Let's talk about Bollywood!

Facts we should remember about Salman before we start criticising him:

- Let’s face, if Sallu didn’t exist, Bollywood would be incomplete.

- You can’t love Bollywood and not give at least some credit to Salman.

- He can’t be that badmash, he actually dated Ash Rai for two or so years.

- Men around the world, when coming back from work, on a hot day, are now kind of justified to strip and appear with a bare torso in front of their wives: the wives deflect some of the blame on Salman (perhaps they also thank him for it).

- Living Salman’s life, in spite of jail periods, isn’t that bad; after all, he didn’t go to jail for killing that person in Bandra!

- Even chinkara antelopes should be pleased; no one knew about their existence before Salman drew our attention to them.

All right, now that we have our facts straight, here’s the analysis. Why do I like Salman Khan in spite of all that? What saves him? What redeems the guy? How come I actually smile when I think of him? I mean, come on, I despise open shirts, I can’t stand drunken driving, nor ramming into bakeries, I don’t appreciate people that Ash doesn’t like, and I don’t like people she once liked a lot; I find shooting at animals futile and dangerous (you might actually hurt somebody); puerile attitudes and self-abasement are for me the signs of a severe problem in the mind. So shouldn’t I leave this man alone in his little complacent little universe? I shouldn’t even write about him. Do you realize? I am actually spending much of that precious time imagining how to present him in a nice light!

The first thing is, I don’t care about all that gossip. Salman can be a poacher, a tax evader, a womanizer, what he wants, I couldn’t care less. That’s his life, not mine. He starts entering mine when I see him on the screen, and of course the first thing I have to deal with is that issue of pectorals and other lumps of flesh. Hum…Well, I don’t deal with it very well, but after all, acting has other facets. Then there are his attitudes when the directors trust him to behave well when there is another main character talking, and Salman just doesn’t know what to do… I don’t deal with that very well either, but really, he’s not the only one: how many so-called actors in BW don’t know what to do with themselves when they are forgotten on screen by the directors? There’d be close to nobody left if we got rid of all that lot!

There are in fact some good films with Salman, that’s the simple truth. In KKHH, he’s fine, he’s OK, he’s just what he should be. He plays that rather disagreeable role of Aman with elegance, without any trace of disdain of having to give away the adorable Kajol to the “other” Khan. In Khamoshi, he’s Manisha’s lively mentor, very convincingly so. He teaches a lesson of life to that headstrong father of hers, who in spite of his hearing handicap (which frees him from certain prejudices of us sound-obsessed human beings), is limited in his understanding of what the young generation can bring to the world. In HDDCS, by Sanjay Leela Bhansali, he again has to sacrifice the pleasant role of the heroine’s gallant lover for the rather unpleasant one of the selfish romancero. In Hum tumhare hain sanam, there are moments when he genuinely plays and slides on the sets with decided grace and charm.

And that’s what I appreciate about him; grace and charm. Most of his defects are but inflated grace and charm. When he looks at his partner with these good-doggy looks, it’s because he knows he’s charming; he might be ridiculous, but that ridicule is naïve, not pathetic. His eyes save him. They’re his big asset. Who can be really bad with such eyes? I love his eyes. In fact, they’re clown’s eyes. This guy should have been a clown, making children laugh, making them jump with fear, and them cajoling them with a big popping smile. Salman is not a baddie, he just can’t do that. His character is that of a lover, carefree, easy and friendly, a little superficial maybe, but always there, always near. He’s just a boy, in fact, he hasn’t really grown up. That’s what David Dhawan (Biwi No 1) says: "Salman has a child-like quality that makes him very endearing." (here)

I believe that for all his failings, for all his limitations (which he readily admits), his natural and easy-going character are what makes him popular, and popularity is never completely wrong. Part of what Bollywood is, down deep, can be found in Salman. He’s part of the family. Bollywood is a show, a multi-faceted, colourful, open-air show. In a show, the characters have to be well defined, clearly cut. If you go into too much detail, you risk losing of the main picture. Salman is clearly identifiable, he’s the smiling guy with that great confidence, who will save the heroine and take her in his arms, crush her softly, and make her dream she’s lifted effortlessly up in the sky. The reason why some people hate Salman is because they don’t want to be lifted up in the sky. Because he can also lift up you guys there.

So: where does all the fuss come from? Why the dislike? Why the hate? Why is he sometimes described as such a brute? I’d say, perhaps from the same source that his kindness comes from. He’s violent and silly, sometimes, because he’s a good guy. He has been very fortunate, he has enjoyed so far a very enviable reputation, only tainted by those few lapses, but they have hardly changed the general picture. He’s too carefree, too happy-go-lucky, that’s all. Now you can be quite jealous of him, it’s only natural. And having been so spoilt, he can be quite aggressive when he doesn’t get what he wants. Apparently, that’s what happened with Aish. Violence was his childish response to opposition. Note that it was more, we are told, self-inflicted violence than towards others, and that too is very typical of frustrated and confused goodness. 

I would like to finish this commentary by hoping that he finds a role that will really fit him in a way that people will say: ah, now that’s what he was made for, that’s what he was waiting for. It will be both satisfying and logical, because his talent is real, as real as his energy. There will always be some who will say that his versatility is limited, precisely if he does meet with that future great role, but who cares really? Perhaps that role will be a combination of kindness, humour, and sadness. He’s already played in such roles, where he had to express this loving sadness. But I’m sure he could be given a part where he would create a very endearing and at the same time fascinating character. Both tragic and comic. His strength lies in his capability to play those great feelings convincingly. Just don’t let him take that shirt off. Or if needed, let him laugh about it too.

 
Is friendship possible between men and women?

This is the question which sprang to my mind while watching Hum tumhare hain sanam. Old question, of course, but well, since it seemed to have been important for the director (K.S. Adhiyaman), and that his film, in spite of a number of imperfections, is worth watching, I’ll just say a few things about it.

First, for those who haven’t seen the film, a quick summary: rich businessman Gopal falls in love with Beautiful Radha, who has been raised with real brother Prashant, at present jobless, and foster-brother Suraj, a successful singer. Respectively, Shahrukh Khan, Madhuri Dixit, Atul Agnihotri, Salman Khan. Radha has always lived with her brother, and when she marries, she takes him with him; and she has always been very close to Suraj, and when she marries, their relationship continues to be as close as before. But Gopal soon resents the fact that Suraj is continuously around: he starts suspecting his wife of double-dealing, and it all builds up to a crisis, when Gopal chases Radha and Prashant away from his home. Suraj at first fails to understand, but soon sees that he shouldn’t have continued to behave with Radha the married woman as he has done before she was married. In a few more scenes which I won’t disclose, he manages to set things right, and the couple and friends are reunited, as they should be.

This story is not very far from Mehboob Khan’s Andaz, reviewed on this blog not very long ago. We have the love-triangle, the singer and the special attraction of music, and we have the scene of the confrontation. There are major differences, but these similarities partly explain our issue here. This is a film about “platonic friendship”, and vindicates the right for right for men and women to behave as friends, no harm done. Well, the director probably didn’t want to be very militant about this cause, but nevertheless, he’s used the theme for his story.  Suraj does realize that he should have behaved differently with Radha, and does blame himself for not having realised it soon enough. But then comes the Suman “Deus ex machina”. Suman, played by “Special appearance” Aishwarya Rai, is Salman’s girlfriend, and she goes to see Gopal, blaming him profusely. And she’s the cause of the reversal of the whole situation, not Suraj. It’s because of her scolding of Gopal’s self-centredness that he changes, and decided to see Radha once again. 

So what are left to conclude? Isn’t it logical to think that KS Adiyaman is more critical of self-centred rich husbands than of over-intrusive brothers? Isn’t he implicitly saying that a brother and sister can continue to be intimate friends without having to refer to the new bond created by marriage? The film does of course criticise Gopal’s suspicion of his wife. It’s clear that she has never thought of deceiving him, and that he was wrong to believe so. But I think we can sympathise with Gopal a little: he is right in saying that his wife did not really show a preference for him as husband, and continued to praise Suraj’s accomplishments after she had married him, as if this complimenting had no contrasting effect on the listener.

Now the psychological verisimilitude of the situation, we all realize, is not very convincing. The film doesn’t impress much from that angle! So when the Othello-Desdemona scenes occur, we cringe. Playwrights and film-makers have often done that so well that THHS is really deficient here. We would like to shout at them that they could at least have that good explanatory talk which all sensible couples would have if a drift of the kind shown in the film occurred. This only serves to show that the director (perhaps inspired by a laudable social intention?) wanted to say something about caring for women, for wives, but forgot the basic rules of love-relationships in the process. First this one: when a man is very close to a woman, he cannot forget that she is a woman, and that he is a man (and the same works for women of course). The interaction between men and women is one based on difference, which is the same as possible complementarity. The sexual bond is essentially one of complimentary relationship. This happens already between brothers and sisters, supposedly “protected” by the interdiction of incest, and so it happens even more between adopted siblings, which is the situation of the film. I don’t mean that Radha and Suraj are in fact in love, but that their apparent ignorance of a husband’s sense of possession of his wife is very strange. Perhaps that has to do with the Indian culture? Marriage is so often a social bond there that the director might have felt justified to present amorous friendship as more authentic?

I think this “platonic friendship” exists, of course. But I have a tendency to think that it’s more a situation among men and women whose sexual differences are reduced. As soon as these natural differences appear, I believe the sex-based relationship superimposes itself on the previous relationship. Nature is there to make this difference, this complementarity, visible and sex-based. If in some cases, this sex-based relationship is absent, or obliterated, then I believe we are more or less outside the norm. So when Gopal retorts to Suraj that it is him, Suraj, who has a complex, I go along with Gopal. After all, homosexual men, for example, are a category of men who can have this “friendship” with feminine-looking women most easily. But even homosexuals know enough of the male code of honour to realise how provoking it is to continue to be intimate friends when an official intimacy has been established for one of them through marriage.

So the result of this little investigation seems to indicate that “Platonic friendship” is more a wish than a reality. Understandably, there are certain men (more than certain women, I’d wager) that would like to establish the natural existence of such a bond. I for one tend to see it as a disguise for a relationship which doesn’t want to admit another name. I think Hum tumhare hain sanam makes the mistake of disregarding this fundamental human reality that one man and one woman will always want to be loved exclusively, absolutely. And if a third party comes into play, it’s because something wrong has happened in the relationship. (Wow, all this must sound very preachy; I’ll try to avoid in the future)

I have always liked Saif Ali Khan, ever since Kal ho Na ho, in which I first saw him squint and sidle towards the camera, like an Indian Mafioso, with his Italian airs, his raspy voice. He was a welcome difference from the Salmans, the Shahruhks, and I immediately enjoyed his half-confident way of acting. Saif has been educated in England, at Winchester College, and I read that he had trouble with Hindi upon returning to his native country. Had he noticed that his general outlook had a Western element about it? Well, whatever, what is true is that he has now arrived at a star-level where he can sell a film, even mediocre films (recently Ta ra pum pum) on his good name. He has quickly adapted!

One thing which is part of the Saif persona is his ability to be accepted by the public for both roles of baddies and goodies. This ambivalence is a sign of his cleverness, because thus he can appeal to more producers, and also seem more credible with the critics. It’s true that his looks favour this attitude: he’s got this sombre, romantic face which perhaps can impersonate better characters with a dark intent. His general outlook goes rather well with what we expect villains to look like! Even in films where he plays positive roles, he’s not always as 100% likable. Worth mentioning are of course Parineeta, and also Dil chahta hai, and  Hum tum, among the films I’ve seen. He’s said to be very good in Omkara in a baddie’s role. Kya Kehna was a poor film, I found, but that wasn’t Saif’s fault. This ability to play good and bad roles means also that he can probably express certain emotions better, unless it’s the other way round (his versatility is a sign of his ability), as many spectators and critics have underlined. 

One last thing about SAK: I think he is well appreciated because of a combination of qualities: a certain fragility, mixed with a dose of self-consciousness, a lovability which comes from the fact that he’s not a n°1, or doesn’t insist he is one. In Kal ho na ho, in Dil chahta hai, he’s accepted to play n°2, or even n°3. This flexibility enables him us to feel closer to him, in spite of his “noble” origins (he’s the heir to the “Nawabs of Pataudi” – what that means in terms of social image in India, I’m at a loss to realise, though). I don’t particularly enjoy the fact that he half-consciously tries to appear as hulky as Salman (some directors make him undress…), and as rebellious as Shahruhk. But it’s probably unavoidable, and again, even if it betrays their influence, it reinforces Saif’s humanity, shall we say. Here’s a guy who’s like us, who half-heartedly follows the examples of those in the lead, who is telling us: I too am not so bad, I too need you spectators, I too want to make good films. And it works, he’s as good as them, if not better. And, just like them, as a result, he now has to fight the demons of that superiority complex which success and talent often give to good actors. For me, Ta ra pum pum was a sign of that possible shift towards self-complacency. So beware, Saif, and remain vulnerable, remain unsatisfied!

 



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?