सत्यम शिवम सुन्दरम
Dir. Raj Kapoor
Beauty isn't skin deep - it isn't in the skin at all, but comes from somewhere else, someplace within. It isn't merely a matter of physical appearance, but finds its source in the goodness of the soul, the mind, the heart. This moral - one that most everyone believes, even if it's a challenge to live by - is the message of Raj Kapoor's Satyam shivam sundaram ("Truth, godliness, beauty"), served up in a package that is sometimes alluring, sometimes confusing, and occasionally nearly beautiful.
Rupa (Zeenat Aman) is star-crossed. Born on Krishna's birthday to a mother who died in childbirth, Rupa's bad-luck curse takes physical form when as a child her face is scarred with scalding oil. She grows up a lonely temple servant, shunned by the other girls of her village and lamented by her father. One day a dashing engineer Ranjeev (Shashi Kapoor) comes to the village to work on a dam project and all the village girls are in his thrall. The one thing Rupa has that the rest of them lack is a heavenly singing voice, and when Ranjeev hears her he falls madly in love. Though she hides her face - and her disfigurement - beneath a chunari, Ranjeev is sure that a voice so perfect must come from something equally beautiful, and so he asks for Rupa's hand. Unveiling her on his wedding night, Ranjeev is horrified by what he sees; he is convinced he has been duped, that another Rupa is out in the village waiting for him. Though his family prevails on him to let the disfigured bride remain in his home, he rejects her completely and wanders in search of "his" Rupa. Rupa sneaks out of the house to rendezvous with him, continuing to hide her face. Eventually, though, Ranjeev may have to accept that there is only one Rupa.
Satyam shivam sundaram's "it's what's on the inside that counts" message is obscured a bit by the broad strokes with which Ranjeev is drawn. "I cannot tolerate any form of ugliness," he declares, planting him firmly in the realm of peculiar and extreme characters. Indeed, his aversion seems to be more pathology than mere preference; when he gazes on Rupa's scars, he perceives not just her minor disfigurement - not all that repulsive on the scale of things - but a horrible sight of deeply torn and rotting flesh. And his mistreatment of Rupa after their marriage solidifies him as a very unsympathetic character. I can't help but think the film would have done better to present, instead of someone to dislike, a hero in whom the audience can see themselves reflected. That would have forced viewers to face their own prejudices, rather than giving them the reassurance that whatever their particular bigotry might be, they are not as intolerant as all that.
Pairing the supposedly unbearably damaged face with Zeenat Aman in all her shapely, wet, clingy-clothed glory is another odd choice. Raj Kapoor gives us a very sexy and sensual Rupa, clad in skimpy and thin temple cottons, perhaps unaware of just how hot she is - but then, no one else seems to notice either. It strains credulity that there is no man who would want a wife who is that sexy from the neck down (not to mention all of Rupa's other gifts), even if someone as weird as Ranjeev finds her scars repugnant. Still, Zeenat's va-va-voom certainly contributes to the visual sumptuousness of the film. And Zeenat plays Rupa with a subtle and sympathetic touch, now fragile and insecure, now instinctively protecting herself. Her best moments come in Rupa's girl power turning point toward the end of the film, and what a turning point it is - Rupa seems to command the forces of nature to teach Ranjeev his lesson.
The best use of all the pretty - and between Zeenat and Shashi there's plenty of pretty to go around - comes in the gorgeous songs of the unusually classical-style Laxmikant-Pyarelal soundtrack. The songs are lushly picturized with trippy visuals - the fabulous "Chanchal sheetal nirmal komal," Rupa's fantasy, is a particular standout, with its outlandish multicolored abstract sets, giant mushrooms, moonscapes, and other acid-trip accoutrements. Somewhat more down to earth but still lovely is "Bhor bhaye panghat pe," shot in pink filters to evoke the light of dawn.