Filmi Geek

Shashi Gone Bad: Chor machaye shor (1974) and Aa gale lag jaa (1973)

There is a certain amount of sexism and regressiveness that one has to tolerate as a lover of old movies.  One can't be too critical of a forty-year-old film for failing to precisely match one's personal, post-modern sensibilities.

That said, I can't claim to be entirely consistent about the amount of misogynist bullshit I am prepared to tolerate for the sake of a good story or a few cute songs.  For whatever reason, my threshold varies from film to film (or even perhaps for a single film, watched in different states of mind).  Some days I find myself willing to overlook sexist remarks or themes with a mere eyeroll.  But there are some sins that are beyond the pale, some ideas so egregious, themes so creepy, that no amount of charm and chime can redeem them, no matter how delightful the film in other respects.

Shashi Kapoor, at the peak of his career, played a vast number of upstanding characters whose ma-and-bhagwan moralism was so over the top that only his curls and snaggletoothed smile could make them bearable.  Two movies I've watched recently, though, test the limits of how far Shashi's charm can go in overcoming reprehensibly creepy behavior.  And the results are mixed. In Manmohan Desai's Aa gale lag jaa ("come embrace me"), the pleasure of Shashi on rollerskates - and of Sharmila Tagore doing just about anything - redeems a bizarre and unwarranted "concern rape."  In Chor machaye shor ("a thief cries out", Dir. Ashok Roy), though, even Danny Denzongpa and a range of better-than-average masala inventions cannot redeem some truly horrible behavior by Shashi's character.

Aa gale lag jaa has so much going for it - all of which is discussed in delightful detail in Beth and Amrita's podcast episode on the movie.  There is little more I can add about a movie that opens with a song staged at a roller-skate fancy dress party; a movie whose hero, Prem (Shashi Kapoor) is a roller-skating master by profession; a movie whose climactic fight scene even occurs on wheels.  These are the kinds of utterly fantastic, pure-entertainment details that only the mind of Manmohan Desai could cook up, presented with remarkable consistency across the film.  As it riffs on its themes of familial bonds (few Desai movies, no matter how wackadoodle, are without some substantial theme on which to hang their masala tinsel), Aa gale lag jaa offers some genuinely touching sequences. The single-dad Prem frolicking on the beach with his little boy; Heera Chand (Om Prakash) softening to his illegitimate grandchild over a game of marbles; Preeti (Sharmila Tagore) coming to dinner at Prem's humble home and finding a place set there for the woman he loved and lost: Preeti herself.  And this is not masala-by-numbers; there are some unusual themes as well.  Preeti is a physician (though we don't see her do much doctoring) who survives, with much poise and grace, a terrible heartbreak as well as the birth and death (she believes) of an illegitimate son. She is no shrinking ruined woman, nor a Mother-India type bearing everyone else's burdens as penitence for her youthful errors.  Even the perennial villain Shatrugan Sinha is ambiguous here; his character Amar is a romantic foil, and his medical methods are unconventional at best, but he is not a bad guy.

And yet, despite all this satisfaction, the spectre of that "concern rape" looms over the whole film, as it is the sine qua non of all the movie's touching family moments.  Early in the movie, Preeti takes a tumble in the mountains, sliding into an icy pond.  Prem rescues her, but in a mountainside cabin she trembles with hypothermia. Reluctantly, Prem strips her and himself, and joins her in bed to warm her.  This treatment, taught to Prem by Preeti's medical-school instructor, presumably doesn't have to end in pregnancy.  Penetration is not part of the prescription.  But perhaps Prem can't resist the allure of a semi-conscious naked woman.  Whatever the explanation, each view must decide for herself whether the ugh!-value of this rape casts a shadow that the otherwise rich Desai feast of Aa gale lag jaa cannot outshine. 

Chor machaye shor offers Shashi sins that may be even worse, for being recurring and more malicious.  Here, it is not just a one-time bad decision that sets up the rest of the story.  Instead, this Shashi character, Vijay, is persistently violent and abusive toward his heroine, and suffers no lasting consequences for it.  Vijay wants to marry Rekha (Mumtaz).  Rekha's father (Kamal Kapoor) opposes the match, and schemes with his buddy, a corrupt politician (Madan Puri) to have Vijay tossed in prison on a trumped-up rape charge.

Vijay's first affront comes when Rekha visits him in prison.  Believing her involved in the set-up, Vijay is justifiably angry.  But it is a quite shock to see Vijay, the hero, reach between his cell's bars and throttle the heroine.  This is the kind of behavior one expects of a masala villain - indeed, there's plenty of it from Danny Denzongpa elsewhere in the movie.  It is jarring, to say the least, to see it from Shashi.

Later in the movie, the shock compounds as Vijay, having escaped from prison, contronts Rekha for her supposed betrayal.  Since you falsely accuse me of rape either way, he says, I may as well rape you for real.  And with that Vijay tosses Rekha on the bed and reaches for the fastener on his stylish sansabelts.

No, Shashi, no!  Bad Shashi.

Of course righteousness prevails; Rekha shows a  moment of fire, Vijay relents, and the two are immediately bound as trusting, united lovers.  This instant absolution for Vijay is most frustrating.  Heroes can make mistakes; indeed, a hero who does is far more interesting than a flawless one.  But Vijay perpetrates attempted murder and attempted revenge-rape on his heroine, and gets away scot-free.  Rekha's trust in him never wavers.  Worse, he maintains his air of moral superiority throughout the movie, as only a Shashi character can, sanctimoniously mounting the high horse when Raju (Danny Denzongpa) gets frisky with a village girl who captures his fancy. 

As if hauling Mumtaz around by a rope isn't bad enough.

And it's a shame, because Chor machaye shor is otherwise very satisfying masala fare.  Danny Denzongpa offers all the tasty moral angst that Shashi does not, as Raju grapples with his violent nature and strives to overcome his more animalistic desires.  There is a terrific jailbreak sequence, where Vijay and Raju work together to create a distraction with a plan that includes tempting a goat with a bit of roti.  There is some funny sidekick-work from Asrani and Tarun Ghosh.  There are some memorable songs, too - notably the defiant "Dilwale dulhaniya le jayenge," far more fun and delightful than the Shah Rukh Khan regression-fest that borrowed its name.  But the echo of Shashi Gone Bad resounds throughout the film, souring the masala sweetness.

 

Midnight's Children (2012)

Dir. Deepa Mehta

Deepa Mehta is a profoundly frustrating filmmaker. She has a marvelous visual sense and occasionally conveys deeply compassionate insights into human desires.  At the same time, her movies can be weighed down with unsubtle allegory and heavy-handed social agendas.  I love Fire beyond all reason, but as close to my heart as that movie is, I have to acknowledge its warts.  It is as self-consciously provocative as it is sensitive, which lends it a lurchy, uneven tone. Her unfortunate (and later regretted) choice to make the film in English did nothing to defuse criticism that it was exploitative pandering to Western stereotypes about Indian family life, and at the same time compromises the movie's realism. Mehta's Water suffers from unforgivable casting choices; neither Lisa Ray nor John Abraham are up to the tasks that Mehta sets for them.  Only Earth is nearly flawless, a story perfectly balanced between the personal and the political with actors who can bear its weight while mastering its delicacy.  And Earth is an adaptation of a novel, not a Mehta original story.

Likewise Midnight's Children, adapted by Salman Rushdie for Mehta from his novel of the same name.  But Midnight's Children doesn't sear and soar as Earth does; rather, it displays the same bumps and inconsistencies that plague Mehta's other films.  A love letter to the nation, seasoned in equal parts by magical realism and thick political allegory, Midnight's Children is at its best enchanting, clever, and even magical.  But it fails to hang together; it never quite exposes its own emotional core.  The result is a movie that is, as one reviewer summed it, "watchable without ever feeling essential." 

Some of the blame for Midnight's Children missteps falls squarely on Rushdie's shoulders.  Perhaps it is a peculiar challenge for a novelist to adapt his own work for the screen.  Rushdie probably should have elided more; he is not as ruthless to serve the constraints of the cinematic format as an experienced adapter would be.  (It's hard not to imagine what kind of magic the late Ruth Prawer Jhabvala could have wrought with Rushdie's story.)  The film opens with a leisurely set of sequences that reach all the way back to the meeting of the narrator Saleem's grandparents, in Kashmir.  The film then recounts a first marriage of Saleem's mother, as well as her marriage to his father, before finally reaching the narrative's most salient symbolic moment, Saleem's birth at the stroke of midnight on August 14, 1947, the very instant that the indpendent Indian republic was born.  These early episodes have a languid charm, and Mehta executes them superbly - the scenes in Kashmir are especially breathtaking.  But they do not lay any necessary foundation for the core of the story, Saleem's relationships (both earthly and magical) with the rest of the "Midnight's Children," all of those born in the same hour of the republic's birth as Saleem.  The scenes could have been cut without compromise to any of that, and this would have left more time for detail in what instead feels like a hurried and cramped main body of the film. (I say this even knowing that skipping this introductory hour would excise my beloved Shabana Azmi, as Saleem's grandmother, from the film.)

There is something funny, too, about the English delivery of most of the actors in the film.  The problem may be Rushdie's dialogue, Mehta's direction, or some kind of bad interaction between the two.  The characters occasionally emit a phrase or two in Hindi, for immersive effect I suppose, but this code-switching is more jarring than atmospheric, especially because the rhythm of their speech tends to sound so much more natural in Hindi.

But enough dwelling on flaws.  There is more than enough beauty in Midnight's Children to make it satisfying while it's happening.  The story's central symbolic idea is that the generation born into independent India are united by ties deeper than their superficial differences in religion, social status, customs, education.  In telling this story, Rushdie draws on traditions of magical realism - the children born in that first hour of independence are granted paranormal abilities.  But he also draws on the broad popular traditions of Hindi films - the midnight baby-switch engineered by the maternity nurse, Mary (Seema Biswas), is a fully masala touch.  The boys who have switched places grow up crossing each other's paths, on opposite sides of the chasm of class, on opposite sides of the law, and even on opposite sides of the India-Pakistan border.  This is the stuff of several blockbuster fillums rolled into one.   

Saleem's own peregrinations reach across class and political borders as well.  As a boy (played by Darsheel Safary) of a wealthy Muslim family, he travels from a lush Bombay bungalow to a lush Karachi haveli, where he plays a small part in helping his uncle, the bombastic General Zulfikar (Rahul Bose) plan a coup.  Later, as young man (Satya Bhabha) he loses his memory, gets dropped (quite literally) in East Pakistan during the battle for Bangladeshi independence, finds his way to a cramped Delhi slum, and thence into prison.   Saleem not only contains within his magical nose the power to draw all the diverse children of India into the same room; he contains, within his own life, a diverse sampling of the vast range of experiences that belong to the children of the subcontinent. 

Deepa Mehta's contribution to this story is to populate it with talented actors and bring it to life with brilliant visual power.  The casting is is largely a rounding up of the usual suspects, an art-house family reunion - Anupam Kher, Shabana Azmi, Rahul Bose, Seema Biswas, Kulbhushan Kharbanda.  The latter is delightful in a smallish but important role as Picture Singh, the Rajasthani patriarch of the Delhi slum where some of the film's later episodes take place. His gruff, avuncular presence is thoroughly engaging and convincing.  Seema Biswas - always one of my favorite actors - is a shining star here, giving a performance of emotional depth that spans decades of narrative.  Her Mary harbors her secret - that she switched baby Saleem with the itinerant street performer's son Shiva to give the poor boy a rich life and vice versa - until the guilt nearly breaks her, and Seema Biswas is masterful at conveying that kind of internal turmoil with the lines of her tired brow and the set of her sad mouth.  Siddharth is dry and filmi as the grown-up Shiva, who makes an off-screen transformation between gruff Tapori brawler and decorated military hero; Siddharth seems to channel Amitabh Bachchan and a kind of evil Vinod Khanna by turns.  Other notables in the cast include Rajat Kapoor, very dashing (and incredibly tall) as Saleem's grandfather, and Soha Ali Khan, serviceable (I guess) as Saleem's sister.  And one of the film's strongest performances comes from Shriya Saran, an obviously gifted actor from mostly Tamil and Telugu films who was previously unknown to me.  She plays Parvati, another of Midnight's Children who, in a symbolic way, bridges the gap between Saleem and Shiva, closing the circle that binds the children of independence into a whole that can forge India's future.

It is Mehta's visuals, though, not the who's-who cast, that make the most memorable moments of Midnight's Children.  At their best, the visuals are not just pretty but also rich with symbolism, such as the preoponderance of green in General Zulfikar's home that conveys the thickness of Pakistani nationalism in the air; Zufikar's wife, Saleem's aunt, is always clad in a green sari and is even named Emerald.  From a breathtaking Bombay sunset to the dusty but bright colors of a Delhi slum, Mehta uses color the way Rushdie uses class and social status and political borders, to paint the diversity of Indian experiences in vivid and palpable symbolism.  The movie may not hang together any more closely than the Republic does, but at its best it conveys some of the Republic's richness, strength, and beauty. 

 

Kannathil muthamittal (2002)

கன்னத்தில் முத்தமிட்டால்

Dir. Mani Ratnam

As highly regarded as Mani Ratnam is, I have often been told that his Tamil movies are better than his Hindi ones. I can believe it. I have been rather hard on those of his Hindi movies that I have seen. Perhaps because they are so often ravingly praised, I have unfair expectations. They have struck me as uneven in tone, unsure what kind of movies they wanted to be, what message they wanted to send.

Kannathil muthamittal ("a peck on the cheek"), in contrast, is nearly flawless. It is a simple story, simply told, unburdened by melodramatic embellishments or unrealistic characters. These clean lines, these relatable characterizations, allow the movie to explore some large, dense themes without tying itself in intractable knots. Dil se obscures its examination of terrorism with Shah Rukh Khan's hammy and under-motivated stalker romance. Yuva is severely compromised by its absurd superman character who takes bullets and falls off bridges without ever wavering in courage or commitment. But Kannathil muthamittal ranges from an adopted child's search for her identity to the vicious horrors of Sri Lanka's internecine conflicts without ever losing its emotional mooring.

Shyam Benegal's movies often probe big, society-shaking themes and events through close studies of the experiences of a small number of people. One does not always need an expansive cast and an epic storyline to examine rangy ideas. Mani Ratnam succeeds with Kannathil muthamittal because it, too, focuses a tight lens on a small family. Thiruchelvan (Madhavan) and Indira (Simran) adopt a baby girl born in a Tamil Nadu refugee camp to M.D. Shyama (Nandita Das), who has fled the fighting in Sri Lanka between Tamil Tiger fighters and the Sri Lankan army.  On her ninth birthday, the girl, Amudha (P.S. Keerthana) learns of her adoptive origins, and demands to meet her mother.  Her parents, burdened by guilt and concern for their headstrong little girl, take her to Sri Lanka in search of Shyama.

It is arguably foolish of this family to walk straight into a war zone as they do, all for the demands of an imperious child. The film seems not to judge them for this bad decision, however.  We see Indira's anguish at Amudha's suffering, her guilt at perpetrating the implied deception of adoption, and her helplessness in the face of Amudha's drive; the little girl runs away from home twice, set on finding her own way to Sri Lanka, so it is hard to blame her parents for taking her there.  And the family seems genuinely unprepared for what they find there, as if the remoteness of the conflict from their comfortable air-conditioned Madras home left them with little awareness of it, no framework in which to form expectations.  They are naive in their bold forays, even while accompanied by a local guide (Prakash Raj).  They find themselves buffeted in the confusion of a flood of refugees, shelled by army artillery even as they flee their village.  They find themselves rubbing elbows with suicide bombers, and caught in the crossfire of rifle and grenade battles.  They even find themselves in the jungle, surrounded by suspicious fighters who point guns to their heads and demand they prove their loyalties.  In the Sri Lanka the family visits, violence is a way of life.

It is perhaps the film's main message that being aware of this conflict, telling its stories, is of crucial importance to the individual lives that are rent by it.  Thiruchelvan is himself a storyteller, a writer; if he had not been hearing and telling the stories of refugees in the camp where Shyama gave birth, he and Indira and Amudha would never have come together to form a family.  And so Kannathil muthamittal tells their story, Amudha's and Shyama's and Thiruchelvan's and Indira's.  It tells those stories, not with a sweeping focus that outlines the grand history of Tamil/Sinhalese conflicts, but with an intimate focus on a child's perspective.  In a child's eye, the violence is not only senseless, but irrelevant.  All that matters is the connections of love, the connections that bind families together. 

Much of Kannathil muthamittal's expression of the love in Amudha's family is told impressionistically during the movie's gorgeous A.R. Rahman songs.  In these stunning picturizations, Amudha dances and cuddles and plays with each of her parents (Indira in the title song, and Thiruchelvan in "Nenjil Jil Jil") across diverse, colorful dreamscapes like those of the songs of Dil se.  These picturizations are paintings in motion, visual poetry singing the family's love.   Another song, "Vidai Kodu," presents the harsh, dirty anguish of a vast train of refugees against the stark beauty of thunderclouds and wilderness.  Red clay soil and the army-green of tank convoys splash the backdrop of this canvas on which the brightly-colored clothes of the refugees are anything but cheerful.

This thematic juxtaposition between the vastness of the civil war and the depth of the family's love is what makes Kannathil muthamittal its own effective and moving story.  It is how the movie can say so much, without trying to do too much. Mani Ratnam's Bombay takes a similar approach, and is equally effective.  It is not for nothing that these are by far the two best I've seen of his movies.  It may also be not for nothing that they are both written and shot in Tamil.

Celebrating 100 - er, 70 - years of Indian cinema

May 3, 2013 is the date that has been generally agreed upon as the centennial of Indian cinema.  It marks the 100th anniversary of the release of Dadasaheb Phalke's Raja Harishchandra, arguably the first Indian-made feature film.

Movie magazines are celebrating the centennial, as are critics and commentators all over the Internet.  And now Filmi Geek is, too.  I have not yet seen Raja Harishchandra.  Indeed, I have not yet seen any movie older than Kismet, now 70.   And my own adventures with Indian movies began only eight years ago.  There are dozens upon dozens of cherished, wonderful Hindi movies I have yet to see, and I can't even be said to scratch the surface of Indian films in other languages - I can count on one hand the number of movies I've seen in Bengali or Tamil or Telugu. 

But that won't stop me from marking this centennial.  And so, here is a quick rundown of a few of the movies that I think are the best and most defining of each decade I've sampled.   I've only seen a few hundred Indian movies altogether, so there are many gaps in my knowledge.  And of course I don't have the space to highlight every significant film here or every film I have enjoyed (that is what the rest of this blog is for).  I hope you will use the comments to share your opinions and help me learn.

 

 

1940s

I haven't yet seen very many movies of the 1940s, but of the few I have seen, one stands out for its subversive themes and its influence on Hindi movies for decades to come:  Kismet.  There are more 1940s movies I want to see, like Anmol ghadi and others.  But I feel certain that if you have never seen a pre-Partition Indian movie, this is a great place to start.  Ashok Kumar at his dashing, understated best as a rogue with a heart of gold; a long-lost son reuinited with his family; a woman who gets pregnant before marriage and has a happy ending anyway; a patriotic song that thumbs its nose at the Raj - what more can you ask from a movie?

 

 

1950s

The yin and yang of this decade might be the pensive, brooding artistry of Guru Dutt and the broad showmanship of Raj Kapoor.   For me, as much as I admire Pyaasa and the ethereal grace of Waheeda Rehman, Shree 420 is one of my favorite Hindi movies of all time, with its flawless mixture of substance, sentiment, and pure delight.

But even more than that, the fresh beauty of Madhubala embodies the 1950s.  When Madhubala smiles, her warmth reaches out of the screen and wraps around you comforting as a hug.  My favorite Madhubala movie - indeed, my favorite Hindi movie - is Chalti ka naam gaadi.  This morning, I happened to hear "Ek ladki bheegi bhaagi si" while I was driving to work, and just thinking about the delicious romance between Kishore and Madhubala, the way his antics soften her indignation and draw out her sleepy smile, was enough to melt the tension of a hard week.    

Elsewhere in India, the 1950s belong to Satyajit Ray, the decade in which he established himself as one of the world's most sensitive and profound filmmakers with the Apu Trilogy.  I am sorry to say that to date I have only seen the third of these, Apur sansar - but that will change, soon.

 

 

1960s

Oh, how I love the 1960s.  Hindi films made the most of the bold styles of this decade.  From  Sharmila Tagore's bouffant to a dashing young Shashi Kapoor in stovepipe pants to Shammi's shimmy to the emergence of R.D. Burman's inimitable sound, the go-go era was made for Bollywood.  To me, the movies that epitomize this style the most are Jewel Thief, Teesri manzil, and Waqt.  

There is another strain in the 1960s, though.  While films like Jewel Thief glorify and even fetishize the influences of the West, films like Jab jab phool khile challenge and question them.  These tensions between East and West, between tradition and modernity, the friction of one against the other and the young republic's uniquely Indian blending and reconciliation of them - these are the themes reflected so richly in the movies of the 1960s, and why it is my favorite decade of Hindi films.

 

 

1970s

This decade can almost be summed up in two words:  Amitabh Bachchan.  This is the decade of the Angry Young Man, and the towering Amitabh Bachchan at the center of it all.  Established in Deewaar, brought to brooding perfection in Sholay, this character captured the angst of India wracked by political turmoil.  For me as an outsider, watching these supremely entertaining and amazingly rich movies has been a terrific way to imbibe a cultural history of modern India.  

The 70s is also the decade of masala at its zenith, and Amitabh Bachchan is right there in the middle of that too, teaming up with Manmohan Desai for incomparable movies like Amar Akbar Anthony. Such movies are for me an initiation of sorts; it took me a few tries to surrender to the aesthetic, but once I did, I never looked back.  There is nothing more satisfying than a masala smorgasbord.

The 1970s is a decade owned by Salim-Javed, those masters of entertainment that perfectly blends the populist and profound.  This is something Hindi movies do uniquely well - a significant reason why they have grabbed and held my attention.  It is a decade dominated by the groovy soundtracks of R.D. Burman and Laxmikant-Pyarelal - the first filmi music I ever heard, music that was a revelation to me and drew me ever deeper into its world.  Really, what's not to love? 

Still I can't discuss the 1970s without a mention of "parallel cinema," its contribution to my trajectory into Hindi films, launched by Shabana Azmi and the films of Shyam Benegal.  Few directors can map enormous social problems onto close studies of a few lives, the way Benegal can, in movies like Ankur.

 

 

1980s

This decade and the next are where my experience of Hindi films is weakest.  I think of them as dire times, characterized by aging heroes, rapey and regressive storylines, and styling that burns the modern retina.   Movies I have seen from this era, even sentimental favorites, seem often to separate desi from firang - they are the movies that are hardest to get, as an outsider, without the benefit of nostalgia. 

That said, the 1980s also saw a wonderful strain of delicate, thoughtful filmmaking, like the works wrought from the mind of Sai Paranjpe.  It is hard to believe that the same couple of years saw the unutterably dire Himmatwala and the masterfully tender Chashme Buddoor, but there it is.  For every Tezaab, there is a Masoom or an Arth, movies that tell mature stories from a woman's perspective.  And so, while the dreadful movies they were wasted in may dull the bloom of my love for the likes of Madhuri Dixit and Sridevi, at least the 1980s offer much to appeal to my sensitivity and intellect.  It's not all rape and bad hair.   

 

1990s

Numeric decades are arbitrary, of course; real social and cultural change happens on its own time, without consideration for nicely rounding our calendars.  And so, as far as Hindi films go, you might argue that the 1990s arguably began in 1988, with Qayamat se qayamat tak.  When I think of the kind of hero and the kind of masala romance that characterizes the 90s, I can see QSQT as the dawn of that era. 

The 90s to me are another decade I just don't know much about, though desis my age or slightly younger remember it with that tenacious nostalgic love that attaches to what was in the air at the time you came of age.  And so when I mention a movie like Hum aapke hain kaun (one of the first mainstream Hindi movies I ever saw, one that I love despite being utterly baffled the first time through), the reactions are mixed - either unselfconscious adoration, or grudging admission that "I saw it 14 times in the theater as a teenager but now I can't stand it." 

Same for the era-defining and starmaking Dilwale dulhaniya le jayenge - my review, written years ago, went easier on this movie than I would go today, as I find it regressive and its hero unutterably obnoxious.  Like it or not, though, I can see how this movie epitomizes the 1990s.

 

2000s

Modern Hindi films have a different set of sensibilities, unfolding as the nation and the many cultures it contains evolve and change.  The 2000s saw the beginning of the multiplex era, a new diversification of themes and tones and styles in movies that no longer tried to be all things to all audiences.  And yet the 2000s is also the era of the massive blockbuster; each year seems to bring a new record-breakingly popular movie. 

The 2000s is, of course, the decade in which Hindi films found me, and so I associate many of its movies with my earliest forays into their world.  Rang de basanti was the first Hindi movie I ever saw in a theater.  But the defining movie of the 2000s, to me, has to be Lagaan.  I love nearly everything about this movie, and I love the way it raised the bar for production quality in Hindi movies.  Hindi movies have so much to offer, so much richness, that they do themselves a disservice when they fail to give full attention to craft and technique.  Lagaan was not the first movie to do this, but it did serve as a reminder to the industry that such care can elevate a good movie into an unforgettable one.

 

2010s

This decade has only just begun, and I might even say it's a new Golden Era of Hindi movies.  The rich diversity of the multiplex era is in full swing and I really believe there is no limit to what Hindi movies can do.  The freedom to tell a wider range of stories, and to reach audiences that are hungry to hear these stories told - makes the future of Hindi movies as bright as any era in the past. 

It's an amusing exercise to think about what movies of this decade might be remembered and cherished 30 or 50 years hence.  When I first saw Band baaja baaraat, in its thrall, I made some bold and probably rather silly predictions about its place in history - though I still love the movie madly.  Delhi Belly represents a shift in focus, from idealized archetypal heroes to an urban ennui that must be terrifically relatable to the growing throngs of educated urban youth.  Perhaps English Vinglish heralds a channel for stories about mature women - as a woman myself on the threshold of middle age, I can hope so.  Kahaani represents a growing strain that does for Hindi movies what R.D. Burman did for filmi music - borrows storytelling modes from the west and absorbs them, integrates them, into stories that are still thoroughly Indian in their telling. 

100 years of Indian cinema, such a magnificent gift to the world.  Thank you, and here's to 100  more.

 

Parash pathar (1958)

পরশ পাথর

Dir. Satyajit Ray

Though perhaps lacking in the depth and multi-layered richness of his later films or his Apu Trilogy, Satyajit Ray's Parash pathar ("Philosopher's stone") is a simple, familiar story, delicately and charmingly told. Its everyman protagonist, Pareshchandra Dutta (Tulsi Chakravarty), is middling in every way - middle class, middle aged, spreading around the middle, a middling bureaucrat with a better than middling chance of losing his job in the near future.

When Pareshchandra finds a stone that can transform ordinary objects into gold, he begins to fantasize about how the windfall can change his life, and even his daydreams are modest. He imagines himself saluting an honor guard of Indian soldiers; he dreams of a garlanded statue in his memory standing humbly in a city park. Even when he leverages his easy wealth to a place of recognition and adulation in high society, he does so with positive, not negative, influence:  He supports cultural programs that celebrate Bengali heritage, and makes generous charitable donations even to the most humble of causes.  While he moves himself and his wife into a gracious bungalow, he maintains the same solitary servant (Jahar Roy) who had worked for him in his cramped, crumbling flat. This servant - hilariously - hurries to change clothes as he rushes from one role to the next, driver to butler to chai-server. Even as a grand man, Pareshchandra remains simply hewn and relatable.

How far out of his element Pareshchandra has ventured becomes clear when his young assistant Priyotosh (Kali Banerjee) tells him he has been invited to a cocktail party.  Pareshchandra beams like a child; he seems never to have experienced anything as thrilling as a cocktail party in his life, and he skips from the office exclaiming "Cocktail! Cocktail!", trying on the unfamiliar idea with delight. At the party, though, he is awkward and unsuited.  He fails to make conversation with any of the other guests. He becomes desperately drunk (in a drunk scene too vividly real and viscerally stomach-churning to be especially funny), and in a frantic bid to remain interesting to the high-society crowd, reveals the supernatural source of his wealth.  Pareshchandra's downfall from here is unsurprising to anyone familiar with this kind of story, from any culture.

In the greater society's response to this revelation of instant gold for the taking, Parash pathar finally begins to take on some of the broader allegorical significance that one expects of Ray films. The rich react with greed (which the modest Pareshchandra had himself mostly avoided), and society at large reacts with hysteria, throwing the gold market into chaos.  It is easy to read this as a thin allegory for the function of world economies, especially for a film made at a time when many nations were debating the abandonment of the gold standard (though India itself was on a different precious-metal standard, silver).

For the most part, though, Parash pathar is a straightforward, unnuanced, and very funny fable about the dangers of greed and the non-negotiable truth that there is no such thing as a free lunch. What makes it most enjoyable are the touches of Ray's nascent craft - his use of surprising camera angles, a restrained and unusually light and evocative soundtrack, and his willingness to let Tulsi Chakravarty play to the cheap seats. Chakravarty is by no means a pretty man, but he is a master of broad, expressive physical comedic acting. His bulging eyes, fishy, fleshy lips, and enormous pot belly are almost characters in their own right. The way Charkavarty controls them, delivering their lines in perfect complement, elevates this simple fable into memorable cinematic and comedic art.