Filmi Geek

Katha (1983)

कथा

With Sparsh and Chashme buddoor, director Sai Paranjpe had already proved to me her great skill at presenting down-to-earth, real, sweet stories about believable characters, so I came to Katha ("fable") with high expectations.  I was not disappointed.

Rajaram Purshottam Joshi (Naseeruddin Shah) lives in a chawl, a kind of boarding house common in Bombay.  A hardworking office clerk, Rajaram is pleased when he is promoted to permanent status at his company, and looks forward to celebrating with his neighbor Sandhya (Deepti Naval), a charming girl with whom he is quite obviously smitten.  Soon Rajaram's childhood friend Vashudev (Farooq Shaikh) - he prefers the hip nickname "Washu" - arrives, and casts a spell over all the residents of the chawl - including Sandhya.  He even cons Rajaram's boss, landing himself a job as Rajaram's superior.  Rajaram sees through his friend's slick-talking charm, but with his gentle demeanor he is powerless to stop the juggernaut that is Washu in pursuit of something - or someone - that amuses him. 

Just as in Sparsh and Chashme buddoor, Sai Paranjpe shows her gentle touch in Katha, offering characters who are real, relatable, and engaging.  In particular, just like Chashme buddoor, Katha offers adorable humor without outlandishness, real-life believable situations that make the audience laugh because it's not difficult to project them onto ourselves and our neighbors.  The portrayal of life in the chawl is particularly charming and satisfying, and is itself a reason to see the movie for anyone interested in workaday Indian life.  The chawl is a tight-knit community is like a small village or, as one character in the film analogizes, a great joint family, in which individuals and families live in small flats centered on a common courtyard and shared water and other utilities.  There is a bitter barren woman who yells at children playing in the courtyard; a newlywed couple who rarely emerge from their rooms but whose giggles can be heard through the closed shutters; a disabled man who asks incessant favors from every visitor; a grandma who cooks yummy snacks for every young visitor she receives; a couple, whose son is a doctor in Canada, who love nothing more than to show off their richly appointed flat and their refrigerator and television; and more.  Paranjpe paints the inhabitants of this microcosm with great vividness and affection, and their interactions are tremendous fun to watch. 

The enjoyable bustle of the chawl forms a delightful backdrop for the interactions of the main players (they even serve as a Greek chorus of sorts, especially in the film's wonderful songs).  The principals' performances are all executed without flaw, especially those of Naseeruddin Shah and Farooq Shaikh.  Naseeruddin Shah is at his droopy, sad-sacky best; Rajaram wears his frustration physically as Washu runs circles around him, projecting a confused and adorable mixture of disdain and admiration for his friend's antics.  And Farooq Shaikh nails Washu's puff-chested confidence to perfection.  In Chashme buddoor, Farooq's character was charming in part because despite being marginally smarter and more competent than his friends, he was still mostly a dork.   The same is true here, with a faintly sinister edge since Washu is, at base, a con-man.  But the joke which Paranjpe lets the audience in on - a joke that escapes Washu - is that Washu is nothing more than a small-time con, not half the player he thinks is.  For example, while Washu both cons and cuckolds Rajaram's boss, it's established early on that the boss is a weak target, not a very bright guy to begin with.  The result is a sense of desperation and cheapness about Washu, as if he's conned his own low-watt self right along with the easy marks he chooses.   

And so, as in the titular fable that provides the film's bookends - the story of the tortoise and the hare - Katha ends with the satisfying feeling that the wheel will turn and both Washu and Rajaram will get what they deserve from the universe.  And we, the audience, get a warm, delightful, and utterly charming film, another very, very fine feather in Sai Paranjpe's cap. 

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.   

Makdee (2002)

मकड़ी

Vishal Bharadwaj's oustanding Makdee  ("spider's web") is a children's film that doesn't talk down to children.  Free from preachy moralizing and artificial cheeriness, Makdee is scary and gripping from beginning to end.  Its heroes are children who are mischievous and naughty,  yet good at heart and lovable.  Its witchy villain is creepy and cruel.   Mixed together in VIshal Bharadwaj's cauldron, these ingredients bubble over into a fun and thrilling adventure. 

Chunni and Munni (Shweta Prasad) are identical twins - they are distinguishable only by a mole on Munni's upper lip - but they couldn't be more different.  Timid, straight-laced Munni is a polite demure child and an ace student.  Her brash, troublemaking sister Chunni shoots her mouth off, steals food, cheats in school, and causes mayhem as naturally as breathing.  Chunni's friend and playmate, a boy named Mughal-e-azam (Alaap Mazgaonkar), is regularly ordered to do lengthy, unpleasant chores by his adoptive father, the village butcher Kallu (Makrand Deshpande), who feeds him next to nothing in exchange for his hard work.  Mughal-e-azam's treatment is an outrage to Chunni's sense of justice, and she engineers a massive prank to exact revenge on Kallu.  The prank goes awry, though, and leads to a chain of events that lands Chunni's sister Munni in the clutches of the terrifying local witch (Shabana Azmi).  So frightening is the witch that no one in the village - not even sensible adults - will enter the gates of the sprawling property in which her castle looms.   Determined to save her sister, Chunni screws up her courage and marches in, only to learn - to her horror - that the witch has turned Munni into a chicken.  The witch strikes a bargain with Chunni - bring me a chicken to eat every day, she says, and after you have brought me a hundred chickens you can have your sister.  In the meantime, to avoid bringing the witch's wrath upon her, Chunni must tell no one of the bargain, and so must pretend to be both Chunni and Munni so that the witch's nasty deed is not detected.  Chunni, scared and miserable, must face the terrible witch alone. 

Makdee's dark tone is set magnificently from the opening scenes, in which a boy who has stolen a few coins wanders through the witch's gates and is turned into a goat.  This is not a sanitized, Disney-fied witch, but a mean, scary, filthy monster.  Even the film's moments of levity have a dark edge, like the cheerful song the butcher sings about the pleasures of decapitating chickens, or Chunni and Mughal-e-azam's musical paean to mischief-making.

The performances, across the board, were outstanding, eliciting through tremendous empathy an emotional response in the viewer parallel to that of the characters.  In one scene, Chunni watches the witch drink down a bowl full of blood, and gags in revulsion; I found myself gagging too, connecting with Chunni's disgust.  Chunni's deep remorse when she fears that her troublemaking has cost her sister's life is moving, and her triumphs are uplifting.  At the moment where Chunni and Mughal-e-azam together make the realization that sets up the film's climax, I actually cheered.  This kind of empathy for the children comes readily because they are lovable despite their naughtiness.  Even though some of Chunni's antics have selfish motives, others are driven by her strong sense of justice and her desire to protect Mughal-e-azam. 

Shabana Azmi's performance is a treat as well.  She plays the witch with absolute relish, throwing herself into it with a broad physicality that is utterly delightful.  From her creepy gyrations as she performs the magic to turn children into animals, to the growly snarl with which she delivers every line, to her punching-and-kicking fight scene at the film's climax, she transforms into the villain, completely.  There is no dignity in this performance - just out-and-out entertainment.

All told, Makdee is a delightful ride, full of charming and repugnant characters, which reminds viewers - without conking them over the head with a weighty message - that things aren't always as they seem, not at all a bad lesson for kids to take home.  And even though Chunni's pranks get her and her friends into some hot water, Makdee even allows that a little mischief has its place.  This terrific little film is a quick and unexpected new favorite.

Shabana has never looked better!  More screencaps will be posted at Sounds Like Power in the near future. 

Paheli (2005)

पहेली

This adaptation of a Rajasthani folk tale is sparkling, lush, and thoroughly engaging.  Its resolution may not be palatable to all - but Amol Palekar's Paheli ("riddle") is a folk tale, not a morality tale. 

On the day of her marriage, Lachchi (Rani Mukherjee) is sorrowful at leaving her family, but she puts on a brave face and travels to her new husband's home.  That night, she finds Kishen (Shah Rukh Khan) more interested in balancing his accounts than in completing their marriage.  When she presses him on the subject, he tells her that he is leaving the next morning for a five year business trip at the request of his father (Anupam Kher), an avaricious merchant. Why ignite passion, he asks, only to suppress it for so long?  Lachchi is spotted, however, by a restless bhoot (ghost) who falls madly in love with her, and when he gets wind of Kishen's departure, he transforms himself into Kishen's form and convinces the family that he has returned.  He cannot bring himself to deceive Lachchi, though, and reveals himself immediately, giving her the opportunity to banish him if she wishes.  Lachchi chooses the ghost's love and companionship, and the two enjoy a blissful and passionate union.  Trouble awaits them, of course, when the real Kishen returns. 

The story has an edge, and perhaps uncomfortable implications.  It is very appealing that Lachchi gets a choice; this kind of empowerment of women, in particular when it comes to sexual autonomy, is still rare in the movies (and not just Hindi movies), and I have to suppress an impulse to cheer when a woman in a film makes a bold decision that, for once, isn't self-sacrifice and martyrdom.  And it's especially satisfying to see a movie in which a woman can make such a choice and not pay for it, literally or figuratively, with her life.  Still, Paheli does make someone pay for Lachchi's extended frolic with the bhoot - the innocent Kishen, whose only crime is being somewhat haplessly under the thumb of his domineering father.  Lachchi and the bhoot's love is steamy, romantic, and appealing, but it's far from a victimless crime.  As I said, Paheli is not a morality tale; it's a spook story, dressed in beautiful clothes.   

Implications aside, Paheli is a wonderful movie to watch.  For one thing, it is an absolutely gorgeous visual feast.  The rich colors of the Rajasthani desert shimmer and dance in the desert backdrop, the luxurious interior scenes, and the silken costumes.  It is lushness done right; I can't help contrast Devdas, with visual excess that weighed down the film and amplified everything that was overwrought and affected to an intolerable degree.  In Paheli, the sumptuousness enhanced the fairy-tale feel, transporting the story to an unspecified time and place.  The saturated colors and rich sparkle perfectly suited the magical elements of the story.

Paheli is also a showcase for one - two, actually - of Shah Rukh Khan's best performances.  I am no great fan of his, and it was a nice treat here to enjoy a film because of, rather than despite, his work in it.  He distinguishes Kishen from the bhoot with a real physicality, making each character appealing in his own way (neither one is the arrogant hero characer with which he made himself a superstar), yet still keeping within the broad style of the film.  Rani Mukherjee's performance is unremarkable but more than adequate to the task; I like her, so I enjoyed it completely, especially in the film's beautiful, folk-tinged songs. Anupam Kher is very funny as always as Kishen's miserly father, in the kind of comic role he can do in his sleep.  A hysterical cameo by Amitabh Bachchan (and an unusual one by Naseeruddin Shah) add to the film's grandness. The sum is a film that I just loved, much to my surprise, and expect to watch again and again.

(ETA:  There is an outstanding discussion of the implications of Paheli's ending to be found on the BollyWHAT? discussion forums, beginning here.)

Bombay (1995)

बम्बई

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kashmir ki kali (1964)

कश्मीर की कली

When discussing Kashmir ki kali ("Blossom of Kashmir"), it's essential to get this out of the way:  The plot is unimportant.  The twists are absurd, the coincidences unlikely; the storyline swirls in the film's second half into over-the-top madness. But Kashmir ki kali is a complete delight nevertheless, thoroughly fun and stupendously entertaining.   

After Rajeev Lal (Shammi Kapoor) inherits the reins of his family's massive industrial empire, his mother decides that it is time for his marriage.  Rajeev, uninterested in surrendering his bachelorhood, flees to the family's lakeside bungalow in Kashmir.  There he meets a local flower-seller, Champa (Sharmila Tagore), and instantly falls in love.  He woos her aggressively, but to avoid intimidating her he hides his identity, telling her that he is Rajeev Lal's driver.  Champa warms to him quickly.   But their romance is thwarted by a scheming lumberman, Mohan (Pran), who wants Champa for himself.  He blackmails Champa's father (Nasir Hussain) by threatening to disclose dirty secrets of Champa's parentage.  But there are surprises in store for everyone before the rivalry is resolved.

The pleasures of Kashmir ki kali are entirely star-driven.  I'm not completely on the Shammi Kapoor train - he's too pudgy and spastic to really have much appeal for me.  Here, though, he is quite loveable, chasing Sharmila with an intensity that is entirely sweet, not creepy-stalkerish as filmi romance can sometimes be.  His comedy antics as he avoids engagements by feigning drunkenness - or even madness when expedient - are genuinely - sometimes hysterically - funny.  His gyrations seem spastic but they are clearly not uncontrolled - he is talented at physical comedy, and uses it to great effect in set pieces and songs alike. 

And if Shammi is amusingly charming, Sharmila - here in her first Hindi film - is adorable beyond compare.  Though her Champa is an ingenue, she's spirited and game for adventure.  Some of the most delightful scenes come when she submits to Rajeev's antics, as in the fabulous balle-balle song in which they give Mohan the slip by spontaneously joining a dance troupe at the local fair.  I've been nursing a growing crush on Sharmila Tagore and this film was just the thing to goose it along; she's good enough to eat as Champa, wearing traditional Kashmiri costumes and smiling with delight and wonder at the whirling dervish of romance that has burst into her life.

Indeed, the songs are far and away the best thing about Kashmir ki kali, the delightful songs come fast and thick in the O.P. Nayyar soundtrack, and each picturization is more colorful and energetic than the last.  Even if I never watch this film straight through a second time, I know I I'll be watching the songs again and again.  Many of them, like Rajeev's anthem "Kisi na kisi se" and his manic declaration of impatient love "Tarif karun kya uski," in addition to the appeal of the Shammi and Sharmila, also showcase the unparalleled beauty  of the film's uncredited star - the gorgeous Kashmiri landscape itself.  It is the songs and their picturizations, more than anything else, that makes Kashmir ki kali a sparkling gem.  (See Sanket's concurrent post at Bollywood Music Club for more.)

Deewaar (1975)

दीवार

There is a reason that the classics are the classics, that seminal films are seminal, that genre-defining films define genres.  When I sat down to watch the classic, seminal, genre-defining Deewaar ("wall"), I expected to enjoy it, but I didn't think I'd be blown away.  I should have known better.

Anand Verma (Satyendra Kapoor) is a labor organizer who is viewed as a hero by the workers in his area - until he backs down in the face of threats against his family. Then the workers' admiration quickly sours to revilement and Anand flees, leaving his family to bear the burden of his disgrace.  His wife (Nirupa Roy) takes their two boys to Bombay in hopes of rebuilding their lives.  The boys grow up together, but on very different trajectories.  Ravi (Shashi Kapoor), ever pious, joins the police force at the encouragement of his warm and perky girlfriend Leena (Neetu Singh).  Vijay (Amitabh Bachchan), more deeply scarred by their early struggles, renounces God as well as the straight and narrow path; he takes a more thuggish (he might say practical) approach to problems.  When he single-handedly beats up a cadre of gangsters who were extorting wages from his fellow dockworkers, he becomes a hero among his colleagues - and attracts the notice of an underworld don (Iftekhar), who hires Vijay to protect his shipments of smuggled gold.  Vijay proves a natural talent, and the don soon decides to retire, leaving Vijay in charge of operations.  It's not long before Ravi and Vijay find themselves in direct opposition on either side of the law, with their mother caught in the middle.

The plot summary might sound like a recipe for masala; brothers on opposite sides of the law, saintly mothers, gangsters, thugs, and pretty girls call to mind masala classics like Amar Akbar Anthony and Parvarish, for example.  But Deewaar is not a masala film.  It is hard and gritty and at the same time deeply symbolic and emblematic.  And there is very little to distract from the core narrative, no subplots or comic diversions, just the unflinching, driving force of a story that is bigger than the sum of its parts. 

Vijay is an anti-hero par excellence, a resourceful and principled fighter who loves his mother and enters the underworld not out of greed or lust but only because he sees it as the most efficient means to provide for his family. His disillusionment and frustration are fully motivated; early in the film, after his father's disgrace, the little boy Vijay suffers a trauma that stays with him for life when angry villagers waylay him on his way home from school and tattoo his arm with the legend "mera baap chor hai" - my father is a thief.   That tattoo is both Vijay's humiliation and his motivation, and he returns to it again and again as he chooses his destructive path. This is what makes Vijay the seminal, quintessential "angry young man" of Hindi film.  He is not a mindless thug or a rebel without a cause.  He is sensitive, tortured, and scarred.  Vijay is at his most heartbreakingly compelling in his quiet interactions with his girlfriend Anita (Parveen Babi).  She probes his suffering, and he pours out his heart to her.  It is difficult to imagine a Hollywood tough-guy hero baring his soul to a woman as Vijay does; the corresponding western archetype is a calloused, hardened loner, the kind of man who would yell at his girl if she tried to get at his emotional core.  And so Vijay is a revelation, a marvel of compelling cinema, brought vividly and ruggedly to life by Salim-Javed's expertly crafted dialogues and a dense, earthy performance by Amitabh Bachchan, whose superstardom was just then coming into its full force. 

Ravi is a complete contrast.  While he isn't overly cheerful - the burden of his family's suffering and their sacrifices for his education have shaped him as a serious and determined man - he is always bright-eyed, straight-spined, and clean, in palpable opposition to Vijay's heavy-lidded eyes and smudged, sweaty face.  In confrontation with his brother he seems almost idealist as he clings to his commitment to honest, hard work within the system.  But while Vijay's unlawful pragmatism may put a luxurious roof over his head and a fancy set of wheels in the garage, Ravi's constancy earns for him the one thing that really matters, which he asserts with the film's most famous line:  Mere paas maa hai - "I've got mom."

All told Deewaar is as taut, tense, and lean as Amitabh Bachchan himself.  There is very little fat in this film; I understand that even Salim Khan and Javed Akhtar, those quintessentially populist poet-entertainers, originally intended that the film be songless, and only relented upon the director's insistence that songs be accommodated.  And the songs - there are only three of them - are the only points where the intensity lets up for even a moment.  They're good songs - especially the charming Kishore-Asha duet "Keh doon tumhe", and the sexy uncredited item number by the fiery Aruna Irani.  (Check out Sanket's concurrent post on Bollywood Music Club for more about Deewaar's music and lots more about the movie as well.)  Even with the songs, Deewaar is as tight and relentless and compelling and emotional a mainstream Hindi film as I've ever seen.  Though the outcome holds no surprises - it's easy to guess where it has to end - so perfectly wrought is Vijay's trajectory toward redemption and resolution that tears sneaked into my eyes several times as the film's climax approached.

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. 

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.