Filmi Geek

Happy New Year (2014)

Dir. Farah Khan

I didn't hate Happy New Year as much as I expected to. 

That extremely faint praise is a sign of how far the mighty can fall.   Seven years ago I began my review of Om Shanti Om with the words "God bless Farah Khan."  And though I misread Main Hoon Na the first time I saw it, it grew on me with rewatching.  So it says something - and not something terribly flattering - that I went into Happy New Year with dire expectations indeed. 

And in many respects, Happy New Year met those low expectations.  The opening sequence is painful, an interminable, violent, and totally gratuitous fight sequence featuring Shah Rukh Khan, covered in mud and hosed down in extreme slow-mo.  The introduction of Sonu Sood doubles the shirtless muscley-chest quotient, which I guess is okay if you are into that sort of thing.  Sood's character has hearing damage, so his main contribution to the story is an endless and thoroughly unfunny string of misheard words. ("I'm Laila."  "Kela?  Oh I love bananas."  Yes, really.)  Abhishek Bachchan is as goofily cute as always, except for his character's bizarre trait: the ability to throw up on demand.  (Who even thinks up such things?)  And a good third of the movie goes by before the movie offers us anything resembling a woman, save the shrill, obnoxious elderly mother of Boman Irani's character.  

The one female main character, when finally introduced, is Mohini (Deepika Padukone), brought on board to teach our band of misfits (the gentlemen listed above, plus the ever-adorable naif, Vivaan Shah, as a youthful hacker-nerd) to dance, so that they can enter a dance competition that will put them in proximity of a batch of diamonds they would like to steal for entirely noble and principled reasons.   Mohini has some potential and Deepika Padukone is lovely and at times almost fierce.  Yet when she's not teaching the team to dance, she's serving them tea (!) and sewing their costumes (!!).  It seems she isn't hired just to be their dance teacher but also their mother and maidservant.  But what really shoots the legs out from any personality Mohini might want to have is that she falls in love with Charlie (Shah Rukh Khan) only because he speaks English, and remains in love with him despite hearing him say awful, deplorable, degrading, and cruel things about her - not just once, but twice.  For some who prattles on about "ijjat" as much as Mohini, she sure doesn't demand a lot of respect from the man she loves.

This is the problem with Happy New Year:  The more I think, the more it crumbles.  I am not usually an advocate of checking your brain at the door while watching Hindi films - you will miss a lot of richness if you do - but Happy New Year almost demands it.  Despite its many weaknesses - the patently stupid plot points, the juvenile snickering at homosexuality, the almost complete neglect of female characters, and on and on - while it is happening, it is mostly watchable.  Its full three-hour runtime went by pretty quickly, in a cinema full of laughing people.  It's full of the kind of self-referential jokes with which Farah Khan loves to stuff her movies, and most of these are reasonably cute.  The characters acknowledge the filmi nature of Abhishek's "double role" - he plays both a member of the team and the son of the chief bad guy, whom he impersonates, Don-style, at a key point in the heist.  Mohini's introduction is a nod to Tezaab, coming in a nightclub full of fans chanting "Mohini! Mohini!" A brief appearance by Prabhu Deva also evokes classic Madhuri, as he reprises some moves from "Kay sera sera." 

There are flashes of the smartness that was much more consistent in Main Hoon Na and Om Shanti Om.  The very notion of a dance competition as the dramatic focus of a movie is pure throwback - think Disco Dancer and Hum Kisise Kum Nahin - that most filmmakers who are not Farah Khan would not even consider updating.  And the smartest and funniest moment comes during that competition, when Mohini tries to pep-talk the team (at this stage Mohini isn't in on the heist plan) with an adaptation of the "sattar minute" speech from Chak de India, while Shah Rukh Khan rolls his eyes in winking exasperation.  Somehow, in the moment, these signs of life make it possible to forgive the unutterably stupid (like a completely baffling scene in which the characters have a telepathic conversation in an elevator), the juvenile, even the offensive.  Somehow, on balance, I smiled more than I groaned.   

 

 

Love in Tokyo (1966)

Dir. Pramod Chakravorty

It's tough for a movie set in an “exotic” locale to convey a sense of place without resorting to stereotypes, and Love in Tokyo doesn't even really try. Its stars do a little bit of frolicking in front of recognizable Tokyo landmarks, but they do even more prancing about in broad simulacra of Japanese types. Leading up to the song “Sayonara Sayonara” our heroine Asha (Asha Parekh) minces around in a kimono and sandals, waving a fan about, in an exaggerated performance of stereotypical Japanese maidenhood, complete with a put-on accent. Elsewhere in the movie, the hero's buddy Mahesh (Mehmood) finds himself hiding in a geisha house where he, of course, dons full geisha regalia (including porcelain make-up) and distracts the hapless and stupid father (Dhumal) of the girl Mahesh wants to marry. This is just about as broad and unappealing as it sounds.

Mehmood is not the only actor who gets to do some cross-dressing in Love in Tokyo. Early in the movie, Asha flees from Pran (Pran), who is scheming with Asha's uncle Madan (Madan Puri; writer Sachin Bhowmick didn't work too hard at character names) to marry her and make off with her presumed inheritance. Pran puts a price on Asha's return, and to evade capture, she dresses as a Sardar. Portrayals of women in drag are usually of more interest to me than men in drag; they are rarer, and implicate a subtler and more subsersive set of power dynamics. This one, though, is played only for comedy, and is mostly played down; Asha Parekh's performance of Punjabi masculinity is less affected, less physical and thorough, than her performance of stereotyped Japanese femininity. Asha may emit the occasional “Oi!” but she does not alter her presentation much beyond the costume itself. Her voice remains unaltered; she puts no swagger in her walk. There isn't much more here than a girl looking cute in a boy costume.

   
Ethnic drag, gender drag.

Still, if you're capable of just rolling your eyes at the substitution of stereotype for comedy, rather than becoming indignant and turning off the film in disgust (which would be a perfectly legitimate response, I must acknowledge), Love in Tokyo has its charms. There are some very entertaining songs(*). In “Koi matwala aaya mere dware,” Asha performs a sparkly and lovely, if more or less inexplicable, classical Indian dance on Japanese television, and the romantic songs are very sweet too. Even Mehmood's comic side plot is fairly developed and has some fun moments, as he wheedles and schemes to marry the girl he loves over her father's objections. This culminates in a Mission: Impossible-style impersonation of the father's choice of son-in-law (Asit Sen), accomplished via a super-accurate mask and wig that just happen to be lying around. And as our hero Ashok, Joy Mukherjee is serviceable; he's a good-looking fellow, and if he's a little bland and serious, he makes so much the better straight man for Mehmood's broad, loud comedy and Asha Parekh's own excellent comic skills.

Indeed, Love in Tokyo is at its best when Asha Parekh is being funny, whether in her Sardar avatar, or sparring with Ashok's bratty little nephew Chikoo (the plot device that brings Ashok to Tokyo in the first place). When she is on screen showing off the same physicality that made her performance in Caravan so delightful, Love in Tokyo flies by and is great fun to watch (even in that questionable “Sayonara” song). But when her storyline turns dramatic, she retreats into a sort of generic innocent-heroine avatar that is a lot less engaging.

It's not Asha Parekh's fault, but they way her character shrinks in presence is of a piece with the general bumping off the rails in Love in Tokyo's second half, in which, like many a masala movie, it gets a little dull and draggy. Lalita Pawar gives her trademark haughty rich maa performance in an unnecessary plot derail in which Asha proves her worth as a potential daughter-in-law by volunteering to sacrifice her own eyes to save Ashok's sight. (Fortunately, a medical miracle occurs and the transplant is not needed – forcing this poor girl to give up an organ for love is a bridge too far, for a movie that is mostly romantic comedy.) But at that point, it feels like you're checking boxes on your bingo card – Lalita Pawar spouts some pious, pompous, and blatantly unjust lines? Check. One of the villains (Madan, in this case) has a dramatic last-second change of heart and is promptly murdered by Pran? Check.  Hero and villain have exciting mid-air melee in which helicopter flies itself when both are too busy fighting?(**)  Check.  None of this is bad; it's the stuff of a decent rainy-day timepass. What sticks with me most is the inane yet tenacious earworm of the title song: Mohammed Rafi belting “Jaaapaaaaaaan, Love in Tokyooooooo!”

(*) Love in Tokyo is packed full of musical references to other movies. I caught three of them; there may be more. During a ridiculous sequence in which Mehmood has stepped into some chemical goo that gives him the ability to fly (seriously) the background score picks up Gumnaam's “Hum kaale hain to kya hua.” At another point the background score dips into the melody of “Dheere se jaana khatiyan mein,” from Chhupa Rustam (a movie that came after Love in Tokyo; is it a traditional melody or what?). And there is another sequence in which Mehmood breaks into “Bol Radha Bol” from Sangam.

(**) Free advice for filmmakers:  Slicing off Pran's hand in the helicopter blades and showing us the bloody stump isn't strictly necessary.

   
Lalita Pawar prays to something or other; Asha on Japanese TV; Chikoo

 

Yeh nazdeekiyan (1982)

यह नज़दीकियाँ

Dir. Vinod Pande

I have watched quite a few rotten movies out of love for Shabana Azmi.  I did not enjoy the dour, crotchety Avtaar, which tries to send a message about respecting one's elders, and winds up just shaking its fist at kids today, those selfish, unfeeling jerks.  Nor do I have much nice to say about the amateurish Morning Raga, which looks as if someone filmed Shabana ji giving a master class to a bunch of undertalented young actors.  So Yeh nazdeekiyan is far from the worst film I have ever watched for the sake of Shabana-pyaar - that dubious distinction goes to the truly execrable Son of Pink Panther, with Gaja Gamini snagging honorable mention - but it is not much better than Avtaar or Morning Raga.  

Yeh nazdeekiyan gets legitimate points for boldness - not the superficial boldness of its clutchy, gaspy sex scenes between Parveen Babi and Marc Zuber, but the more substantive boldness of a consensual open marriage, an idea that makes many people squirm even today, in east and west alike.  And of course Shabana Azmi is perfect in it, in her familiar avatar of the wronged wife who discovers a self-actualized identity in the shards of a broken marriage.  This is the kind of role that Aparna Sen said she could not give to Shabana ji, lest the casting spoil the story - because everyone knows how the arcs of such characters go when played by Shabana Azmi.  But her performance is satisfying to watch all the same, understated, poised yet emotional.  It is a comfortable space for both Shabana ji and her fans, Shabana Azmi comfort food.

 

She is the sine qua non of my love for Hindi films. Le sigh! Also her dad Kaifi Azmi has a great cameo.

But despite Shabana ji's best efforts at a delicate touch, too much of Yeh nazdeekiyan is ham-fisted, like those cringey sex scenes, or Marc Zuber's allegedly charming flirtations which ring stiff and false in both scripting and performance.   And too much of it is rambly and simply not well-crafted enough for all its earnest ideas and its one good performance to hold the day.  It means well, but makes the worst misstep a movie can make: it is boring. 

 

Still, it has a few nice directorial touches. Here, reciprocal jealousy at two different points in the film, conveyed with parallel shots and cleverly-chosen book titles in the display.

In the beginning of the film, Shobhana (Azmi) and Sunil (Zuber) share a marriage that seems buoyant with both passion and love.  Sunil, an advertising director, is something of a philanderer.  At first it seems Shobhana is being played, but when a friend confronts her about it, Shobhana astonishingly explains that Sunil's excursions do not concern her.  That's just a matter of the body, she says. She has Sunil's heart, which is the important thing.  

But Sunil's heart does soon stray toward one of his dalliances, or at least he thinks it does, for a while.  The woman is Kiran (Parveen Babi), a sriracha-hot model whom Sunil is shooting for one of his commercials.  When they meet, Kiran's friends dare her to make a pass at Sunil.  But he is cold to her advances, and the snub drives Kiran to an obsession with winning his attention.  In other words, Kiran falls for Sunil only because he shows no interest in her at all.    This is an ugh-worthy way to write a female character and a romance.  I have to acknowledge, though, that it is not entirely unrealistic - this sort of thing does happen.  And so I cannot accuse Yeh nazdeekiyan of lazy scriptwriting on this score, just unappealing scriptwriting. 

 

But, Parveen Babi!  On the beach!  In slow motion!

And speaking of unappealing, Marc Zuber is about as uncharismatic a wet noodle of an actor as one could cast opposite the presence of Shabana Azmi and the breathless heat of Parveen Babi.  He broods, he mopes, he sets his jaw; it's not even an unconvincing performance so much as it is an uninteresting one.  Coupled with the weak foundation of Sunil's relationship with Kiran, Zuber's flatness drains the energy from a movie that seems to plod on for weeks.

The message of Yeh nazdeekiyan seems to be that the deep bond of love that is formed of a true understanding between two people is of more value than a superficially shiny attraction, however passionate.  Shabana Azmi has said that she thought Yeh nazdeekiyan, with its forgiveness and reconciliation, would be a surefire hit, but she later found that the ending of Arth resonated more strongly with women in the audience yearning for a reflection of their frustrations. (Arth is also a better movie in every aspect of its execution by a long way, so the comparison is not entirely rigorous.)  In Arth, Shabana Azmi's character choose not to return to her husband and her old life, after learning to her surprise that she could provide for herself and live fulfilled and contented without a husband.  In Yeh nazdeekiyan, Shobhana learns these things too, launching a successful music career after she leaves Sunil.  But she still elects to take him back when he asks her to.  

That is not an entirely unfeminist ending; Shobhana makes the choice freely, without loss of agency, and there is nothing to suggest her career will not continue once the marriage is repaired. So perhaps Yeh nazdeekiyan escapes the reset-button criticism that has been leveled at another self-discovery story, English Vinglish, in which Sridevi's character's self-actualization comes to an end upon her cheerful return to an apparently unaltered version of her previous life.  The difference there is that while Sridevi's character learns a lot about herself during the movie, her husband does not; there is no parallel narrative for him.  In Yeh nazdeekiyan, to its credit, Sunil learns lessons of his own.  He starts the movie with an acknowledged roving eye, and ends with a greater understanding of the precious and unique relationship he has with Shobhana.  Ironically, the most feminist aspect of Yeh nazdeeekiyan may be wrapped up in this point:  The defeat of patriarchal oppression requires not only the awakening of women, but the profound changing of men.  

 

Films and the City

Hello folks - I've got a review or two in the pipeline but in the meantime please read and share my latest column in Outlook, about that wonderful feedback loop between visiting India and watching its movies.

Also, Filmi Geek turned 8 earlier this month.  That is rather hard to believe.