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.

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.

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.

So frequently when I mention that, though, someone offers "Have you seen Teesri Manzil?  It's all that but even better."  Well I have seen Teesri Manzil, and I do appreciate everything it has to offer.  One of R.D. Burman's earliest and rockingest soundtracks, a terrific noir vibe, and Shammi Kapoor in his prime - who is understandably a little more broadly appealing (see what I did there?) than a slightly aging Dev Anand. 

At any rate, as much as I love the dark tale of Rocky and Ruby and Roopa and Sunita, the movie that rules my heart is nevertheless the one that romps and teeters on Sikkim mountaintops.  

But you know, that's just me.  And so I decided to throw the question out to twitter.  Which of these two oft-compared contemporaneous Vijay Anand classics do you prefer, I asked? 

Jewel Thief vs. Teesri Manzil

Methodology:  I posed the question on Twitter four times over the course of a day, hoping to bring in as many responses as I could.   I encouraged retweets to increase the data pool (though few took me up on that).  I favorited the responses so that I could quickly tally them, which I did 24 hours after initially posing the questions.  

Some responses came with commentary. Many noted what a close decision it was; some did not want to make any decision at all.

And yet, some folks voted with the enthusiasm of strong opinions.

Some folks preferred Jewel Thief  for Vijayantimala's great dancing, while other folks preferred Teesri Manzil in spite of that.

And then there is my personal favorite response, a memory of a Jewel-Thief-obsessed child that I could thoroughly imagine myself being, had I known about the movie at the right age.

At any rate, it was clear that both these  movies, often thought of in the same breath, are seriously and deeply beloved.  

And so when I sat down this morning to tally up the votes, I knew it would be close.  I didn't expect this:

Jewel Thief: 14 votes

Teesri Manzil: 14 votes

So there you go.  The ultimate verdict is that there is no ultimate verdict.  We can go on loving these two great movies and debating which of them is better as long as we like. Register your vote in the comments - keep the debate alive.

Just as long as we keep watching them again and again. 

Keval is taken with this sad, nameless woman, whom he of course dubs Nimmi, and stages a play around her.  Keval's business partner Rajan (Prem Nath), an artist, also sees in her the woman he has long dreamed of painting.  This is the great art of Aag - two men each projecting their idealized fantasy onto this woman, so conveniently without identity of her own to get in their way.  The audition sequence in which Keval rejects a parade of women, one after another, with nothing more than a superficial glance, is bad enough.  What is over-the-top just revolting is that the idealization of Nargis's character by both men is presented as triumph of art, rather than the despicable objectification and usurpation of a vulnerable woman's independent existence.

Yecchh.

Kapoor attempts to lend the movie some depth with a disjoint pair of bookends in which Keval, disfigured by the titular fire (which he sets in a fit of lunatic rage at the very idea that Nargis's character might not be exactly the woman he has projected upon her), laments that he is hated for his ugliness as much as he used to be loved for his beauty. This Keval, incidentally, is not a modest man - his own supposed beauty is as much an obsession for him as his Nimmi.  And what is with Kapoor's fascination with beauty disfigured by flame? Between Aag and Satyam shivam sundaram, it seems this notion had special resonance for Raj Kapoor.  At any rate, the scenes do not relate much to Keval's twin passions that make up the rest of the film, and Aag  is too far up its own ass for this tacked-on attempt at a message to be anything but flimsy.

If there are reasons to endure this festival of pretension, they are Nargis and little boy Shashi Kapoor. Nargis is simply wonderful with her wildly frizzy hair and wide-eyed beauty.  It is such a long way from this unadorned natural gorgeousness to the meticulously styled and coiffed heroines one usually encounters in the movies.  In one of Aag's rare charming details, Keval is often shown playing with an arrant lock of Nargis's hair, smoothing the curls with his palm or twirling one around a finger.  As striking as she is, though, the almost feral rawness of Nargis's character leaves her that much more ripe for asborbing the indentities that the two men construct for her.

  
They just don't make them like this any more. 

As for proto-Shashi, some 9 years old when the film was shot, he is just plain adorable.  He gets so many scenes of substance, from delight to inspiration to anxiety.  When he sasses his mother, the cheeky mannerisms that made him an explosive charmer 20 years later are already on full display.  One sequence in which the young Keval tries to sneak out of the house to watch a play, evading discovery by his intimidating father (Kamal Kapoor), is especially delightful.

 
Cho chweet!

The unfortunate fact, though, is that Aag plummets rapidly downhill about half an hour in, as soon as Shashi's scenes are done.  The movie might be worth sitting through for the cuteness of Shashi, the beauty of Nargis, some notable cinematography, and some lovely songs.  But don't expect the sparkle and immersive charm of Raj Kapoor's best movies.  His vision for Aag was clearly expansive, but his pretension even more so.   It's enough to leave you growling "Aaaaaaargh!"

Gaja Gamini, M.F. Husain's first excursion into filmmaking, is absurd in almost every aspect, and not in the cool intellectual sense.  It is just ridiculous.  It's a series of laughably poor attempts at profundity, which are often embarrassing to watch.  It is safe to say that were it not for the reverence attached to Husain himself, the project would never have attracted either financial backing or the high-profile stars who dupe innocents like me into enduring it.   It is, as a Twitter acquaintance so concisely summarized it, senseless.

Gaja Gamini is widely described as Husain's tribute to his "muse," Madhuri Dixit.  If this description gives you pause - as it does me - it's with good reason.  Gaja Gamini is every bit as objectifying and regressive as it sounds when it comes to paying tribute to a woman, or to women, or to Women.  It is brimming over with revoltingly pompous references to the Ageless Mystery That Is Woman and Woman's Mystical Power and other such claptrap that one associates with the sort of self-congratulatory man who says things like "I'm not a misogynist; I love women." 

The titular Gaja Gamini (Madhuri Dixit), is a mysterious, flitting creature whom all men are in thrall of though none fully glimpses.  She incarnates through several ages as a series of women, most of whom have this in common:  Each waits alone on her conceptual pedestal for an arrant man to come to her and be inspired by her beauty to create their own masterworks.  One incarnation, Shakuntala, is the muse of the epic poet Kalidas (Mohan Agashe, a co-producer of the film credited here as Dr Mohan Agashe as if his academic credentials bolster the thin tissue of Husain's wanky fantasy).  Shakuntala's decidedly unworthy mate is a doltish, Jodhpur-wearing, banduk-toting rajkumar.   In another incarnation, Gaja Gamini is Mona Lisa, who is, of course, the inspiration of Leonardo Da Vinci, embodied here by Naseeruddin Shah - you read that right - in a stupid costume coughing up even stupider lines while waving his compensatory paintbrush in the air. 

What?

The supposedly modern incarnation of Gaja Gamini, Monica (note the western name), enjoys a light romantic dance with Shah Rukh Khan before the important manly work of covering a war (he is a photojournalist) wrenches him from her arms, leaving her teary and anxious.  This is M.F. Husain's great vision of the timeless power of woman - the endless ability to sit around on our asses crying while our men  create art, science, culture, and shape the world.

In some kind of token nod to feminist themes, one incarnation of Gaja Gamini, Sangeeta, inspires a group of village women including Shabana Azmi, Farida Jalal, and  Shilpa Shirodkar, to take up their lanterns and march against - well, against what it is not clear, but their march is stern and angry and they wield their lanterns fiercely.  But even this powerful Sangeeta is debilitated; she is sometimes blind, sometimes mute, and each of the other women transforms into her, ensuring that none of them is whole either.  And even Sangeeta waits for the rescuing hand of her ageless lover Jayant.  Feh.

Why, Shabana ji?

There is plenty more; the vapidity of Husain's vision is nearly boundless, and Gaja Gamini indulges it to the fullest in over two hours of excruciatingly scripted, stiffly acted nonsense. You might think that a movie conceived and executed by an artist of Husain's stature would at least have visual appeal, but not so Gaja Gamini.  The sets are, I suppose, meant to be theatrical, minimalist, and evocative, but for the most part they come across as amateurish and low budget.  The film's early sequences take place on an abstracted, primary yellow Banaras ghat that looks more like the hastily hammered and painted set of a high school play than that of a high-concept art film.   The Monica and Shah Rukh sequence occurs on a set bisected by a large brick wall (one side represents the past and tradition, the other the present and modernity, get it?) - and when Shah Rukh Khan's choregraphy requires him to lean against it, it shudders and sways, belying the papier-mâché beneath its brick facade.  Only the blue-and-white Dal Mandi set on which the women's march occurs is anything close to evocative.  One just expects more from such a revered visual artist as Husain.

I have been to Banaras, and you, sir, are no Banaras.

Prancing about on these poor, pliant theatrical sets, the array of actors comport themselves woodenly and self-consciously; the experienced stars gracing this cast are as forced and ridiculous as Husain's unknowns.  There is nothing wrong with highly stylized direction when the style serves a purpose, but here it only lends pomposity, a sense that someone (well, Husain) believes these characters have such profound philosophical insights to deliver that they must speak them in the patronizing tones of a small child's religious teacher.  It compounds embarrassment upon painful embarrassment, in an utter disaster of a movie that is more pointless than profound.

Ooga booga!

If Gaja Gamini has a redeeming feature, it is Madhuri herself.  How many movies can one say this of?  If there is any actor who can make the unwatchable bearable for a moment with a dazzling smile or a crisply executed mudra, it is Madhuri Dixit.  Thankfully, here she is as radiant as ever.  M.F. Husain's tribute to her may be objectifying bakhwas with a camera that dwells embarrassingly languidly on the exaggerated sway of Gaja Gamini's ass, but you can't say Madhuri is not a worthy choice of muse.  She is at her best, of course, in the movie's songs, which are by far its highlights.  Bhupen Hazarika's music is quite lovely throughout, and the songs are smartly (if weirdly) choreographed. Indeed, I had seen two of the songs years ago, "Meri payal bole" and "Do sadiyan ke sangam," and rather wish I had left it at that.

Like nearly everyone else, I love Shashi Kapoor.  Apart from being good-looking with a perfect mixture of doofy bashfulness and sparkling charm, he's also a fine and versatile actor.   The first movie of his I saw was Shyam Benegal's Junoon, where he gave a riveting and soulful performance, characteristic of the quality of his work in serious and artsy cinema.  Later I came to adore him in his jaunty masala avatar, the Ravi, the straight-laced do-gooder who occasionally cuts loose and does the mashed potato. 

Most recently, I've watched him as a child artiste in his brother's Aag (review forthcoming), in which he was the best thing about the movie by a country mile.  

Awww!  Cho chweet.

The internet at large knows Beth as Shashi's no. 1 fan and Chief Minister of Shashi Pradesh, and the title is not in any way undeserved.  But I do take some credit for this myself, because some years back I introduced her to Shashi.  At the time, I had seen Junoon and perhaps one or two other of his films, and something told me Beth would like this man, with his jouncy curls, his mile-long eyelashes, his snaggletooth, his remarkable acting chops.  Something told me she would like him A Lot.  So I urged her to watch, and watch she did.  And the rest, as they say, is - well, you know.

So without further ado, here (in no particular order) are a handful of my favorite Shashi songs.  What are yours? 

"Nain milakar chain churana"-- Aamne saamne (1967)

This movie is somewhat flawed but nothing about this song is, from Shashi's Shammi-like shimmy in his hot white stovepipe pants (60s men's fashions are my absolute favorite), to Sharmila's pout, to Rafi's vocals.  60s perfection!  My dil goes "squish" when Shashi sings "Sharmila dildaaaaar!"  (Bonus:  Prem Chopra doing the mashed potato.)

"Dil mein tujhe bithake" -- Fakira (1976)

More or less average masala (with a few notable highlights), Fakira does offer a couple of splendid songs.  This one is just deliciously naughty.   Shabana's character and Shashi's are secretly married - her family doesn't know - so he must sneak into her room for a romp, which wakes her parents.  They even break the bed, as the shot immediately after the song reveals ...

Clicketty for a full-size view of the naughtiness.

"Kehne ki nahin baat" -- Pyaar kiye ja (1966)

I have not even seen this movie - I can't find it - but I love this song in which Shashi leads an energetic band of young men to Om Prakash's doorstep to demand work.  It's everything good about the 60s, and everything good about 60s Shashi.

"Main to beghar hoon" -- Suhaag (1979)

This song epitomizes straight-laced, uptight Shashi, trying to resist the advances of a rather inebriated Parveen Babi.  I always lose it when he ties her to the jeep.

"Khilte hai gul yahaan" -- Sharmilee (1971)

And this song epitomizes pretty Shashi, turning on the charm for a cabin-full of impressionable young girls.  It's not really a fair fight, is it? 

"Hum to jhuk kar salam karte" - Fakira (1976)

I would not have guessed that this movie would end up twice on this list, but here it is.  There are a couple of songs along these lines, in which Shashi poses as a qawwal to pull off some scheme or another.  But this one gets the nod here because of appearances by Iftekhar, Asrani, and Danny Denzongpa. 

"Yahaan main ajnabee hoon" -- Jab jab phool khile (1965)

This movie is loved by some and despised by others.  I find it mostly interesting as a reflection of a certain conflict of its time.  But never mind that.  There are few movies in which Shashi looks more beautiful than this one.  And while any song from it offers that prettiness and deserves mention in this list, this song gets the nod because it is simply a gorgeous, sad song.  

"Hands up jaani" -- Bandhan kachchey dhagon ka (1983) 

Another movie I have not seen, this makes the list for its sheer WTFery.  Groovy Usha Uthup disco, whild outdoor parties, and Shashi temporarily mesmerized by Zeenat Aman's rack (I mean, who wouldn't be?), at least until upstanding-Shashi takes over and his gaze turns from lustful to disapproving.  Pure wackadoodle.

Honorable mention:  "Dhadkan har dil ki" -- Abhinetri (1971)

Beth brought this song to my attention the other day when I was discussing this idea for the post with her.  I haven't seen this movie yet either, as Beth - even as she gave me a copy - warned me that it was dire and regressive.  But this song is hilarious - as if a 10-headed pantomime Raavan-horse isn't already bursting with awesome, we have dire and regressive Shashi looking vastly uncomfortable at the very idea of a cabaret show.  THE VERY IDEA.

Happy Birthday, Shashi sahib.  Thank you for all the years of delightful entertainment.  May you live well and joyfully for many years more!

Any movie that opens with a languid, warmly-lit amble along the rolling curves of the supine body of Vidya Balan is a movie I am going to like.  A lot.  When I mentioned I was watching Ishqiya, several friends expressed surprise that I hadn't yet seen it.  ("That is basically inconceivable," said Beth.)  For what it's worth, I do have an excuse. I was a late boarder on the Vidya train; I did not realize that this mind-stompingly gorgeous woman was the love of my life until halfway through my first viewing of Kahaani just about a year ago.  I have been playing catch-up - but pacing myself - ever since. Having said that, in Ishqiya, Vidya is about as ohmigodHOT as a woman can be without violating several multilateral treaties.

Indeed, I don't know how to write about this movie without dissolving into a gelatinous heap of gush.  And not just for Vidya, either.  Ishqiya's director, Abhishek Chaubey, studied at the knee of Vishal Bhardwaj (who produced the film), and Bhardwaj's masterful influence is all over this striking, wry movie. Its tone is reminiscent of the most dry and funny vignettes of 7 Khoon Maaf.  Its narrative is less rangy than that of 7 Khoon Maaf, however, and therefore less lurchy.  Two of the dumbest criminals ever to cross a filmi screen, Khalujaan (Naseeruddin Shah) and his nephew Babban (Arshad Warsi), are in flight from their boss, Mushtaq (Salman Shahid), whom they have cheated out of some 25 lakhs.  The pair takes refuge in the home of Krishna (Vidya Balan), widow of their erstwhile business associate, the smuggler Vidyadhar Verma (Adil Hussain).  Both men fall for the quiet, intense Krishna, who hatches a plan to kidnap a local steel magnate KK Kakkad (Rajesh Sharma) for ransom.  But the kidnapping soon unravels and the men slowly realize that Krishna has manipulated all of them - Khalu, Babban, and even KK - for her own mysterious purposes. 

The characterizations are meticulously detailed  in both writing and performance. Khalujaan is philosophical and poetic, the brighter bulb of the two thieves, but not by a lot.  As he trims his beard, dyes his hair, dons handsome traditional clothes, and discusses the finer points of evergreen filmi songs with Krishna, Khalu projects the air of a man who does not necessarily want to shed the grit of his criminal life, but who wants to look as though he wants to shed it.  His love for Krishna is a touching mixture of passionate and avuncular; it's not clear exactly what relationship he wants to have with her, but it's clear that it's very loving.  Babban's style is more bombastic; his stupidity displays in rash, testosterone-driven bursts rather than Khalu's intellectual posing.  In one scene, Mushtaq and his men track down the pair when they run into Babban at a brothel in the town near Krishna's village; one has the impression that Mushtaq knows well that the most efficient way to find Babban in any city in the country is always to make a beeline for the nearest brothel. The performances of Naseeruddin Shah and Arshad Warsi as these not-so-clever medium-time crooks are pitch perfect, just the right mixture of grit and scene-chewing to be both endearing and eye-rolling.  It's hard not feel sorry for them when it becomes clear just how outclassed they are by Krishna, even when you facepalmed at their ill-considered antics just a few scenes before.

And then there is Vidya Balan, as smoldering, fierce, and sexy in this role as in any other.  (I considered doing this review in the style of my piece on The Dirty Picture - a debate between my analytic intellectual ego and my horny lesbian id - but my id did not have much to say beyond "Guh...."  A superbly executed sex scene had me wistfully craving an alternate universe in which I could be Arshad Warsi.)  But as gorgeous and fierce as Vidya is, there is a great deal of nuance to Krishna; the character is not merely a cartoon femme fatale with an eye for manipulable men.  Krishna begins the film as a loving wife, anxiously imploring Verma to give up the dangerous smuggler's life and turn himself in to the authorities.  Krishna's circumstances and what she has endured - not an inherent vicious streak or a flaw in  her nature - drive her to the bold and violent actions she takes as the film unfolds.  This is evident the first time she overtly betrays Khalu and Babban.  The men have gotten into a fight - mostly over her - while she waits in their getaway car with their kidnapping prey, the dazed and bound KK, lolling in the backseat.  Krishna hesitates nervously before taking the wheel and speeding away with their prize.  This is a woman with a plan, but not a woman so cold as to have no need to muster her courage before executing.  It is just one of a myriad finely wrought details that make Krishna - like everything else about Ishqiya - thoroughly compelling.

About Filmi Geek

I started Filmi Geek in 2006. It contains a review of of every Hindi movie I have seen.  I like to think that my reviews tell you as much about me as they do about the movies; they chronicle my mental adventures as I have studied the rich cultural fabric of South Asia.  I strive to make my reviews small narratives in their own right, something more than just plot summaries or bullet point lists of things I liked or didn't like about a movie. The reviews I am the happiest with place the movie in some kind of context, whether cinematic, historical, or cultural, and have something to say about the movie beyond whether I liked it or did not. 
 

You describe yourself as an "overanalyzer of Hindi movies" - is it easier for the non-Indian viewer to indulge in Indian films that way, than it is for the Indian viewer?

I don't think so. I think it's more a matter of mindset. I have the impression that it was only fairly recently that large numbers of Indians started wanting to think analytically about Indian movies.  This impression may be wrong; it may be an example of recency illusion or a result of the internet raising my  awareness of what other people are thinking about.  But I perceive that there has been a wonderful explosion of smart, critical, incisive, thoughtful writing about Indian movies.   And while I am part of a significant firangi presence, most of this thinking is, in fact, coming from Indians. 

The nature of the analysis I do is surely different from the nature of analysis done by someone who grew up with these movies and the cultural environment they shape and reflect.  For me, the analysis is often about what I learn as often as it is about what the movies say.  But watching Hindi movies with one's brain engaged can be a satisfying experience for anyone inclined to it, whether Indian or firangi, and more and more people have been realizing that and doing it. 

Which actors that haven't shared the screen yet, would you absolutely want to make a film together?

I would give my right arm to see Shabana Azmi and Vidya Balan in a movie together.  Something akin to Tehzeeb (Shabana and Urmila Matondkar as mother and daughter) or 15 Park Avenue (Shabana and Konkona Sen Sharma as sisters) would be superb - something that substantively explores any kind of relationship between two adult women.  These two are both such strong actors; with the right script they could tell fantastically subtle and profound stories. 

As a new-coming Hindi film actress, would you rather opt for glamour or serious films?

I think with this question you might be asking me what kinds of films I prefer to see a new actor  do?  I'm going to answer a slightly different question.  I don't prefer one kind of film over another - I enjoy both, as long as they are well crafted. And different actors are suited to different kinds of roles.  So, it's a great thing that studios are making such a variety of films.

Also, Indian films have a long tradition of movies that are both glamorous and substantive - this is  something that Indian movies do perhaps better than any other film industry.  For instance, some of the great movies of the 1970s, movies like Sholay, Kaala patthar, or Deewaar manage to make profound statements about social issues while still offering a full meal of glamor and entertainment value.  Even earlier, Raj Kapoor did this too - Shree 420 is packed with entertainment and glitz and it carries a strong social and political statement.

So, I find that the art/mainstream or serious/entertaining dichotomy is a bit of a false one.  There is a continuum between thoroughly serious and thoroughly entertaining, and some movies manage to be both at once in very fascinating ways. 

Your favourite setting in a particular film?

It is interesting that you have asked this question now, because lately I have been thinking a lot about the role of location in films.  I took my first trip to India early in 2012 and found that seeing Indian cities, villages, landscapes, and environments in person has had a startlingly resonant effect on my experience of the movies.  I described it like this in a recent review on my blog:  watching Hindi movies has made India a fascination for me of limitless depth and life, and seeing India in person has made Hindi movies breathe with a new vivacity.

So I am especially fascinated by movies in which a location has so much vibrancy as to be a character in its own right - such as the Calcutta of Kahaani, or Chandni Chowk as brought to life in Delhi-6.  In older films, most of the time locations serve only as pretty picture-postcard backdrops (like Kashmir in Kashmir ki Kali and countless others), some of them do more to bring their locations to life, like Calcutta in the classic Howrah Bridge, or the bustle of workaday Bombay in Chhoti si baat.

Most recently, I enjoyed the location scenes in the brand-new Ek tha Tiger, especially the segments shot in Cuba.  As an American, I find Cuba an almost impossibly exotic locale - I have never seen a movie shot there and was completely thrilled to see it used so colorfully in that film. Who would have thought that after more than 200 Indian movies, the location that would feel to me the most foreign and exotic would be right here in my own hemisphere?

Is there a star you're missing on the big screen at the moment? 

Well, I am looking forward to the movies that Madhuri Dixit is working on. I think there is a shortage of Hindi movies (just as there is a shortage of Hollywood movies) that tell age-appropriate stories about mature women, and I'm hoping that studios can be convinced to make such movies with actors like Madhuri, Dimple Kapadia, and the like.  I am very excited about Sridevi's upcoming English Vinglish for that reason as well.  [Ed: I loved English Vinglish.]

Filmi Geek's Favorite Movies:  Too many to mention, and they often change, but my pretty constant top 5 for many years has been (in no particular order) Sholay, Jewel Thief, Lagaan, Shree 420, and Chalti ka naam gaadi.  Please see my Favorites category for a much more comprehensive selection.

Filmi Geek's Favorite Actors:  Again too many to mention; one of the reasons I love Hindi movies is that so many of the stars are maginificently charismatic and fun to spend a couple of hours with.  Shabana Azmi was my first love and remains a deeply admired favorite.   Some others worthy of mention include Ashok Kumar, Madhubala, Sharmila Tagore, Shashi Kapoor, Amitabh Bachchan, Hema Malini, Madhuri Dixit, Aamir Khan, Rani Mukherjee, and Vidya Balan.

Filmi Geek's Favorite Directors:  I have not been as clued in to directors over the years as I would like to be; recently I have started to remedy that.  And so I can name a few:  Vijay Anand, Shyam Benegal, Hrishikesh Mukherjee, Manmohan Desai, and Vishal Bharadwaj.

When female actors get married, they are no longer heroine material. At best, a heroine who marries another actor might continue to star opposite her husband. Or she disappears from the scene, and returns some years later for the occasional mother role. At least, that has been the conventional wisdom. Shyam Benegal's Bhumika ("role") turns this conventional wisdom on its head. Usha (Smita Patil) is a movie star who would like to quit the business, take care of her daughter and mother, focus on her home. But her husband Keshav (Amol Palekar) insists that she keep working. Keshav has not had much success in business and he needs the money her work brings in, to enjoy the luxuries he has become accustomed to. And so with each successful movie, Keshav, acting as Usha's manager, negotiates a still more lucrative contract. For most heroines, marriage forces the premature end of their careers. Usha's marriage forces her career to continue.

There is no ambiguity in Bhumika. Usha is a victim from the very beginning, and Keshav is a creep. Flashbacks to Usha's childhood show an angry, drunken father and a mother (Sulabha Deshpande) who constantly scolds her.  Keshav teases the young Usha and inists that she will marry him, inappropriate ribbing that clearly makes her uncomfortable.  At the same time, Keshav pushes boundaries of intimacy with Usha's mother. Keshav's intervention after the death of Usha's father is nominally benevolent; to help the family make ends meet, he works contacts in Bombay to get her into the movies.  But there is a sinister air about Keshav; one has the sense that his plan from the very beginning is to manipulate Usha into stardom and milk her for all she's worth, and as their marriage wears on he seems more like a pimp than a husband or a manager.

And indeed, married to Keshav and working entirely at his demand, Usha comes to hate her stardom.  Here, as well, Benegal illustrates another of the many ways that women, and especially female actors, get screwed.  Keshav, who forces Usha to work, also suspects her of hanky-panky with her perennial costar, the handsome but somewhat vapid Rajan (Anant Nag).  Keshav is no better than the gossip-mongers who make hay out of every rumor.  Usha works in the movies only because Keshav forces to, and yet Keshav presumes Usha guilty of the moral lapses imputed by the judgmental janta to any woman who works in the movies.  His jealousy and her resentment combine to corrode their marriage.

Usha finally does get fed up with Keshav, but leaving him renders her even more powerless than she was in her home.  Rajan has always loved her, but rejects her when she offers herself to him now.  Usha finds her way into a sequence of singularly submissive relationships.  The first is an intense attachment to a pretentious intellectual art film director (Naseeruddin Shah), which Usha hopes will provide her ultimate escape.  Later, she discovers what she believes to be her domestic ideal with Kale (Amrish Puri).  Kale's wife (Dina Pathak) is disabled and bedridden, and Usha slips easily into a role that is part second wife, part housemaid, part governess to Kale's child.  But Usha soon learns that even the life she has dreamed of comes with a price.  In the world of Bhumika, a woman simply cannot win - not too different from the world we live in.

The bleak story of Bhumika is told in textbook Benegal style, with comparitively little dialogue and much meaning conveyed in the grim expressions and body-language of its star.  I am about to say something controversial:  The more I see of Smita Patil, the less I am convinced that she was as good an actor as she is reputed to be.  She is often labeled a "natural" actor, and vocally rejected the studied approach taken by some of her Stanislavsky-esque contemporaries like Shabana Azmi.  Her performance in Bhumika highlights both the best result of this approach and its shortcomings.  Smita Patil renders well that which she is best at - dejection and suffering - but does not show a tremendous amount of nuance within that.  Usha moves through her troubles with an air of contained anger and resentment, a sense of teeth gritted, that is fairly constant throughout the film.  When she needs to move away from that space, she - and consequently Usha - seem a little bewildered.  It's not at all a bad performance, but it is at times somewhat superficial.  It is perhaps why Bhumika is far from my favorite Shyam Benegal movie.

Benegal fills out Bhumika's dramatis personae with many of his regulars, such as Nag and Puri, and Kulbhushan Kharbanda as the producer who makes most of Usha's movies.  This crowd is as familiar as a class reunion.  This is not a bad thing, as they are all fine actors and Benegal of course uses them very well.  But it inspires games, in the same way that Welcome to Sajjanpur made me want Shyam Benegal Bingo.  (Anant Nag does something pathetic and impotent - DRINK!)  It's also an interesting bit of cognitive dissonance, after a string of Amol Palekar's cutie-patootie movies (like Golmaal and the delicious Chhoti si baat) to see him here as a real piece of work, smarmy and creepy and unredeemable and mean. I am reminded of Khamosh, a very different sort of film in which Amol Palekar's creepiness is, in a sense, the punchline.  There's nothing funny about him here, though.  He is the avatar of every injustice that is dished out to women in the film industry.