Swami (2007) is choreographer Ganesh Acharya’s first try at directing a film, and in spite of some clumsiness, it’s full of good surprises. It is inspired by a desire to uphold the values of honesty, faithfulness and humanity which the director obviously believes in. It is a clear act of defence of the value of traditional Indian attitudes and beliefs (decency, piety, dedication, hard work), which would perhaps be boring if they weren’t embodied by Manoj Bajpai, whose presence fills the film. What I especially enjoyed in his acting is the difference he makes between youth and age: Swami the old man is nicely suggested, and one follows him with interest. What is also noteworthy is the fact that the film starts with the married couple of Swami  and Radha (a radiant Juhi Chawla), we don’t get to see how they fall in love, how they first met, etc. So what we have is, from the start, a film about the love between a man and a woman that will not use the easy tricks.

I mentioned some clumsiness: for example, the fact that Radha buys Swami that rocking chair of his with the money meant for her treatment, and subsequently dies from that “generosity”. But that isn’t generosity; that’s a wrong idea in the scenario. There were other ways of making Radha die and Swami display his besotted faithfulness than introducing this bizarre twist in the story. Then there are the “comical” moments with the park cronies, which probably belong to a comedy tradition appreciated by the Indian audiences, but I found them hard to watch, even if they connect with the theme of friendship.

I suppose the name “Swami” is not a haphazard name, and that it has been chosen to carry into the film some of the belief this word has in Hinduism. It seems that the main idea behind this word is renunciation:

The word swami means master; it means striving for the mastery over one's smaller self and habit patterns, so that the eternal Self within may come shining through. The act of becoming a swami is not so much an acting of becoming, of adding on, of allegiance, as it is an act of setting aside, of renunciation. A swami is a monk, one who has set aside all of the limited, worldly pursuits, so as to devote full time effort to the direct experience of the highest spiritual realization, and to the service of others along those lines. Renunciation is not anti-world, in any sense of the world being a bad place. Rather, it is a matter of priorities about how one will spend his or her time, the twenty-four hours in a day, and the seven days in a week. Traditionally renunciation is the fourth of four stages of life, although one who feels the call might renounce and become a swami at any stage of life. (reference)

 

Is the Swami which Manj Bajpai embodies a “swami” in the religious sense (not forgetting that, together with his wife, he is a Brahman)? Well, perhaps I could say yes and no. Renunciation is indeed a key-word in the film: the way Swami renounces to his beloved rocking chair after his daughter in law has sold it, (saying it was broken and too old and therefore dangerous in a flat with a young child): he knows she was wrong, that she acted out of spite, yet he dismisses the case, and makes them all understand that objects aren’t what count: only people do. Also the way he renounces to his flat, when  Anand and Pooja are asked to leave for the US at the end: the entrance in the ashram indicates clearly his “swami” condition.

On the other hand, even if he presents many aspects of the sage, Swami is also a passionate man, at times even headstrong and foolish. For example, his obstinate will that his son and daughter in law must go to the US, because that was Radha’s death wish: doesn’t this look authoritarian? Swami is not renouncing here, he’s clinging to a promise made fifteen or twenty years before in very different circumstances. He says himself, concerning the chair, that Radha would have agreed to sell it: so why wouldn’t she have agreed to postpone, at least, the children’s departure to the US, since they had decided not to go for their baba’s sake? They obey him, but we see that they aren’t going to be happy without him. So isn’t Swami still the prisoner of that passion for his wife, and far from having renounced everything, still craves to possess her, as the last scene of the film shows so well?

Is renunciation wisdom? Or passion? Many religious (and humanist) traditions, in the West and the East alike suggests that to be free, man needs to free himself from the passions. He cannot be at peace if he is the toy of his wills and desires. He has to adopt a discipline which will shape him into renouncing to passing whims, and to establish him into lasting happiness, above the sea of troubles of worldly cares. This is the origin of ascetic life, and of monasteries where men desert society and its thousand contradictory suggestions, its pleasures but mostly its illusions, in order to come closer to that inner peace that is the source of harmony and tranquillity, both cosmic and personal. 

Yet there is also a tradition which puts passion higher than renunciation: in the ascetic way, doesn’t man follow an ego-oriented path? The immediate purpose of the ascetic is to free himself from the turmoil of passions, to reach peace in himself. Others are at least partly excluded from this process. I realise that the real philosopher has vanquished his disorderly self in order to connect better with the outside world which is of course society and his fellow sufferers. But there is perhaps a risk that the ascetic attitude disconnects the self from society and others. Serving one another is perhaps more humble and more efficient if love is put forward from the start, in spite of the parasite effects of an imperfect self, because then the transforming virtue of love works not only on the receiver but on the giver too. Loving and serving are in themselves disinterested, and so carry renunciation along with them. This renunciation is an effort, of course, as in the other ascetic way, but it is oriented not towards building a better self: rather it trusts in the power of love to recreate and renew the hearts of all involved. 

So in that perspective, passion is wisdom: but passion in the sense of love, not the enslaving passions of the individual of course. Love for a partner is the first step towards that broadening of our circle which ends in offering up one’s life for humanity. So it is ultimately wise to give way to love, even if one knows that love has a passionate and cataclysmic dimension. Love (I mean Eros) can enslave, yes, and make one suffer, yes, but we were made for love, and if giving way to love is a risk, if it can engulf the self in a turmoil of contradictions and suffering, it is wise nevertheless, because it shows a trust in life greater than the sometimes limited attitude of ascetic protectiveness. Swami alludes to these issues, and refers to these life choices between keeping and renouncing, between giving and receiving. Swami is the man who has been changed, and broadened, by the love for his wife, who reaches towards a renunciation that this love has taught him. He has mastered certain selfish impulses, but remains very human in his devotion to the master who has shown him his way. Who can blame him? 

Er… I thought I would have stopped reviewing films like this one ! But Ta Ra Pum Pum by Siddharth Anand is interesting in fact, as a Bollywood phenomenon (are those of you who read me not tired of this treatment of Indian films?!). BUT: before I go any further: all those of you who like Rani Mukherjee RUSH and see it! She’s an absolute darling there, and I think she’s actually rivalling Ash Rai in beauty.

One good moment is when Saif explains to his dog that he’s gonna have to get lost (they’re poor, you see, they can’t keep him any longer), and the dog looks at him so understandingly!


Okay, so now that we’ve dealt with the important things, what’s left? Is the film much more than a feel-good entertainer? The story-line is … predictable, which is …bad. And the children, the character roles are … well, nearly always pathetic. The should-we-lie-to-children issue is not seriously tackled enough, only the dances and the music were fun for me (and watching Rani, I’m crazy about her, that’s why I watched the film really!!!!)  In fact the film is a total AMERICANIZATION of Bollywood. The ideal one boy one girl family config, the fight for the “right” type of school, the wow home, the success story broken to pieces by unfair dealing, then the slow descent to “Hell” of poverty, and finally the Revenge of the jedi… Somebody in Imdb (here) noticed that there was almost no mention of anything Indian in the film… Well, I don’t really mind about that of course, but it’s probably a sign: a sign if not of abdication, at least a sign of allegiance to a universe where traditional references are no longer indispensable.

And so Ta ra pum pum is by all means “Bhollywood”, an undignified cinema which doesn’t even try to hide what it’s copying, alas. 

But, as they say, “the kids will love it”!

Well, my foray into Bollywood oldies opens up with a bang ! This 1949 classic “love triangle” film which supposedly deals with the clash between traditional India and its Westernisation, errs, says IMdB sd268 in a perceptive commentary, because it equates “one possible answer to the question of the feasibility of a purely platonic friendship between members of the opposite sex with Westernisation, and the other with Indian-ness, which to me is simplistic and therefore unsatisfactory.” This may be so (it is the general lore about the film, cf. here or here), but we’ll see that fortunately, the sheer artistic values of the film transcend its short-sightedness. Indeed, the end of the film favours a condemning perspective. Neena, the carefree westernised daughter of the millionaire who dies of a heart attack, is presented as a victim of her own inattentive code of conduct. She is made to acknowledge that she shouldn’t have allowed Dilip, a friend who saved her life, to become close to her to the point that world wise rumour would think her compromised with him, at the expense of betrothed Rajan, who’s away when the relationship with Dilip occurs.

But Mehboob Khan’s storytelling is carried out in such a way that this interpretation, I mean the one favouring Indian Traditions as opposed their Westernisation, doesn’t completely hold, I think. Because we are led to believe, like Dilip himself, that Neena cares for him, that her ignorance of human conventions, her “westernised” ways, are not so much that, as eternal flirting, innocent as it may seem. What is otherwise the interest of the misunderstanding which occurs in the beginning between Dilip and herself? Doesn’t it occur for the spectator to indulge (just like Dilip, in fact) in the impression that Neena might well be appreciating her new “friend” because he is very pleasing? We all prefer watching love happening instead of love being frustrated.

So the problem which is examined here is the nature of love: what is love? Romantic theory, relayed here by mainstream social and religious laws, says that real love is only given once, that the depth of love is as deep as the essence of life, and that therefore one can, and should (“should”: that’s where society and its laws come in) be only given to one person. But that’s culture, not nature. On the contrary, nature uses love to draw people close to one another, irrespectively of whether they have already pledged themselves to somebody else. Well, passionate love does blind lovers from the rest of the world, and immunes them to other potential attractions. Interestingly, the love that links Neena and Rajan is not of the passionate type. Neena’s eyes are very open to other influences.

And Mehboob Khan knew all that of course. Dilip knows it too: if he repeats, very convincingly, that Neena in fact loves him, it’s because he’s felt it with that special sense that lovers have. The scene where we can see her holding Rajan’s feet, believing him to be asleep, is all too clear. Of course she loves him. Only she also realises that if she lets that love express itself, everything will break apart in her life. In fact it’s too late, but at least she has a keen sense of what her duty is. That duty which comes from her promise. And she also loves Rajan. Loving two people at the same time is very common and natural. Even if one is left to wonder whether there isn’t a slight preference in her heart…

So what’s happening in Andaz is Mehboob Khan using (perhaps not quite intentionally) this ambiguity of love in order for his spectators to enjoy his film (they’re watching real love happening, not just infatuation), and then taking advantage of the consequences of this fictional situation to denounce a type of flirtatiousness which he believes is destructive for Indian pairing traditions. I don’t believe at all that Khan is exploring “platonic friendship”. What there is between Dilip and Neena is love, perhaps even passion, and for us, like Dilip, there is no doubt as to its nature: it isn’t friendship. That sort of friendship between two young people of opposite sex is called love! If Neena had wanted to be clear about her love for Rajan, she would have told Dilip. But precisely, she was too pleased with the relationship with Dilip, that’s why she refrained from telling him about Rajan: she knew very well it would have broken the intoxicating bond that she enjoyed with Dilip. And so she lazily (or craftily? But love is innocently crafty!) left Rajan out in order to enjoy the banter with Dilip, all the more so that she had satisfied her moral sense of duty by having half-revealed to Dilip, through equivocations, that there was somebody else. But it wasn’t enough for him, and not enough for us! Her subtle game had been subtle indeed, or perhaps we should say M. Khan’s subtle game! He has made her convince herself that she was doing right, whereas in fact she was benefiting from Dilip’s insufficient understanding.

This age-old game would be quite OK, perhaps, if the end of the film did not so clearly denounce Neena as the victim of westernised customs imported in India and presented as dangerous for its traditions. I suppose Rajan’s jealousy could also be posited as a “good” Indian male attitude, in some respects, as it defends the culturally-acceptable type of love and rejects the “natural” or “wild” love which has got Neena in the mess she’s in. That jealousy, by the way, is also a strong sign that Neena loves Dilip, and hasn’t from the start taken all the right steps to avoid ambiguity. I think jealousy is always right in some of its assumptions, even if it is a deformed passion in its more developed form. Neena is simply a victim of the eternal battle between nature and civilisation. And that civilisation is human, not Western. Mehboob Khan’s perceptiveness has been to stage this battle once again in all its violence, but the opportunistic advantage he has taken of the victim isn’t quite fair, and the spectator feels very strongly that some injustice has been done at her expense. And in fact, I also half wonder whether Khan is not a little on her side, as she moves away in the depths of the prison at the end: isn’t admiring her resignation, her acceptance of her fate? Isn’t she both victim and heroine? 

I won't say anything about the acting, as it is apparently so well known. It's all true, Nargis is a natural, Raj Kapoor is very good (a little over the top sometimes, but on the whole marvellous, a great pro) and Dilip Kumar, a little restrained, I found, but well, I'm a newbie at all this.

I regret to say - I do have a limit in what I like about Bollywood. It recently took the shape of two rather sickening shows, Main hoon na by Farah Khan, and Koi mil gaya, by Rakesh Roshan (of the Krrish fame). I’m half sorry and perplexed to have to write this, because I’ve read lots of reviews saying how these two films were super blockbusters; somebody even said Koi mil gaya was his (or her) “best hindi movie ever”… And Mani hoon na has been hailed as “an amazing film” by one viewer on IMDB (here) but thankfully for me, it was in a thread called “what a rubbish film”! Perhaps all this doesn’t mean much, but in fact, yes, it does. This blatant difference between my taste and other people’s made me wonder what my criteria are.

First, I think I can’t stand this pretence of adults acting as kids. Or to put it differently, I am uneasy with any director’s hope that comedy might come from putting a grownup at children’s level. The thought of seeing SRK or HR sitting there among wide-eyed children in a classroom is just too much. So what’s my problem? Comedy comes from oppositions, doesn’t it? If I think carefully, I think I know. The problem comes from the fact that this mixture of adulthood and childhood reveals a misunderstanding of what children are and do. The same thing happens in other films with children, such as Raju Chacha, where three kids are at the centre of a plot meant to rob them of their inheritance after their father has died. In this type of film, the director just hasn’t got round to understanding what childhood is. Compare this with Water, by Deepa Mehta.

And what is true for children is in a way also true for youngsters, or even college boys and girls. The codes along which they are characterised are in fact stereotypes[1], just like those used for children, and the imitation of these codes by adults, in the case of Main hoon na and Koi mil gaya, creates a sickening feeling of uneasiness. Obviously the difference between the two films is that Hrithik in Koi mil gaya is supposed to be a child, a mentally handicapped child. But my point is that NEVER do we believe that he is. He simply cannot play the 10 year-old child. I don’t necessarily hold it against him, because anyhow the story is so unlikely. I don’t say it has never happened, probably the contrary. But the way it’s done makes the situation so ridiculous: to avoid that, not only would Hrithik Roshan have needed to learn how to act like a child, but his classmates would have had to be taught to react towards him as if he was a child. But they give him off at every turn. That is perhaps the main reason why he isn’t believable. We continuously see Rohit through the eyes of his schoolmates: and this is perhaps natural, because they represent the audience which Rakesh Roshan has in mind: I suppose he wants them to enjoy the fun of superiority over adults, and this is one good opportunity. But something gets lost in the process: the mental handicap, with its alien misery. And of course the magic, and sometimes the violence of childhood. (Perhaps I’m too severe, because Rohit does get bullied in the film, but it’s by the bigger guys only. I think I know enough of playgrounds to say that this situation is unrealistic, and that 10 year olds can be just as cruel towards difference, especially mental difference)

Let’s now turn towards Main hoon na. The situation looks different, as Major Ram Prasad (SRK) doesn’t pretend to be of the same age as the college students he sits with for the purpose of the story. But the same phenomenon occurs nevertheless. There is this strange game the director is playing with educational conventions. Obviously the intention is to draw funny effects from this situation, but I’m afraid they are hard to pull off! Ram’s rigid self-respect was for me as painful to watch as Lucky’s swaggering pranks. And  when Ram “falls” in love with Mrs Chandni, I didn’t know whether I was supposed to cry or cringe. Well, perhaps there was a certain amount of second degree there. I enjoyed the fights between Sunil and Shahrukh on the other hand, even if (or because?) they were so predictable.

It might not be very easy to film the younger classes of the population. Especially small children. Obviously you can rarely expect them to “act naturally”, as this is in itself a contradiction which the actor’s job is all about. But if it’s not done properly, then the scenes with children weigh a ton, and the movie’s interest drops immediately. A lot of care must be given to the relations between adults and children. In Kuch kuch hota hai, I found that this effort is rewarded, as the young children at the holiday camp are natural enough. I’ve already mentioned Water, a gem in this respect. I could also mention Khamoshi, the musical, where children are finely impersonated. But take Umrao Jaan: the two children, who play the heroine (when young) and her brother at the beginning, are painfully false. So it’s really a question of how much effort is put in this dimension of the characterisation, and also it’s probably a question of how much intuitive knowledge of childhood the director has. Childhood is our origin; our age of innocence (which doesn’t mean of angelhood, children aren’t angels). If a director misses that point, the risks that he doesn’t know some important dimensions of our human nature are quite great. And the situation is rather similar for youth: young people, especially teenagers, represent that part of our life when seriousness is present alongside a taste for risk and adventure, without which maturity and its authenticity cannot properly develop. Misinterpret that moment, that passage in life, and you get an anthropology which rings false. See Yuva: Mani Ratnam has managed to convey that sense of urgency and truth which characterises youth. Even at the cinema, we cannot play too much with those representations of childhood and of youth.