Filmi Geek

Golmaal (1979)

गोलमाल

As much as Delhi Belly is not my sort of comedy, Hrishikesh Mukherjee's Golmaal ("confusion") is a movie made for me.  Light, smart, and downright funny, Golmaal is a story of clever people improvising their way through a thoroughly ridiculous series of deceptions.  It is a simply delightful movie, similar in feel to Hrishida's equally charming Chupke chupke. 

With his freshly minted degree in accounting, Ram Prasad Sharma (Amol Palekar) needs a job.  To land a position with the stern businessman Bhavani Shankar (Utpal Dutt), Ram plays up his studious, serious side - dressing in traditional clothing, spouting aphorisms about the value of hard work, and concealing his passion for sports.  After Bhavani spots Ram skiving off work to watch a hockey match, the quick-thinking Ram invents a no-good, layabout twin, whom he calls (of course) Lakshman, and convinces Bhavani that the fellow he saw at the match was Lakshman, not Ram.  Bhavani, wanting to favor his protege's family, insists that "Lakshman" tutor Bhavani's daughter Urmila (Bindiya Goswami) in music.  Now Ram has to play two roles for Bhavani - the earnest respectful Ram, and the modern loudmouth, Lakshman.  Other improvisations force Ram to enlist an amateur actress, Kamla Shrivastav (Dina Pathak) to introduce to Bhavani as his mother.  Soon, when Kamla runs into Bhavani at a party, she too invents a twin for herself, so as not to blow Ram's cover.  It's not long before all hell breaks loose when Bhavani decides that the hard-working Ram is a perfect match for Urmila - she, of course, prefers the free-spirited Lakshman.

It's hard to say what is most to love about Golmaal.  It's crisply paced and smartly scripted, full of the sort of linguistic humor that I especially love (and that was also in Chupke chupke) - Ram graces Bhavani with such upstanding shuddh Hindi that Bhavani can't quite keep up.  The physical humor is hilarious and masterfully performed.  Utpal Dutt pulls a diverse array of magnificent expressions as Bhavani - wistful as Ram praises the value of the mustache, horrified as Bhavani listens to Urmila recite shamefully modern lines from a play she is acting in.  Amol Palekar, too, is charming, adorable, and very, very funny as he squirms every which way to convince Bhavani that his two sides are two different people.  One cute running physical joke has Ram constantly tugging at his uncomfortably short kurta.  The kurta itself is the result of another of Hrishida's favorite devices, movie in-jokes.  Ram borrows the kurta from his childhood friend, the actor Deven Verma (playing himself), on a movie set - it's short because it's Asrani's kurta, settled on after rejecting Amitabh Bachchan's as too long, and Sanjeev Kumar's as too wide.

Golmaal has too many funny set-pieces and running jokes to call them all out, but a few bear mention.  In one great sequence, Bhavani's widowed sister overhears Urmila rehearsing the melodramatic lines from her play, and concludes that Urmila is pregnant by a man who is now abandoning her.  Much hilarity ensues.  There are very funny running jokes about Ram's mustache.  Bhavani is nearly obsessed with the idea that the mustache makes the man, and Ram is equally attached to his own, which he sacrifices for the sake of his double life.  Every interaction between Ram and Bhavani is hilarious, whether showcasing Bhavani's over-the-top paternal affection for Ram Prasad, or his equally extreme disdain for Lakshman. 

The greatest joy of Golmaal is that even in its comedy of errors, it resonates with everyday experience.  Ram is neither as earnest as Ram Prasad, nor as breezy as Lakshman - his true character is a blend of both.  But most of us find that different aspects of who we are emerge in our interactions with various people.  I do not show the same face to the head of my department at work as I do to my closest friend.  By amplifying this sort of common multiplicity and taking it to an absurd extreme, Hrishikesh Mukherjee makes Ram - and Golmaal - supremely relatable.  Add in a lot of laughs and a few catchy songs, and the sum is just a thoroughly delightful movie. 

Half Ticket (1962)

I don't think I can give a more fitting synopsis of this adorable madcap comedy than the one on the box of my Ultra DVD, which begins thus:  "Vijay (Kishore Kumar) was born reverse.  Seth Lalchand, a millionaire business magnate of Jubbalpur, who fathered this abnormal addition to mankind, began suffering its chain reactions right from the day Vijay acquired mobility with the postures of a quadruped.  Years later, when Vijay was skipping about rather too vivaciously on his hind legs, his antics and acorabaties (sic) were immeasurably greater than those normally found in the average biped animals."  The movie makes a little more sense than that - only a little - but it matters not at all, as Kishore Kumar's limitless zany energy, Madhubala's irresistible charm, and several absolutely superb songs combine to make Half Ticket a delightful and hysterical ride.

Vijay (Kishore Kumar) is a relentless troublemaker.  His antics get him kicked out of college, and when they embarrass his father (Moni Chatterjee), they get him kicked out his home as well.  Left to fend for himself, he decides to head for Bombay by train.  To con his way into a reduced fare "half ticket," Vijay dresses as a young boy and poses as an arrested development case, and caromes around as a zany man-child.  A jewel thief on the lam from police, Raja (Pran), sneaks a stolen diamond into Vijay's pocket, thinking that Vijay, an apparent mental patient, will be easy to manipulate and recover the diamond from.  Trying to escape from Raja, Vijay meets a performer named Asha (Madhubala), who also goes by Rajni, and charms her into protecting him.  Asha's marriage-obsessed aunt (Manorama) sees a match between Vijay and Asha too good to resist.  But just when Asha begins to fall for this peculiar fellow, Raja and his girlfriend Lily (Shammi), scheming to recover their stolen diamond, interfere to set Asha against Vijay. 

So much for the story, which is light, improbable, and totally beside the point.  The point, rather, is Kishore Kumar horsing around, donning goofy costumes, making silly noises, and just generally being funny.  And he delivers many laughs indeed, both on his own and with the help of the rest of the cast.  Sometimes the shouting-and-slapstick variety of Indian comedy doesn't work on me, but Kishore Kumar brings a transcendent ability to the screen - his wild flailing is utterly manic, yet he performs with perfect physical control.  He really is a riot. It's difficult to choose just a few scenes to highlight, but some of the best include a scene in which Vijay squirms away from Lily's aggressive grab-ass tactics as she tries to pluck the purloined diamond from his rear pocket.  Another comes in the form of a magnificent song, "Aake sidhi lagi," in which Vijay (fleeing from Raja), and Raja (fleeing from police), stumble into a gypsy camp, don costumes, and perform a love song together.  This song really has to be seen to be believed - you have not lived until you have seen Pran and Kishore romancing each other. 

(click for full size awesomness)

Madhubala is good with physical comedy too, and Asha's reactions to Vijay's antics are delightful.  There is something ineffably charming in watching a poised and competent young woman like Half Ticket's Asha (or Nutan in Dilli ka Thug, whose character is also called Asha) slowly and incredulously falling, against her better judgment, for one of Kishore's completely loonytunes characters.  Madhubala is masterful - and delicious - with facial expressions, especially in her two delightful songs with Kishore, like "Aankhon mein tum."  There are not enough superlatives to describe how beautiful Madhubala is in songs like this one.  And speaking of mastery of facial expressions, Half Ticket offers a generous helping of Manorama at her best as well, especially in the film's climax, where she drives a crane from which poor Vijay is dangling. 

On reflection, it occurs to me that Half Ticket offers less in the way of substance than other Kishore comedies I've seen - Chalti ka naam gaadi has a lot more going on, and even Dilli ka thug has a mild social context (the villains are purveyors of tainted medicine).  No matter - Half Ticket is chock full of deliciousness, laughs, and absolutely amazing songs - I can't neglect to mention "Woh ek nigah", which features Helen conspiring to protect Vijay from Raju.  (How can you not love a  movie that has not just one, but two Pran songs?)  Some of the humor is even a little less broad - there is very comical dialogue (including one great scene where Vijay scares away a pandit intent on finding him a bride), and some wonderful sight gags as well - look for the moment in "Woh ek nigah" where Raju pulls off Vijay's fake mustache, and Vijay reaches into his pocket to pull out a fresh one.  With all of this going for it, Half Ticket is naturally an instant favorite.

More screencappy goodness - once again, as always, click to enlarge.

Woh Ek Nigah Kya MiliWoh

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

 

Tere Bin Laden (2010)

तेरे बिन लादन

I am not sure I have ever seen a movie quite like Tere Bin Laden (a pun meaning both "your Bin Laden" and "without you, Laden"). It takes what could be a charged, angry, minefield of a premise and turns it into a film that is light on its feet, absurd, and utterly charming.   

Ali Hassan (Ali Zafar) has dreamed of emigrating to America ever since he was a little boy in Karachi, Pakistan.  After an unfortunate misunderstanding puts the brakes on that dream, Ali is stuck as a beat reporter for the tin-can outfit Danka TV.  He knows a guy who can give him a new identity and a false passport, but it's an expensive proposition.  While covering a cock-crowing contest in a nearby village, Ali discoveres a guileless chicken farmer named Noora (Pradhuman Singh), who is a dead ringer for Osama Bin Laden.  Ali hatches a plan - fabricate a fraudulent Bin Laden video and sell it to finance his American dream.  He enlists the help of his cameraman and best friend Gul (Nikhil Ratnaparkhi); the hapless Danka TV tech Lateef (Chirag Vohra); a makeup artist named Zoya (Sugandha Garg) with big dreams of her own; and a drunken revolutionary underground radio jockey Qureishi (Rahul Singh), who is all anger with very little substance.  The video is a big success - bigger than Ali bargained for, as it unleashes a war that threatens to put the kibosh once again on his trip to America, and brings a CIA manhunt to his doorstep.  Ali and the gang have no choice but to undo the mess they made, in a hurry.  

After watching the darkly wry Peepli Live, I suppose I expected similar bleakness from Tere Bin Laden.  The film's opening scenes - in which Ali, on a flight to America just days after 9/11, is presumed to be a terrorist and arrested - made me squirm, wondering if I was in for a (not at all undeserved) scathing comic attack on my country's attitude toward brown people. In the terrific song that plays over the opening credits, "Ullu da pattha," Ali is booked and interrograted.  He stands in a line-up bearing a sign reading "South Asian" - along with a black man whose sign reads "African," a Latin man whose sign reads "Mexican," and a white man whose sign reads "Peter."  This commentary on the way white America treats its own versus how it treats perceived outsiders is certainly both astute and cleverly rendered.  But it also hit a little too close to home, and I feared the film would be difficult for me to watch.  Lucky for me, these opening scenes do not set the tone, nor reflect dreamy, idealistic message of the rest of the movie.

Instead, the movie is relentlessly silly, with a finale that is so sweetly ridiculous as to obliterate any hints of political critique that might have been lurking after that introductory scene and song.  There could be some  implied crticism of American foreign policy in the backdrop, hinted at in the news reports of the bombings ignited by Ali's fraudulent Bin Laden video.  But if there is, it is more than balanced by Ali's own unwavering love for Amreeka.  Even the film's one American character, the CIA man in charge of the hunt for Bin Laden, Ted Wood (Barry John), tempers his bluster with some genuine savvy - he's not merely a big man with big guns.  He seems to respect his Pakistani assistant Usman (Chinmay Mandlekar), delegating real authority to him.  And when the fraud hits the fan, Wood is smart enough to listen to Ali and work with him. 

This lightness and balance leaves the audience free to laugh all the way through - and in my case as an American, unburdened by a great deal of "it's funny because it's true" guilt and discomfort.  And even without a heavy political message, Tere Bin Laden has plenty to offer. Packed with laughs and slapstick, the movie rides Ali Zafar's pop-star charisma from beginning to end.  He is simply adorable in this role - gentle, idealistic, and earnest.   The scenes where he volunteers to pay the fines levied on Lateef by their tyrannical boss Majeed Khan (Piyush Mishra) are genuinely touching.  Pradhuman Singh as the utterly ingenuous Noora is also a revelation; he even manages to be loveable, rather than creepy, as he sweats and prays for control of his desires when Zoya gets close enough to apply his makeup.

The other characters in the gang add color and depth, resulting in a movie that is smart, light-hearted, and simply great fun.  At just a little over 90 minutes running time, it's easy to squeeze in as an apertif or a late-night snack - I've already watched it twice, and it's an instant favorite. 

Howrah Bridge (1958)

IndieQuill's post about Madhubala and Ashok Kumar prompted me to pull out Howrah Bridge, a film I'd been meaning to watch for some time.  Madhubala alone is plenty to keep my eyes fixed to the screen, and this marvelous tale of the Calcutta underworld offers even more than that.

The ex-pat businessman Prem Kumar (Ashok Kumar) rushes to Calcutta from his home in Rangoon when he learns that his brother Madan (Chaman Puri) has been found murdered on the city's famous Howrah Bridge. Before his murder Madan stole their family's priceless heirloom, a jeweled dragon mask, and Prem determines both to recover the mask and bring his brother's killers to justice.  With the help of his tanga driver Shyamu (Om Prakash), Prem finds his way into a hotel run by Joe (Dhumal) and one run by Chang (Madan Puri), where he encounters a loose federation of smugglers including Chang, Pyarelal (K.N. Singh), and Joe's niece, the singer Edna (Madhubala).  Giving a false name, Rakesh, Prem attempts to infiltrate this underworld by romancing Edna.  But Shyamu's servant Bhiku (Sunder) witnessed the murder on Howrah Bridge.  His snooping raises Pyarelal's suspicion, and Pyarelal - who is also jealous of Edna's attention - attempts to turn the tables on Prem, framing him for Pyarelal's own crimes.  

For a film in the mystery-suspense genre, Howrah Bridge's mystery isn't particularly mysterious, its suspense not terribly suspenseful. We know from the first scenes who committed the murder and stole the artifact, and there is little in the way of twist or surprise to cast doubt on the inevitability of justice being done.  The love story, too, would have benefited greatly from subtler handling.  It's apparent from the story that Prem's initial interest in Edna is a fabrication, a pretense to get closer to the gang and its activities.  By failing to show us a clear turning point where Prem struggles against his pretended feelings becoming real, Howrah Bridge squanders an opportunity for satisfying dramatic tension.  

Despite these storytelling flaws, though, Howrah Bridge is engaging and entertaining all the way through.  Shadowy cinematography sets an appropriately noirish mood (enhanced by the poorly-preserved film that unfortunately comes out even darker than intended in the DVD).  Madhubala is delicious as always.  And the city of Calcutta, its skyline dominated by the titular bridge, offers an ever-present, ever-shifting and fascinating backdrop.  The film careens through its grimy streets, from seedy immigrant districts to ramshackle waterfront shanties to shady nightclubs. The city's better face is also shown, in the jaunty song "Sunoji yeh Calcutta hai," picturized on Om Prakash driving his tanga past Calcutta's bright parks, historic buildings, and scenic riverbanks.

There is a peculiar air of the exotic in all these scenes of Calcutta as well, and in Madan Puri's stereotypical yet weirdly compelling performance as Chang, with his arched brows and high-pitched, Chinese-inflected Hindi.  I don't know whether it's proper to apply the "Orientalist" label to Bombay movie that fetishizes still more eastern locales and types, but whatever name one gives it, I have the impression that exoticism is a significant part of the mood that Howrah Bridge aims to set.  The wonderful song "Mera naam Chin Chin Chu," which made a star of Helen, is one of the exotic jewels set front-and-center in this dragon-mask of a film.  If nothing else it shows what a difference make-up can make, as the part-Burmese, part-English Helen, who often looks so very western in later appearances, looks perfectly east Asian here, clad in a cheongsam and made up like a porcelain doll. 

The rest of the film's numerous songs are magnificent too, and really deserve repeat watchings.  From Madhubala's teasingly sexy club number "Aaiye meherbaan" to an enchanting Kashmiri dance performed by Mehmood and Minoo Mumtaz, and everything in between, the delightful O.P. Nayyar soundtrack is more than enough to land Howrah Bridge squarely among my favorites. 

Dil bole hadippa (2009)

दिल बोले हड़िप्पा

Romances and sports stories are challenging for storytellers.  When the conclusion is foregone - the couple will get together, the underdog hero will win the big game in the final play - it's no mean feat to keep the audience engaged and even in suspense.  Dil bole hadippa ("My heart cries hooray"), with the dual freight of being both romance and sports movie, succeeds triumphantly.  Delightful, funny, and sweet, this charming film had me on the edge of my seat - and grinning like a dope - right up until the very last ball.  

Veera Kaur (Rani Mukherjee) is a peppery Punjabi girl with a big dream: to play real competitive cricket.  She bets visitors to her dusty village pitch that they can't bowl her out before she hits six consecutive sixers - and she wins those bets, too, even against male professional all-rounders.  In nearby Amritsar, Vicky Singh (Anupam Kher), runs a cricket team who annually play a symbolically-charged cross-border match against a Pakistani team.  Singh, crestfallen when the Tigers lose that match for the ninth year in a row, imports his son Rohan (Shahid Kapoor) - a professional cricketer who has lived most of his life in London - to take over the team and train them to finally beat the Pakistani rivals.  Veera, confident that she's as good a player as there is, longs to try out for the team, but gets rudely turned away - no girls allowed.  That night, the lead actor in her uncle's dance troupe turns up too drunk to perform, and Veera is pressed into service as his understudy, donning his costume and performing as a lusty young Punjabi man.  After the show, as Veera removes her turban and peels off her mustache, inspiration strikes - if girls aren't welcome on the cricket pitch, she'll just have to be one of the guys.  With a fuzzy little fake beard and her hair tied up in a turban, Veera marches into the training pitch, introduces herself as Veer Pratap Singh, and wins a place on Rohan's team.  Living her dream, though, places Veera in a bit of a sticky wicket.  Romance blossoms between Rohan and Veera (who he thinks is his teammate Veer's sister), and Veera has her hands full keeping the charade going as they train for the match. 

Make no mistake - Dil bole hadippa is pure Yash Raj, mainstream Bollywood at its most mainstream and most Bollywood, with everything that implies, both magical and cheesy.  The dramatic moments skew manipulative and trite - appeals to filial duty, religious fervor, or patriotic pride are tearfully rendered over swelling strings.  And yet I watched the film - the first time through, at least - completely in the zone, and loved every second of it.  No small part of that is thanks to Rani Mukherjee, who throws herself with seemingly limitless energy into a very physical performance and appears to have the time of her life doing it. She is funny and completely adorable.  Shahid Kapoor is a serviceable chocolate hero - a much better than average dancer, which doesn't hurt - and their romance is sweet, a nice confection and easy to get behind.  The cricket manages to be fun and suspenseful too.  Despite the formulaic fetters, Dil bole hadippa hits every entertainment note just right, from Veera's stubborn vivacity to Veer's manically silly bravado, from the colorful and boisterous dance numbers (bhangra, of course) to the expansively beautiful shots of rural Punjab.   

The movie steers clear of any implicit or explicit homosexual ramifications, as are common in other stories of this type from Shakespeare to Victor Victoria.  For all his dewy-eyed gazing at Veera, Rohan does not show any signs of attraction to Veer (who is, in honesty, too weird to be sexually appealing to anyone).   Nevertheless, there is plenty of saucy double-entendre for those who are ready and willing to look for it.  In one song, Veera-in-drag brags about the boudoir prowess of Punjabi men while brandishing an enormous staff.  And, as she often reminds us, Veera is a switch-hitter - meaning, of course, only that she bats both right- and left-handed - but the nudge-nudge-wink-wink is ripe for the plucking.

Veera isn't above taking advantage of being one of the fellas, either.  In one scene, Rohan - angling for a date with Veera - asks Veer whether he thinks Rohan is a good-looking guy.  Veera-as-Veer gives him a long, leisurely look before responding, her eyes wandering up and down lasciviously as she checks him out in a delightful renversé of the traditional male gaze.  Not that there isn't plenty of the familiar of kind of male gaze - Rohan only becomes aware of his attraction to Veera after accidentally seeing her naked.  More than that, Veera has a weak romantic foil in the form of the slinky, scantily-clad westernized Soniya (Sherlyn Chopra), the kind of filmi vamp who gets her own leering theme melody.  While Soniya hardly turns Rohan's head for a moment and presents no real threat to Veera (who even has fun giving the vamp deliberately misguided romantic advice), the camera lingers far too long on her T & A for there to be any doubt what she's really doing in the movie. 

Indeed, Dil bole hadippa is not subtle with its portrayal of the westernized vamp as shallow, cheap, and ignorant.  And yet, it handles with some delicacy the question of how the girl who is supposed to represent the virtues of the seedhi-saadhi Hindustani ladki can yearn to hitch up her salwar and get out on the pitch.  Veera's speech at the film's climax drives home the movie's very important point, a rich nugget of substance that floats there in the tasty filmi froth:  it's possible to be a true Indian woman and still crave equality and respect for one's abilities. 

Caravan (1971)

कारवाँ

Fully five years ago now, when the door into the bright world of Hindi films had just begun to crack open for me, I picked up a couple of movies that had songs I had heard and liked.  Caravan was one such - on the strength of the famous "Piya tu ab to aaja" - but I somehow got the idea that the movie was bad, and never got around to watching it.  As has happened so often before, once I finally saw it, I kicked myself for waiting so long. 

When Rajan (Ravindra Kapoor) is caught with his hand in the company till, he murders the company's owner, Mohandas, and convinces Mohandas's daughter Sunita (Asha Parekh) to marry him.  The marriage is a ruse that Rajan planned with his girlfriend Monica (Helen) to get at Sunita's fortune, and Rajan intends to do away with his new bride just as he did her father.  But Sunita escapes and, posing as a simple village girl named Soni, falls in with a gypsy caravan heading to Bangalore.  Sunita's presence among the gypsies causes some strife, though; their top performer, Nisha (Aruna Irani) is jealous of the attention paid to Sunita by the gypsies' hired truck driver Mohan (Jeetendra).  And Rajan's men are still after Sunita as well, endangering them all.

The plot is light on substance, but no matter - the movie is utterly engaging and delightful all the same.  Jeetendra is charming and funny as Mohan - earnest, goofy, and somewhat deluded about his own intelligence, he emits a continuous stream of daft English malapropisms.  He is a skilled dancer and provides some decent physical comedy as well.  (Caravan was my first Jeetendra film but I'm certain it won't be my last.)  He's supported by two entertaining sidekicks, his little brother Montu (Mehmood Jr.) and the perpetually drunk but wonderfully soft-hearted Johnny (Kishen Mehta).  The chief of the gypsy tribe, Mithalal Tota (Madan Puri) is fatherly and fun, and the inimitable Manorama plays his wife, adding moments of her uniquely physical comedy to the mix.

And then there is Nisha, the delicious Aruna Irani, whose bare midsection is practically another character in the movie - it features prominently in several of Caravan's many wonderful R.D. Burman songs.  "Dilbar dil se pyari" is the most memorable of these.  Asha Parekh turns in a satisfyingly physical performance as well; her highlight also comes in a song, the comically absurd "Daiya yeh main kahan".  And of course there is the famous item number of Helen that brought me to this film in the first place those five years ago.

The story of Caravan pokes playfully at issues of class and culture, but is not heavy-handed about them.   Mohan insists that because of his "untocation" (his version of "edumacation") he deserves a classy, cultured girl, better than the ragged gypsy Nisha and even better than Sunita, who he thinks is a simple village girl.  The rich and educated Sunita doesn't share his snobbery, and the resolution of their romance feels to me a bit like a light-hearted twist on the end of Jab jab phool khile - Sunita throws off her high-class advantages and joins Mohan's dusty vagabond life, but not because of any haughty notions of traditionalism and Indianness.  Rather, she does it mostly out of love for him, and because the prospect of living as a widow in her dead father's house just can't be all that appealing. 

There are a few elements that rub the wrong way; I can't shake a feeling that I should not have enjoyed the film as much as I did.  Nisha is not merely spunky and spirited; her manic energy crosses the line into violently insane. And in rejecting her advances, Mohan tries to convince her to marry a member of the tribe so stupid that he can barely string a sentence together without drooling - clearly an awful match for the willful Nisha.  The film finds disturbing humor in violence against women, too, as when Mithalal Tota beats his wife because he thinks she has burned his lunch. 

Yet, I have forgiven more egregious anti-feminist sins in less entertaining movies.  Caravan's more cringe-worthy moments are amply redeemed by the sweet moments, and indeed by everything it delivers.  From Jeetendra's doofusy earnestness, to Asha Parekh's impressive talent for physical comedy, to the wonderful, colorfully-picturized songs that come fast and thick - not to mention the delectable midsection of Aruna Irani - Caravan is pretty much a big silly grin from beginning to end - an instant favorite. 

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.