Filmi Geek

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.   

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.)

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. 

Chalti ka naam gaadi (1958)

चलती का नाम गाड़ी

The masala film was not an invention of the 1970s. Chalti ka naam gaadi is delightful proof of that, a raucous blend of farce, romance, and intrigue with a flavor reminiscent of the Marx Brothers.  Top it off with a lead pair who sparkles together on screen and a catchy, toe-tapping SD Burman soundtrack and Chalti ka naam gaadi ("the moving thing is called a car") is the perfect entertainer that stands up brilliantly nearly 50 years after its birth.

Brijmohan, Jagmohan, and Manmohan are a trio  of brothers (real-life brothers Ashok Kumar, Anup Kumar, and Kishore Kumar, respectively) who run an auto garage.  They seem competent enough as mechanics, but in relationships they are poorly socialized and hapless.  The eldest, Brijmohan, a retired prizefighter, having been once bitten by love, is far more than twice shy, harboring superstitions about women so extreme that he won't allow them in his garage even if they are paying customers.  His phobia is affirmed late one rainy night when beautiful young Renu (Madhubala) turns up with a flooded engine.  The youngest brother Manmohan fixes her car, but she leaves without paying, and as Manmohan tries to track her down to collect his "paanch rupaiyya barah anna" (Rs.5.75, a total immortalized in of the film's most delightful songs), his adventures really begin.  He and Renu find themselves rather sweet on each other, but Renu is about to become engaged to a Prince.  Meanwhile, we learn more about Brijmohan's sad romantic past; Renu's friend sets her sights on the middle brother Jagmohan, and Manmohan witnesses a murder.  Eventually all these threads come together in grand masala style in the film's silly and satisfying climax. 

My friend Sanni said about Chalti ka naam gaadi that she loved it so much that she despaired of finding enough positive adjectives to praise it.  I know what she means.  I smiled from the opening scene straight through to the end.  The most delightful aspect of the film is the effervescent romantic and comic chemistry between Madhubala and Kishore Kumar.  Madhubala teases him mercilessly throughout the film and her adorable giggles are a pure delight.  The gorgeous Madhubala knocked my socks off the first time I saw her, depressed and defiant in the epic Mughal-e-azam; here, she plays a very different character in a very different kind of film, but she is every bit as stunning.  Kishore, for his part, is a masterful comic performer.  He has long been my favorite playback singer; here, in addition to singing his own playback, he dances with seemingly limitless energy.  As the romantic hero of the film, he alternates between suave confidence and flustered sputtering, and is equally engaging in both modes.

Finally, Chalti ka naam gaadi sports one of the finest upbeat, silly soundtracks I have encountered, distinguished by the playful style of Kishore and the very young Asha Bhosle.  Their musical dialogue in "Haal kaisa hai janab ka" is a delicious confection, picturized with adorable winking sweetness on Kishore and Madhubala.  Kishore is teasing and sensuous in "Ek ladki bheegi-bhaagi si," and "Main sitaaron ka tarana," the song I mentioned above, highlights to perfection both Kishore's boundless comic energy and Madhubala's gift for teasing mischief.    Chalti ka naam gaadi includes a wonderful musical surprise as well, a very early performance by Helen, Bollywood's top dancing girl for several decades.  Here she delivers a mesmerizing mujra together with her mentor, a dancer called Cuckoo, whom she thoroughly outshines.  I had no idea Helen could dance kathak!

Below:  gorgeous Madhubala and proto-Helen.  Thanks to Sanni for all the screenies.

Pakeezah (1972)

पाकीज़ा

The noble courtesan is a very common incarnation of downtrodden yet elevated womanhood of the sort I discussed in connection with the film Amar Prem.  Rekha's Umrao Jaan is a canonical example of this kind of character, but a decade earlier there was Pakeezah.  Pakeezah means "pure" or "chaste," and thus the film's very title evokes the concept of unsullied womanhood despite the most debasing circumstances.

Shahabuddin (Ashok Kumar) marries Nargis, a courtesan he loves, in an attempt to save her from the tawaif's life.  When his family rejects her, though, she runs off and dies in a cemetery, but not before giving birth to a daughter.  The infant is taken by Nargis's sister and also raised in a brothel, growing up to become the famous tawaif Saheb Jaan.  When Shahabuddin learns many years later that he has a daughter, he tries to save her too, but her aunt - not wanting to lose such a lucrative member of her household - ships her off to another brothel, to become the exclusive entertainment of an aging nawab.  On the rail journey to her new home, the sleeping Saheb is spotted by a mysterious traveler (Raj Kumar) who leaves her a tender note.  She clutches the note close to her heart, and harbors a romantic fantasy that the traveler will come for her.  When circumstances finally do reunite them, he commits himself to saving her, and Saheb must decide whether she wants to be saved.

Some things about Pakeezah are very, very beautiful.  Some of the shots are just lovely - a sky full of spectacular color, a sweeping landscape, Meena Kumari languishing with her hair floating in a fountain.  And its soundtrack sparkles, both the beautiful songs and Meena's sensuous mujras.  (I never tire of well-done courtesan songs.)  The film is excessively romantic, but this does not detract; rather, it contributes to a sense of otherworldliness that the colorful sets and languid, dreamy tone that the film creates. 

All of the positives notwithstanding, the story is a little bit frustrating.  Saheb Jaan seems to be the anti-Umrao Jaan; as much as Umrao was determined to get out of the tawaif's life, Saheb never really believes herself worthy of anything else.  The result is that overarching tone of the film is depressing and hopeless.  Saheb never does anything to help herself, and she never develops any inner strength - she isn't saved except when men save her.  She has a famous dance on glass, but even this comes across as self-flagellation and punishment, not a display of strength and resolve (as was Hema Malini's dance on glass in Sholay).  Saheb Jaan is a character made up of sadness and poor self-esteem, and Pakeezah offers her no arc away from that depressing place.

Don (1978)

One of the classic masala films of the 1970s, Don is a magnificent showcase for the lanky charm of Amitabh Bachchan in his prime.

The title character is a powerful lieutenant in an international smuggling ring.  Early in the film the body count mounts - and so does Don's arrogance, as he utters the film's famous line, Don ko pakadna mushkil hi nahin - namumkin hai:  "It's not just difficult to catch Don - it's impossible."  Soon, though, Don is not just caught but killed, and the police official who is the only witness to his death hatches the cunning plan of hiring a doppleganger to infiltrate Don's gang and collect intelligence.  Enter Vijay, a rough, uneducated, paan-chewing Bombay street performer who just happens to be a dead ringer for the departed Don.  Vijay must now convince the gang that he is Don - and, after his patron's death, convince the police that he isn't. 

Improbable?  Sure.  But never mind - Don is a thoroughly fun ride.  Throw in the beautiful Zeenat Aman as the tough-as-nails, steely Roma, who infiltrates Don's gang to avenge her brother's death, and one of the funkiest, best soundtracks of the era, and it's no wonder this film is a classic.  The wheels come off a bit in the film's final third as the plot holes stretch a little wider than they should and the action scenes strain the suspension of disbelief.  Still, Don is precisely the kind of escapist fantasy that Bollywood excels at, especially in that era, and Amitabh has plenty of irresistable charm to make up for whatever shortcomings may exist in the script.  And it's all in good fun - with its tightrope escapes from tall buildings, improbable urban car-chases, and exploding suitcases, Don never takes itself too seriously.   

Amitabh has a challenge here, playing not just two roles but three:  suave and menacing as Don, goofy and energetic as Vijay, and something more complex as Vijay-playing-Don.  He falters a bit in this third role, but has enough shining moments to sustain the film.  Zeenat Aman, too, has enough presence to stand up to Amitabh, who could easily overwhelm a lesser heroine.  She's a real treat in Don, rocking the short hair and pantsuits, kicking ass and taking names.

Don's soundtrack is packed with great tunes and classic picturizations, like "Khaike paan banaraswala," in which Vijay, exhausted from playing Don and then trying to clear his name, finally gets to cut loose in his own element.  Zeenat struts in "Jiska mujhe tha intezaar," Roma's declaration of vengeful intent.  I love Kishore Kumar's triumphant vocals on the energetic "Main hoon Don," the melody of which provides the film's pulsating theme.  And, like all great films of the era, there is even a Helen item number. 

Don is bumpy and unpolished compared to its slick, modern revival, Don: The Chase Begins Again.  But in many ways it is a lot more fun than Farhan Akhtar's dark retelling of his father's tale, and the plot holes, inconsistencies, and downright "WTF?" moments are more easily forgivable in the tongue-in-cheek, low-budget context of a 1970s classic than they are in a high-tech, high-tone modern production in which no expense was spared.  That double standard may be unfair, but it's impossible to avoid.  If I found this original version a shade more enjoyable, it is as much a function of my own biases - my general preference for oldies - as it is a reflection of anything about the two films.  I will always take Amitabh over Shah Rukh Khan, Zeenat over Priyanka Chopra, Kishore over Udit Narayan - and Akhtar baap over Akhtar beta.  It's just not a fair fight.