Filmi Geek

Krrish (2006)

Krrish is a film in the vein of many recent superhero films that have come out of Hollywood.  But it is not a cheap knock-off; while it draws on a wide range of classic superhero tropes - a young man with super powers, an establishment interested in exploiting him, an evil mastermind toiling away for decades on a remote island -  it gives those tropes a completely Indian spin.  And although I am not now and have never been interested in the superhero genre, this film's hero is engaging, earnest, and sweet, and the result is a pleasant and sometimes quite charming timepass.

Krishna (Hrithik Roshan) is a gifted young man; he runs alongside horses, leaps through treetops, and scampers up cliffs with superhuman ease.  When Krishna meets a young woman Priya (Priyanka Chopra), on holiday from Singapore, he is instantly smitten, but Priya, who works in TV production and whose job is in jeopardy, sees in Krishna an opportunity for career advancement.  Telling Krishna that she returns his love, Priya lures him to Singapore in hopes of introducing the "Indian Superboy" to the world's television audiences.  Krishna's protective grandmother Sonia (Rekha) reluctantly allows him to go, but insists that Krishna conceal his powers from everyone he meets, and with some prodding, she explains why:  Krishna's father Rohit, now dead, was given (apparently hereditary) superpowers by a kindly space alien, but he was exploited by people who wanted to use his powers for their own personal gain.  This cost Rohit his innocence and, ultimately, his life, and Sonia cannot bear to see the same happen in Krishna.  In Singapore, Krishna unwittingly becomes the superhero Krrish when, saving some children from a horrible fire, he dons a circus mask in order to keep his promise of anonymity.  Soon everyone wants a piece of Krrish - the public longs to cheer for the mysterious hero, Priya is still eager to make television history, and the mastermind who orchestrated Rohit's exploitation is on the verge of a new breakthrough of his own.  The challenge for Krishna is to maintain his goodness and innocence in the face of all of this. 

Krrish is a sequel to 2003's Koi mil gaya, which I haven't seen, but fortunately Krrish pauses about forty minutes in and, in a rush of exposition and flashback, brings the viewers up to speed on the story of Krishna's father Rohit, who was the protagonist of the earlier film.   This makes Krrish essentially a freestanding story, and it stands fairly well.  Its greatest strength is the performance of Hrithik Roshan.  Early in the film his wide open smile conveys an engaging sense of wonder, joy, and innocence.  Krishna's physical powers set him apart from other young men, but his heart is clearly different as well; he is pure, unsullied by cynicism, completely open to the beauty of life.  Later in the film, as his innocence erodes, his face changes, developing an edge, but also a sense of loss and sadness.

Krishna's sweetness is, I think, what sets Krrish apart from superhero films in the western mold, whose protagonists tend to be dark, brooding creatures of the night nursing troubled pasts and restless souls.  Krishna does ultimately find himself on a mission of vengeance, but despite the sinister turn his adventures in Singapore take, he never completely compromises his gentle nature.  And it's the appeal of this character, and of Hrithik Roshan's performance, that makes Krrish completely delightful at moments, despite being stuffed with comic-book cliches.

The music is hit-or-miss, but it almost doesn't matter what the songs sound like as long as Hrithik is permitted to dance; he is an extremely skilled dancer - the most dancerly of all Bollywood heroes - and it is a treat to watch him exercise his phenomenal balance and control.  "Dil na diya" showcases these skills in a fun, manic circus setting. 

Pakeezah (1972)

पाकीज़ा

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

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

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

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

Avtaar (1983)

अवतार

Hindi art films are often referred to as "parallel cinema," but it was watching the mainstream film Avtaar that made me feel I had stepped into a parallel universe. A parallel universe in which Rajesh Khanna is a mechanic with a healer's touch at fixing cars. A parallel universe in which flashbacks-within-flashbacks are a sensible way to tell a story.  A parallel universe in which Shabana Azmi dances around trees.

Unfortunately, that last aspect - the most straight-up-dashing-hero-swooning-heroine romantic song picturized on Shabana that I had encountered the time I first saw Avtaar - was close to the most interesting thing about this movie, and even it was not exactly good, not compared to some of Shabana ji's full-on masala performances of the 70s.

Avtaar Kishen (Rajesh Khanna) is a hardworking, pious, salt-of-the-earth type of guy.  He's an auto mechanic with a master touch.  He is happy and satisfied with his life - he has a beautiful, adoring wife of twenty-five years, Radha (Shabana), and two grown sons for whose success he has toiled and of whom he is very proud.  The domestic joy is fleeting, however - Radha and Avtaar's children selfishly betray them, leaving them destitute.  With the help of their loyal servant Sewak (the name actually means "servant"), Avtaar gets back on his feet and builds himself a wildly successful business, which he then manipulates to exact revenge from his sons.  On the more charitable side, he founds a home for elderly folks who have been abandoned by  their children, and employs its residents in his company.  His sons eventually relent and seek forgiveness - and Radha tires of estrangement from them - but Avtaar is a very proud man, there may be too much water under the bridge for this family to repair itself. 

The message of this peculiarly bitter film seems to be:  Old folks, don't trust your adult children, because they will screw you.  I'm all in favor of moralizing about the lack of respect that each generation shows for the one that came before it, and I can understand the need for social dramas that address the problem of erosion of the family, but it seems like there are more productive ways to send the message than in an angry cautionary tale.  The sense that the film's message is displaced is only enhanced by the fact that Avtaar and Radha, supposedly the elderly victims of youthful indifference, are played by a 40-year-old actor and a 32-year-old actress, made up - not very convincingly - to look some 25 years older.  Why not give the roles to some neglected older actors?  This, and similar details, lend the film an amateurish air, as it simply isn't a good enough movie for such details not to be distracting.

The music, which can sometimes be the sole redeeming feature of an otherwise unforgettable film, did little here to ease the squirming sense I had of suffering through a very bad movie in the name of fangirlish completism.  The picturization of the aforementioned romantic song, "Din mahine saal," was clunky and inelegant.  Another song, picturized on the members of the younger generation celebrating their freedom the annoying burden of their parents, was among the worst choreography and most embarrassing dancing I've seen in a Hindi film.  The one picturization I very much enjoyed featured Avtaar and Radha (in their younger, flashback form) carrying their seriously ill baby up a steep mountain trail in pilgrimage.   The song was pretty, and Shabana nailed perfectly a sense of exhaustion and despair.  But apart from a very few such effective moments, unless you are a raving fan of one of its principals, this film has little to recommend it.  I certainly am, and it pushed even my limits of tolerance.

Amar prem (1971)

अमर प्रेम

One of the recurring archetypes of Hindi film is that of the saintly courtesan, forced by circumstance into a degrading way of life, yet capable of pure and unconditional love.  She stands for downtrodden, misunderstood womanhood, for inner purity that shines through the most miserable debasement.  She might stand for Mother India debased by colonial rape.  She is almost certainly an overdetermined symbol, with meanings that resonate far more deeply than the recent memories of the British Raj and Independence, meanings rooted in the ancient mythologies of India.  Amar prem ("Undying love") draws on this archetype, and while I enjoyed the film, I can't help thinking I would have appreciated it much more if I knew enough to fully unpack the metaphor. 

Pushpa (Sharmila Tagore) is thrown violently out of her husband's home after he tires of her apparent infertility and brings home a shrewish second wife.  Pushpa returns to her home village to a lukewarm reception; even her own mother is predisposed to believe that her exile is due to some bad conduct of Pushpa's own, and she is treated as a fallen woman:  shunned, disrespected, and molested.  Desperation leads her to a brothel in Calcutta, where she quickly earns the regular patronage of a wealthy, married businessman named Anand (Rajesh Khanna).  Meanwhile a family from Pushpa's village moves in across the street, including a little boy named Nandu who is shunned and mistreated by his stepmother.  Pushpa takes to Nandu, treating him to sweets and samosas when his stepmother is too busy or too angry to feed him. 

The remainder of the film chronicles the reverberations of Pushpa's kindness on Anand, Nandu, Nandu's father, and others, throughout their lives.  Pushpa's saintliness is truly boundless.  She cares for Anand, whose cryptic pronouncements make him something of a sphinx - a squinting, drunken, pontificating sphinx.  Late in the film Pushpa is thrown back into contact with the husband whose cruelty started her on the path to degradation and suffering, and she takes the magnanimous road in that circumstance as well.  Indeed, I would have found Pushpa a more interesting character had she shown any weakness at all, rather than a limitless capacity for both enduring pain and dishing out love.  It is this unreality of Pushpa that leads me again to the conclusion that she is pure allegory, pure symbol, and it is only because of my own ignorance of her antecedents that I do not fully appreciate her.  In the end of the film a direct identity is established between Pushpa and the goddess Durga; I do not know enough of the mythology of Durga to understand what this identity is telling me about Pushpa, about suffering, and about motherly love.

In short, Amar Prem, with its themes of mother-worship and woman's limitless capacity to endure suffering, is so very Indian as to be almost inaccessible to me, as a relatively ignorant outsider after less than two years of exposure to Indian films.  This is not an indictment of the film, however - rather, it incites my curiosity, because if very Indian themes had no resonance with me at all I would not have spent the better part of the last two years watching them and writing about them.  And so I invite all of you who can to offer any insight on what a film like Amar Prem has to say to an audience that understands the metaphoric language in which it speaks. 

The one thing that I could unequivocally appreciate about Amar Prem - other than the loveliness of Sharmila Tagore - was its beautiful soundtrack by the incomparable R.D. Burman.  Unlike other Burman soundtracks of the era, with their funky fusion sounds, there are no rockout tunes in Amar Prem - just one sensuous, haunting melody after another, with a thoroughly Indian yet fresh and contemporary sound.  The songs lack the flashiness of Burman's other popular endeavors, but the soundtrack is nevertheless one of his finest, a slow burn that works its way gradually into one's heart.  I could only find two examples, via YouTube:  "Chingare koi bhadke", and "Yeh kya hua," neither of which is my favorite, but they are lovely nevertheless.   

Shatranj ke khilari (1977)

शतरंज के खिलाड़ी

International relations, domestic relations, and the game of chess.  There are elements shared by all three - strategy, tactics, sacrifice, give-and-take, the necessity of patience.  Satyajit Ray's Shatranj ke khilari ("The Chess Players") is an excellent little film that spins layered metaphors from these commonalities. 

It is the late 1850s, in Lucknow, capital of Awadh, the seat of elite Muslim culture in northern India, and two elite Muslim gentlemen - Mirza (Sanjeev Kumar) and Mir (Saeed Jaffrey) - have discovered the brilliant game of chess.  They play all day and deep into the night, with little awareness of the toll their obsession is taking on their marriages, and only slightly more awareness of what is happening on the larger political scene.  The latter is that the British East India Company has decided that it is time for King Wajid (Amjad Khan), the last semi-autonomous ruler in Hindustan, to step down.  Wajid, who now regrets having devoted less of his attention to affairs of state than to the music, dance, and poetry for which Awadh culture is famous, must decide whether his next move shall be to accede to the Company's proposal - he is offered a handsome pension - or pull together an army and go to war. 

And so there are chess matches at at least three different levels.  There are the literal chess games between Mirza and Mir, and there is the metaphorical chess match on the international scale between King Wajid and the British. Mirza and Mir's domestic situations map to chess games as well.  Mirza's wife Khurshid (Shabana Azmi) engages in a variety of tactical maneuvers to recapture her husband's attention; she feigns illness, attempts seduction, and even hides his chess pieces.  Mir's wife Nafisa (Farida Jalal), meanwhile, plans a more proactive attack: she takes a lover, and Mir makes the strategic blunder of misinterpreting her enthusiasm for his long nights out playing chess, mistaking it for wifely support of his intellectual pursuits.   

Mirza and Mir's clueless indifference to domestic matters is set forth in a strong parallel to King Wajid's neglect of his realm as the Company takes over.  The message seems to be a gentle criticism of India for its complacency in allowing the British to gain so much power, underscored by Mir and Mirza's casual decision to abandon the Hindustani rules of chess in favor of the speedier and more aggressive English rules with which we in the West are familiar today.  I say "gentle criticism" because Mirza and Mir are hapless and sympathetic characters, akin to Shakespearean buffoons in presentation, and their interactions - especially the desperate lengths to which they will go to put together a game - are airy and genuinely comical (thanks in no small part to the brilliant work of Saeed Jaffrey and especially Sanjeev Kumar, who was one of the finest actors ever in Hindi film).  As a result the film never feels heavy-handed, despite the fact that it swirls with metaphor; there is a always lightness and a balance tempering the many variations on the theme. 

Shatranj ke khilari is a delight to watch, for many reasons.  It is, I have been told, Satyajit Ray's most Bollywood-ish offering, and the cast is packed with faces familiar from Bollywood and beyond - in addition to Sanjeev, Shabana, Saeed Jaffrey, Amjad Khan, and Farida Jalal, there are also turns by Victor Banerjee, Farouq Sheikh, and even Richard Attenborough; as if that weren't enough, Amitabh Bachchan lends his distinctive voice to the film's narration.  The film is also visually appealing, shot for the most part with generous lighting and a clean style.  It is a terrific film that I expect to watch again and again.

Finally, regular Filmi Geek readers know by now to expect the following indulgence: