Filmi Geek

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What's going on?  No reviews in more than a week! 

It's tragic, but sometimes I can't quite make the time to watch Hindi movies.  I posted my last review about eight days ago but it's been more than two weeks since I've watched a film.

Monday is a holiday here in the US, so I've got a long weekend and that usually means I'll get to watch some movies.  I already have plans for two.  So with any luck, next week the reviews will start coming again (there's always a delay of a couple of days between watching and having a review is ready for posting). 

I don't always like to say what's coming because plans change, but I'm expecting the next handful of reviews to include Satyam shivam sundaram, Teesri manzil, and Munnabhai MBBS.  We shall see.

In the meantime, if you haven't already, please check out Sounds Like Power, my blog about Shabana Azmi.  There's a lot of fun stuff going on over there.  Also have a look at an interesting recent addition to my links sidebar: MemsaabStory has very thoughtful comments on some unusual films.

Jab jab phool khile (1965)

जब जब फूल खिले

Sometimes a film can leave the thinking and feeling portions of my brain disaligned.  Such films are hard to write about.  Jab jab phool khile ("whenever flowers may bloom") is one such, with an anti-modernity  and possibly anti-feminist message that is hard for me to swallow.  And yet I loved the film for its emotion and tenderness, and I'm inclined to give it a pass for any moral aspects that don't set right with me. 

Rita (Nanda), having finished her studies in America, ventures to Kashmir for a little vacation time, and rents a houseboat from a simple local boy named Raja (Shashi Kapoor).  Raja is smitten instantly, and eventually a mutual affection develops.  Rita's vacation eventually ends, but she returns the following summer, this time in the company of the irritating Kishore (Jatin Khanna), the self-important dandy Rita's father wants her to marry.  After a showdown with Kishore, Raja declares his love, and travels to the city to present himself to Rita's family.  Rita dresses him in western finery and instructs him in some of her family's modern customs, but when Rita's father sets him up for an embarrassing evening, Raja realizes that he cannot adjust to Rita's world.  It's up to Rita to figure out a way to keep their relationship alive.

Jab jab phool khile pits the emancipated go-go 60s against good old fashioned country conservatism, and it's in no way a fair fight.  On the side of traditionalism we have the charming Raja, earnest, innocent, and handsome.  He looks after his pre-teen younger sister and manages their houseboat rental business with an ethic of hardworking honesty; he's not even comfortable accepting tips.  Meanwhile, we are shown very little of value in modernity and Westernization.  Rita may be educated, but she's vapid and selfish.  It's not Raja the country rube who is a boor, it's Rita, who abuses servants and whines petulantly each time she doesn't get her way.  Also on the side of modernity is the sniveling, entitled Kishore, not to mention Rita's wealthy scheming father, who is not satisfied merely to refuse to his daughter to Raja but must also put the rustic in his place.  The deck is stacked so heavily in favor of Raja's simple country living that there's no question which kind of life the film is advocating.  In one song, expressing his discomfort with the modern trappings, he even makes an explicit contrast between Rita's milieu and what is properly Indian life, asking "kaise bhuul jaaun ki main huun hindustani" - how can I forget that I am Indian? 

It's statements like that which make it hard for me to judge the apparently anti-modern, anti-feminist sentiments of the movie.  How can I forget that I am not Indian?  In the end, it's not my place to declare that this cautionary tale is too cautionary.  Rita's over-accessorized, Audrey Hepburnized 1960s splendor is appealing, but I don't know what the threat of western homogenization really looked like from the perspective of this film's original, intended audience.  And I don't think the film is necessarily saying that all Westernization or modernization is bad, just the all-or-nothing, un-nuanced brand adopted by Rita and her orbit. 

In real life, if a relationship between a "sophisticate" like Rita and a "bumpkin" like Raja were to have a ghost's chance of success, a great deal of compromise on both sides would be required.  It's certainly problematic and perhaps a little dissatisfying that in the end of Jab jab phool khile, it's Rita who makes all the sacrifices.  (Beth has more about this.) And yet somehow in the film's own narrative context it makes perfect sense.  Both Raja and Rita are extremely naive and narrow-minded; neither one of them is particularly good at seeing the perspective of the other.  But at least Raja has an excuse for his simplicity; in Rita, supposedly so worldly and educated, the presumption is less forgivable.  And Raja does try to join Rita in her world, even though he discovers that it doesn't suit him.  Of the two, he seems to be the one who has tried harder, done all the work, and done all the thinking for the both of them.  It seems only just that in the end he gets all the reward.

Jab jab phool khile is quite clearly the antecedent of the 90s hit Raja Hindustani, but it is by far the better and more delicate movie, without the masala excess of the more recent film.  The greatest strength of Jab jab phool khile is this:  Shashi Kapoor is simply a superb actor.  He registers Raja's emotional  transitions in the subtlest changes in his face - from wide open, boyish innocence to wounded mistrust to anger.  The scene in which he chastises Rita after his humiliation in the company of Rita's urbane family and friends is among the most moving in the film - the most explicitly anti-modern, anti-western views are given voice here - and Shashi delivers it perfectly, wringing tears from me even as I squirmed at his sentiment.  In the film's songs he is a bit raw and unformed; having not yet developed his own style, he channels his brothers in turn, now Raj's smooth sophistication, now Shammi's wild gyration.   In the dramatic scenes, though, he is fully in his own element, one of the finest actors there is.  Jab jab phool khile is a Shashi fan's film - he looks beautiful and does all the emotional heavy lifting - and it's as a Shashi fan that I most enjoyed it. 

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.)

Swami (1977)

स्वामी

Should a spirited, intelligent young woman follow her heart and trust it to lead her to the right place?  Or should she submit to her duty, and trust that doing so will lead her to the right place?  This is the question raised by Basu Chatterjee's Swami ("master"), but the film's answer is ambiguous.

Mini (Shabana Azmi) is a bright village girl with academic ambitions and an appetite for literature and philosophy.   Her intellectual uncle (Utpal Dutt) indulges her brainy bent, encouraging her studies and running interference between Mini and her mother (Sudha Shivpuri), a pious widow whose only concern is to see Mini married, and quickly.  Mini has a nascent love affair with her neighbor Narendra (Vikram), the zamindar's son, a student in Calcutta who on his frequent visits brings her Victorian literature, listens raptly to her discourse, and is bold enough to kiss her opportunistically when they are caught together in a rainstorm.  Circumstances  conspire against Mini and Narendra, though, and soon Mini finds herself married against her wishes to a wheat trader Ganshyam (Girish Karnad) from a neighboring village.  Plunged into despair, Mini struggles to become accustomed to life in her unwanted marriage and her new home, where Ganshyam's stepmother seems to favor Mini's sisters-in-law and where her new husband treats her with a patience that she finds perplexing. 

Swami feels like an artier version of Hum dil de chuke sanam; though it differs in the details, the basic elements are quite similar:   A spunky but fundamentally immature young woman falls in love with one man but is impelled to marry another; she mopes miserably for some period of time while her husband is kinder to her than she is in any state to appreciate; and when her husband, astonishingly, lets her follow her heart, she  comes to realize which man she truly belongs with.  And like Hum dil de chuke sanam, it's an engaging story (so much the more so when one imagines watching it from the perspective of a society in which many marriages are arranged).  The first 45 minutes are the most entertaining, as we get to know Mini and her uncle, and watch her relationship with Narendra blossom.  Mini is full of life, cheeky and smart; she takes as much pleasure in gathering jasmine flowers and weaving them into garlands as she does arguing the finer points of philosophy, and it is a joy to watch her enjoying her life.

After Mini's marriage, Swami bumps off the rails a bit.  It's somewhat interesting to see Ganshyam tolerating her sullen, withdrawn behavior, and once she starts to appreciate his extraordinary kindness the film picks up again.  But there's only so much petulant moping we need to see, and Mini's interactions with the other female members of her household are grating.  As the film's conclusion is inevitable, it could be a bit swifter about getting there.  The highlight of the second half is a surprise guest appearance by Dharmendra and Hema Malini as a pair of cheery wedding dancers, whose jaunty song about a young woman running away with her love not only foreshadows the film's climax, but also comes closest to bringing a smile to Mini's face as anything else in the second hour of the film. 

The most problematic aspect of Swami is the price that Mini pays for the reward of Ganshyam's gentle protection.  It's not the loss of Narendra that is troubling - young love comes and goes - but rather the sacrifice of what really set Mini apart from her sisters-in-law and presumably from other village girls as well: her love of books and studying.  At the beginning of the film, Mini announces proudly that she is in the middle of her B.A. studies; these are dropped without a word.  Without Narendra running errands to Calcutta, Mini's supply of new books is cut off; even if Ganshyam is kind enough to supply them for her, though, with whom is she going to debate them?  It is no wonder that Mini is still crying and depressed, even after the story's resolution. 

It is this confusion of message that leaves me most perplexed about the film's intentions.  Mini has certainly come to appreciate Ganshyam's warmth, but the overwhelming sense is that she has chosen him out of duty and propriety rather than out of love - and worse, has forfeited any venture outside the traditional woman's sphere.  The film seems to say that doing the dutiful thing will get a girl a kind husband who buys her saris and electric fans, and that should be a sufficient reward. 

(A more Shabana-oriented look at Swami will be posted in the next few days at Sounds Like Power.) 

Deewaar (1975)

दीवार

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

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

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

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

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

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