Filmi Geek

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

Waqt (1965)

वक़्त

I love 1960s Bollywood, with its grand homages to modern style and its riffs on the tension between tradition and modernity.  My favorite Hindi films of that era delight me with their heady fusion of East and West - not to mention stars in cigarette pants dancing the Mashed Potato or driving flashy mod roadsters, and sets decked out in elaborate mood-lit pastels.  And for a generous helping of all of these, the multi-star hit Waqt ("time") absolutely delivers.  

Lala Kedarnath (Balraj Sahni) is on top of the world.  With a booming retail business, a beautiful wife Laxmi (Achala Sachdev) whom he adores, and three adorable little boys, Kedarnath believes that fate has dealt him a winning hand, and life will only get better.  But, the film tells us in the opening voice-over, time's "moving finger" has other plans for Kedarnath.  A terrible earthquake destroys Kedarnath's business, and his family is scattered in its aftermath.  Laxmi wanders through refugee camps with their youngest son, eventually finding work as a seamstress, and the boy Vijay grows into a serious young graduate (Shashi Kapoor).  The middle son is taken in by a wealthy childless couple, growing into Ravi (Sunil Dutt), a playful young man on the threshold of a career in law.  The oldest son Raja, after a brief stint in an orphanage run by a cruel schoolmaster (Jeevan), escapes to a life on the streets.  Taken under the wing of a crooked diamond dealer named Chinoy (Rehman), Raja matures to become a suave hustler (Raaj Kumar).  After learning of Raja's treatment at the orphanage, Kedarnath murders the schoolmaster in a fit of rage and frustration, and spends upwards of twenty years in prison.  But destiny works toward reuniting the star-crossed family.  Raja and Ravi both fall for the same girl, Meena (Sadhana), the beautiful daughter of an upstanding jurist.  And Ravi's adoptive sister Renu (Sharmila Tagore) meets the studious Vijay in school and pursues a romance with him.  Vijay, eager to earn some money to help the ailing Laxmi (and to be worthy of Renu), takes a job as Chinoy's driver.  Soon, Chinoy's shady dealings bring the three unknown brothers together, with lives hanging in the balance.

The box cover of the Waqt DVD claims that the film is a pioneering multi-starrer that defined the Yash Chopra style for decades to come.  I can easily believe this.  Waqt is truly enormous in scope, with equal attention given to all its numerous stars.  (Though, I couldn't resist the thought that the movie could have been even more epic had the brothers been played by Shashi, Shammi, and Raj Kapoor.)  Even the parents get a song of their own, the beautiful qawwali "Ae meri zohra jabeen", picturized on a dashing Balraj Sahni and a blushing Achala Sachdev. 

The movie's ultimate message is that the wheel of fortune never stops turning, and even its happy ending is tempered by Kedarnath's somber reminder that joy in the moment is only fleeting, and luck can change in an instant.  In addition to that sobering idea, such themes as destiny, sacrifice, familial devotion, and transcending of class barriers that characterize many Yash Chopra (and, later, Aditya Chopra) films are amply explored in Waqt as well.  Young Vijay is prepared to sacrifice his career prospects, his love for Renu, and even his principles to save his ailing mother - and his piety protects both of them, in grand dramatic style, when he breaks down after swearing on a copy of the Bhagavadgita.  Ravi initially turns up his nose at Vijay, telling him that a driver should know his place - but he is set straight by a chastisement from the democratically-minded Renu.  Even the hardened Raja is not immune from the pull of fraternal responsibility, willingly laying everything he values (including Meena) at the feet of Ravi when he learns of their true relation.  Three decades before Karan Johar made a film under the Yash Raj banner, Waqt was all about loving your family.  

Even more than that, though, Waqt is about epitomizing the visually sumptuous style of its time.  In a competition that feels almost prescient of American Graffiti, Raja and Ravi drag-race their tiny convertibles with high mid-century elan.  Vijay and Renu's adorable dockside song "Din hai bahaar ke" exemplifies the style as well.  From Meena's colorful outfits to the lavish decor of her home, from Raja's tailored tuxedos to Ravi's cigarette pants and V-neck sweaters, every lovingly-composed scene in Waqt is packed full of mod.  The screen capture at the top of this post offers a taste, and while I don't normally use a lot of screen captures in my posts, it's unfair to Waqt not to, so here are a few more (click to see them larger).  

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. 

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. 

Dilli ka thug (1958)

दिल्ली का ठग

Returning to Hindi films after a bit of a hiatus, I've rewatched a couple of movies that I saw about a year ago but didn't get around to writing up, and it's been interesting to note that some of them I liked better the second time around.  Ashanti was one such. And another is Dilli ka thug ("Delhi rogue") - while not much more than a pleasant timepass, it is loaded with smiles, songs, and antics that just reminded me why I love Hindi movies. 

Kishore (Kishore Kumar) is an unemployed newspaper reporter who makes his living conning rich folks at the gambling table.  His mother scolds him, fearing that his roguish antics threaten his sister's engagement to a boy from a respectable family.  But Kishore has no respect for the rich, whose unscrupulous greed, he says, ruined his father's name and caused his death.  Meanwhile, Kishore's friend Suhanlal, who is mixed up with a counterfeit medicine racket, is murdered by the racket's mastermind Amarnath (Krishnakant).  Kishore learns from Police Inspector Dilip Singh (Ifthekar) that this murderer is likely the man responsible for Kishore's father's downfall and death.  Kishore vows to find him and bring him to justice - but he has no idea that the man is the uncle of the charming girl he's set his heart on, Asha (Nutan).

Dilli ka thug does not pack much in the way of substantial messages or delicate themes.  But it does have its surprises.  Asha is a champion swimmer, a doctor, and owner of a controlling interest in a pharmaceutical company  - her intellectual superiority to Kishore is made quite plain, both in the lead-up to the charming song "C-A-T Cat" and in several clever tricks she plays on him.  And she shows her guts in the film's climax (aboard a pilotless aircraft), where she steps up to take the film's decisive action. 

The real star of Dilli ka thug, though, is Kishore Kumar's relentless and adorable energy.  He dons costumes, leaps around the screen waving his rubbery limbs every which way, smiles and pouts with a charming childlike air.  Even the fight scenes are played for laughs, and his comic interactions with the owner of a drugstore where he works are hysterical.  In one delightfully manic scene, Kishore cons three investors (very broadly caricatured themselves - a rich nawab, a South Indian swami, and a Parsee businessman) by pretending to negotiate with a maharaja.  He jumps - literally - from one side of the conversation to the other, first playing his own role, then the role of the maharaja, then back again.  He even manages to squeeze in a few lines for the maharani.  

And in his courtship of Asha, Kishore's manic energy takes a very sweet tone.  I grinned like a dope all the way through "Hum to mohabbat karega," both at Kishore's adorable courtship and at Nutan's sweetly and willingly weakening resistance to it.  There are other very fun songs too, including two excellent cabaret numbers and an impressive display of synchronized swimming that features Nutan emerging from the petals of a giant lotus blossom.  But the sweet moments of Kishore's courtship of Asha - and her gradually warming  to his goofball earnestness - are the best pleasures of Dilli ka thug.  It's not in the same league as Chalti ka naam gaadi - but that is pure perfection, one of the most fun films ever made.  Still, if you liked Kishore and the tone of the romance in that movie, you will find something to enjoy in Dilli ka thug.

Gumnaam (1965)

गुमनाम

Gumnaam ("unnamed, anonymous") is a slapdash, inadequately scripted, totally non-suspenseful mystery. It is nevertheless great fun to watch, thanks entirely to a passel of thoroughly entertaining songs and fun comic performances by the likes of Helen and Mehmood.  

A group of strangers at a masquerade party are delighted when they are chosen, apparently at random, as winners of an exciting foreign vacation.  The trip gets off to a rough start, however, when an emergency forces their plane to land in a remote wilderness.  And things take an even more sinister turn when the plane takes off, leaving them stranded.  Soon they find an isolated mansion, tended by a valet (Mehmood) who knows their name and seems to have been expecting them.  A mysterious diary in the mansion reveals the reason they are there:  It says they are each responsible for an unjust death, and will be forced to pay the ultimate price.  And sure enough, one by one the travelers begin to die violently ... and the murderer must be among them.  

Gumnaam takes Agatha Chrtistie's Ten Little Indians as its inspiration. It follows that classic story fairly faithfully, but Gumnaam is very light on the plot details that made the original tight and compelling.  There is no real payoff - the killer's motivation for assembling this particular group is stated, but with a few exceptions we are told neither whose deaths they caused, nor why the killer thinks justice is his responsibility.

One result of the slapdash plotting is an utter lack of suspense, which is compounded by the travelers for the most part not behaving as if they fear for their lives. The other filmi touches, like Mehmood's broad South Indian caricature and other roles (like Pran's and Madan Puri's) played for laughs, don't bolster the story.  But unlike Raat aur din, where filmi touches detract from what could have been a taut psychological drama, in Gumnaam they are the saving grace of what would otherwise be a dreadful film. 

The best thing about Gumnaam is the film's songs, most of which are upbeat, splendid fun.  Helen, as one of the doomed guests, gets three of these, including Mehmood's fantastic dream sequence, an adorable beachside romp, and the rare treat of a drunken buddy-song in which the revelers are both women (Helen and Nanda). And no discussion of the songs of Gumnaam is complete without mention of the wild, mod goodness of "Jaan pehechaan ho".

Gumnaam is a masala film, and so of course a romance thread is woven through as well.  This thread is wasted, though, on the film's milquetoast hero and heroine, Manoj Kumar and Nanda.  Greta (of Memsaab Story; thanks to her for the screencap) commented that Gumnaam would have been a totally different movie if Shammi Kapoor had been the hero, and I have to agree.  It could possibly have been an all-time classic on the level of Teesri Manzil or Kashmir ki kali - with Shammi as the hero and Asha Parekh, Sharmila Tagore, or really anyone else as the heroine.  Nanda and Manoj's songs are entertaining enough, but they pale in comparison to the other songs in the film; Manoj attempts Shammi-like moves, but even though he's younger and slightly less chubby, he lacks the energy and charisma that Shammi brought to his best movies.

In the end, though, even to critique a movie like Gumnaam is to ask too much of it. It is thoroughly amusing while it's happening - at its best moments, it shines - and that's all it sets out to do.    

Mr. India (1987)

What happens when two masters of populist, allegorical, entertaining screenwriting and a gifted, creative, intellectual director put their heads together with the goal of creating a film that is over-the-top even compared to the most outrageous masala Hindi films have to offer?   Mr. India is what happens.  Screenwriters Salim-Javed and director Shekhar Kapur, with some intrepid help from a terrific cast, pulled out every stop in this all-out goofy entertainer.  It's self-conscious, it's ridiculous, and it's riotous fun - but there's a patriotic moral, too. 

Arun Verma (Anil Kapoor) is a musician with a cheerful disposition who looks after a houseful of adorable orphans.  When his natural charm ceases to satisfy the shopkeepers and landlords from whom he wrangles rice and credit, he sets out to find himself a paying guest to supplement his income.  He rents a room to a persnickety, child-hating reporter named Seema (Sridevi) and they proceed to get on one another's nerves.  Soon Arun learns that his father, a scientist who died when Arun was a small boy, had been killed by some goons intent on stealing an invisibility formula the scientist had devised.  Now the goons are back, at the behest of their despotic boss, Mogambo (Amrish Puri), and they want not only the invisibility formula but all of India to boot.  Arun learns of the terrorist tactics of Mogambo's thugs, who use such nefarious tools as tainted food supplies and explosive-rigged toys to sow the seeds of fear in the populace, and he decides to use the invisibility formula to mete out justice against Mogambo's army of evildoers, transforming himself into Mr. India, the invisible avenger of the people.

The best parts of Mr. India are the moments that are crafted with no purpose other than to showcase the stars' first-class shtick.  In one delightful sequence, for example, Sridevi launches into an extended Charlie Chaplin impression that highlights her talent for adorable physical comedy; in others, she flings her dangerous curves across the screen in both a comical dance sequence and a passionate one.  Amrish Puri is at his bug-eyed, scene-chewingest best in every one of Mogambo's scenes, preening and strutting and ingeiously crafting a seemingly limitless number of ways to utter the villain's signature phrase, "Mogambo khush hua." ("Mogambo is pleased.")  These elements are brazenly, unabashedly entertaining in the manner in which Hindi films are particularly excellent; it is art without artifice.  Even the big-hearted sweetness Anil Kapoor shows nurturing his passel of adorable orphans is calculated more to win the hearts of the audience than to support the story. 

But for all its wanton crowd-pleasing, Mr. India is still a Salim-Javed film, and so the masala can be expected to be served up with an edge and with a generous side helping of social message.  The former manifests in Salim-Javed's willingness to kill even some of their most loveable characters; the latter in Arun Verma's declaration, as the invisible force called Mr. India, of the power of the "aam hindustani," the ordinary Indian.  The film's central message that larger-than-life forces of bloodshed and terror - represented by the larger-than-life Mogambo - can be stopped by the invisible yet undeniable power of the compassionate Indian citizen who looks out for the interests of his compatriots.  Mogambo's critical error is to presume that Arun Verma loves his own life more than he loves his country; Arun's patriotism and his love for every citizen of India, is Mogambo's downfall.  That's a heavy message indeed, that the commitment of the aam hindustani can defeat the devil himself; Mr. India works by lightening the load, delivering it in an outlandish and fun package. 

Mr. India was my (long overdue) first Sridevi film, and for the record I absolutely can see what all the fuss is about.  The three segments mentioned above - the Charlie Chaplin scene, the fantastic comedy number "Hawa Hawai," and the sensual song "Kaate nahin kate yeh din yeh raat" together represent a very nice sampling of her abilities.  She is adorable and precise, thrillingly sexy and at the same time uproariously funny.  It is Sridevi's misfortune that she reigned during a particularly bleak period of Hindi films, but I am nevertheless eager for more of her. 

Aaja nachle (2007)

आजा नचले

Madhuri Dixit is back, and as stunning as ever, in a vehicle whose very title, Aaja nachle ("Come and dance"), tells you that it's designed to play to her greatest strength.  That alone makes Aaja nachle worth seeing, and while the film otherwise doesn't quite meet its potential, it's still a good solid all-around entertainer.

As a young girl, Diya was the toast of her small town of Shamli - both the star dancer in the local troupe and the breaker of local hearts.  Impulsive and thirsty for adventure, Diya eloped with an American photographer, and Shamli was never the same.  Diya's parents were shamed right out of town, and Shamli's stage, Ajanta, where Diya once dazzled with her performances, fell into disuse.  Some ten years later, Diya, now divorced, returns to Shamli at the request of her dying mentor and decides to take on the establishment - in the form of a young MP named Raja (Akshaye Khanna) and a scheming businessman Farouq (Irfan Khan) - who would like to see Ajanta torn down and replaced by a shopping mall.  Diya sets out to woo the hearts of Shamli back to her, and back to dance as well, orchestrating a home-grown production of the classic romance of Laila Majnu.  She's operating against long odds though.  The town is arrayed against her, and her troupe, led by the recalcitrant Imran (Kunal Kapoor) and the unpolished Anokhi (Konkona Sen Sharma) is ragtag at best.  Diya's work is cut out for her.

Aaja nachle doesn't mess around.   There's no coy opening, no stalling the much-anticipated revelation of its heroine.  Instead, it gives you what you came for right in the very first frames - Madhuri smiling, Madhuri dancing.  But this delectable appetizer is not offered without a hint of reproach toward Bollywood's prodigal daughter.  Madhuri is dancing, all right, but she's dancing in New York, to a distinctly American-sounding R&B song with English lyrics, and surrounded by gora extras so pale that even fairer-than-fair Madhuri looks dusky in comparison.  The effect (clearly calculated, and perhaps enhanced by makeup) is both striking and confusing, as if the film is simultaneously chastising Madhuri for fleeing to the States while reminding the audience that she's still very much theirs.

Unfortunately that symbolically laden opening is the last opportunity Aaja nachle takes to tie its feel-good story to a deeper message.  There are numerous opportunities for allegory here, but none of them are clearly taken.  There is neither a clear nod to the modern NRI incarnation of Madhuri Dixit as the prodigal savior of Hindi film, or a sharp criticism of those who might see her such.  The groundwork is laid for a strong message on the tension between the benefits of progress and development on the one hand and the preservation of traditional art forms on the other, but nothing is built on that foundation either.  Every time Aaja nachle gets close to saying something about anything at all, it shies away, retreating into the bright, shiny, familiar clothes of an all-out entertainer.

If that's all you demand from Aaja nachle, though, it delivers amply.  After all, Madhuri is Madhuri, and she's as gorgeous and perfect as ever; there's nothing like watching her do her thing in a colorful production number, whether the resplendent title song in the film's first half or the intense 20-minute extravaganza that is the town's Laila Majnu production.  And she's given a supporting cast that enhances the fun.  Konkona Sen Sharma is particularly brilliant as the rough, gruff, tomboy Anokhi - she's an actor with seemingly limitless range and guts to match, and she inhabits this unglamorous character with delightful fearlessness. 

And so Aaja nachle takes its place among satisfyingly solid entertainers, films that look great and leave you tapping your toes and smiling but that don't stand up to much deep thought afterward. Though I know that Madhuri is good for more than that, I can't really complain -  I'll watch her come and dance any old time.   

(Thanks to David for some helpful discussions.)

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.)

Teesri manzil (1966)

तीसरी मन्ज़िल

I love the 1960s - I love mod.  I love bouffant hair, cat's-eye makeup, and cigarette pants (on guys too). It's no accident that my favorite Hollywood movie, when it comes to style, is Breakfast at Tiffany's, and my favorite Hindi film Jewel Thief.  Lucky for me, the mind behind Jewel Thief, Vijay Anand, had more than one stylish thriller in him in the 1960s. Teesri manzil ("third floor") is not quite as perfectly delicious as Jewel Thief but it does have a great deal of tasty 1960s style to offer.

One night a girl named Rupa plummets from a third floor window of a posh resort hotel.  Her death is put down as suicide until a year later, when Rupa's sister Sunita (Asha Parekh) turns up to investigate.  Sunita believes that Rupa was driven to suicidal despair by her love for a musician named Rocky who seduced and then jilted her.  Meanwhile Rocky - also known as Anil Kumar Sona (Shammi Kapoor) - is attracted to Sunita, and hides his identity from her as he tries to win her over.  As the investigation unfolds, a number of suspects come to light - Sunita's angry fiance Ramesh (Prem Chopra), originally promised to Rupa; a dancing girl named Ruby (Helen), herself jealously in love with Rocky; a mystery man who, the police inspector on the case (Iftekhar) reveals, left physical evidence at the scene of Rupa's death.  Soon Rocky finds his own life in danger as he gets closer and closer to the truth. 

The twists may not be as wild as in Jewel Thief, but Teesri manzil is, nevertheless, a satisfying and entertaining noir thriller with a generous helping of romance and style.  The characters inhabit a nighttime fantasy world of smoky nightclubs and cabarets with outrageously trippy sets, a perfect mise-en-scene for shady dealings, dark jealousies, and, ultimately, murder.  Yet these elements are offered up in contrast with Rocky and Sunita's sunny hilltop romps.  The result is a film of shifting moods, the kind of pastiche that perhaps only a Hindi film can pull off. 

The actors and their characterizations form no small part of the pleasure of Teesri manzil.  Shammi Kapoor here does what he does best - he romances earnestly, dances spastically, and is an all around charming good guy.  His character indulges in the Bollywood staple of stalker romance, and while a guy's refusal to take no for an answer often grates, Shammi somehow always makes it work with his inherently reassuring and non-threatening sweetness.  Asha Parekh handles her role with the right amount of poutiness, but she's not given as charming a character to work with.  Sunita is a little stupid; her grand plan to avenge her sister's death is to lure Rocky into a remote mountainside where a troupe of schoolgirl athletes await to beat him senseless with hockey sticks.  ("Rocky - hockey; it's perfect!" she exclaims.)  The best scenes in the romance, and its turning point, come when Rocky finally loses patience with her - a refreshing twist in the standard romance line, acknowledging that a pretty face isn't enough to make an appealing heroine.   

What will remain with me most from Teesri manzil is the outstanding soundtrack by R.D. Burman, already a favorite before I saw the film and made that much tastier with the over-the-top picturizations, in which the film's beehive-and-cigarette-pants 1960s aesthetic is most aggressively on display.  (Once again, more on the music can be found over at Sanket's Desi Music Club.)  There's something ineffably wonderful, for example, about the the filmi adaptation of the mashed potato in "Aaja aaja main hoon pyar tera."  The very best song is "O haseena zulfonwali", staged on a set that is beyond elaborate and that occupies three-quarters of the cabaret theater in which it is located.  The centerpiece of this stage is a magnificent giant blue eye, so enormous that it has dancing girls for eyelashes.  This song features the gyrations of Helen, who is positively delicious in her non-musical scenes as well - but to see her framed in the pupil of that humongous eye is sublime, a concentrated moment of pure 1960s Bollywood bliss.