Filmi Geek

Parash pathar (1958)

পরশ পাথর

Though perhaps lacking in the depth and multi-layered richness of his later films or his Apu Trilogy, Satyajit Ray's Parash pathar ("Philosopher's stone") is a simple, familiar story, delicately and charmingly told. Its everyman protagonist, Pareshchandra Dutta (Tulsi Chakravarty), is middling in every way - middle class, middle aged, spreading around the middle, a middling bureaucrat with a better than middling chance of losing his job in the near future.

When Pareshchandra finds a stone that can transform ordinary objects into gold, he begins to fantasize about how the windfall can change his life, and even his daydreams are modest. He imagines himself saluting an honor guard of Indian soldiers; he dreams of a garlanded statue in his memory standing humbly in a city park. Even when he leverages his easy wealth to a place of recognition and adulation in high society, he does so with positive, not negative, influence:  He supports cultural programs that celebrate Bengali heritage, and makes generous charitable donations even to the most humble of causes.  While he moves himself and his wife into a gracious bungalow, he maintains the same solitary servant (Jahar Roy) who had worked for him in his cramped, crumbling flat. This servant - hilariously - hurries to change clothes as he rushes from one role to the next, driver to butler to chai-server. Even as a grand man, Pareshchandra remains simply hewn and relatable.

How far out of his element Pareshchandra has ventured becomes clear when his young assistant Priyotosh (Kali Banerjee) tells him he has been invited to a cocktail party.  Pareshchandra beams like a child; he seems never to have experienced anything as thrilling as a cocktail party in his life, and he skips from the office exclaiming "Cocktail! Cocktail!", trying on the unfamiliar idea with delight. At the party, though, he is awkward and unsuited.  He fails to make conversation with any of the other guests. He becomes desperately drunk (in a drunk scene too vividly real and viscerally stomach-churning to be especially funny), and in a frantic bid to remain interesting to the high-society crowd, reveals the supernatural source of his wealth.  Pareshchandra's downfall from here is unsurprising to anyone familiar with this kind of story, from any culture.

In the greater society's response to this revelation of instant gold for the taking, Parash pathar finally begins to take on some of the broader allegorical significance that one expects of Ray films. The rich react with greed (which the modest Pareshchandra had himself mostly avoided), and society at large reacts with hysteria, throwing the gold market into chaos.  It is easy to read this as a thin allegory for the function of world economies, especially for a film made at a time when many nations were debating the abandonment of the gold standard (though India itself was on a different precious-metal standard, silver).

For the most part, though, Parash pathar is a straightforward, unnuanced, and very funny fable about the dangers of greed and the non-negotiable truth that there is no such thing as a free lunch. What makes it most enjoyable are the touches of Ray's nascent craft - his use of surprising camera angles, a restrained and unusually light and evocative soundtrack, and his willingness to let Tulsi Chakravarty play to the cheap seats. Chakravarty is by no means a pretty man, but he is a master of broad, expressive physical comedic acting. His bulging eyes, fishy, fleshy lips, and enormous pot belly are almost characters in their own right. The way Charkavarty controls them, delivering their lines in perfect complement, elevates this simple fable into memorable cinematic and comedic art.

Gaja Gamini (2000)

गज गामिनी

Gaja Gamini, M.F. Husain's first excursion into filmmaking, is absurd in almost every aspect, and not in the cool intellectual sense.  It is just ridiculous.  It's a series of laughably poor attempts at profundity, which are often embarrassing to watch.  It is safe to say that were it not for the reverence attached to Husain himself, the project would never have attracted either financial backing or the high-profile stars who dupe innocents like me into enduring it.   It is, as a Twitter acquaintance so concisely summarized it, senseless.

Gaja Gamini is widely described as Husain's tribute to his "muse," Madhuri Dixit.  If this description gives you pause - as it does me - it's with good reason.  Gaja Gamini is every bit as objectifying and regressive as it sounds when it comes to paying tribute to a woman, or to women, or to Women.  It is brimming over with revoltingly pompous references to the Ageless Mystery That Is Woman and Woman's Mystical Power and other such claptrap that one associates with the sort of self-congratulatory man who says things like "I'm not a misogynist; I love women." 

The titular Gaja Gamini (Madhuri Dixit), is a mysterious, flitting creature whom all men are in thrall of though none fully glimpses.  She incarnates through several ages as a series of women, most of whom have this in common:  Each waits alone on her conceptual pedestal for an arrant man to come to her and be inspired by her beauty to create their own masterworks.  One incarnation, Shakuntala, is the muse of the epic poet Kalidas (Mohan Agashe, a co-producer of the film credited here as Dr Mohan Agashe as if his academic credentials bolster the thin tissue of Husain's wanky fantasy).  Shakuntala's decidedly unworthy mate is a doltish, Jodhpur-wearing, banduk-toting rajkumar.   In another incarnation, Gaja Gamini is Mona Lisa, who is, of course, the inspiration of Leonardo Da Vinci, embodied here by Naseeruddin Shah - you read that right - in a stupid costume coughing up even stupider lines while waving his compensatory paintbrush in the air. 

What?

The supposedly modern incarnation of Gaja Gamini, Monica (note the western name), enjoys a light romantic dance with Shah Rukh Khan before the important manly work of covering a war (he is a photojournalist) wrenches him from her arms, leaving her teary and anxious.  This is M.F. Husain's great vision of the timeless power of woman - the endless ability to sit around on our asses crying while our men  create art, science, culture, and shape the world.

In some kind of token nod to feminist themes, one incarnation of Gaja Gamini, Sangeeta, inspires a group of village women including Shabana Azmi, Farida Jalal, and  Shilpa Shirodkar, to take up their lanterns and march against - well, against what it is not clear, but their march is stern and angry and they wield their lanterns fiercely.  But even this powerful Sangeeta is debilitated; she is sometimes blind, sometimes mute, and each of the other women transforms into her, ensuring that none of them is whole either.  And even Sangeeta waits for the rescuing hand of her ageless lover Jayant.  Feh.

Why, Shabana ji?

There is plenty more; the vapidity of Husain's vision is nearly boundless, and Gaja Gamini indulges it to the fullest in over two hours of excruciatingly scripted, stiffly acted nonsense. You might think that a movie conceived and executed by an artist of Husain's stature would at least have visual appeal, but not so Gaja Gamini.  The sets are, I suppose, meant to be theatrical, minimalist, and evocative, but for the most part they come across as amateurish and low budget.  The film's early sequences take place on an abstracted, primary yellow Banaras ghat that looks more like the hastily hammered and painted set of a high school play than that of a high-concept art film.   The Monica and Shah Rukh sequence occurs on a set bisected by a large brick wall (one side represents the past and tradition, the other the present and modernity, get it?) - and when Shah Rukh Khan's choregraphy requires him to lean against it, it shudders and sways, belying the papier-mâché beneath its brick facade.  Only the blue-and-white Dal Mandi set on which the women's march occurs is anything close to evocative.  One just expects more from such a revered visual artist as Husain.

I have been to Banaras, and you, sir, are no Banaras.

Prancing about on these poor, pliant theatrical sets, the array of actors comport themselves woodenly and self-consciously; the experienced stars gracing this cast are as forced and ridiculous as Husain's unknowns.  There is nothing wrong with highly stylized direction when the style serves a purpose, but here it only lends pomposity, a sense that someone (well, Husain) believes these characters have such profound philosophical insights to deliver that they must speak them in the patronizing tones of a small child's religious teacher.  It compounds embarrassment upon painful embarrassment, in an utter disaster of a movie that is more pointless than profound.

Ooga booga!

If Gaja Gamini has a redeeming feature, it is Madhuri herself.  How many movies can one say this of?  If there is any actor who can make the unwatchable bearable for a moment with a dazzling smile or a crisply executed mudra, it is Madhuri Dixit.  Thankfully, here she is as radiant as ever.  M.F. Husain's tribute to her may be objectifying bakhwas with a camera that dwells embarrassingly languidly on the exaggerated sway of Gaja Gamini's ass, but you can't say Madhuri is not a worthy choice of muse.  She is at her best, of course, in the movie's songs, which are by far its highlights.  Bhupen Hazarika's music is quite lovely throughout, and the songs are smartly (if weirdly) choreographed. Indeed, I had seen two of the songs years ago, "Meri payal bole" and "Do sadiyan ke sangam," and rather wish I had left it at that.

 

Bhumika (1977)

भूमिका

When female actors get married, they are no longer heroine material. At best, a heroine who marries another actor might continue to star opposite her husband. Or she disappears from the scene, and returns some years later for the occasional mother role. At least, that has been the conventional wisdom. Shyam Benegal's Bhumika ("role") turns this conventional wisdom on its head. Usha (Smita Patil) is a movie star who would like to quit the business, take care of her daughter and mother, focus on her home. But her husband Keshav (Amol Palekar) insists that she keep working. Keshav has not had much success in business and he needs the money her work brings in, to enjoy the luxuries he has become accustomed to. And so with each successful movie, Keshav, acting as Usha's manager, negotiates a still more lucrative contract. For most heroines, marriage forces the premature end of their careers. Usha's marriage forces her career to continue.

There is no ambiguity in Bhumika. Usha is a victim from the very beginning, and Keshav is a creep. Flashbacks to Usha's childhood show an angry, drunken father and a mother (Sulabha Deshpande) who constantly scolds her.  Keshav teases the young Usha and inists that she will marry him, inappropriate ribbing that clearly makes her uncomfortable.  At the same time, Keshav pushes boundaries of intimacy with Usha's mother. Keshav's intervention after the death of Usha's father is nominally benevolent; to help the family make ends meet, he works contacts in Bombay to get her into the movies.  But there is a sinister air about Keshav; one has the sense that his plan from the very beginning is to manipulate Usha into stardom and milk her for all she's worth, and as their marriage wears on he seems more like a pimp than a husband or a manager.

And indeed, married to Keshav and working entirely at his demand, Usha comes to hate her stardom.  Here, as well, Benegal illustrates another of the many ways that women, and especially female actors, get screwed.  Keshav, who forces Usha to work, also suspects her of hanky-panky with her perennial costar, the handsome but somewhat vapid Rajan (Anant Nag).  Keshav is no better than the gossip-mongers who make hay out of every rumor.  Usha works in the movies only because Keshav forces to, and yet Keshav presumes Usha guilty of the moral lapses imputed by the judgmental janta to any woman who works in the movies.  His jealousy and her resentment combine to corrode their marriage.

Usha finally does get fed up with Keshav, but leaving him renders her even more powerless than she was in her home.  Rajan has always loved her, but rejects her when she offers herself to him now.  Usha finds her way into a sequence of singularly submissive relationships.  The first is an intense attachment to a pretentious intellectual art film director (Naseeruddin Shah), which Usha hopes will provide her ultimate escape.  Later, she discovers what she believes to be her domestic ideal with Kale (Amrish Puri).  Kale's wife (Dina Pathak) is disabled and bedridden, and Usha slips easily into a role that is part second wife, part housemaid, part governess to Kale's child.  But Usha soon learns that even the life she has dreamed of comes with a price.  In the world of Bhumika, a woman simply cannot win - not too different from the world we live in.

The bleak story of Bhumika is told in textbook Benegal style, with comparitively little dialogue and much meaning conveyed in the grim expressions and body-language of its star.  I am about to say something controversial:  The more I see of Smita Patil, the less I am convinced that she was as good an actor as she is reputed to be.  She is often labeled a "natural" actor, and vocally rejected the studied approach taken by some of her Stanislavsky-esque contemporaries like Shabana Azmi.  Her performance in Bhumika highlights both the best result of this approach and its shortcomings.  Smita Patil renders well that which she is best at - dejection and suffering - but does not show a tremendous amount of nuance within that.  Usha moves through her troubles with an air of contained anger and resentment, a sense of teeth gritted, that is fairly constant throughout the film.  When she needs to move away from that space, she - and consequently Usha - seem a little bewildered.  It's not at all a bad performance, but it is at times somewhat superficial.  It is perhaps why Bhumika is far from my favorite Shyam Benegal movie.

Benegal fills out Bhumika's dramatis personae with many of his regulars, such as Nag and Puri, and Kulbhushan Kharbanda as the producer who makes most of Usha's movies.  This crowd is as familiar as a class reunion.  This is not a bad thing, as they are all fine actors and Benegal of course uses them very well.  But it inspires games, in the same way that Welcome to Sajjanpur made me want Shyam Benegal Bingo.  (Anant Nag does something pathetic and impotent - DRINK!)  It's also an interesting bit of cognitive dissonance, after a string of Amol Palekar's cutie-patootie movies (like Golmaal and the delicious Chhoti si baat) to see him here as a real piece of work, smarmy and creepy and unredeemable and mean. I am reminded of Khamosh, a very different sort of film in which Amol Palekar's creepiness is, in a sense, the punchline.  There's nothing funny about him here, though.  He is the avatar of every injustice that is dished out to women in the film industry. 

 

Charulata (1964)

চারুলতা

Among the many trademark expressions of Satyajit Ray's artistic genius is the exploration of a singular imprisonment:  that which confines the minds of bright young women in the households of rich, intellectual, Victorian-era high society.  Ray's sumptuously-appointed Victorian interiors stifle sumptuously-dressed young Bengali women, and hint at a kind of oppression particular to the upper classes.

In both Ray's Ghare baire and Charulata, a man concerned about the loneliness and intellectual satisfaction of his young, intelligent wife attempts to broaden her sphere by introducing her to a vibrant outsider.  In both movies, the foundations of identity and home and marriage are shaken, with catastrophic results.  And in both movies, the counterpoint of relationships is a proxy for the the complex dance of East and West.  In Ghare baire, the tension is epitomized in the woman's English studies and repetition of an English song.  In Charulata, it is captured in (among other ways) a scene very early in the movie, in which the titular Charu (Madhabi Mukherjee) peers through lorgnettes between the slats of the shuttered windows, watching a stereotypically ordinary Bengali man strolling by.  Something about him - his freedom, his ordinariness, his Bengaliness - captivates her attention, and she flits bird-like from window to window in her lushly filigreed European parlor to keep her gaze fixed upon him.  

Charu's husband Bhupati (Sailen Mukherjee), insted of inviting her to join his world of politics and newspaper editorials, indulges Charu's love for literature though he does not share it.  Curious to know whether she harbors real literary talent, Bhupati enlists his dreamy, indolent cousin Amol (Soumitra Chatterjee) to teach and encourage Charu to write.  The result of this experiment is both affirming for Charu, when her writing is successfully published, and devastating, when her growing love for Amol threatens her identity and her marriage.  The movie concludes on an ambiguous note, without resolution for Charu and Bhupati.  And Charu's literary and emotional awakening reminds me - as stories in this vein so often do - of Kate Chopin's The Awakening, whose protagonist has nowhere to go but into the sea once she has tasted freedom of spirit and body and mind.  Charu's ending is less tragic, but it carries just as strong a sense that there is no returning to her old life.  It takes only a tiny gesture to release a bird from its cage; coaxing her back in is another matter entirely.

As for the catalyst of Charulata's awakening, Amol himself is detached, sarcastic, even bratty.  Charulata's love for him reflects  her own immaturity more than a real emotional connection.  This is not a tragic love story of soulmates kept apart by the deep injustice of circumstances or society.  Rather, the story presents a talented but incompletely formed young woman with a sort of jealously competitive crush on a young man whose only advantage over her (and it is not an inconsequent advantage) is that he is male, and therefore more worldly and educated and confident than she.  Despite his own immaturity and indolence, however, Amol represents the hometown side in the East-West struggle that threads through the film. He wears Bengali clothes and writes in Bengali.  He sings Rabindrosangeet - even his "Ami chini go chini," nominally a love song to a foreign woman, is delivered with a sarcastic, mocking air.  He even refuses a generous opportunity to travel and study in Europe.  All of this is in stark contrast to Bhupati, in shirtsleeves and suspenders, penning English-language newspaper editorials about the English politics of the English rule over Bengal.  When Bhupati chides Amol for his literary passions, insiting that politics is far more important and real, Amol smirkingly plays "Good Save The Queen" on the piano.

The pleasure of Charulata, and indeed the pleasure of any Ray film, lies in the density of content and meaning that is packed into a movie of relatively few words. An incredibly rich, layered assemblage of visual imagery, subtle cues, and symbolism paints a story that operates on multiple canvases at once.  Commentaries on the value of literature and the futility of politics, on the tension between Bengali and European modes of thought, on the nature of youthful infatuation and ambition, on the frustrations of the idle upper-class life especially for women, all these threads mingle and cross at many points of juxtaposition and harmony.  Recurring symbols like Charulata's birdcage, stormy weather, and the newspaper itself highlight the movie's important themes.  One of the most touching visual metaphors contrasts Amol's confident, fluent writing with Charu's initial halting effort; when he writes, the words flow out of the pen in an effortlessly beautiful script, while her words scratch and blot the page.

Unlike movies made by mere mortals, where emotions are too often spelled out in explicit, expository dialogues, Ray requires you to divine characters' internal states of mind from expressions and circumstances.  He demands of his audience a great deal of thought, empathy, and theorizing.  The result is a movie-watching experience more akin to voyeurism than to being told a story.  It is both unsettling and compelling, and it is what makes Ray's movies so deliciously rewarding of rewatching.  Ray's films are packed with overloaded symbols, subtle cues of meaning, visual metaphors, and allegories that operate on multiple levels.  Charulata, in this respect, is perfect vintage Ray - a beautiful and beautifully crafted movie that reveals more and more of its richness with every viewing.

Maqbool (2003)

मक़बूल

In recent weeks I have gushed beyond reason about Vishal Bhardwaj's recent movies Matru ki Bijlee ka Mandola and 7 khoon maaf.  And in light of that gushing, I became more conscious that I hadn't yet seen his widely acclaimed Shakespeare adaptations, including Maqbool, based upon Macbeth.  So many people I respect hold this movie in very high regard, and I went in with high expectations.  That was not careful thinking on my part.  While I appreciate why the movie is effusively praised, it is just not a story I needed to hear told.  There is next to nothing I like about Maqbool.

I almost pulled the plug during Maqbool's unbearable first half hour, which is a scene after scene litany of anonymous angry men sneering and threatening and pointing guns at one another.  Eventually, their relationships begin to fall into place (though the swaggering and gun-pointing doesn't substantially abate).  Pandit and Purojit (Om Puri and Naseeruddin Shah) are corrupt police inspectors. They moonlight as heavies in the employ of Jahangir Khan, also known as Abbaji (Pankaj Kapur), who is a widely respected - and feared - underworld boss.  Abbaji's right-hand man, Miyan Maqbool (Irrfan Khan), is a brooding and angry fellow.  He is nursing a secret relationship with Abbaji's mistress, Nimmi (Tabu), who goads him into betraying Abbaji and taking over the gang himself.  Both Abbaji and Nimmi are beset by fits of guilt as a result of this betrayal.

The trouble with this story, for me, begins with the underworld setting.  I just don't care about underworld stories.  Much of this movie is one dick-fight after another - Pandit and Purojit versus whatever rival they are sent to assassinate; Pandit and Purojit versus Maqbool; Abbaji versus corrupt politicians or other smugglers he does business with; Maqbool versus Abbaji's other deputy, Kaka (Piyush Mishra), or versus Kaka's son Guddu (Ajay Gehi), who is Maqbool's principal rival as heir to Abbaji's reign.  Many times through the film I just wished they could break out the rulers and be done with it.  The incessant chest-beating is not just tedious; it underscores how fundamentally uninteresting these characters are.  When relationships are determined by who displays the swaggiest machismo, I can muster little interest in the outcome.

Miyan Maqbool, who is of course the avatar of Macbeth himself, is supposed to be more nuanced.  Macbeth's internal conflict forms the meat of Shakespeare's play.  Likewise, Maqbool is meant to be an exploration of Miyan Maqbool's moral struggle, as his thirst for power outweighs his sense of filial loyalty to Abbaji.  The problem is that Maqbool is a reprehensible person.  He's senselessly rageful and cruel from the outset of the film.   He makes his living as a thug and an assassin for a gang of weapons smugglers that includes corrupt policemen and politicians.   And so if his reprehensible actions have consequences that pain him, so what?  I do not feel sorry for him and I do not find his angst or his suffering terribly compelling. 

If Vishal Bhardwaj had chosen to map the grand conflict of Macbeth onto more accessible, everyman characters - instead of a bunch of unredeemable underworld criminals - that could have been an utterly brilliant movie.  After all, even ordinarily good people do make colossally bad choices from time to time.  The fallout of an awful, evil action committed by a regular, relatable person could have been intensely compelling cinema.  Instead, Maqbool offers yet another dreary story about angry men who don't know any way to respond to strong emotions except by pointing guns at people's heads.  I am aware that such men exist in the world, but I am utterly uninterested in seeing their stories told again and again and again in the movies.  I just don't care. 

The only redeeming feature of Maqbool is Nimmi, and Tabu's smoldering, sinuous performance of her.  Nimmi's story has more nuance than that of the men.  She must achieve her manipulation and intimidation without the benefit of machismo, thugs, and weaponry; subtler methods are required.   Nimmi is aware that her days with Abbaji are numbered after a young starlet catches Abbaji's eye; Nimmi points out that she'll have nowhere to go if Abbaji throws her out.  Thus, she manipulates Maqbool - not because she truly loves him or thinks he deserves to inherit the mantle of the gang, but because it's the only way she can protect her comfortable position in the gang's luxurious haveli. 

But while Nimmi's arc makes the middle of the movie more tolerable than its execrable first half hour, she is not enough to overcome my fundamental frustration with the premise.  Underworld gangsters can go ahead and kill each other and betray each other and feel guilty about it or not, as much as they like.  But I don't want to hear about it, and I don't watch to watch movies that glorify it.  There are just so many other stories I would rather be told.

Namkeen (1982)

नमकीन

Sharmila Tagore made a career playing living embodiments of female sacrifice and suffering. In movies such as Amar prem and Aradhana, her characters endure a lifetime of loss and debasement, rewarded at the end with the exalted recognition of mother-worship. Gulzar's Namkeen ("salty") offers an alternative perspective on this theme. Delicate, quiet, and sad, Namkeen is a shifting blend of flavors to slowly savor - part salty, part sweet, and part tangy, like the three sisters of the family it portrays.

Nimki (Sharmila Tagore) is the mortar that holds her fragile family together. She looks after her younger sisters, the mute, sweet Meethu (Shabana Azmi) and spirited Chinki (Kiran Vairale). Together the three sisters care for their aging Amma (Waheeda Rehman), a troubled, frail woman bordering on senile dementia. Geru (Sanjeev Kumar), an itinerant construction hauler in the family's village for a brief contract, rents a room from the family, and before long bonds of friendship and even love develop between Geru and each of these women.

Namkeen unflinchingly delivers the raw hardship of village life for a family of women living without a man. The men of Namkeen are rootless wanderers; Geru's job takes him from town to town, and even the three women's father Kishenlal leads a traveling dance troupe that only rarely passes through the village. The women are rooted to the village but that rooting is their downfall. Amma scrapes and sells cow dung to get by, but fertilizes nothing within her own household; her daughters take on the rough physical labor of pounding spices, a quintissential domestic chore, but the spices are for other people to cook with. Geru's fellow construction workers, as they come and go, pause to harass and badmouth the women. Only Geru forms a connection, and even his is mercurial, expiring with his contract.

Each woman frames her own escape from these strangling roots. Meethu's youthful escape is into poetry, which gives her some joy, but her muteness renders this joy solitary. And it is inadequate as the outgrows the naïveté of youth; her ultimate escape is only through madness and death. Chinki's departure appears on the surface more voluntary - she flees to join her father's dance troupe - but there are hints of abuse and coercion in Amma's wild fear of him, which solidify with Chinki's transformation into hard bitterness after joining the troupe.

Nimki, though, finds no escape. She makes relentless sacrifices for the family. When Geru shows interest in marrying her, she first tries to deflect his interest to Meethu, willing to pass her own chance for escape on to her sister.  Then Nimki refuses Geru outright, insisting that she cannot leave her mother and sisters behind.  I read that Rekha was originally cast in the role of Nimki, replaced by Sharmila Tagore at some point in production.  I am very glad this change happened.  With any other actor, Namkeen would have been a straightforward, sad tale of the hardships of village life for women.  The casting of Sharmila elevates it into commentary on her canonical mother-goddess roles; it makes the reference, comparison, and contrast explicit.  Unlike Sharmila Tagore's other long-suffering goddesses, Nimki's self-conscious sacrifice does not bring apotheosis.  Nimki loses everything, and her endurance is rewarded with almost nothing.  Only a chance encounter that drives Geru back to the village rescues Nimki from utter loneliness and obscurity.  Although Geru saves Nimki from an utterly tragic ending, their salty-sweet reunion has the air of a narrow escape, not the inevitable due of a sanctified mother goddess.  Namkeen's is a more balanced look at life's suffering, more real and less allegorical, than the almost religious fables of movies like Amar prem and Aradhana.

The beauty of Namkeen as a film comes through in its quiet use of detail to convey relationships and themes with subtlety.  Amma's anxiety and confusion, Meethu and Chinki's sense of humor, Nimki's grounding competence are all illustrated by gentle domestic vignettes that are thoroughly engaging.  In early scenes, Geru struggles grumpily to adjust to the raw simplicity of life in Amma's home while the sisters look on in amusement, able to help but declining to offer.  At first Geru thinks basic hospitality and necessities are not forthcoming, until Nimki arrives and puts everything in order.  Geru's growing affection for the sisters, too, is gently portrayed, in an outstanding performance of Sanjeev Kumar, one with a low center of gravity that is nevertheless not overly heavy, and reminds me once again why he is my favorite male actor in Hindi movies. 

Indeed every note in Namkeen is perfectly struck, from Chinki's wry smiles to Amma's crooked spectacles to Nimki's resigned labor.  The dust of the village fills the camera but never obscures the colors of village life.  It is simply a beautiful movie, presenting the balanced flavors of life that blend and interact to build complexity from simplicity.  Part tangy, part salty, part sweet.  

Apne paraye (1980)

अपने पराये

Recently, thanks to a couple of thoughtful visitors, discussion has revived on my review of Swami.  By coincidence, the next movie I had in my queue to watch and review was, just like Swami, a Basu Chatterjee film based upon a novel by Saratchandra Chattopadhyay, Apne paraye ("our own and others"). 

Chander (Amol Palekar) is a bit of a layabout, a good-hearted man with a poor head for business and no taste for hard work.  He lives, on suffrance, in the household of his absent-minded elder cousin (Utpal Dutt), a wealthy and successful Calcutta lawyer.  Chander's wife Sheela (Shabana Azmi) runs the household with a stern hand, to the consternation of the laywer's weak-minded and sickly wife, Sideshwari (Ashalata).  Sideshwari can't deny Sheela's domestic competence, though, and she dotes on Sheela's children as enthusiastically as her own.  This fragile domestic peace is shattered when the lawyer's younger brother Harish (Girish Karnad), also a lawyer, arrives with his family and moves into the Calcutta haveli.  His wife Naintara (Bharati Achrekar) is jealous of Sheela, and angry that Sheela doesn't coddle Naintara's spoiled eldest child.  Naintara schemes to drive a wedge between Sheela and the impressionable Sideshwari.  This tension comes to a head when Naintara manipulates Sideshwari into having Chander and Sheela and their family thrown out of the house, and exiled to the family's farmland, where matters only get worse for them. 

Apne paraye has the potential to be the kind of movie I love - a taut, compelling exploration of the social problems of the joint family system through an intimate study of the lives of its characters.  This is the kind of movie that Shyam Benegal does so well, and I had high hopes that between Chatterjee's delicate touch and Chattopadhyay's story, Apne paraye would shine.  Unfortunately, the movie does not quite measure up.  The first half, which focuses on the relationships among the women, is unsatisfyingly superficial.  Zooming reaction shots and a booming soundtrack lends something like the feel of a saas-bahu serial to this otherwise delicately directed piece, and trivializes the tensions among the women by reducing them to catty jealousies over who is boss of the kitchen and who dotes on whose precious little offspring.  

The movie's second half fares better, as the story moves beyond the tight confines of the crowded Calcutta homestead and begins to develop some symbolism that adds richness.  Chander and Sheela are forced to face the harsh realities of the outside world, while for those who remain at home, the world almost seems to fold in on itself like a domestic ourobouros.  Naintara's bitchy manipulations escalate to fever pitch, while Sideshwari implodes in weepy dithering.  The men, especially Harish, overreact to the complaints of their wives, quite literally making a federal case out of a very ordinary domestic squabble.  The members of the household who remain in Calcutta seem to utterly lose perspective, while Chander and Sheela face the daily cold-water splash of trying to make ends meet in the real world.  Despite this potentially interesting contrast, though, the movie suffers from a facile ending, a giant "reset" in which the conflict is resolved without any sign of lasting consequences or transformation. 

The best moments of the movie are those that simply reflect domestic life without trying to wring drama from them - such as the family's meals, obviously a focus of the daily rhythm of life.  At mealtimes family business is transacted, grievances are aired, power is exerted and conceded, sacrifies are made, burdens are shared.  In the movie's only real hint of character development, early in the film Sheela manipulates her husband and sister-in-law by refusing to eat; later, she declines to eat out of sacrifice, when there is no longer enough food to go around, and Chander shows his maturation by offering to make the sacrifice along with her.

Making six adult characters all distinguishable and human is not a trivial task for a movie, and Apne paraye does a reasonably good job of it.  Naintara and Harish are a little one-dimensional in their self-absorption. Sideshwari's defining characteristic is her weakness and impressionability, but in moments when the movie is steering clear of melodrama, there is some interesting tension in her perpetually shifting loyalties.  Chander's shiftlessness is balanced by his evident good intentions and affection for his family.  Sheela is the most complex of all, and most of that complexity is thanks to Shabana Azmi's performance (and Basu Chatterjee's direction), as it is conveyed in subtleties of expression and body language.  While she is stern and dour in her direction of the household and discpline of her children (including the adult-child, her husband Chander), Sheela often betrays her tender side with a small indulgent smile. 

For every Chattopadhyay adaptation I have seen and been to some degree disappointed by - from Swami to Devdas to Parineeta - my lukewarm reviews have been met with staunch defenses based on the novel's texts.  I have no doubt that Chattopadhyay's novel (entitled Nishkriti) is better than Apne paraye, and presents the characters and their relationships with more depth and subtlety.  But I write about movies, not the books they are based upon, and I do believe that a movie - even an adaptation - has to stand on its own strengths and answer for its own weaknesses.  In its best moments, Apne paraye perhaps offers glimpses of the social insights for which Chattopadhyay is renowned.  On balance, though, it misses the mark - not by much, but by just enough to be frustrating.

 

Kalyug (1981)

कलयुग

This expansive, ambitious film by Shyam Benegal maps ancient parables of the Mahabharat onto a modern story of corporate and familial warfare.  With an enormous, gifted cast and Benegal's gift for storytelling, Kalyug is a compelling movie indeed.

The scions of a great family are at war.  The two branches of the family, Puranchand and Khubchand, celebrate life cycle events together - but the engineering firms run by each are bitter rivals in the marketplace.  The Puranchand company is led by Dharamraj (Raj Babbar), with the help of his younger brothers Balraj (Kulbhushan Kharbanda) and Bharatraj (Anant Nag).  At the helm of the Khubchand company is their cousin Dhanraj (Victor Banerjee) and a close associate of the family, Karan Singh (Shashi Kapoor).  The two companies compete fiercely for lucrative government contracts.  The Khubchand company wins a tender due to high-tech machinery that Karan Singh procured.  The Puranchand company appeals the grant and succeeds in wresting back the contract.  The dispute escalates, driven by Bharatraj and Dhanraj, who take the rivalry most seriously - and most personally.  Karan Singh's manipulations on behalf of the Khubchand company incite labor infighting in the Puranchand shop, through the volatile labor leader Pandey (Om Puri).  Karan and Dhanraj even scheme to frame the Puranchand company on charges of insurance fraud.  Soon the rivalry turns violent, and both sides of the family are caught in a terrible storm of bitterness and grieving.

What makes Kalyug a wonderful film is Shyam Benegal's gift for telling intense stories that are very intimate, even while being totally allegorical.  The dramatis personae of Kalyug is packed with many players, most of whom do not get more than a few minutes screentime.  But each is so delicately characterized, and the movie conveys enough of their lives and personalities, that they remain distinct, and the anger and anguish of each is keenly felt as the internecine conflict grows.  The older generation grieves to see their children warring with each other; the Puranchand matriarch Savitri (Sushma Seth) is especially troubled, and the pain is written on her face and in her futile pleas to her sons and nephews to reconcile.  Bheeshanchand (A.K. Hangal), uncle to both sides of the family, is perplexed by the battle; though he works for the Khubchand company, he carelessly reveals confidential information to the Puranchand side, throwing gasoline on the flames. Khubchand himself (Vinod Doshi), wheelchair-bound and ailing, can do little more than watch, tragically helpless as his family disintegrates around him. 

The tensions take their toll on the younger generations as well.  The older Puranchand brothers do not share Bharat's intense focus on the business.  Dharamraj only wants to watch his race horses train, and takes a "jo bhi ho so ho" attitude toward losing the contract to Khubchand company, to Bharat's great frustration.  Balraj is a cheerful fellow, more interested in his still-steamy relationship with his wife Kiran (Reema Lagoo) than in anything to do with tenders and profits.  The tenderness with which their relationship is portrayed early in the film makes it that much more heartrending when the escalating rivalry hits them personally.  And perhaps most compelling of all is the stark contrast between Dhanraj's response to the escalation, and Karan Singh's.  Dhanraj begins the film an intense personality, and he only becomes darker, more brooding, and more raging as the battles wear on.  Karan Singh enters as a cool manipulator, driven only by profits - but comes to find himself seeking redemption, and holding a more personal stake than he ever imagined.

Kalyug's atmosphere and visuals, too, are remarkably rich and interesting.  Providing a constant backdrop are the quotidian pleasures of wealthy life; horse racing, badminton games, golf.  Karan Singh returns to his richly appointed bachelor pad after a long day's work to pour himself a glass of scotch from a crystal decanter and listen to Bach.  Scenes of family meals and gatherings add texture, conveying both the tendernesses and the tensions among the many members of the extended families.  Juxtaposed with these are engaging shots of the working factory; heavy machinery manipulating flaming iron pigs and clanging out the companies' unspecified, weighty products.   

Despite all this delicate storytelling, though, I can't help feeling that there is still a great deal of shorthand built into the film, on the assumption that its viewers are intimately familiar with the Mahabharat. The movie opens with a family tree that neatly sets forth the relationships among characters.  My guess is that viewers are meant to map the Puranchand and Khubchand relationships directly onto the Pandavas and Kauravas of that epic - and that without that knowledge, I am missing even more depth and richness in the film. To highlight just one example, Dharamraj's wife Supriya (Rekha) says little but hovers dark and glaring through many scenes, and I feel I would understand her better if I knew where her character fits into the mythological structure.  Some day I would like to return to Kalyug with the Mahabharat under my belt.  The movie's complexity rewards repeat viewing, and I imagine I would get even more out of it with a better understanding of its antecedents. 

***

I don't often provide lots of screen captures in my reviews, but Kalyug's cast is so large and magnificent that I don't want to give them all short shrift, so here is an additional selection - click the thumbnails for a larger view.

Savitri, Supriya, Kiran

Another cousin, Kishanchand (Amrish Puri), and Bharatraj

Most of the greater family - Karan Singh, Kishanchand, Balraj, Kiran, Dhanraj's wife Vibha (Rajshri Sarabhai), Dharamraj, his son Parikshit (Urmila Matondkar plays the little boy), Supriya, Balraj's son Sunil (Sunil Shanbag), Subhadra, the youngest Khubchand brother Sandeep, Bharatraj, and Dhanraj

Balraj

Pandey, the labor leader who opposes the official Puranchand union

Karan Singh

Dhanraj

 

Mixed Doubles (2006)

Hindi movies do a lot of things very well, but frank investigations of mature sexual relationships aren't usually considered to be one of those things.  It's a difficult subject for any movie - in any language - to handle well, with the right mixture of humor, sensitivity, and sexiness.  Rajat Kapoor's Mixed Doubles, despite choosing the absurdly sensational device of spouse-swapping as its point of departure, manages reasonably well.

Malti (Konkona Sen Sharma) and Sunil (Ranvir Shorey) have been married for ten years, and they are content in their domesticity - but their sex life has gone to sleep.  Malti feels frisky, but Sunil isn't interested.  Sunil is troubled by his absent libido, but unsure how to spark it - until a boastful friend plants the idea of spouse-swapping in Sunil's mind.  Sunil becomes obsessed with the idea, and through advertisements placed in the back of salacious magazines, discovers a willing couple, Vinod (Rajat Kapoor) and Kalpana (Koel Purie).  But Sunil has to convince Malti to go along with the plan.  And even if he can wrangle a way to do that, there's the matter of the fateful night itself, and the consequences for Sunil and Malti's marriage.

This plot is a minefield, in which a misstep could cause an explosion of bad taste or juvenile tittering.  For the most part, though, Mixed Doubles hits the right notes.  Its portrayal of Sunil and Malti's marriage is natural and believable enough to balance out the squirmy gratuitousness of the notion of spouse-swapping.  It's wonderful - not to mention, a refreshing twist on the steretypical bed-death scenario - that Malti is a mature, faithful wife with a healthy sexual appetite.  And, of course, the performances are excellent - especially Konkona Sen Sharma, whose mixture of concern, indignation, disgust, and love is just pitch-perfect.  

Most of the movie's laughs are of the awkward variety, where the audience laughs because of character's discomfort.  I am not usually a fan of this brand of comedy - The Office is the canonical example, a show that I know is good but that I simply cannot watch.  Here, though, it works, as a source both of comedy and of pathos.  There is something ineffably sympathetic in Sunil's irrational obsession with the spouse-swapping scheme; I can identify with his restless pursuit of an outrageously bad idea.  Ranvir Shorey's confused everyman performance helps keep him sympathetic - up to a point.  Indeed, the deception with which Sunil convinces Malti to accede to the plan is the movie's only real wrong note. 

Sunil's maladroit encounter with the bizarrely fascinating Kalpana is another source of awkward humor.  Kalpana is an extremely irritating character, childish and impulsive, a caricature of a Bohemian free spirit - but also, at least to me, wildly physically appealing, and that juxtaposition is oddly engaging.  Her husband Vinod is bland and formal by comparison.

The ending of Mixed Doubles doesn't offer much in the way of resolution, but that probably makes for a better film than any attempt to wrap the extreme emotions of Sunil and Malti's mutual misfires into a too-tidy package.  Each of them has deceived and deeply wounded the other, and the damage of that is just too heavy to try to fix in one movie.  The final scenes offer a gentle settling back into the quotidian domestic routine, suggesting that a peaceful resolution is possible for them, even if it hasn't yet happened by the time the credits roll. 

Dhobi ghat (2011)

धोबी घाट

Aamir Khan productions come with a lot of baggage, given his reputation for being self-consciously highbrow, condescending toward the cinema traditions that made him famous, and caring too much about what the West thinks of his movies.  Whether that's deserved or not - I don't follow his interviews closely enough to weigh in on that - his latest release stands on its own merits.  Written and directed by his wife Kiran Rao, Dhobi ghat ("washerman's wharf") is at its best an engaging meditation on the ephemeral nature of life in Mumbai.

Shai (Monica Dogra) is an American-born banker on a sabbatical of self-discovery in Mumbai.  An aspiring photographer, she combs the city looking for subjects to shoot.  She befriends a hard-working washerman named Munna (Prateik Babbar), who introduces her to some of the city's grittiest and most colorful quarters.  She also meets a brooding artist, Arun (Aamir Khan) - they have a one-night stand, and after an awkward, angry morning-after parting, she retains an attraction and curiosity about him.  Meanwhile Arun, moving into a new apartment, discovers some video letters shot by a girl named Yasmin (Kriti Malhotra), intended for Yasmin's brother but evidently never sent.  Arun becomes engrossed in Yasmin's story, raptly studying the letters, taking inspiration for his new set of paintings, and eager to discover what happened to her. 

One of the themes of Dhobi ghat is that the city exists in multiple layers, both physical (shore, gutter, house, high-rise) and class (rat-killer/dhobi, servant, wealthy educated classes).  The movie happens in the spaces where these strata meet and slide against each other.  Only the American-born character, Shai, willfully and self-consciously disregards this stratification, nudging herself into Munna's spaces.  Apart from Shai, the only customer who invites Munna into her home is a dour woman who, it is implied, wants him for sex, and dismisses him as a dhobi when she realizes he will no longer provide that.  For upper-class Mumbai-walas, Munna is a service provider, not a person.  Shai uses him as well, in her own way, but she also genuinely cares for him, especially by the film's end.  Yet their friendship, like nearly everything else in the film's Mumbai, is transient.

Indeed, the loveliest moments in Dhobi ghat are its many symbols of the transitory nature of city life - characters move house and leave scant artifacts behind; names are scratched in sand and washed away by the waves; construction sites stand for the relentless pace of change.  Even the videos, paintings, and photographs that drive the film's stories can only imperfectly capture moments; the records may remain, but like Arun's elderly neighbor they are mute and leave questions unanswered. 

The weak link in the script is Arun; the brooding, temperamental, loner artist is a cliche and just a flatter character than the others.  His obsession with Yasmin's letters is meant to add depth, but it doesn't tell us much about Arun, it's not personal enough to him - who would not be bewitched by such a vibrant young woman, by the mystery of her unsent letters and her unknown fate?  Arun only takes on dimension at the very end of the film, as he deduces the logical conclusion of Yasmin's story and wordlessly struggles with the possibility that the art she inspired him to make is an exploitation of her suffering. 

The performances in Dhobi ghat range from adequate (Aamir Khan, Monica Dogra) to exquisite (Prateik Babbar and Kriti Malhotra); the latter do as much with their faces as their dialogue and are as engaging and believable as the script allows.  Kriti Malhotra renders especially well the slow choking of Yasmin's spirit, as her bright, vivacious smile early in the film fades to a haggard exhaustion by its end.  At any rate, criticizing minor weaknesses in characterization or performance feels like nitpicking a film that is as much impressionist painting as tightly-woven text.  On balance, Dhobi ghat is delicate, touching, visually rich, a pastiche of engaging stories very well told.