Filmi Geek

Howrah Bridge (1958)

IndieQuill's post about Madhubala and Ashok Kumar prompted me to pull out Howrah Bridge, a film I'd been meaning to watch for some time.  Madhubala alone is plenty to keep my eyes fixed to the screen, and this marvelous tale of the Calcutta underworld offers even more than that.

The ex-pat businessman Prem Kumar (Ashok Kumar) rushes to Calcutta from his home in Rangoon when he learns that his brother Madan (Chaman Puri) has been found murdered on the city's famous Howrah Bridge. Before his murder Madan stole their family's priceless heirloom, a jeweled dragon mask, and Prem determines both to recover the mask and bring his brother's killers to justice.  With the help of his tanga driver Shyamu (Om Prakash), Prem finds his way into a hotel run by Joe (Dhumal) and one run by Chang (Madan Puri), where he encounters a loose federation of smugglers including Chang, Pyarelal (K.N. Singh), and Joe's niece, the singer Edna (Madhubala).  Giving a false name, Rakesh, Prem attempts to infiltrate this underworld by romancing Edna.  But Shyamu's servant Bhiku (Sunder) witnessed the murder on Howrah Bridge.  His snooping raises Pyarelal's suspicion, and Pyarelal - who is also jealous of Edna's attention - attempts to turn the tables on Prem, framing him for Pyarelal's own crimes.  

For a film in the mystery-suspense genre, Howrah Bridge's mystery isn't particularly mysterious, its suspense not terribly suspenseful. We know from the first scenes who committed the murder and stole the artifact, and there is little in the way of twist or surprise to cast doubt on the inevitability of justice being done.  The love story, too, would have benefited greatly from subtler handling.  It's apparent from the story that Prem's initial interest in Edna is a fabrication, a pretense to get closer to the gang and its activities.  By failing to show us a clear turning point where Prem struggles against his pretended feelings becoming real, Howrah Bridge squanders an opportunity for satisfying dramatic tension.  

Despite these storytelling flaws, though, Howrah Bridge is engaging and entertaining all the way through.  Shadowy cinematography sets an appropriately noirish mood (enhanced by the poorly-preserved film that unfortunately comes out even darker than intended in the DVD).  Madhubala is delicious as always.  And the city of Calcutta, its skyline dominated by the titular bridge, offers an ever-present, ever-shifting and fascinating backdrop.  The film careens through its grimy streets, from seedy immigrant districts to ramshackle waterfront shanties to shady nightclubs. The city's better face is also shown, in the jaunty song "Sunoji yeh Calcutta hai," picturized on Om Prakash driving his tanga past Calcutta's bright parks, historic buildings, and scenic riverbanks.

There is a peculiar air of the exotic in all these scenes of Calcutta as well, and in Madan Puri's stereotypical yet weirdly compelling performance as Chang, with his arched brows and high-pitched, Chinese-inflected Hindi.  I don't know whether it's proper to apply the "Orientalist" label to Bombay movie that fetishizes still more eastern locales and types, but whatever name one gives it, I have the impression that exoticism is a significant part of the mood that Howrah Bridge aims to set.  The wonderful song "Mera naam Chin Chin Chu," which made a star of Helen, is one of the exotic jewels set front-and-center in this dragon-mask of a film.  If nothing else it shows what a difference make-up can make, as the part-Burmese, part-English Helen, who often looks so very western in later appearances, looks perfectly east Asian here, clad in a cheongsam and made up like a porcelain doll. 

The rest of the film's numerous songs are magnificent too, and really deserve repeat watchings.  From Madhubala's teasingly sexy club number "Aaiye meherbaan" to an enchanting Kashmiri dance performed by Mehmood and Minoo Mumtaz, and everything in between, the delightful O.P. Nayyar soundtrack is more than enough to land Howrah Bridge squarely among my favorites. 

Dil bole hadippa (2009)

दिल बोले हड़िप्पा

Romances and sports stories are challenging for storytellers.  When the conclusion is foregone - the couple will get together, the underdog hero will win the big game in the final play - it's no mean feat to keep the audience engaged and even in suspense.  Dil bole hadippa ("My heart cries hooray"), with the dual freight of being both romance and sports movie, succeeds triumphantly.  Delightful, funny, and sweet, this charming film had me on the edge of my seat - and grinning like a dope - right up until the very last ball.  

Veera Kaur (Rani Mukherjee) is a peppery Punjabi girl with a big dream: to play real competitive cricket.  She bets visitors to her dusty village pitch that they can't bowl her out before she hits six consecutive sixers - and she wins those bets, too, even against male professional all-rounders.  In nearby Amritsar, Vicky Singh (Anupam Kher), runs a cricket team who annually play a symbolically-charged cross-border match against a Pakistani team.  Singh, crestfallen when the Tigers lose that match for the ninth year in a row, imports his son Rohan (Shahid Kapoor) - a professional cricketer who has lived most of his life in London - to take over the team and train them to finally beat the Pakistani rivals.  Veera, confident that she's as good a player as there is, longs to try out for the team, but gets rudely turned away - no girls allowed.  That night, the lead actor in her uncle's dance troupe turns up too drunk to perform, and Veera is pressed into service as his understudy, donning his costume and performing as a lusty young Punjabi man.  After the show, as Veera removes her turban and peels off her mustache, inspiration strikes - if girls aren't welcome on the cricket pitch, she'll just have to be one of the guys.  With a fuzzy little fake beard and her hair tied up in a turban, Veera marches into the training pitch, introduces herself as Veer Pratap Singh, and wins a place on Rohan's team.  Living her dream, though, places Veera in a bit of a sticky wicket.  Romance blossoms between Rohan and Veera (who he thinks is his teammate Veer's sister), and Veera has her hands full keeping the charade going as they train for the match. 

Make no mistake - Dil bole hadippa is pure Yash Raj, mainstream Bollywood at its most mainstream and most Bollywood, with everything that implies, both magical and cheesy.  The dramatic moments skew manipulative and trite - appeals to filial duty, religious fervor, or patriotic pride are tearfully rendered over swelling strings.  And yet I watched the film - the first time through, at least - completely in the zone, and loved every second of it.  No small part of that is thanks to Rani Mukherjee, who throws herself with seemingly limitless energy into a very physical performance and appears to have the time of her life doing it. She is funny and completely adorable.  Shahid Kapoor is a serviceable chocolate hero - a much better than average dancer, which doesn't hurt - and their romance is sweet, a nice confection and easy to get behind.  The cricket manages to be fun and suspenseful too.  Despite the formulaic fetters, Dil bole hadippa hits every entertainment note just right, from Veera's stubborn vivacity to Veer's manically silly bravado, from the colorful and boisterous dance numbers (bhangra, of course) to the expansively beautiful shots of rural Punjab.   

The movie steers clear of any implicit or explicit homosexual ramifications, as are common in other stories of this type from Shakespeare to Victor Victoria.  For all his dewy-eyed gazing at Veera, Rohan does not show any signs of attraction to Veer (who is, in honesty, too weird to be sexually appealing to anyone).   Nevertheless, there is plenty of saucy double-entendre for those who are ready and willing to look for it.  In one song, Veera-in-drag brags about the boudoir prowess of Punjabi men while brandishing an enormous staff.  And, as she often reminds us, Veera is a switch-hitter - meaning, of course, only that she bats both right- and left-handed - but the nudge-nudge-wink-wink is ripe for the plucking.

Veera isn't above taking advantage of being one of the fellas, either.  In one scene, Rohan - angling for a date with Veera - asks Veer whether he thinks Rohan is a good-looking guy.  Veera-as-Veer gives him a long, leisurely look before responding, her eyes wandering up and down lasciviously as she checks him out in a delightful renversé of the traditional male gaze.  Not that there isn't plenty of the familiar of kind of male gaze - Rohan only becomes aware of his attraction to Veera after accidentally seeing her naked.  More than that, Veera has a weak romantic foil in the form of the slinky, scantily-clad westernized Soniya (Sherlyn Chopra), the kind of filmi vamp who gets her own leering theme melody.  While Soniya hardly turns Rohan's head for a moment and presents no real threat to Veera (who even has fun giving the vamp deliberately misguided romantic advice), the camera lingers far too long on her T & A for there to be any doubt what she's really doing in the movie. 

Indeed, Dil bole hadippa is not subtle with its portrayal of the westernized vamp as shallow, cheap, and ignorant.  And yet, it handles with some delicacy the question of how the girl who is supposed to represent the virtues of the seedhi-saadhi Hindustani ladki can yearn to hitch up her salwar and get out on the pitch.  Veera's speech at the film's climax drives home the movie's very important point, a rich nugget of substance that floats there in the tasty filmi froth:  it's possible to be a true Indian woman and still crave equality and respect for one's abilities. 

Caravan (1971)

कारवाँ

Fully five years ago now, when the door into the bright world of Hindi films had just begun to crack open for me, I picked up a couple of movies that had songs I had heard and liked.  Caravan was one such - on the strength of the famous "Piya tu ab to aaja" - but I somehow got the idea that the movie was bad, and never got around to watching it.  As has happened so often before, once I finally saw it, I kicked myself for waiting so long. 

When Rajan (Ravindra Kapoor) is caught with his hand in the company till, he murders the company's owner, Mohandas, and convinces Mohandas's daughter Sunita (Asha Parekh) to marry him.  The marriage is a ruse that Rajan planned with his girlfriend Monica (Helen) to get at Sunita's fortune, and Rajan intends to do away with his new bride just as he did her father.  But Sunita escapes and, posing as a simple village girl named Soni, falls in with a gypsy caravan heading to Bangalore.  Sunita's presence among the gypsies causes some strife, though; their top performer, Nisha (Aruna Irani) is jealous of the attention paid to Sunita by the gypsies' hired truck driver Mohan (Jeetendra).  And Rajan's men are still after Sunita as well, endangering them all.

The plot is light on substance, but no matter - the movie is utterly engaging and delightful all the same.  Jeetendra is charming and funny as Mohan - earnest, goofy, and somewhat deluded about his own intelligence, he emits a continuous stream of daft English malapropisms.  He is a skilled dancer and provides some decent physical comedy as well.  (Caravan was my first Jeetendra film but I'm certain it won't be my last.)  He's supported by two entertaining sidekicks, his little brother Montu (Mehmood Jr.) and the perpetually drunk but wonderfully soft-hearted Johnny (Kishen Mehta).  The chief of the gypsy tribe, Mithalal Tota (Madan Puri) is fatherly and fun, and the inimitable Manorama plays his wife, adding moments of her uniquely physical comedy to the mix.

And then there is Nisha, the delicious Aruna Irani, whose bare midsection is practically another character in the movie - it features prominently in several of Caravan's many wonderful R.D. Burman songs.  "Dilbar dil se pyari" is the most memorable of these.  Asha Parekh turns in a satisfyingly physical performance as well; her highlight also comes in a song, the comically absurd "Daiya yeh main kahan".  And of course there is the famous item number of Helen that brought me to this film in the first place those five years ago.

The story of Caravan pokes playfully at issues of class and culture, but is not heavy-handed about them.   Mohan insists that because of his "untocation" (his version of "edumacation") he deserves a classy, cultured girl, better than the ragged gypsy Nisha and even better than Sunita, who he thinks is a simple village girl.  The rich and educated Sunita doesn't share his snobbery, and the resolution of their romance feels to me a bit like a light-hearted twist on the end of Jab jab phool khile - Sunita throws off her high-class advantages and joins Mohan's dusty vagabond life, but not because of any haughty notions of traditionalism and Indianness.  Rather, she does it mostly out of love for him, and because the prospect of living as a widow in her dead father's house just can't be all that appealing. 

There are a few elements that rub the wrong way; I can't shake a feeling that I should not have enjoyed the film as much as I did.  Nisha is not merely spunky and spirited; her manic energy crosses the line into violently insane. And in rejecting her advances, Mohan tries to convince her to marry a member of the tribe so stupid that he can barely string a sentence together without drooling - clearly an awful match for the willful Nisha.  The film finds disturbing humor in violence against women, too, as when Mithalal Tota beats his wife because he thinks she has burned his lunch. 

Yet, I have forgiven more egregious anti-feminist sins in less entertaining movies.  Caravan's more cringe-worthy moments are amply redeemed by the sweet moments, and indeed by everything it delivers.  From Jeetendra's doofusy earnestness, to Asha Parekh's impressive talent for physical comedy, to the wonderful, colorfully-picturized songs that come fast and thick - not to mention the delectable midsection of Aruna Irani - Caravan is pretty much a big silly grin from beginning to end - an instant favorite. 

Katha (1983)

कथा

With Sparsh and Chashme buddoor, director Sai Paranjpe had already proved to me her great skill at presenting down-to-earth, real, sweet stories about believable characters, so I came to Katha ("fable") with high expectations.  I was not disappointed.

Rajaram Purshottam Joshi (Naseeruddin Shah) lives in a chawl, a kind of boarding house common in Bombay.  A hardworking office clerk, Rajaram is pleased when he is promoted to permanent status at his company, and looks forward to celebrating with his neighbor Sandhya (Deepti Naval), a charming girl with whom he is quite obviously smitten.  Soon Rajaram's childhood friend Vashudev (Farooq Shaikh) - he prefers the hip nickname "Washu" - arrives, and casts a spell over all the residents of the chawl - including Sandhya.  He even cons Rajaram's boss, landing himself a job as Rajaram's superior.  Rajaram sees through his friend's slick-talking charm, but with his gentle demeanor he is powerless to stop the juggernaut that is Washu in pursuit of something - or someone - that amuses him. 

Just as in Sparsh and Chashme buddoor, Sai Paranjpe shows her gentle touch in Katha, offering characters who are real, relatable, and engaging.  In particular, just like Chashme buddoor, Katha offers adorable humor without outlandishness, real-life believable situations that make the audience laugh because it's not difficult to project them onto ourselves and our neighbors.  The portrayal of life in the chawl is particularly charming and satisfying, and is itself a reason to see the movie for anyone interested in workaday Indian life.  The chawl is a tight-knit community is like a small village or, as one character in the film analogizes, a great joint family, in which individuals and families live in small flats centered on a common courtyard and shared water and other utilities.  There is a bitter barren woman who yells at children playing in the courtyard; a newlywed couple who rarely emerge from their rooms but whose giggles can be heard through the closed shutters; a disabled man who asks incessant favors from every visitor; a grandma who cooks yummy snacks for every young visitor she receives; a couple, whose son is a doctor in Canada, who love nothing more than to show off their richly appointed flat and their refrigerator and television; and more.  Paranjpe paints the inhabitants of this microcosm with great vividness and affection, and their interactions are tremendous fun to watch. 

The enjoyable bustle of the chawl forms a delightful backdrop for the interactions of the main players (they even serve as a Greek chorus of sorts, especially in the film's wonderful songs).  The principals' performances are all executed without flaw, especially those of Naseeruddin Shah and Farooq Shaikh.  Naseeruddin Shah is at his droopy, sad-sacky best; Rajaram wears his frustration physically as Washu runs circles around him, projecting a confused and adorable mixture of disdain and admiration for his friend's antics.  And Farooq Shaikh nails Washu's puff-chested confidence to perfection.  In Chashme buddoor, Farooq's character was charming in part because despite being marginally smarter and more competent than his friends, he was still mostly a dork.   The same is true here, with a faintly sinister edge since Washu is, at base, a con-man.  But the joke which Paranjpe lets the audience in on - a joke that escapes Washu - is that Washu is nothing more than a small-time con, not half the player he thinks is.  For example, while Washu both cons and cuckolds Rajaram's boss, it's established early on that the boss is a weak target, not a very bright guy to begin with.  The result is a sense of desperation and cheapness about Washu, as if he's conned his own low-watt self right along with the easy marks he chooses.   

And so, as in the titular fable that provides the film's bookends - the story of the tortoise and the hare - Katha ends with the satisfying feeling that the wheel will turn and both Washu and Rajaram will get what they deserve from the universe.  And we, the audience, get a warm, delightful, and utterly charming film, another very, very fine feather in Sai Paranjpe's cap. 

Chashme buddoor (1981)

चशमे बद दूर

Sai Paranjpe's Chashme buddoor ("begone, evil eye") is perhaps as close to perfect as a film can be.  It is a delicate romantic comedy peppered with affectionate parodies of filmi stereotypes, and there is nothing about it that is less than delightful. 

Three bachelors share a one room apartment in Delhi.  Omi (Rakesh Bedi) and Jai (Ravi Baswani) are a pair of slacker clowns fully devoted to their favorite activity:  chasing girls.  Their studious roommate Siddharth (Farooq Shaikh), in contrast, rarely raises his head from his books.  He professes no interest in girls at all.  One day Jai and Omi spy Neha (Deepti Naval), a pretty girl who has moved into the neighborhood.  Each makes a play for her - unsuccessfully of course - and that seems to be the end of it.  But soon Neha turns up at their door selling washing powder; she encounters Siddharth, and the two are instantly smitten.  Their romance proceeds apace, and soon Siddharth gets himself an office job and starts thinking about marriage.  His roommates, though, can't forget their wounded pride, and they can't bear to see him succeed where they have failed - so they can't resist throwing a monkey wrench into the works.

One of the charms of Chashme buddoor is its picture of simple student life in the city.  The three young men live in a kind of equilibrium in their cramped home, each decorating the wall over his bed - Jai and Omi cover theirs with sexy pinups and clippings from film magazines, while Siddharth's wall sports only a dignified portrait of Gandhi - and, later, one of Neha.  Outside the apartment, their principal social interaction is with an avuncular shopkeeper, Lalan (Saeed Jaffrey), who hassles them to settle the tab they've run up on cigarettes and magazines, but can't help indulging them in their romantic adventures.  And although the boys represent broad archetypes - the horn-dog loafers, the humorless bookworm - they are nevertheless charmingly portrayed.  It's irresistibly sweet, for example, that as clueless and bumbling as Jai and Omi are, Siddharth himself is only marginally less hapless.  While it's clear from the opening scenes that he is the one who will get the girl, there is nothing slick about him.  Both Farooq Shaikh's performance and Deepti Naval's as Neha share an unease, an uncertainty that is very charming, very natural, and very real. 

Chashme buddoor is also just flat out funny.  From running gags such as Jai's inability to start his moped (he stomps on the kick-start again and again to no avail, before Siddharth takes over and succeeds on his first try), to situational humor like Jai and Omi climbing out the window in a panic when Neha turns up at their door, the movie offers up one giggle after another.  Even jokes that you can see coming are smartly executed and satisfying, and the film strikes just the right balance between clever, brainy humor, and goofy gags. 

Finally, Chashme buddoor's riffs on filmi conventions add another layer to the fun.  One of the songs, as Jai recounts a tall tale about his attempt to woo Neha, parodies a selection of famous film songs.  In another, Neha and Siddharth  spin poetry and romance in classic filmi style, only to be laughed at by onlookers for singing in the park.  There's even a quickie guest appearance by Amitabh Bachchan and Rekha, demonstrating the workings of filmi romance.  And the film's climax adds a distinctly masala touch to this sweet and wonderful film.   

Makdee (2002)

मकड़ी

Vishal Bharadwaj's oustanding Makdee  ("spider's web") is a children's film that doesn't talk down to children.  Free from preachy moralizing and artificial cheeriness, Makdee is scary and gripping from beginning to end.  Its heroes are children who are mischievous and naughty,  yet good at heart and lovable.  Its witchy villain is creepy and cruel.   Mixed together in VIshal Bharadwaj's cauldron, these ingredients bubble over into a fun and thrilling adventure. 

Chunni and Munni (Shweta Prasad) are identical twins - they are distinguishable only by a mole on Munni's upper lip - but they couldn't be more different.  Timid, straight-laced Munni is a polite demure child and an ace student.  Her brash, troublemaking sister Chunni shoots her mouth off, steals food, cheats in school, and causes mayhem as naturally as breathing.  Chunni's friend and playmate, a boy named Mughal-e-azam (Alaap Mazgaonkar), is regularly ordered to do lengthy, unpleasant chores by his adoptive father, the village butcher Kallu (Makrand Deshpande), who feeds him next to nothing in exchange for his hard work.  Mughal-e-azam's treatment is an outrage to Chunni's sense of justice, and she engineers a massive prank to exact revenge on Kallu.  The prank goes awry, though, and leads to a chain of events that lands Chunni's sister Munni in the clutches of the terrifying local witch (Shabana Azmi).  So frightening is the witch that no one in the village - not even sensible adults - will enter the gates of the sprawling property in which her castle looms.   Determined to save her sister, Chunni screws up her courage and marches in, only to learn - to her horror - that the witch has turned Munni into a chicken.  The witch strikes a bargain with Chunni - bring me a chicken to eat every day, she says, and after you have brought me a hundred chickens you can have your sister.  In the meantime, to avoid bringing the witch's wrath upon her, Chunni must tell no one of the bargain, and so must pretend to be both Chunni and Munni so that the witch's nasty deed is not detected.  Chunni, scared and miserable, must face the terrible witch alone. 

Makdee's dark tone is set magnificently from the opening scenes, in which a boy who has stolen a few coins wanders through the witch's gates and is turned into a goat.  This is not a sanitized, Disney-fied witch, but a mean, scary, filthy monster.  Even the film's moments of levity have a dark edge, like the cheerful song the butcher sings about the pleasures of decapitating chickens, or Chunni and Mughal-e-azam's musical paean to mischief-making.

The performances, across the board, were outstanding, eliciting through tremendous empathy an emotional response in the viewer parallel to that of the characters.  In one scene, Chunni watches the witch drink down a bowl full of blood, and gags in revulsion; I found myself gagging too, connecting with Chunni's disgust.  Chunni's deep remorse when she fears that her troublemaking has cost her sister's life is moving, and her triumphs are uplifting.  At the moment where Chunni and Mughal-e-azam together make the realization that sets up the film's climax, I actually cheered.  This kind of empathy for the children comes readily because they are lovable despite their naughtiness.  Even though some of Chunni's antics have selfish motives, others are driven by her strong sense of justice and her desire to protect Mughal-e-azam. 

Shabana Azmi's performance is a treat as well.  She plays the witch with absolute relish, throwing herself into it with a broad physicality that is utterly delightful.  From her creepy gyrations as she performs the magic to turn children into animals, to the growly snarl with which she delivers every line, to her punching-and-kicking fight scene at the film's climax, she transforms into the villain, completely.  There is no dignity in this performance - just out-and-out entertainment.

All told, Makdee is a delightful ride, full of charming and repugnant characters, which reminds viewers - without conking them over the head with a weighty message - that things aren't always as they seem, not at all a bad lesson for kids to take home.  And even though Chunni's pranks get her and her friends into some hot water, Makdee even allows that a little mischief has its place.  This terrific little film is a quick and unexpected new favorite.

Shabana has never looked better!  More screencaps will be posted at Sounds Like Power in the near future. 

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.)

Bombay (1995)

बम्बई

There is something about sectarian violence that pushes all my buttons.  I am not Indian, and I am neither Hindu nor Muslim, but for some reason stories of communities torn apart along that particular axis simply breaks my heart.  By the end of Mani Ratnam's Bombay I was in tears - not merely weeping, but crying huge, hot, racking sobs.   I haven't bawled like that at the end of a film since 1947: Earth.  As I said, there's something about sectarian violence.  Bombay is very different from Earth in most ways - it's lot more hopeful, for one - but it's also less remote, covering events in recent memory.  And like Earth, its characters are so lovable that their anguish sears that much more. 

Shekhar (Arvind Swamy) has finished school and returns to his village to tell his family of his plans to take a job at a newspaper in Bombay and attend night classes in journalism.  Before he returns to the city, Shekhar catches a glimpse of a young burqa-clad Muslim woman, Shaila Banu (Manisha Koirala) when her veil flutters off her face in a seaside breeze.  Shekhar is instantly captivated; he sees her again at a village wedding and then contrives to meet her, learning that she returns his interest.  Rebuffed by their furious fathers - his a respected orthodox Hindu pandit, hers a devout Muslim brick-maker - the couple elope to Bombay and marry in a civil ceremony at a municipal office.  Disowned by their parents, they build life of modest contentment and are blessed with twin sons.  Then internecine tensions spark the Bombay riots of winter 1992-1993 - Hindus and Muslims tear after one another with Molotov cocktails and machetes, upending Shekhar and Shaila Banu's peaceful little world.

Bombay is more a series of beautiful moments than a story.  Some of these moments are warm and sweet, others harrowing, others unbearably sad.  But they encapsulate the full range of the human experience, from exuberant joy to unbridled anguish.  They also demonstrate the depth of tenderness that can exist within a family and that can develop even to bridge the widest gulf.  The film offers these elements in a measured and balanced mixture, gently retreating just when the pain seems too much to bear.  So, for example, as the sectarian hatred tears violently through the streets of the city, it is held in counterpoint by good-natured and humorous sparring between Shekhar's father and Shaila Banu's.  And when the destruction of the riots reaches its apex,  Shekhar's father risks his life to save the other man's Koran. 

The first time I watched Bombay I felt it was perfect, an engaging story told beautifully with a solid-to-outstanding soundtrack by A.R. Rahman and stunning performances by its principals.  Arvind Swamy brings an everyman sensibility to his role; pudgy and relatively ordinary-looking, he is nevertheless completely appealing, and his face registers every emotion perfectly.  And Manisha Koirala is not only gorgeous; she is one of the most skilled and expressive actors I've seen.  The film seemed utterly flawless.

On second viewing (the very next day) I had to acknowledge its imperfections.  Like many a filmi romance, Shekhar's and Shaila Banu's is based on little more than a glance and developed, in shorthand, in a song.  And the film offers their mixed-religion household as an idyllic haven, free from the tensions that plague the rest of the city - absent is any sign that compromise or adjustment is necessary to make a marriage work between two people raised so differently.  Shaila Banu declares dreamily that Allah gave her children "two gods," but in real life one would expect some conflict between the life cycle rites and customs of the two religions.  Bombay sweeps these details under the rug, establishing instead a simple dichotomy where home is pluralistic and safe while the outside world is full of hate and venom.

But on first viewing, critiques like these were beside the point; the movie just enthralled with its beautiful and symbolic moments, carefully crafted and perfectly rendered - like the moment in the gorgeous song "Tu hi re" where Shaila Banu's cloak, the last remnant of her burqa, catches on an anchor as she runs along the shore, and she must shed it to make her first secret meeting with Shekhar.  Or the heartbreaking and terrifying moment when one of Shekhar and Shaila Banu's twin boys, riding on the shoulders of his Hindu grandfather, furiously wipes the tilak from the old man's forehead when the pair are confronted by a group of Muslim rioters.  At its best, Bombay is a gripping succession of breath-stopping moments like these, and a simply unforgettable film. 

(A note on language:  Bombay was originally shot in Tamil and dubbed into Telugu and Hindi - the latter being the version that I saw - which is why I've included it in the "regional" category.  I suspect it would have been even better in Tamil.)

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.)

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.