Dhobi ghat (Kiran Rao, 2010) is a pleasant enough film to watch; it has a seductiveness, an allusiveness whose charm lasts a while in the mind, and one wonders, after the last unfulfilled pictures have gone, what was this? What sort of movie did I watch? Surely, not a classic Bollywood flick, not a social manifesto, so perhaps an arty evocation of a changing society? A meditation on the new reality India is going through? One could also say, an emerging director’s state of the art research. Kiran Rao, Aamir Khan’s second wife, is here busy demonstrating she’s got the guts to go it alone, after her spectacular successes as assistant director in such blockbusters as Laagan and Swades. Do I sense in her attempt that same superiority complex that always slightly bothers me in Aamir Khan’s dos? The feeling that here is a guy who is about to show what India filmmakers have forgotten all along: Indian cinema isn’t only for Indians, but for the world, it is worthy of an attention justified by its artistic complexity and human depth. The only trouble in this demonstration of artistic value is precisely the demonstration: artistic worth doesn’t need demonstration: if it’s worthwhile, you see it directly. And Indian cinema as a tradition contains enough resources for any filmmaker to create superior art if he or she wishes. This idea to look away from your tradition, and do things according to the assumption that a worldwide attention will be given to projects inspired by other aesthetic principles than our own: I wonder if any lasting good can come out of it.
What I’m saying might sound paradoxical: because the movie’s subject is 100% Mumbaite; the city, its streets, shops, beaches, its lights, smells, noises, its highs and lows; the characters, except for Shai (Monica Dogra) who’s a bank clerk NRI on leave from her work and who’s busy photographing the city for some project of hers. She’s the pretext outsider, and her little accent betrays the director’s need for her exterior point of view. She’s the benevolent eye of the world, a motley, already half indianised world, so to speak. And there she goes, clicking away at people, capturing them in her frames, artistically transforming them just like the film does. One guy, a dhobiwalla called Munna – Prateik Babbar - falls in her trap (or she entraps him, if you want) and believes she can get him into the movies. This happens after she had first fallen for Arun (our one and unique Aamir Khan), a moody painter who’s still affected by his recent divorce and finds a new inspiration from some video tapes of his new flat previous owner, left in a box with the furniture in the flat.

But Shai’s interest in Arun cannot break his shell, and she drifts away from him. Not too far though, because the tide of emotionality soon brings her back to him, even though in the meantime she’s started to appreciate Munna… One has to admit that this intertwining of interests, love or business, is cleverly woven, and very suggestive of the complexity of human feelings when desires, hopes, frustration and pain all interact. A person’s life is never one story only: it has several levels, it takes place on several planes, and this is especially true perhaps of urban lives, where the interactions are more numerous. So I’d say this is where the film pleased me most: one follows these lives very simply, the narration is fluid and convincing. The camera work too, even if sometimes it’s overly conscious of itself.

We discover Munna’s underworld, ie, his involvement with the drug-dealing, violent sub-urban reality which so many films have made us familiar with. We feel the slight hovering hush of danger surrounding the young woman as she naively steps into areas forbidden to the likes of her. And it’s rather good too that the film doesn’t conclude, emotionally speaking. There is no happy end, no relief. But then, is there a message? Is there a story worthy to be learnt? What is the film’s relationship with reality, and which reality? Dhobi ghat left me wondering about the situation in which Indian cinema has placed itself in. Where can it go, what should it do? How can it reflect the tremendous changes the country is going through, and suggest some elements of meaning to this change? Perhaps we need such films, as landmarks which later will reveal themselves as necessary intermediary links between one form and another, or they will just be considered as worthless cranking by camera-happy people without a plan?
 

I was uncertain of the answer, so I went on IMDb, and well, what I found is my impression multiplied by the dozens of people who also thought, sometimes kindly, sometimes less, that the film was on the whole a waste of time. Hmm, but sometimes you do have to waste time to find inspiration, you do have to mill around before the spark ignites. You put yourself in the centre of things (Mumbai) and you open your eyes, perhaps some flash of meaning will come from this, perhaps some structure will emerge. An artist has moments of emptiness similar to this soul-searching attitude. But there is also a non-negligible chance that it is sterile, and that one has simply gotten side-tracked. The old woman who lives in the basement in Arun’s building, and whom we see sitting on the side of her bed so powerless, stands out for me as a sort of symbol of the film: for me she represents an ageing Mother India that Arun’s desperate efforts have not yet been able to revive. She can also be looked upon as the unused and inefficient Indian artistic tradition which sits, speechless and incomprehensible, waiting for her new interpreter.

 As unofficially self-proclaimed supporter and glorifier of Nutan, I am proud to admit within the very close circle of Nutan worshippers Sharmi, whose site is devoted to pastime movies, and especially contains some wonderful praise of Nutan Behl. She has agreed to my quoting what she writes in several passages of her wonderful blog, as it so exactly matches my own admiration of the actress. Here are the extracts where she speaks about her:

On Sujata:

“Nutan's just inexplicable! She's in plain cotton sarees in the entire film, wears no makeup barring a bindi and kohl, and still looks picture-perfect. Her poise is infectious! Her eyes mirror her heart. When she is sad, her tears choke you, when she is happy, her soft smile adds magic to her mirthful eyes!!!”

On Seema:

“…back to Nutan. She is mesmerising. Minimal makeup, rag tag clothes notwithstanding, Nutan is bliss for the senses. When she is mellow she is beautiful and dainty, when she is fiesty, she appears like a Goddess, with her hair all unkempt, her eyes on fire and mouth spewing a barrage of powerful lines. She is a ravishing sight, replete with a fabulously hard-hitting performance. If morning shows the day, Seema is only a trailor of what moviebuffs would be enjoying in the years to come, from this gorgeous cracker of an actor...”

On Anari:

“It's no secret that I am forever mesmerised by this actor but in this film she is simply terrific. The deftness with which she balances joy, mischievousness and melancholy, is inexplicable. There is a scene where Rajkumar comes to meet Arti in her bungalow...he is dumbstruck when she appears before him. I am speechless, too. She is almost like a vision. Her expressive eyes light up at his appreciation, her face is like a flawless painting. Her curly locks envelop her fair temples and she is breathtakingly attractive. And, when she flashes those pearly whites, no poet can stop penning love couplets...

Nutan, I feel epitomised ethereal beauty. Her face was so malleable to emotions, nothing looked forced. And, it's not that she was taking refuge in makeup. With minimum greasepaint, simple attires to highlight her lissom frame, here was one woman whose beauty was beyond words...

And so was her acting. In fact, in Anari Mukherjee makes Nutan do comedy. And boy, does she make you laugh. Her antics are innocently funny. She prances about in the comic sequences with utmost dexterity. In the romantic scenes she is sufficiently tender, and in the sad parts her melancholy makes your heart ache. Such was her repertoire...”

On Tere ghar ke samne:

“As for Nutan, she is a delight! If she played the melancholic prisoner in Bandini, here she is chirpy and spontaneous. She looks demure and classy in her well tailored clothes and very stylish with her hair tied in a chic French roll. Her eyes light up with every smile. »

So thanks Sharmi, it’s very unusual to read such precise praise about actresses who are no longer in the limelights.

While I’m at it, here are the useful websites I found about the lady:

- Wikipedia

- Imdb.com

- filmimpressions

- Upperstall

- Rediff.com

- Santabanta

And here’s a selection of photos from Anari.

Basically, they’re mini acting biographies. As expected, there aren’t many clues in these descriptions to inform us about the real life that Nutan led. What were the events that shaped her early life, what were her values, what did she believe in, etc? If one leaves aside the information concerning her actress’s career, what I managed to find is that her parents divorced when she was very young, that she was disregarded as unconventional, even ugly because lank and gangly in an age when petite and round was the norm. Somebody says that she suffered from complexes as a result.

But she was lucky that her mother Shobhana Samarth decided to start a career in the movies for her. Biographers say that contrary to her serene cinematographic image, she was rather a troublemaker, and ahead of her times (for example she wore a swimsuit in Dilli ka thug…!). Her marriage (and distance - Kajol-like – from the sets in order to raise her boy) in the middle of her career proved wrong the saying according to which married actresses do not succeed. after their wedding. BTW, Kajol was probably more the imitator, since Nutan is her aunt) So I wonder, was it because she was too unruly that she was sent to that “Finishing school” in Switzerland after having shot Hamara beti (1950 – she was then 14)?

All comments tell about her marriage in 1959 to Naval Lieutenant Commander Rajneesh Behl (above), but none of them indicate what sort of man he was, where they met, etc. Likewise, the birth of her son Mohnish led to her small stint away from the cameras, but little is said of her relationship with this son.

Something strange is what commentators mention, concerning a feud which pitted her in courts against her mother concerning some misappropriation of funds accruing to her. This conflict lasted 20 years, I read! Her father, though, is practically never mentioned. And finally, towards the end of her life (due to cancer in 1991), she busied herself with the furthering of her son’s career, her dairy farm, some bhajan singing and recording, collecting “rare artefacts” (which ones?), and being involved in some spirituality, whatever the source (Upperstall) meant by that.

There has been a book written about her, “Nutan - Asen Mi Nasen Mi” written by marathi author Lalita Tamhane (and in marathi! see here and  here - Thanks Harvey!!). So, all in all, we are left with very little non-professional facts about her… And we have to watch her movies again in order to gather whatever emotions and intimacy we can get there, with the inevitable risk of not being able to distinguish between what comes from the characters played by the actress, and what reveals the person behind.

PS: I have to add the link to Bollywooddeewana's article on the occasion of Nutan's birthday. It contains a very interesting collection of facts and series of interviews from Nutan's family. Thanks BWdeewana!

For those who can read portuguese, there's also Carol's blog (in Brasilian, but it's fitted with a Google translator!) who has spent a whole "semana" talking about Nutan last July! She didn't even tell me! But she's another lover of oldies, and I am very peased to admit her in the open-minded circle of Nutan crackpots!

Hi, I've found this text written a long time ago probably after having seen KKHH one of the first times! Enjoy!

Where does the poignancy of love come from? This love in need of love, this need which screams in the face of the loved one “I will make you happy!”, this tearing of the future when love isn’t fulfilled? The movie rapturously delays the moment of relief, which should be its dominant feature, that of the Happy end, and yet what remains with me is the sorrow, the pain of love when it is offered and unrequited, its naked beauty and its violent softness. This is what characterises Rahul and Anjali’s story. She has loved him from the start; for her, he’s the one. She’s his friend, and a friend stays a friend for always. This “always” is love’s surest guarantee. Without friendship, what’s love? Passion, desire. But friendship is the soul of love, its lasting heart, its tenderness, its modesty. So why the distress, why the reluctance to end the wait, why the little lack of something missing?

If friendship between man and woman cannot reach love, it is amputated, it is forlorn and separated from its purpose. Friendship wants the other person’s well-being, but in the case of an obstacle it hides and flees; it leaves love alone if love won’t accept it. It sacrifices itself because friendship’s love is wiser and humbler than the burning love of eyes and bodies. Friendship becomes love only when united with love; left alone, it becomes a faith, a hope, and won’t reveal the love which lies at its core. But when love comes in its direction, it can hardly believe in it: it’s stunned and disarmed. Can divine love have decided to land close to it, and touch it? Will friendship, little and quiet friendship, become the partner of all-powerful, divine Love? Is such a thing possible?

You are my love, says the lover – I am your friend, says the friend: strange it is (it seems to me the film shows that?) that women are perhaps more on the side of friendship, while men are more lovers. Women like what men disdain; they are friends of who men will be, long before they know it, whereas men tend to love only she who is there before them. Who knows whether he will still love who she will be, and whom he can’t see, even though she’s here, right under his very eyes? But she knows that, and is ready for it. She also loves this unreasonable blind love of the present, childish and immature as it is.

Womanly friendship, soft palm on my cheek, do not move, stay with me, blessed are you to have seen in me that invisible future! Help me to conquer the deceiving present, for you are here now, your presence fills me with a freedom that defines me and delights me.

“All who have parted once must meet,

First we live, and last forget” (Kathleen Raine)

The movie insists on “first love” – one doesn’t love twice, it says, even if life tells us and shows us the contrary. Thus is made clear that life is somehow greater than love – it’s its main ingredient. Upon meeting Rahul again Anjali asks: “You aren’t ill, I hope?”, and he says: How pretty you are”. Life is love’s fundamental basis. But it’s more than love. It’s also reality, humdrum and ordinary. It’s living creatures’ autonomous impulsion, it’s insensitive, and selfish too. What is “first love”? Why is it so often equated to “one and only love”? Our first love is both the child of chance and necessity, both placed in time and steeped in eternity, it is creation, construction, it defines who we are. It refuses to be the “first” time, it is always, it has ever been, like life itself. It wants to be love itself, friendship itself, essential union and agreement of what was before separated; it is the common echo of two beings who have pronounced this word “love” to one another: for them love will have had this echo forever. Once all this has been thrust in the mind, in the eyes, this once is the last because it is the first and the only one. Life can of course build again such a monument, but nothing will replace in the memory the virginity of this first meeting and first eternity.

So first love, if indeed it has been a friendship between two persons, that is to say a mutual yearning for the other’s presence – first love is the greatest, the most beautiful, the only one. It has revealed the heart’s incomplete and eternal reality: and forever this revelation will have a face, a contingent face that could have been any face, but was that one, during friendship’s virgin youth.

This is why morality asks lovers to wait and contain their desire: so that their love, their mutual attraction, becomes a lasting friendship, built in their heart with the white stones of trust. If their love contains such a friendship, then all is good. But would they know it if, rushing past their virginity, they leave the stones in the quarry, and build nothing lasting? If desire alone replaces bond and future, aren’t they fleeing time and themselves?  Friendship is precious in that it builds love on a common virginity of the heart, a common eternity. From its origin, love will have been the waiting and the needing. Without the friendship for the person who shared this time of wonder, this time of first steps, of games and projects and hope, how will love resist another attraction, that will promise the same as the first one?

Friendship is true love, the love that defies time and repetition, the love that builds a lasting home, and can keep love from destruction. Love breaks easily if it isn’t friendly. God loves us as a friend, in a simple and trusting way, forgetting our tantrums and deceits as children forget when they start playing again. But it’s still God, whose majesty and power can transfix those who don’t know his playful heart.

So one understands how petrified friendship can be, when it meets with love, when it sees love coming its way (an almost married Kajol facing Rahul on the balcony): it’s like a simple human watching God recreating him anew, and perhaps making him die in the process. The fear and the hope, the burning ice, banal clichés indeed, are nevertheless the truth of a love that contains friendship at its core. This is why I remember more the moments before the fulfilment, than the fulfilment itself. The two lovers’ reunion in the end is less important than their long wait, their hope and their faith. Indeed something breaks when they finally reach the happiness they had been waiting for for so long, something which was their strength and their virtue, and won’t be needed any more. This something is the mild friendship that bound them in its purity and its love. Now that the distance has vanished, this familiar friendship must leave on tiptoe, before it can come back, much later, after the years when love starts cooling. The triumph of true love always contains a little twinge, the faint misery of lost friendship.

Veer-Zaara. Ah, lieutenant Veer, Zaara… and miss Saamiya! I think this is the movie I watched most, perhaps 4 times… Not a lot compared to some, but for me, yes! This is for me the “foundation movie”. Why did I (do I) like Veer-Zaara that much? Preity’s lovely eyes? SRK’s dashing uniform, and then (much later) his not so dashing stoop? Now that I can safely say so without being over sentimental, it is probably thanks to “Tere liye”, and the final scene, where Yash Chopra, that cunning old fox, plays with my heart-strings so shamelessly! That mixture of youth and greying age, of love, loss and justice! Shivers and wonder. So, just in case somebody, somewhere in the galaxy, has not heard or seen that song, here it is:

I know why I love this song so much: in a disguised way, it represents my belated affair with Bollywood, which for me was discovered in middle age, when young love belongs to the past. But if a thing of beauty revives those long-lost emotions, youth seems to come back and for a while re-enchant my life. That's what I see in the two lovers who meet in the courtroom, and whose eyes can see beyond appearances, and all the way down the corridors of Time. And because with this song I can never quite keep back the pearls from the corners of my eyes: here is Do pal: bless you Lata!                                         

 I also loved the combination of doggedness in Saamiya’s character and the strain of faithfulness present in Zaara’s. That moment when the two meet after twenty-something YEARS… And also Amitabh and Kiron Kher as they elders in the village, whose work they decide to carry on… All this for me was as good as gold. There were of course rather longish passages, especially in the first part, when the Lieutenant Veer Pratap Singh has to prove his worth! But the scenes in the prison were a good balancing.                           

 Raincoat is the sad one. For me, Raincoat was that song “Mathura Nagarpathi” (above), with Ajay Devgan the loner, walking through the rain, past  indifferent crowds and distant rickshaws back towards his destiny (nice destiny, this Neerja-Aishwarya). I was taken aback (at the time) by the wide eyed beauty, and saw her appearance through the broken panes of her persona as an epiphany of a slow Bollywood which I didn’t know existed!  Rituparno Ghosh did that to me. And so I thought he was perhaps a promising director, but I was soon disappointed when I saw Chokher Bali…Still, Raincoat remained in my mind as the quintessential sorrowful movie which nicely counterbalanced the fiery tunes of Kal ho na ho or Dil se!

Kuch Kuch Hota Hai’s songs I used to know by heart, even at a time when I wasn’t learning any hindi, and even if I can still rarely understand what these wretched lyrics mean (more than often, I’m told not much!!), well I cannot remember them half as well now. Hmm… let’s try: Tuum paas aie, yuun muskuraie, tumne ne jaane kya, sapne dikhaie… Not so bad !! So here goes :                       

And I think I also, silly fool that I was in those days (Shucks, it’s me I’m talking about!! I can’t have changed all that much!) I think I was in love with Sharukh Khan! Difficult not to succumb to his charm, what do you say? I officially declare I was in love with him.  What else can I say about this movie? It’s my first Bollywood love (together with DDLJ), and I just love the fact it exists. Thanks Karan, you’re the best. 

I loved Swades because of that long trip to the village which SRK should never had reached, because of lovely Kaveriamma, of the nights under the Indian stars, far away from the NASA base and all its technology. I loved Mohan’s trip to that old and penniless peasant far away beyond the lake, and what he learnt on route there. And of course I fell for slender and clever Gayatri Joshi! Then there’s that beautiful adventure of the water plant, so meaningful and satisfying. The combination of the magnificent photography and great story, that’s the secret of Swades.

Black was among the first BW movies I saw, and of course I immediately realised it wasn’t a standard masala. Contrary to Swades, I haven’t seen it since all that time, and remember only flashes, Rani’s strangely luminous face, unlike any of her previous characters, with a slight squint, her bonnet, amazing. Amitabh’s glorious acting, I really loved him then, I don’t know at all how what I’d think now. His shuffle in that room waiting for her to come, his helplessness, his strength and his frailty. I knew immediately the film was a remake of Helen Keller’s story, seen on TV long ago, but Black struck me as a worthwhile remake. I especially enjoyed the first part, with young Michelle, and all the teaching symbolism, that teacher taught story. Oh, and this is the moment to say how much I used to love Rani’s voice, and oh, here’s the famous extract where Michelle is kissed by the one person who has reached her soul:

Chalte chalte. I’m finishing with Chalte chalte because of the dog. In that film there’s a scene where Rani (as sexy as ever – check Tauba tumhaare yeh ishaare!) and SRK (as eyebrow-clever as always) have fun at a fair, and she sees a cute plush dog which she wants him to buy her, just out of a crazy longing for something childish and soft. And that dog isn’t at all cute. It’s ugly. But gallant SRK cannot tell her that, can he? He’s got to find a way to tell her that he can’t possibly buy her that dog. But she rushes towards him, and begs him, in front of the dukanvala who’s watching the scene, tongue in cheek. And the talk is just hilarious. This cutely ugly doggly had me ripping myself apart. Now there’s also the second half of the movie, with its heartbreaking sadness, and you know by now I have this obscure part in me that loves distress and misery… Er, I forgot, also I love gloom and depression! Ah, and I also wanted to say, there’s that scene where Rani has to explain all the situation to her parents (I think) and poor SRK is waiting outside near his car. Well, we don’t see or hear what they say, because it’s obvious. Instead, we have this shot of Rani’s scarf and the glorious safedi of Greek houses… Cool way of shooting, I had told myself.

There are other movies that shaped my beginnings, but these are the *BEST*! I’ve noticed that SRK is in 4 of the 6, Rani Mukherjee in 4 too, whereas all the others occur only twice or three times. So that has got to be my special jodi! What was yours?

This is a rewriting of a post dated April 4, 2007. The blog output is so low these days that I am resorting to rewrites! ( in fact, I’m busy with other things...)

I don’t know if you’re like me, but most people around me still don’t really appreciate my interest for Bollywood. I haven’t made many converts! They still think it’s a sort of fad, it’s not very serious; all these soppy melodramatic films, that aren’t worth the time spent watching them. Or (worse) they simply aren’t bothered, and leave me to my obsession. They’ve gotten used to it! Some of them still didn’t know, and when they discover, they look at me with a mixture of surprise and disappointment. “You too! You’re interested in this Indian stuff?” They’ve seen Slumdog, and sometimes Lagaan and Devdas, but that’s it, and don’t see the interest of spending more time justifying their impression they know what it’s all about.

So now that I’ve seen all those movies (150?), read those books, thought about the phenomenon, and exchanged with filmi lovers around the world, what can I tell them? Should I just say: they’re short-sighted, they don’t know, and that’s the end of it? Does the distinction between “Bollywood” and “Indian cinema” solve the problem? Should I focus on masala only? There are certain aspects of Bollywood masalas that are a waste of time. And it seems to me, more and more, as I reflect on them now. I probably can stand less fooling around now I have become accustomed to it, and even less star-gazing. Especially as the amount of star-surface is increasing more and more too! It’s been some time I haven’t seen a recent production, but there you are, watching the oldies has inoculated in me a vaccine against the cheaper or more flashy recent pictures. OR, the more recent ones have turned that way, simply from having seen the older ones.

Of course, I remember feeling that refreshing simplicity of story-telling, and not minding simple feelings expressed truly and convincingly. I had arrived at a moment in life when a dose of gaiety and fun was welcome. And love was just great! Silly to say, perhaps, but around 50, you have that soft spot, don’t you, that still feels soft, when perhaps you thought it had hardened! I’m an intellectual, but I’m like most people, I like feeling that divine emotion and watching its progress, its difficulties, its various steps. I don’t mind a sad ending, if it’s justified. Love is not always successful. But it’s always love. The previous post, on Roja, shows that perfectly.

I still marvel about the masala mix of music, dancing, and colours. And all that craziness, and that popular celebration of life. “Whatever works”, says Woody Allen, and yes, there’s some truth in that. Bollywood works because people need fun and joy, perhaps even more than principles and rules. Or at least, you need them both. You know, the old carnival thing. The stories can be exaggerated to the point of silly superficiality. But the beauty of those splendid homes, the clothes, the lights, the luxury: why not, who cares? Even if it’s prepared for the cinema, I also appreciate the  village atmospheres, where poor people are more tired, more frequently ill, less educated of course, etc. I know this is more often the “real” India. The films that hint at these realities with the right dosage aren’t perhaps as frequent (but I don’t really know, I’m guessing), but probably present all the same.

And of course in the course of these three or so years of passion, I have been blessed by the discovery of beauty and meaning, which are the two pillars of art. Such movies as Bandini, Teesri Kasam, Shree 420, Deewar, Charulata, Agantuk, to name a few, are like the capital cities of the countries in a newly discovered continent (In a similar way, the first emotionally charged Bollywood blockbusters I saw in the beginning have seared themselves up there too). I’m grateful (and almost ashamed I waited so long) for having known people like Satyajit Ray, Yash Chopra, Shyam Benegal, Nargis, Nutan, Waheeda Rehman, the Kapoors, Naseerji, Shabanaji, Amitabh, among the best. They are now part of me, I cannot forget what they have given me.

Then there’s the music. Over here in the West, some people find Bollywood voices too shrill, too sharp, especially some women’s voices. How is that? Taste again, of course, but there is such a variety of them! Not every voice sounds like Lata Mangeshkar! I for one am a devout admirer of the great lady. She’s truly amazing. Shreya Ghoshal I love also, but Lata – this morning I was listening to… never mind the title. Her voice, that of an old lady when she sang that song, I knew it, came out, pure as a mountain spring, and I just mused, and wondered. There are some tunes that I whistle all the time, that are catchy, pleasant, musical, everything! What I particularly like in a number of songs is that “elevated” part of the song, when something rises within it, transcends the succession of refrains and establishes a sort of celestial moment at the centre of the song, before one is brought down to earth again. This happens for example in Tumhi dekhon naa, by Alka Yagnik and Sonu Nigam. I also appreciate very much the sort of explosion of voices all combined at the end of certain songs (Saajan saajan saajan, by Alka Yagnik and Kailash Kher). But of course most of all the duet-sung melodies are the secret of Bollywood songs. These days I’m listening to a selection by Shreya Ghoshal, pure delight (Gache je dur chole mon niye, saat ranga ek pakhi, Shono chochk melo…)

I’ll leave the concluding paragraph of that post I’m replacing:

I will finish by speaking about the joy and the liveliness of some of the films I like most. I believe the Indian cinema is beneficial to the world. Well, some of it, at least. I don’t watch a lot, but the films that I love contain a particular optimism which I declare necessary for this planet of ours. This prescription is a mixture of respect for things like love, friendship, family, emancipation, dreams, a taste for beauty and life, for happiness and success, among other things. When I see films in which dancing and music are so important, I know that they are what is important. Our life here is not that dramatic that we cannot sing and dance. We must not forget to sing, we must continue to dance. We must not hesitate to play with the colours and spend our money to organise those lavish weddings, because abundance of life is shown by such extravagance. If we count and weigh, we will not be joyful. Joy goes with a certain expense!  The Indian cinema is an energetic and generous cinema, a joyful cinema, respectful of people and of nature, on the whole. There are some ferments within it that might vulgarise it and spoil its spirit, but this spirit is great, and I love it.

 

Basant (1960) is a loony movie where what you see is more important than what you understand. There is a story, sort of, (tolerably interesting in the first half but totally zany in the second!) but you must forget about it, because the chief interest of this golden Bollywood of yore is the main actors’ charm, the very pleasant humour (thanks Johnny Walker!), the magic of the sets and of course, the music and dances!  

So after having only said this much, I’m just going to celebrate Nutan’s charms. I’ll leave Memsaab tell you the story, and rave about Shammi Kapoor, whom I find rather stilted and even pompous at times (but hey, I’m nothing but a man), and most of all, who cannot really transcend his scowling and grumpy role. He looks like Elvis all right (and even for us French people, like Eddie Mitchell!), but that doesn’t change things a lot… On the other hand, even I’m biased in favour of Nutan, I find she plays much better, there’s a natural charm, a quick intelligence, an understanding of nuances in her acting which makes her beauty resplendent and engaging. You just want to step into the screen and speak to her!

This time, on the other hand (I’m comparing to Bandini, and even Dilli ka thug) the camera dwells on her much more, as if the cameraman had fallen in love with her, as well he might), and we have numerous free close-ups of her eyes, her mouth, her profile; there’s a shot of her under a veil, when she’s in the bus, and that shot is clearly worked on, because before and after a different lighting occurs. A Leonardo da Vinci sfumato haloes her and softens her features, like the master does with his paintings of virgins and angels.

Here’s a gallery!

 

I recently heard a journalist ask the question « Is Bollywood nothing more than a cinema made for India, or is there something universal about it?” – and I thought this question deserved a little post. Every one knows for a fact that the Indian cinema is the most productive one in the world, because of the amount of movies a year (is it still 800?) and of course the sheer size of the audiences. I say audiences because the crowds in the South, East and Centre are almost as huge as in the North, and from what I’m told, the penetration of US movies as yet cannot rival. So this raises the question of its local dimension, its adaptation to a public who needs a certain type of entertainment, and the question of the exportability of Bollywood.

In fact I’m not interested here in the figures of the industry’s success in other parts of the world than India. But is Indian cinema universal? Or rather, does it contain enough universal characteristics? Er… and what is “universality”?!  Is it the same thing as worldwide fame? Or does it refer to general recognition? Gone with the wind? Or Titanic? But these are surely typically American, no? What makes them also universal? Probably, something we could recognize in them which appeals to all of us, no? Well at least, most of us. In the two above examples, the beauty of the love-story, because love is a universal emotion. So, if a film deals with that sort of basic human feelings, it would have a chance of being universal: anger, fear, ambition, lust, hate… Yes, but it would need something else too, something like representativity, which would enable people in Japan, Belgium and Chile to feel it refers to them in spite of their irreconcilable cultural differences. What is this artistic quality which enables a culturally defined movie (work of art) to belong to humanity as a whole? Is it not “style”? So (next question…) what’s style?

We’re a little far away from Indian cinema, perhaps? Well, perhaps not: who knows if we couldn’t find that ingredient, style, in some Indian films. Style means personality, doesn’t it? And so we’d have to go in the direction of great directors with that element too. If by watching a film, you were able to say: that’s Satyajit Ray’s style, or that Guru Dutt’s way of filming, and of course if the movie contained a story which everybody would relate to, wouldn’t we have something universal there?

Well, I know of many such universal works – in fact, that’s what I’ve been pursuing in this blog! (Not a surprise, is it?) For example Shree 420, whose universality comes from its profoundly human portrait of man and society, of hope and despair. Or Teesri Kasam, that simple story of love and loss. Bimal Roy’s Bandini, watched recently, would certainly fit in the category, too, for its daring excursion in the mind of an unconventional young woman, whose beauty and purity, rooted in her Indianness, transcends it.  For that is the key element: a universal work of art is not universal because it is so general that all nations could appropriate it (if such a work of art exists), but it’s universal in so far as all other nations see (for example) an Indian film that deals with a collective issue which has found a new and well defined expression thanks to Indian culture. One country’s art forms enable a facet of our human nature to be revealed or dramatized in such a way as we can all recognize it as familiar.

It’s logical that the examples of movies I have provided are from the fifties and the sixties. Up to a certain extent, you need the test of time to say whether great contemporary movies can be called universal: here it’s a little bit like “classic” films. Time does two things to works of art: it elevates them (above the rest of the other works of art of the same period, which become secondary or are forgotten), and it classifies them (the way people refer to them put them in categories where it wasn’t necessarily so clear they belonged when they came out – it’s perhaps easier for movies). Because with time passing, history has been described, and taught. We would now refer to Mother India as a tragic epic with the mother-figure of Indian society held up high for everyone to recognize; but who knows if back in 1957, it wasn’t as much the leftist political message that was clear, because of the specific situation of post-independence.

Success does have a certain relationship with universality, nevertheless. Even if critics could decide, in their beautiful isolation that such and such a movie was a universal one, it would be difficult to accept without a certain element of success. People might throng to see a well-advertised film, and enjoy it because it corresponds to the spirit of the moment, but if the success is lasting (time is a much better judge than space because today even pigmies in the centre of Africa can watch Rambo dubbed in their own language), then the movie belongs perhaps to the list.

The problem today is that we rarely have the opportunity to need to see an “old” film again: there are so many enticing new ones all the time! So I wonder about the spectator’s notion of universality, and I half suspect it to be tainted by Hollywoodian marketing tricks. I wouldn’t be surprised, for example, if someone told me that a universal movie must be packed with action and emotion, possess a clear and suspenseful story, and, all in all, be a good commercial success. If an American audience can be talked into watching a film from anywhere else in the world, it must surely be a universal film! Well, enough said for now. But feel free to leave your impressions and reactions on that subject.

For me the yearly Cannes festival is not much more than an industry's self-celebration which is probably best left unwatched, but these days, it’s difficult to miss Cannes photos and interviews even if you’re only slightly interested in Bollywood. Aish comes every year to France, and being a Frenchman, I feel pleased that she does. But I wouldn’t have said anything about it if there hadn’t been two or three rather injurious remarks levelled at her, which I heard and made me feel rather embarrassed, and I wouldn’t like people to think that all French people, whom Aish always thank so warmly for their welcome, should be categorised in the same bunch as some of them.

First interview, at Canal+ (a French private channel), Aish is welcomed by a panel of personalities, one of whom declares that if she’s here, it’s because she “really deserves it”, a transparent allusion to her endorsement of Loréal  (their silly slogan being “parce que je le vaux bien”). Not much to say there, because it’s Aish’s decision if she wants to earn money that way. Then a woman asks if she would like to perform a few classic movements such as can be seen in Indian films, and Aishwarya, sensing that perhaps she is turned into not much more than a clever performer, retorts “you'll have to watch my movies, babe!”, which even if a little flippant (she could have left out the “babe”), did point to that silly habit of self-satisfied Europeans who look down on people from other parts of the world and reduce them to their pleasant idiosyncrasies.

Seconds later, the French humourist Frank Dubosc, who was sitting next to her, tried a good one, and said that he was pleased, because he’d thought the organising staff had told him he would be sitting next to Rika Zarai, not Aishwaya Rai. Now Rika Zarai is a 71 year old franco-jewish singer who recently suffered from a stroke, and using her, even if it was to set off Aishwarya in contrast wasn’t exactly in good taste. And of course, there was no way Aishwarya could understand the joke; she just sat there, trying to compose herself, feeling out of place, and in fact told Frank Dubosc that “we could not understand”…

At another interview Aish was asked whether she would contemplate nudity on screen… Rather flustered she started to explain she had never contemplated that, and would never do so, but then realised she had been trapped into actually talking about it, so she stopped in her tracks, and verballyslapped the journalist : “you’re a journalist brother, let’s leave it at that!” If you're like some bloggers I've read in relation to these things, you  might be tempted to say that Aishwarya Rai Bachchan is a high and mighty star who cannot take a joke. She snubs everybody, I've read, she can take a bit of snubbing herself. For me, at any rate, a journalist who can ask an actress why she doesn't perform nude has a degenerated conception of what it is to be an actress (or a woman even), and not much sense of dignity. Am I that old-fashioned?

All of this points to the sad fact that the show-business is nothing than a business, and that those who join it with a certain amount of principles (Aishwarya belongs to that number, even if she compromises with the star-system) must be ready to fight for them.

Yash Chopra… Say this name and immediately vast landscapes appear, green slopes where lovers mirror their gaze in the other’s eyes, enchanting music lifts up a crowd of spring birds, dark men march towards their destiny, violence smoulders in the heart, suffering mothers obey their dharma, and love reigns supreme in spite of all odds. Mr Chopra’s reputation as an incurable romantic is so ingrained that it’s difficult to start with something very different! You might as well adore him or hate him, in fact. YC is Bollywood at its best, or at its worst. And love, melodrama… with so banal a theme, such a typically Bollywoodian feature, why does the man stand out? Where does the legend (and the money) come from?

What’s interesting in his profile is the relatively limited number of films, and the stupendous number of blockbusters. This Indian director, born in 1932, has done only 21 movies? How come such a sparse output – yet over such a long timespan - has been so successful? I know of a few other such directors, Stanley Kubrick, for example. But Indian film directors? In the prolific Bollywood culture, there can’t be that many. Yash Chopra has the rare gift of making a landmark film out of every opus he directs, or nearly. One might say he’s managed to find the mix of story and spectacle his audience was ready for. One might add he’s got that skill to be as true and evocative with social-political films as well as with love movies. He’s also associated with the greatest actors of the moment, mainly Amitabh Bachchan and Shahrukh Khan for the men; and Sridevi, Rekha, Waheeda Rehman, Madhuri Dixit, among others, for the ladies. I would also add that he’s associated with the greatest musicians, Sanjeev Kholi, Hariprasad Chaurasia and ShivKumar Sharma, notably.

All this would be true. But I think it’s basically a knack for passionate stories. Stories that work. Yash Chopra knows how to exploit and tell stories in such a way that he meets the public that’s here to appreciate them. Good stories that are going to be successful need to deal with people’s main interests in life: the passions and desires which everybody feels or wants to feel. Rebellion and courage, virtue and sacrifice, love and duty. And the romantic dimension is perhaps not so much in the privileged choice of love – even though one can’t deny the place of that type of story – but in the intensity of the passions shown to transform the protagonists’ lives. Passion: does that word summarise Yash Chopra? Idlebain.com (here) says that “tradition” is a very important determination with Yash Chopra. Passion can of course be traditional, and dealt with in a traditional way. The author of that review contends that Lamhe (1991) was his only iconoclastic film. Having not seen all YC’s movies, I couldn’t say he’s wrong, but somehow tradition carries a certain conservatism which doesn’t exactly fit with passion. There is a violence and a revolutionary spirit in passion which doesn’t care about tradition. Yash Chopra has successfully innovated in ways that might have helped define tradition (that’s his classicism), but certainly he’s recreated this tradition to the point of challenging it.

He’s not a total inventor. No artist ever is, in fact. In order to be judged innovative (hip and trendy are qualifications you often read concerning YC), you have to understand the traditions, and depart from them: do something sufficiently powerful that will redefine them and set a style which others will in turn take as a basis. So if for example, Deewar takes up the “angry young man” theme from Prakash Mehra’s Zanjeer (1973), Yash Chopra has created a trendsetter which critics don’t attribute to his forerunner. I haven’t seen any other Bollywood mine-films, but certainly Kaala Patthar has the depth and guts of any competitor.

Sometimes his stories are artificial to the point of straining the belief of his spectators: Darr deals with such an obsessive lover that one wonders if they really exist in real life. And In Lamhe, the basis of the plot is very thin: you have to accept that a daughter can look exactly like her mother to make the story credible: a very rare situation, I’d say. Coincidences occur rather frequently in YC’s cinema, and I’d say, they’re often romantic coincidences, which are only one type of coincidence. A coincidence is in itself rare (otherwise it wouldn’t attract attention to itself that much), so a romantic one… But I think the director couldn’t car less. What he’s doing is using a plot, perhaps artificially created to work under the circumstances, and draw on the potential created by that plot. He doesn’t hesitate to add meaning thanks to coincidences which elevate the story to the level of myth, or legend. Veer’s prisoner number (786) in Veer-Zaara (it’s also Vijay’s dockworker plate number In Deewar) is an example everyone has noticed. It’s Allah’s holy number, and the film is about the need to unite Muslims and Hindus.

In stories of passion, says the director, anything can happen. It’s like tragedy, or mythology: we are no longer really in the everyday reality (movie-goers don’t mind suspending their disbelief we know that): passion justifies a level of experience which has its own uniqueness. Symbols flare up in such stories, whereas in realty, you’d probably have to draw other people’s attention to them, and to you, the decipherer. On this blog I’ve developed the symbol of water in Kaala Patthar: making a film enables you to weave together bits and pieces of experience and occurrences in such a way that the meaning it displays will depend on that assortment. Yash Chopra knows how to do that task with particular skill. His choice of characters, drawing from world myths and legends give his best films an interest and a lasting effect. So if he forgets that dimension, he quickly becomes manipulated by the fickleness of passing taste. For me, that’s what happened with Dil to pagal hai.

There is another structural element which YC implements in his best movies. Let’s let him explain:

"Relationships interest me because man is one creature who is capable of sane as well as insane behaviour. It's this nature of human beings that inspires and gives room for innumerable plots. Like in Daag (1973), Raakhee, who played the other woman, created all the drama, as did Rekha in Silsila (1981). In Aaina (1993) it was the jealous sister while in Darr (1993) it was the obsessive lover. So unlike other movies where a villain is added to create the problems, in my films villainy is substituted by a third angle." (reference)

Ah, here’s something Bollywood has to learn from the master: “a third angle”. I have in effect rarely seen mainstream Bollywood movies adopt that technique. Of course many Indian films have, but they were often socially oriented, fringe-type movies. Yash Chopra has succeeded in bringing this third angle into commercial hits. What’s a third angle? It’s a pole of interest which is neither good or evil, black or white, and is sufficiently developed to tilt the standard Manichaeism towards or more all-encompassing rendition of human experience. In Deewar, for instance, the third angle is Vijay’s swerving (and therefore very human) fight to reach self-justification. In Darr, it’s the unclassifiable obsession of the crazy lover. In Kaala Patthar, it could be Mangal’s course from utter villainy to sacrifice. All these diversions from easily identifiable Good & Evil create a third angle which adds the depth and the richness to the best of YC’s movies. And this notwithstanding a hero structure which is more three-polar and dual. Veer-Zaara gives us perhaps the best example of this structure. Not only do we really have three essential characters (Veer, Zaara, and Saamiya), but these characters are themselves included in a wider generational structure where elders shape the role and life of their “descendants”. The third angle, brilliantly personified by Rani Mukherjee’s woman lawyer character introduces a last item of reflection which Yash Chopra’s films have been recognised for.

Indeed, despite the formidable stature which YC possesses today, he has not always seemed recommendable and acceptable to all publics. We’ve already alluded to that commentator who declared Lamhe iconoclastic, because of the supposedly incestual nature of the main love concern. But that commentator has forgotten that Deewar was deemed as scandalous when it came out. The famous scenes including Amitabh and Parveen Babi in bed, for example. But Vijay’s character itself must have been difficult to deal with: he’s a vindicator of rights who turns bad, a victim as well as a perverted hero. And seen from a certain westernised angle, Yash Chopra’s stance in Veer-Zaara to reconcile India and Pakistan is politically-correct; but I wonder if all Indians agree. Finally, his decision to impersonate in Pooja (from Lamhe) a free woman who does not care about the possible incestuous undertones of her love interest was brave indeed given the financial costs of a YC film. So Tradition is not that welcome in his films, as we can see. Yash Chopra is more a maker of traditions than a follower. And yet he remains mainstream, he is recognised as one of the reigning kings of the masala type. No little feat.

PS: I have decided to say next to nothing about YC the producer, but naturally that aspect would have to be taken into consideration. Not to mention his father’s role in the Aditya phenomenon.

PS2: Sorry for the long delay at looking after this blog! And this after so many readers asked to "keep it up"! But I'm a teacher, and the back to school period has been particularly demanding this year...

What attracts one to Juhi Chawla is her absolutely irresistible smile. Okay, she was “only” a Miss India (1984), but frankly, Yash Chopra’s idea to cast her as Shahruhk Khan’s idol in Darr is not a bad one, far from it. I believe one can really fall passionately, desperately in love, and perhaps go as far as kill if that passion is not satisfied. I know this does sound extreme in today’s easy-going, emotionally relaxed world, but many works of world literature testify to that possibility. Juhi Chawla’s glow, her warm expressive eyes, her girlish ways, her adorable face (I’m trying not to add anything!) – well, she’s certainly way up in the “most lovable” feminine All Time list. And for models with that kind of attractiveness, the obvious reason for having reached such heights is of course a “pretty face”. And so the question is (as always!) is there something else to her???

One could say that her case is even worse than just those adorable looks that have had Bollywood producers at her feet: she’s married to a millionaire businessman – some would say: beauty attracts money, nothing very spectacular there. She has two children (more would perhaps be career-risky). Some articles tend to show as rather smug and superficial, for example this one called ME & MY CARS, where she explains that she drives a Range Rover, that it’s like a “house on wheels” to her, and she also calls it “my little car”… Then there’s her frivolous side (some might say anti-intellectual), as shown here:

“I love reading comics. Give me one, any day. I used to have a collection-Tintin, Archies... I still buy comics as and when. In the newspaper, the comic's section is the favourite and I go for it first. Then as I read different books I realised that there are funny books too or ones that have a humorous touch. Serious books bore me though. I have read literature--Jane Austen, Bernard Shaw, Charles Dickens, Graham Greene, Thomas Hardy and even a little Shakespeare. But I didn't really enjoy them much. They are nice as a base for all readers. But after a point they tend to get heavy. I go on the internet to read my fill of comics. Peanuts was another favourite. I'd rather watch Tom and Jerry than a film.”

Let’s now turn to some of her films: the actress is not always recognised as extremely gifted… Those naughty arty people would say: she doesn’t need it! The problem might well come precisely from the source of all that charm: her smile! I’ve noticed that she has sometimes trouble preventing herself from smiling: it’s probably part of her personality (see this article “Juhi Chawla still giggles!”) I’ve seen her in Qayamat se qayamat tak, Darr, Ishq, 3 Dewaarein, Swami, and in Paheli where she plays a little role. Everywhere she shows she can do something good, something sweet and delicate. This is the case in QSQT for instance, where she plays her (first big) role nicely, even if a little primly (that little innocent voice of hers!). In Darr, I found she didn’t shine particularly, and that her acting was rather stereotyped. The problem is that she’s such a pleasure to watch anyway, that it’s rather difficult to be critical of her!

I think the two best roles were in Swami and Tin dewaarein. Perhaps it’s because they’re the most recent films; Juhi Chawla reaches a certain mature status there. She still has occasional fits of smiling, of course. I think she must have been impressed by Naseeruddin Shah, for instance, in 3 dewaarein, because she’s supposed to be his arch-enemy (he’s killed her pregnant sister in order to rob a bank), but their frequent talks contain a sort of friendliness which cannot be completely put down to her will to masquerade her real intentions. I think really this good humour comes in part from Juhi’s difficulty with very serious roles. She’s never vicious, never frightening. In the end, facing him with the gun, she manages to muster a certain authority, but that’s about all she can do.

I have not managed to get a lot of in formation about her, actually. I did read that she keeps her private life to herself, but many other stars say that too. Some of the other stars, on the other hand, have things happening to them! It seems that not much has happened to Juhi Chawla. Everywhere we read she’s a faithful friend of Sharukh Khan’s (apparently others have not held the test),  that they’ve got this producing company together (Dreamz unlimited, with Aziz Mirza); that once Aamir Khan cracked a joke about her which she didn’t like (I don’t know what it was); I’ve heard about her recent love for classical music, and that she campaigned for Gujarat Chief Minister’s election in Gujarat: the media complained that she was canvassing for the Chief Minister to help her husband’s finances: and, that’s about it!  She does indeed seem to have not much happening in her life! Of course I’m sure it’s wrong, I can feel she’s quite smart, and knows where she’s treading. And being both a mother of two and a successful actress in today’s Bollywood is no little feat. But that’s what we have from the outside: a fun actress whom we love because of her warm and positive person.

In fact, one could say: Juhi Chawla is too perfect… She’s not a Manisha Koirala! If she has some of Kajol’s expressiveness, she doesn’t have her strong personality. If she has Aishwarya Rai’s good looks, she doesn’t have her proud cleverness. In Kareena Kapoor one senses a woman’s depth, a complexity; even today, at 41, Juhi Chawla retains the girlishness which has always characterised her. She reminds me rather of Madhuri Dixit, because of her glorious beauty, but Madhuri strikes one as being a more mature actress. She’s perhaps a little bland: does Juhi Chawla have any defects? None, almost, it would seem, apart from the quintessential “problem” of Bollywood actresses who entered the film industry by dint of modelling and being pretty!

But… I don’t care! I like Juhi Chawal for the healthy and fun sort of person she is. As this article says:

“A certain class and benevolence has always separated Juhi Chawla from her ilk. Her upbringing in a family where education, etiquette and propriety were given their due importance, Juhi was bound to imbibe all the sophistication to cultivate herself as a true lady (…) Though a beauty queen, Juhi successfully managed to steer clear of a sexy image and carved a niche of the innocent, vivacious girl in pigtails. She refused to star in films that could project her as a sexy and glamorous star. Lootere, for example, is one film which Juhi wasn't keen on doing as she thought it would ruin her 'girl' image. After friends cajoled her into doing it Juhi acquired the glamour tag too. There has been no looking back since then. »

I must say I rather like that view of her possessing a certain sophisticated class, and at the same time with a certain sprightly innocence. And, supreme quality, quite rightly underlined by what is said here: she has on the whole resisted the "sexification" of the love relations we can see in B'wood films today.  A lot of what I appreciate in Bollywood is contained in that Champagne-like effervescence: lots of glamour, lots of good feelings, not too much depth maybe (at the risk of being escapist), but this light quality in many Indian actors (and films) has a very valuable message: they don’t take themselves too seriously. It might sound childish, but there’s something profoundly good in the sheer pleasure of enjoying life, laughing, and loving, and Juhi Chawla is part of that plan.