A Hundred Years of Indian Cinema: First Favourites List

As many of you cinephiles already know, 2013 celebrates Indian film industry's centenary, marking a hundred years since Dadasaheb Phalke's Raja Harishchandra was first released. I hope to write other pieces during this year on the evolution of Indian cinema but as I began thinking about film-making in India, I realised that many of my favourite films don't make it to the 'big' lists compiled by film critics and mainstream media.  So in this post, I decided to list some of my own favourites.

It is worth noting that this first list is made up entirely of commercial Hindi cinema - with its rather awful short hand, Bollywood - and not all cinema from India, as the country has multiple industries in multiple languages, each with its own canon of film conventions, milestones and texts.  The list is also weighted heavily towards the last forty years of cinema, reflecting perhaps my own location in time and a generational shift. Unlike many film scholars who write about Indian cinema's 'golden ages' of the 1930s or 1950s, I firmly believe that 1970s threw up some amazing films, stars and film-makers, all of which have received less attention than they warrant. Moreover, we have not stopped making great films a hundred years later, despite the overwhelming narrative of nostalgia that many of our filmmakers, critics and scholars repeat incessantly. Finally, the best Hindi films of the past century have not been necessarily 'art-house' or parallel or independent cinema, but often the purest form of commercially driven, blockbuster enterprise.

I have to say that picking this list was particularly difficult as I could come up with ten favourite films within all of ten seconds. However, this first list makes up the films I can not only watch as a film fanatic but also those texts that leave me wondering about technical and stylistic choices of the films themselves, and make me want to place these cinematic texts in their social, political, cultural contexts to understand the processes that informed such cultural production. I also wanted to stay off the usual list of 'greats' although you will notice that could not NOT include Sholay (Am a 70s kid, so no chance). So here goes:

1. Amar Akbar Anthony (1977): this mad-cap Manmohan Desai adventure with dizzying plot twists is also perhaps one of the most tightly constructed scripts.  Adbhuta (wonder) as its primary rasa is a risky strategy in of itself as it relies on non-realist narrative tropes but Desai pulls it off.  Indian independence, the Partition, communal harmony, urbanisation, class issues, post-coloniality all get pulled into this mind-boggling family saga but with his signature light touch so that the film is enjoyable for a child but provides layer upon layer of textual complexity for the scholar.  Only quibble: the women don't get much screen time although they do demonstrate more agency than most heavy-handed 'arty' cinema of the time.

2. Sholay (1975): The big boss of them all! Gabbar, Veeru, Jai, Thakur, Basanti, even Dhanno....the most stylish homage to Sergio Leone and one of the most superbly constructed films of the past century. Each technical element - sound, camera, editing, so on - all deserve entire books discussing the choices and complexities of constructing those.  Then add the perfectly plotted script, great acting by some of India's iconic stars, and powerful dialogue and there really is no argument against this being the best.  However, the film makes far more sense and is more powerful in the original (or now director's cut) rather than the censored version released during the Emergency. The uncut version is longer but has more narrative and emotional cohesion right to the final conclusion.

3. Bandini (1963): A Bimal Roy classic, though unrelenting for its karuna rasa, with possibly one of the bleakest endings in cinema. India's independence movement, changing social mores, and prisoner rehabilitation all collide in this neo-realist gem that ranks alongside the best in Indian cinema, which also features an extraordinary expressionist sequence where Kalyani poisons her lover's wife.  It also features this most gorgeous song which also marks Gulzar's debut as a lyricist.

4. Jaal (1952): Yes, a Guru Dutt movie! What I love about this early film by the director (and writer) is the deft Indian-ised use of noir elements. The camera, lighting, mise en scene, costumes, all echo well known elements of Hollywood noir, helped in part by the Goan setting which allows the film to deploy 'western' imagery with ease. At the same time, elements of crime, retribution, morality, as well as Indian cinema's long standing preoccupation with modernity, urbanisation and westernisation are tackled with a stylish, light directorial touch. In context of the full film, this beautiful song takes on far more complex - and sinister - tones of forbidden desires than often noticed.

5. Jis Desh Mein Ganga Behti Hai (1960): Often ignored as one of Raj Kapoor's minor films, this is also one of his overtly political films and not only for the nation-building narrative that many RK films took up during the 1950s and 1960s.  The 'naive' Raju also references the attempts to persuade the pre-independence Chambal 'baghees' (Bollywood has often elided baghees with dacoits) into mainstream, post-independence India. Unlike later films, Kapoor chose an overt political narrative with Raju as the idealistic outsider to bring change rather than a redemption based entirely on love.

6. Rang de Basanti (2006):  After 9/11, a quintessentially human exploration of terrorism, its motivations, and the human face of violence. History and modern politics collide and blend, with layers of film-within-a-film, past and present time scales and digital media all come together in an engrossingly post-modern text.  This is one of my favourites for its editing choices and the ways in which sepia and colour, digital images and mass media elements are deployed to collapse the boundaries of filmic narrative, history and memory and extra-filmic reality. Strangely enough the images from this film seem to have bled into reality after its release, not only in the candle-light marches for Jessica Lal murder but also in the televised footage of police brutality in December 2012. Yet another Bollywood film that gives lie to the myth that the industry does nothing more than candy-floss romances and sentimental melodramas.

7. Maachis (1995): Yes, a Gulzar movie. This time as a director.  This director's oeuvre over the past four plus decades merits an entire list of his own (Watch this space!) as each of his films is gorgeously crafted to blend narrative, literature, aesthetics and politics. But this film stands out for me as the first major critique of the excesses by the Indian state in Punjab. It  is also prescient in its exploration of the ways in which the state and individuals interact and how narratives of 'terrorism' help sustain (and extend) the state's hegemony of violence at the cost of human rights and lives. Events after 9/11 around the world have sadly proven Gulzar's view of the state right.

8. Chak de India (2007):  One of the past decade's 'small films' with very large ambitions. It plays out as a straight forward sports movies with all the well-known cliches, but with a difference.  The film puts women's hockey at its heart, features a restrained performance by Shahrukh Khan who breaks out of his star persona for a change, and begins to articulate an Indian Muslim identity that can move beyond the Partition and is de-linked from Pakistan.  And yes, some how all this is handled in a way that is fun and moving.

9. Chalti ka Naam Gaadi (1958): Wacky, slapstick and outright hilarious comedy classic that turns into a gothic mystery mid-way, complete with a sinister mansion and a madwoman in the attic.  For an early film, the sexual agency and independence exercised by the women in this film (not counting the one locked up, of course, although she too escapes and organises help rather than wilting) is quite extraordinary. And of course it helps that it features the fabulously over-the-top eccentric Kishore Kumar and the most gorgeous woman to ever appear on Indian celluloid, Madhubala.

10. Gangs of Wasseypur (2012): Yup, I am right from the Hindi heartland so this one has to be included. This film is not only extraordinary in narrative scale, aesthetic choices and technical expertise but also is one of the most unabashed celebrations of the rural and popular cultures of UP and Bihar. Everything from the language to costumes to the music is global and local at the same time, capturing the global nature of the Hindi heartland today, freely mixing Chutney influences with folk songs, Ray Bans with behenjis, and high drama and violence with black comedy. In many ways, this film is an interesting beacon for the ways this industry may evolve into the future.

I hope to post again during the year about more films from India so this is really a starter list. I would love to know yours! But till I get to post again, happy 100th birthday, Indian cinema!

What an Amazing, Manic 2010! Updates

Okay, for those of you (precious, precious few yous!) who follow my blog and have been wondering why there have been no updates, here is the low down: the past two weeks have been mayhem!

I have been madly working, writing, catching up on chores, organising.  For the first time in my life, I am even re-doing my humble abode to make it more comfortable and fit-for-purpose.  All in all, the blog has had to take a backseat.  Of course, part of running around chasing one's tale is that there is really very little to report or indeed ruminate upon.

However, there are two key updates:

First, I had a brilliant time at the LSE's Fiction of Development event.  As always, LSE has uploaded a podcast of the event that can be accessed here.

Some of the questions were rather predictable (and annoyingly so), but the positive side was to note just how many students are ahead of the curve: the best, most thought provoking questions came from them.

It also threw up the "developed" vs "developing" world divide in stark contrast.  The non-European/US students were far more aware, better prepared and more thoughtful. They were also willing to engage in debate, challenge their own and others' assumptions, and were far more passionately involved in the issues the panel raised.  After the event, over drinks, these were the students who approached me and raised even more issues that they felt had been left out during the session.

Having done similar events before, I guess this response could have been predicted. But one statement by a student made over a glass of wine really made me sad that we haven't moved beyond the narrow confines of the colonial mindset. She told me: "Thank you for being on the panel. Your views made me realise that I am not the crazy one. That there are other people who think like me."

Back in the 1980s, as a student in the American north-east, I would often keep my mouth shut on issues of race, gender, power because my views were so completely different from those being expounded by (mostly American) experts on campus.  I had hoped that this had changed in the past decades; that there was more diversity of voices and views for students who were still building their viewpoints.

Then again, I can't remember hearing/seeing anyone on a panel who articulated my thoughts. So if just by my presence or by my views, I can provide either validation or confidence to some student, perhaps I am doing something right.  And that in itself is no mean achievement.

Second, Palgrave Macmillan has just published Religion in Literature and Film in South Asia, edited by the wonderfully passionate and dedicated India scholar, Diana Dimitrova.  It has some really amazing essays by scholars in Europe, India and US.  It also carries my comparative analysis of Amitabh Bachchan and Shah Rukh Khan's star personas, the ways these interact with the Mahabharata and Ramayana, and how they reflect their respective zeitgeists.

So all  in all, very productive start to 2010. 

Thank You Yet Again, Mr Rushdie

Last year, well before the now-ubiquitously adored Slumdog Millionaire was released, I promised myself that I would not add to the general hysteria. There were two reasons for it: the film promised to push every ideological and political button I have (for the record, it does!); and second, having followed similar mass marketing exercises about India before, I knew that all dissenting voices would be shouted down.

I wasn't wrong. The western media juggernaut has been extraordinary in hyping the film, but also at silencing all alternative opinion about the film. Much of British and American media in any case refuses to let an Indian writer/journalist comment on issues linked to India: our best hope recourse is to get a generally clue-less British-Indian or Indian-American holding forth in a manner that consistently repeats the immigration myth that so many of us from the South Asian subcontinent detest: "West is better, richer, modern; back home is poor, superstitious, backward."

The motives boldly ascribed to such criticism has been simplistic and offensively - albeit cleverly - racially coded: any criticism of the film by Indians must be rooted in nationalist pride and a corollary inferiority complex. And worse still, publications and journalists have declared with complete hubris and ignorance that of course Indians don't make such real movies because they would rather make and watch "escapist Bollywood fare." And to hell with the hundred years of Do Bigha Zameen, Traffic Signal, Chameli, and a hundreds of well made, mainstream, successful Bollywood films about the country's underbelly. Who cares about facts when the white man has spoken!

When the screen legend - and in my mind, one of the few Indians with the credibility and stature - to make the point, mildly took issue with the film, he was pilloried. Western journalists who knew little of Bachchan's trajectory and work, declared that he was "jealous" because he hadn't been included in the film; that he was a has-been; that he was delusional. Under the onslaught, Bachchan withdrew his very valid although poorly formulated remarks.

Which is why I am so grateful for Salman Rushdie's piece today in the Guardian. And once again must thank him for saying what many of us have wished to say but have known that it shall be shouted down, mocked, dismissed:

"What can one say about Slumdog Millionaire, adapted from the novel Q&A by the Indian diplomat Vikas Swarup and directed by Danny Boyle and Loveleen Tandan, which won eight Oscars, including best picture? A feelgood movie about the dreadful Bombay slums, an opulently photographed movie about extreme poverty, a romantic, Bollywoodised look at the harsh, unromantic underbelly of India - well - it feels good, right? And, just to clinch it, there's a nifty Bollywood dance sequence at the end. (Actually, it's an amazingly second-rate dance sequence even by Bollywood's standards, but never mind.) It's probably pointless to go up against such a popular film, but let me try.

The problems begin with the work being adapted. Swarup's novel is a corny potboiler, with a plot that defies belief: a boy from the slums somehow manages to get on to the hit Indian version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire and answers all his questions correctly because the random accidents of his life have, in a series of outrageous coincidences, given him the information he needs, and are conveniently asked in the order that allows his flashbacks to occur in chronological sequence. This is a patently ridiculous conceit, the kind of fantasy writing that gives fantasy writing a bad name. It is a plot device faithfully preserved by the film-makers, and lies at the heart of the weirdly renamed Slumdog Millionaire. As a result the film, too, beggars belief.

It used to be the case that western movies about India were about blonde women arriving there to find, almost at once, a maharajah to fall in love with, the supply of such maharajahs being apparently endless and specially provided for English or American blondes; or they were about European women accusing non-maharajah Indians of rape, perhaps because they were so indignant at having being approached by a non-maharajah; or they were about dashing white men galloping about the colonies firing pistols and unsheathing sabres, to varying effect. Now that sort of exoticism has lost its appeal; people want, instead, enough grit and violence to convince themselves that what they are seeing is authentic; but it's still tourism. If the earlier films were raj tourism, maharajah-tourism, then we, today, have slum tourism instead. In an interview conducted at the Telluride film festival last autumn, Boyle, when asked why he had chosen a project so different from his usual material, answered that he had never been to India and knew nothing about it, so he thought this project was a great opportunity. Listening to him, I imagined an Indian film director making a movie about New York low-life and saying that he had done so because he knew nothing about New York and had indeed never been there. He would have been torn limb from limb by critical opinion. But for a first world director to say that about the third world is considered praiseworthy, an indication of his artistic daring. The double standards of post-colonial attitudes have not yet wholly faded away."

Thank you, Sir Salman!

Update from Sunny: By Popular Demand

I am rather touched to receive emails from readers of this blog - frankly I didn't know I had any who were not family and friends - asking for an update. So first of all apologies; I have indeed been remiss. Secondly an explanation: I have been travelling partly to promote translations of my novel, With Krishna's Eyes, and partly for pleasure. And you will all recognise, for me that means limited access to the net.

For the moment however, I am posting a photograph of the French cover of the novel. I am not quite sure if I like Aishwarya on the cover (would personally have preferred Sush if they really wanted a Bollywood babe!). But it did make me remember a curious little fact about writing the novel. I had been working in film production when I began writing the novel, mostly for friends. And then began my doctorate in cinema towards the end of it. Somehow all that cinema leaked into the book so much so that at one point I found myself fantasizing who would play the characters if I turned the novel into a movie. So by the time I finished the manuscript I had a wish list of sorts in my head.

There was really no option for Baba. Had to be the great AB - and yes! I grew up in the 1970s and he is the towering old man of Hindi cinema! Just as Chachaji had to be a slighly roughed edged SRK - mad, romantic, affectionate but with a bitter edge, in a guest appearance of course.

Dadiji was a tough one because in my head I can't imagine the actress who could play her but Deepti Naval seemed to pop up a lot as an option. Alongside, oddly enough Tanuja - who, personally I think, has been the single most under-rated actress in Indian cinema.

Krishna had to be someone new - fresh faced and unknown, not someone hugely glamorous but also not behenji-ish. Some actress who could do contemporary urban Indian; someone sligtly vulnerable but tough. An early Rani Mukherjee or even a Preity Zinta in her Dil Se moment. Or a Vidya Balan today.

Not surprisingly, my favourite character of all is Damayanti. In a way, the story grew out of her character. She is also the most difficult one to visualise. I suppose Waheeda Rehman in her Kabhie Kabhie days would have been perfect: with the same grace and glamour that I visualised for Damayanti. But for logistical reasons, I would have loved Madhuri before she got the frozen, wind-tunnel look (WHAT A SHAME!). And weirdly enough, coming back to where we started: I think Sush - given a director like Gulzar - could pull off a brilliant Damayanti. She has that sort of uber-cool, urban-but-trad look while also projecting an inner steel.

Oh well, kisi din paisa hoga...ya, at least interest hoga. And a director who would love to make the film. On the condition of course that while the cast and crew is totally negotiable, Santosh Sivan shoots the film! I can just visualise my favourite bits of the novel rendered by Sivan's lens. In fact, another secret: in my head the novel rolled out like a Sivan-shot film for a private showing.

So there you go...but for the moment, just the uber-glam French cover! Meanwhile, I truly wish I could some day grow up to be as cool as my French disembodied self.

Eklavya: The Royal Guard. Just Don't Bother

The hype has been building for the last few weeks on Eklavya – The Royal Guard. It has a star-cast to rival most “multi-starrers,” not to mention a director on the hilt known for “great” past work. Press also reported that La Tagore and Saif were replaying their real life roles on screen for the first time – a casting coup that would make cinematic history!

Recent stories in the press suggested that producer and director Vidhu Vinod Chopra of the film was sooooo impressed with the performance of his lead star, Amitabh Bachchan, that he gifted him a Rolls Royce Phantom sedan, priced at approximately 800,000 USD (after import duties). Moreover, Chopra has gone on the record saying he took five years to write the film. After watching the film, one really wonders why?

Beyond the hype of course, Chopra has – at best – been a patchy director. He has created amazing work like Parinda and Mission Kashmir, but also delivered clankers like Kareeb and half-clankers like 1942: A Love Story. But still, when a director of his stature presents a new film, especially one packed with an exciting cast – with all present having proven their star status as well as acting abilities - expectations are bound to be high.

Imagine the horror then of finding yourself with itchy palms, wishing desperately for a tokri of rotten tomatoes that you could hurl at the screen! And yes, they would have been hurled at very aesthetic images, because that is one thing Chopra knows how to get right – the plush interiors, the vast Rajasthan desert-scapes, the sun gleaming through clouds of sand. But his is a jaundiced, cynical and dated eye, missing much of the verve and edge of another recently shot-in-Rajasthan film like Dor.

So what is wrong with this movie? Well, “let me count the ways,” since Mr. Chopra is so fond of the bard that he makes Boman Iran repeat Sonnet 18 twice. In the opening sequence, an irate husband strangles his queen, after romantically reciting the aforementioned poem at her sick-bed. It could have been a great screen moment – full of shock, horror and pathos. Instead the scene is bizarrely played out: the mentally challenged daughter looks on while a be-wigged Boman Irani appears to dry-hump a-devoid-of-all-emotion-but-elegant-as-always Tigress Tagore.

Mr. Chopra, if you must have spouses strangling each other in beds, can you please take a look at the recent Omkara variation!

Next: In a post Black and Sarkar world, one expects the Big B to deliver a great performance and not regurgitate the bored attitudes of his mid-1980s bilge, but Chopra seems to get no more from the thespian than a sort of Coolie-like ennui. Yes, the Big B is dignified and noble on screen, but surely sleepwalking his own star persona around doesn’t qualify as acting? And what was that bit of humbly back out of the door, and then “Superman-takes-off” jump beyond the doorway? The entire theatre doubled up with laughter! The Big B weeps, he looks heavenwards, he holds up his hand to ward off bright lights! His tears fall in slow motion only to sizzle and evaporate on the hot train track under a scorching desert sun (see I can be as self-indulgent as Chopra!). But none of the motions add up to anything more than prettily shot but meaningless sequences.

Vidya Balan is beautiful and expressive but has little to do except simper and coddle Saif and Raima Sen at various points of the film. Raima Sen is annoying with her little-girl style, mentally challenged princess act. Parikshit Sahni has little to do, which is a shame! Saif – after proving himself with Omkara – does little more than play the pouting princeling. His constant addition of English lines destroy all possibility of drama in his scenes: “I can’t express myself” and “wait” in romantic sequences with Vidya Balan were bad enough, but when he declared that he is prepared to die and follows it up with the English, “I am ready,” the audience was in splits. Jackie Shroff and Jimmy Sheirgill (another one with an extra letter in his name!) are competent but have little to do. Sanjay Dutt provides a few (intentional for once) laughs, although there was little need for comic relief given the unintentional gaffs in performance and script.

And finally, there is the blatant Orientalism! Chopra seems to pack in every trope he can manage, in a desperate attempt to cash in on the growing international market for commercial Indian cinema. So out come the royal palaces that sit atop wretchedly poor villages; despite the revolting caste histories and apparently ongoing exploitation of farmers, the “masses” are quite happy to go back chanting “Rana ki jai” (albeit particularly disheartedly); the women in the narrative never seem to leave the household and devote their lives to being doormats, or peeking out on jharokhas and dropping silk scarves; the palace interiors seem to be lifted either from the Gujarat handicraft emporium on Delhi’s Kharag Singh Marg or from Bhansali’s kotha sets of Devdas; and just in case, you had missed the point – we get an loving aerial shot of wailing rudalis clad in pastel chiffons!

Mr. Chopra – a word of advice: stop reading circa-1998 commercial Hindi film scholarship junk! Commercial Indian cinema works internationally because it offers a counter-narrative and alternative, not because it fits into the Western stereotypes!

But in all fairness, there are a couple of scenes that reveal Chopra’s innate cinematic talent and abilities: the sequence with the pigeon is beautifully shot although a bit clichéd. The screening room sequence is interesting for its self-referentiality - a key scene from Parinda plays on the projector, although the choice of the scene suggests it was imagined by a gang of film scholars rather than the director. The innovative use of a visual black-out where sound becomes the key component is intriguing and effective, mostly because of AB’s magnificent voice. But unfortunately two scenes are not enough to save an entire film.

Sadly (and I speak as a one who watched Parinda eight times in a row when it was released!) Chopra’s best work appears to be behind him; perhaps a fate he shares with other major directors of the 1980s who can’t seem to either catch the pulse or pull of innovative scripts anymore.

For his part, the Big B would be better served in his current run to stick with younger directors who seem to extract better work from (specially by not allowing him to sleep-walk Coolie-style through their movies).

All in all – don’t bother with this one!