and shot with gorgeous and evocative black and white cinematography that I do not even feel qualified to describe.  Its tortured artist theme, however, is somewhat grating - films about how hard it is to be a filmmaker always tend toward the self-indulgent, and even an excellently-crafted film like Kaagaz ke phool cannot entirely escape the gravity of that sort of navel-gazing.  It is frustrating to watch the tragic evolution of people who are done in by their own stubbornness; Suresh in particular, but Shanti too, have plenty of opportunities to improve the course of their lives, and their persistent refusal to take advantage of them shifts the mood away from the tragic and toward the pathetic.  At one point, after Suresh - without Shanti as his muse - makes a bad film and loses his job, there is some musing about how unforgiving the film industry is, how once one has begun to fall there is no regaining one's footing.  But this is not shown to be an inevitability  for Suresh - rather, it is a self-fulfilling prophecy, in both the professional and personal domains of his life.  It is not for nothing that the film opens with Suresh molding Devdas to his vision; that story chronicles an even more annoyingly self-indulgent character who refuses to take responsibility for his own happiness.

None of this is to say that I did not like Kaagaz ke phool or that I think it is a bad film - it is, for the most part, engaging and compelling, save for a few draggy portions in the second half when we are shown Suresh's descent and degradation from a few too many different angles.    But Guru Dutt and Waheeda Rehman are beautiful and charismatic, and even though the actions of their characters frustrated me, I genuinely cared about them and wanted better for them.  (In this aspect the film stands in stark contrast to the only adaptation of Devdas that I have seen, in which the miserable protagonist's death could not come quickly enough to satisfy me.)  And there were moments at which my breath caught at the sheer beauty, like the picturization of the majestic and unutterably lovely "Waqt ne kiya", the film's iconic song, which I am sad to report cannot be seen on YouTube.  I feel I need to see the film again, perhaps on a day when I am better prepared to be battered by a story that starts out bleak and gets bleaker, in order to fully appreciate its art.