Filmi Geek

Saawariya (2007)

साँवरिया

No one can say that Sanjay Leela Bhansali lacks vision - meticulous, elaborate, rich vision.  If he were apply that vision to a story with some depth and potential, the result could be astonishing, but Saawariya ("beloved") is not that film.  It's not as awful as his Devdas - but it's hard for me to find more than that faint praise for this film that manages to be dull despite all the sparkle.

Young loner Ranbir Raj (Ranbir Kapoor) appears one night in the red light district of some nameless fantasy town.  Late at night at the grand RK Bar he meets a melancholy prostitute Gulabji (Rani Mukherjee) and she is instantly taken with him.  Looking for a place to stay, he works his charm on Lillian (Zohra Sehgal), the elderly matron of a local flophouse.  He also wins over all of Gulabji's downtrodden colleagues.  The one person he has some trouble getting through to, though, is a young girl he meets in the street late on night, the dreamy Sakina, whom he falls for thoroughly.  Sakina is by turns amused and annoyed by Raj; her heart belongs to a mysterious stranger, Imaan (Salman Khan), whom she met and fell in love with a year before - now she anxiously awaits his promised return. 

The chain of longing and desire is taut - Gulabji is tenderly protective of Raj, Raj is manically in love with Sakina, Sakina waits breathlessly for Imaan.  And for all the fantasy of the settings, Raj and Sakina embody a fairly faithful portrayal of teenage obsession.  Raj spins an elaborate fantasy of the progress of his courtship of Sakina, and when it doesn't measure up to his expectations, he seems to think his world is coming to an abrupt end.  Saawariya captures the mood swings and manic intensity of adolescent longing.  The trouble for Saawariya is that these elements just aren't all that interesting.  The characters are distilled archetypes - Sakina the distracted romantic, Raj the happy go-lucky charmer harboring a lonely heart (his origins, and the reason for his wanderings, is left a complete mystery), Imaan the darkly sexual mystery man.  But since the characters are totems, rather than people, their loves and losses are unengaging.  The fantasy city of Bhansali's setting - an all-indoor construction that is part Moulin Rouge, part Devdas, part Singin' in the Rain, and part Dickens - is pretty, but doesn't make up for the dull stretches of the narrative.

Much of the hype surrounding Saawariya was the introduction of its two young stars, especially Ranbir Kapoor, the newest scion of the venerable filmi dynasty.  Bhansali has loaded his film with references to Ranbir's grandfather, the legendary showman Raj Kapoor: the sign adorning the RK Bar evokes the logo of Raj Kapoor's production house, and Ranbir's vagabond clothes evoke the man himself. While these homages are charming, they are also unnecessary and distracting.  Ranbir may have the talent to carry his family's mantle but constantly reminding the audience where he comes from doesn't make him any more appealing on screen.  At any rate, his performance in Saawariya needs toning down; in his character's most manic moments he resembles a crazed ferret on speed, substituting Snoopy dancing for real emotion.  There is a fine line between charming and annoying, and if the audience has to ask itself "is that charming, or annoying?" then chances are it is not charming.   Meanwhile, Saawariya's other debutante, Sonam Kapoor (a distant cousin to the Prithviraj-Raj line of Kapoors) is given precious little to do other than look pretty and run dramatically through the fairy-tale sets. 

Saawariya is the most engaging when Rani Mukherjee is on screen; her portrayal of Gulabji captures a melancholy resignation and a bittersweet air that makes her the least caricatured of all the characters in the film.  If Saawariya has one foot in reality, it is Gulabji's foot,  and the character says as much as the film opens.  A film about her mature suffering, instead of Raj and Sakina's growing pains, could have been a thing of beauty. 

One thing that Bhansali did beautifully even in the execrable Devdas was the songs, and there are some gems here as well, especially Gulabji's very cheeky turn in "Chhabeela," in which she praises Raj's sexy youthfulness, and the gorgeous "Yoon shabnami," a qawwali in which Raj compares his love to the new moon rising to signal the end of the Ramadan fast and the start of the Eid celebration.  There was one song that struck me as an utter failure, though others have liked it:  "Padi," in which Raj cheers all the neighborhood prostitutes with the promise that some day angels will come from the sky and save them from their degraded state.  I find this appalling, an absurdly patronizing sentiment.  It is a major wrong note struck very early in the film, and a missed opportunity to expand on the story of the compelling Gulabji  - the film would have done better to focus on Raj shining some light into her life, instead of making him a cheesy magician winning depressed hearts by spewing pablum all over them.

Om Shanti Om (2007)

ओम शांति ओम

God bless Farah Khan.

This nervy director proves in her reincarnation saga Om Shanti Om what I already suspected after Main hoon na - that she knows better than anyone how to use Shah Rukh Khan.  Om Shanti Om is not without its warts, but it's a solidly entertaining film, pure modern masala in the tradition of (and with cheeky homage to) the likes of Manmohan Desai and other masala greats of the past. 

Om Prakash Makhija (Shah Rukh Khan) is a two-bit actor, struggling to rise above his junior artiste status in the competitive melee of the 1970s Bombay film scene.  Advised by his sidekick Pappu (Shreyas Talpade), Om throws himself into his small parts, dreaming that someday, he'll be a revered hero.  He has other dreams as well - he is in love with a young superstar heroine, Shantipriya (Deepika Padukone), and spends his free time pining before her three-storey effigy on a film hoarding.  After a mishap on a film set, Om bravely saves Shanti from a fire, and the two become friends.  Shanti has dark secrets, though, some of which involve the shady producer Mukesh Mehra (Arjun Rampal), and these lead to a calamity from which Om cannot save Shanti - or even himself.  On his death Om is reborn into the body of Om Kapoor, the scion of a filmi dynasty, who grows up to be a spoiled, vapid diva of a superstar known in the biz by his initials, OK.  Circumstances conspire to jog OK's memory of his past life, and he resolves to right the wrongs that led to Om Prakash and Shanti's premature demise.

Om Shanti Om is stuffed to the gills with self-referential humor and filmi references.  The jokes come fast and thick, especially in the first half, and some of them are ingenious.  A constant barrage of filmi jokes might or might not get tiring to someone who grew up with Hindi films, but to me it is a pure delight even to be able to get as many of the jokes as I do.  There are hilarious spoofs of filmi conventions and filmi lore, clever uses of footage from classic films, and an absolutely uproarious Filmfare Awards ceremony in which nothing is sacred - everything is skewered, from Shah Rukh Khan's penchant for bubblegum romance to the recent trend toward sequel-mania to industry nepotism to the big egos of the stars.  Even my beloved Shabana Azmi is not above the fray, joining a lengthy parade of superstars who give cute, self-deprecating cameo appearances. 

And at the center of all the self-referential humor is Shah Rukh Khan himself, who cuts loose with all the body language and exaggerated range of facial expressions that his fans find so charming and the rest of us so irritating.  But in Om Shanti Om, subtlety is not the order of the day, and Shah Rukh's special style fits right in, working well as broad, scene-chewing, physical comedy; as his character notes:  "overacting mere khandan mein hai" - overacting runs in my family.  This is the special intelligence of Farah Khan, and it's what makes her movies with Shah Rukh Khan great watching even for this non-fan - she knows not to use him in earnest.  His excess of lover-boy intensity may induce eyerolls in a romance, but it's perfect for a Farah Khan musical dream sequence.  Same for his lip-quivery emoting, which doesn't always pass for acting in a serious movie; it's perfect in comedy, as in the hysterical sequence where Om tries to tell Shanti his feelings - his poetically-formed thoughts come out in voice-over, while his eyebrows wobble and lips tremble, unable to form the words. 

For all its side-splitting cleverness, the film has been criticized as a series of genius bits in search of a soul, and this criticism is not without merit.  The reincarnation-revenge plot doesn't offer much to sink one's teeth into, and yet the film's second half drags in service of its resolution.  And, as Beth points out, as fearless and terrific a woman as Farah Khan is, she doesn't give her heroine a whole lot to do.  Deepika Padukone, here in her debut, is pretty and elegant as Shanti, and serviceable in her acting, showing the right mixture of innocence and melancholy.  She fades in the second half, though; she has a few comic turns that she handles adequately but there's little of substance in her role.  Arjun Rampal as the villainous Mukesh fades as well; an amusing homage to slick Danny Denzongpa characters in the first half, he recedes in the second half, losing his villainous edge just as good storytelling would demand that he get nastier. 

If such weaknesses deny Om Shanti Om masterpiece status, though, they don't detract from the good solid fun to be had throughout most of this stylish, witty comedy.  After an outstanding opening it will surely go on to reach blockbuster status in India, and it deserves to be seen and enjoyed; any fan of Hindi films should find something to laugh at within.  And I remain a steadfast fan of Farah Khan and her special cheeky brand of spectacle.  Here's to many more. 

Chashme buddoor (1981)

चशमे बद दूर

Sai Paranjpe's Chashme buddoor ("begone, evil eye") is perhaps as close to perfect as a film can be.  It is a delicate romantic comedy peppered with affectionate parodies of filmi stereotypes, and there is nothing about it that is less than delightful. 

Three bachelors share a one room apartment in Delhi.  Omi (Rakesh Bedi) and Jai (Ravi Baswani) are a pair of slacker clowns fully devoted to their favorite activity:  chasing girls.  Their studious roommate Siddharth (Farooq Shaikh), in contrast, rarely raises his head from his books.  He professes no interest in girls at all.  One day Jai and Omi spy Neha (Deepti Naval), a pretty girl who has moved into the neighborhood.  Each makes a play for her - unsuccessfully of course - and that seems to be the end of it.  But soon Neha turns up at their door selling washing powder; she encounters Siddharth, and the two are instantly smitten.  Their romance proceeds apace, and soon Siddharth gets himself an office job and starts thinking about marriage.  His roommates, though, can't forget their wounded pride, and they can't bear to see him succeed where they have failed - so they can't resist throwing a monkey wrench into the works.

One of the charms of Chashme buddoor is its picture of simple student life in the city.  The three young men live in a kind of equilibrium in their cramped home, each decorating the wall over his bed - Jai and Omi cover theirs with sexy pinups and clippings from film magazines, while Siddharth's wall sports only a dignified portrait of Gandhi - and, later, one of Neha.  Outside the apartment, their principal social interaction is with an avuncular shopkeeper, Lalan (Saeed Jaffrey), who hassles them to settle the tab they've run up on cigarettes and magazines, but can't help indulging them in their romantic adventures.  And although the boys represent broad archetypes - the horn-dog loafers, the humorless bookworm - they are nevertheless charmingly portrayed.  It's irresistibly sweet, for example, that as clueless and bumbling as Jai and Omi are, Siddharth himself is only marginally less hapless.  While it's clear from the opening scenes that he is the one who will get the girl, there is nothing slick about him.  Both Farooq Shaikh's performance and Deepti Naval's as Neha share an unease, an uncertainty that is very charming, very natural, and very real. 

Chashme buddoor is also just flat out funny.  From running gags such as Jai's inability to start his moped (he stomps on the kick-start again and again to no avail, before Siddharth takes over and succeeds on his first try), to situational humor like Jai and Omi climbing out the window in a panic when Neha turns up at their door, the movie offers up one giggle after another.  Even jokes that you can see coming are smartly executed and satisfying, and the film strikes just the right balance between clever, brainy humor, and goofy gags. 

Finally, Chashme buddoor's riffs on filmi conventions add another layer to the fun.  One of the songs, as Jai recounts a tall tale about his attempt to woo Neha, parodies a selection of famous film songs.  In another, Neha and Siddharth  spin poetry and romance in classic filmi style, only to be laughed at by onlookers for singing in the park.  There's even a quickie guest appearance by Amitabh Bachchan and Rekha, demonstrating the workings of filmi romance.  And the film's climax adds a distinctly masala touch to this sweet and wonderful film.   

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.