Once again for December 1st, the boys over at the Canadian Podcast Buffet invited Canadian podcasters to dust off their microphones, record an episode, and, well, just generally come on out to the barn and put on a show.
The podcast side of Totally Filmi, unlike the blog, has again been languishing a bit as I deal with a very busy workload, but I couldn't resist the invitation.
I've had a number of interesting bits of audio lying around that I've been meaning to do something with, including the one that I'm sharing in this episode: a tribute evening devoted to the legendary showman of Indian cinema: actor, producer, and director Raj Kapoor.
(And a huge thank you to Bob Goyetche and Mark Blevis for giving us all a huge kick in the tush to go out and get an episode done!)
I remember the first time I saw Shammi Kapoor in a film. It was this:
Let me tell you why this film holds a special place in my heart. Probably most obviously is the fact that I lived in France for a while, and I still get a kick seeing snippets of it on screen. And even though much of the film was shot elsewhere (Munich, Switzerland, North Africa), I love the idea of Shammi and Sharmila Tagore in one of my favourite cities, Paris. I've actually flown through Orly airport once -- a solo trip to Paris for my birthday one year, and given that I'm kind of shy and reserved and lacking in confidence much of the time, the small reference to Orly in the film brought back a happy memory for me.
But the moment I first saw this film is important, too. We'd moved back to Canada, something I knew was inevitable, but which made me kind of unhappy, as I'd felt at home in France like I've never felt at home anywhere else in the world. I totally did not expect to have to deal with culture shock -- but we'd been away for long enough, and had adapted well enough to life in France that dealing with North American culture again really threw me for a loop (there were so many things I had no clue about anymore -- and so many things I didn't realized I'd just become accustomed to, like the fact that North Americans talk Very Very Loudly. For the longest time it felt like everyone was shouting at me, until I adapted to it again). Add in the fact that I was no longer used to Canadian winters (acquaintances in France used to tease me, because while they bundled up in winter, I didn't. In fact, most of my Canadian winter gear went into storage. I absolutely did not miss wearing long underwear, not one little bit.)
So, I was dealing with a lot of stuff that left me feeling kind of depressed. Add in to the mix the nasty fall I took on the ice in January, which left me unable to walk for a while, and drugged up to the eyeballs. In my heart of hearts, I knew the Universe was prepping me for a lesson, but mostly I was tired and frustrated at how much stuff in my life was going wrong (and had no idea that it could actually get a little worse).
I wasn't used to being stuck at home unable to do much of anything except watch television. Certainly our weekends were packed with so much stuff that had to get done or things we needed to squeeze in that there was never time for television. But sitting there, I discovered that one of the local channels was still showing the Bollywood films I used to scan now and then many years before. And one of the films that turned up one weekend was Shakti Samanta's An Evening in Paris, starring Sharmila Tagore and Shammi Kapoor.
I'm still stunned that it took me so long to get to Shammi's films. But everything happens for a reason, and everything in life has its time and place and purpose. An Evening in Paris made me feel incredibly happy, something I hadn't felt for far too long. It made me laugh and smile, which helped make the pain I was in at the time just a little more bearable. Shammi's films were added to my list of comfort films, ones I could turn to to make me feel better when life was getting me down.
(Aside: the first few months after moving to France proved to be incredibly stressful, even though we'd been amply prepared for what to expect. In fact, one of the things I'd read told me that I could probably expect to feel worst about six months after settling in -- and it was right. And right in the midst of this, the film Le fabuleux destin d'Amélie Poulain released in French cinemas. I saw that film SIX times in the theatre. It made me feel so happy, and made me realize how much I really loved France.)
So, my point here is: Shammi's films make me happy. Even recently -- the one film I'd not seen is the iconic Junglee, and not too long ago, when Mr. Totally Filmi had been out of work closing in on a year and a half, and I didn't know how we were going to make ends meet, and I'd been working crazy hours trying to help out, and I was tired and stressed and sad and feeling hopeless -- well, Junglee turned up in the post box, and I cannot tell you how much I laughed, and how much better I felt as a result.
That's probably why, yesterday, when I opened my Twitter timeline to the news that Shammi Kapoor had passed away, I cried. I'm not much of a crier, but Shammi's death, and, more importantly, all those tweets from people who had been touched by his work, well, they just got to me.
And then I went to the YouTubes to watch some clips of Shammi, to make me feel better. Thank goodness for all those wonderful moments captured on film, moments that will make me feel better when life throws me a few curve balls. Moments to make me smile. To make me laugh. To remind me that no matter what, life is really worth living, worth celebrating and, well, worth shouting about:
Thank you, Shammi, for cheering me up and making me smile when I didn't think I could. I know I should wish that you rest in peace, but, frankly, I prefer to imagine you in a heaven where you can tumble down snowy hills and scream, "Yahoooo!".
The folks over at TIFF tweeted this short video at me a while back, and I think it's well worth a watch to understand why the Raj Kapoor retrospective is so very important:
No, not those kind of props, but, you know, ACTUAL, props!
Along with the retrospective film series Raj Kapoor and the Golden Age of Indian Cinema, the TIFF Bell Lightbox has arranged a small display of props from various films.
They include such delicious items as one of Dimple Kapadia's dresses from Bobby:
I apologize about the glare, but the display is on the wall in the stairwell, and there wasn't a good angle to take the picture and cut the glare. What struck me about this was how tiny it was! Okay, some of you have heard my opinion that Dimple's costumes in the film were all one size too small for her, but still, I stood there looking at this dress and thinking what a wee slip of a thing she was in that film.
There's also Shashi Kapoor's jacket from Awaara (where he plays the younger, child version of Raj Kapoor's character in the film):
Again, apologies for the glare.
Some of you might want to avert your eyes for this next one, or scroll quickly to the next picture, because they also had the clown doll from Mere Naam Joker:
And Raj Kapoor's dafli:
(Oh, archivists and conservationists, avert your eyes from the label pasted on to the dafli....sigh....)
Which of course, is from this film:
And if all that weren't enough to move me to tears, there was this:
The accordian from Sangam, as well as Raj Kapoor's famous tramp hat and shoes. I bet you'd like a close-up of the shoes, right?
Like Dimple's dress, I was struck at how small the shoes were.
And because I can't resist a chance to watch the hat and shoes in action:
If you're interested in seeing the props in the films, the TIFF Bell Lightbox will be showing them as follows:
Bobby - Sunday, August 7th at 8:15 p.m.
Awaara - Friday, July 8th at 3;00 p.m.
Sangam - Sunday, July 3rd at 12:30 p.m.
Jis Desh Men Ganga Behti Hai - Thursday, July 7th at 6:30 p.m.
Mera Naam Joker - Friday, July 29th at 1:30 p.m.
Shree 420 - Friday, July 15th at 3:00 p.m.
I *highly* recommend checking out all the films in the Raj Kapoor and the Golden Age of Indian Cinema retrospective. It's a rare chance to see some of these films on a proper cinema screen. I went to see Barsaat yesterday, and although I've seen it maybe five times, nothing compares to the experience I had yesterday. Nothing. In fact, if I could afford tickets to every single one of these films, I'd be seeing them ALL!
(Also? I read on Wikipedia that RK Studios has all the props and sets to all their films. This may be an exaggeration, but really, if they have even a fraction of them, wouldn't it be FABULOUS to see an exhibit of them sometime? Oh, I'm telling you, FABULOUS!!)
Technically, Kapoor Khazana comes to a close tomorrow, June 30th.
But when I set up the dates for this, I didn't realize that the Raj Kapoor retrospective would run through July, and that I'd end up losing a week of posting time because of all the IIFA fun.
And, since I'm going to see several Raj Kapoor films in July (starting this Friday, July 1st, wth Barsaat, at the TIFF Bell Lightbox), I figured, well, I'd just keep Kapoor Khazana humming along through this next month.
You are, of course, free to join in, and I'll happily add all posts in to the list of links at Delicious.
But wait! There's more!
I'd already been mulling over doing this again, and when Amaluu of Bollystalgia asked if I wanted to do it again next year, I realized that yes, I did. Even if I tidy up some of the stuff I wanted to get to this time, there's still lots of scope to revisit the Kapoors. So mark your calendars for next July. I'm not sure if it'll be a week or another whole month, but I do know I'm already pretty booked up in June, so July it will be. More news next year as the time approaches.
I have to say I was absolutely thrilled when Vishal of AllVishal.com (he's @allVishal on twitter) contacted me to say he was working on some badges for Kapoor Khazana. Vishal is incredibly talented, and he was kind enough to do the badge that's over there in the sidebar for last year's Govinda Week.
I know that coming up with something for Kapoor Khazana was a challenge, and I can only imagine how hard it was to come up with something to capture the essence of this talented and, well, LARGE, filmi family.
I think Vishal did an amazing job:
I was sitting in the doctor's office when I saw Vishal's tweet with the links to the original images -- I swear, I had to stop myself from jumping giddily up and down and squeeing, "OMG, look, it's Rishi and Neetu! OMG! Ranbir's towel moment! OMG! Look at Shashi's grin! OMG! Raj! OMG! Prithviraj! OMG! Shammi! YAHOO!" I think these are, quite simply magnificent. I can't wait to get Mr. Totally Filmi (AKA resident Tech Guy) to put one in the sidebar for the links to Kapoor Khazana.
I had been thinking about continuing Kapoor Khazana on into July, more or less unofficially, and Vishal's wonderful images made me decide to do just that. I still have a stack of films I won't have time to get to in one week, and I will be going to see several Raj Kapoor films at the TIFF Raj Kapoor retrospective. You are all welcome to join in if you wish, and if you'd like me to continue to add your posts to the Kapoor Khazana links, don't forget to contact me to let me know about them.
Oh. Still pinching myself. Once again, THANK YOU Vishal, these are WONDERFUL!
And in case you didn't click through the link to Vishal's post for this the first time -- WHY NOT? Go see his images, go see what he has to say about them, go see his detailed images!
"Audiences who are unfamiliar with the codes and convention of Hindi cinema often find it difficult to make sense of song and dance sequences that, they believe, are inserted rather arbitrarily into a film's narrative. Even among audiences who are avid fans of the so-called Bollywood style of filmmaking, there is a great debate on whether song and dance sequences are unique assets or great detriments to the further growth of Indian cinema."
-- Shanti Kumar, "The Transnational Economy of Film Production in Rajmoli Film City, Hyderabad" in Global Bollywood: Travels of Hindi Song and Dance.
I once read what may be an apocryphal story (I've not been able to find a reference to it to include here) that once, the BBC, in an effort to facilitate their programming, decided to shorten the classic film Amar, Akbar, Anthony by editing out the songs, resulting in a slew of phone calls from people complaining that the movie made absolutely no sense. Apocryphal it may be, but it illustrates an essential point: in the vast majority of cases, song and dance in Indian movies serves the narrative in important ways.
Shanti Kumar (in the above quoted article) cites screenwriter Anjum Rajabali, who identified eight key ways that song and dance make important contributions to the narrative of films. These include such things as introducing us to characters; conveying love at first sight; underscoring agony/ecstasy and prolonging it for dramatic effect; giving viewers a break from all that drama-rama before plunging them back into the story; providing parallel narratives; allowing characters to express emotions that would sound silly, contrived or awkward in dialogue; marking the passage of time; serving as punctuation and allowing for smooth transitions and changes in the story.
Kumar quite rightly points out that it would be rare to see songs illustrating all of these points in one film, but many of them can be found in quite a lot of films. Kumar uses David Dhawan's 1998 film Bade Miyan, Chote Miyan (starring Govinda and Amitabh Bachchan) to illustrate how this works. I got thinking, why not see how it plays out in Imtiaz Ali's Jab We Met?
1. "Aao Milo Chalo"
By the time the first song appears in the film, we've met our two protagonists, Geet and Aditya, and we know a little bit about them. The film prior to this song has been marked by sequences of running to catch the train, racing in a taxi to catch a train, and missing the train not once, but twice. Geet insists Aditya will now accompany her home, and they end up finally boarding a bus. Aditya starts to sing:
"Aao Milo Chalo" serves several purposes in the narrative at this point: first and foremost, it condenses the journey they take into the space of a song, allowing for a quick transition in which, well, a lot of ground is covered. It also provides a welcome relief from the rhythm of the film, which up to now has been punctuated with mostly fast-paced, high energy sequences and a few short stops -- this song sequence slows the pacing down considerably and allows us a break from all the fast movement and quick transitions that characterize the film's rhythm up to this point.
The lyrics, too, provide us with a clue to the film's essential theme: it's not the destination, it's the journey that counts, and in the case of Geet and Aditya, it's a journey that will ultimately change both their lives in ways they couldn't imagine when they both stepped out on the road together.
Finally, "Aao Milo Chalo" gives us one further insight into Aditya's character. After the song finishes, Geet comments that he's a good singer, and this is when Aditya reveals to her his passion for music, and why he found it pointless to pursue that dream. Could that have been illustrated without the song? Maybe, but the song does it effortlessly, and allows Geet to easily raise the subject without preamble or a lot of dialogue to get there.
2. "Nagada Nagada"
Geet and Aditya arrive at her home, where she discovers that her family has decided to go ahead with her marriage to Manjeet. A celebration takes place, with both families in attendance. Aditya, who hasn't revealed his true identity to the family, has said he's a musician. The mischevious Geet insists he provide the entertainment:
"Nagada Nagada" is an awful lot of fun, and it's one of my favorite picturisations. Shahid Kapoor is a terrific dancer and he gets to show it off here, and I love the contrast of him in black against an amazingly colourful background -- your eye is constantly drawn to him, which, of course, is the point.
Or, one of the points. Because the song serves to underline a couple of things. Aditya has revealed to Geet that his mother is Punjabi, so it doesn't surprise us that when pushed by Geet, he's able to come up with a song that so beautifully fits into the moment. And this is when we begin to see how comfortable Aditya becomes with Geet's family, which will stand in stark contrast with Anshuman later in the film. Aditya appears to be an outsider, but this song serves to tell us that really, he belongs here in ways that will become more apparent as the film unfolds.
The song is also a tribute to Geet, a beautiful girl with eyes like daggers. However, what is most important here is that the song serves to underline what really is happening in Geet's life. The girl of the song is betrothed to someone, but in love with someone else. One story will end, the song tells us, and another one will start.
3. "Yeh Ishq Hai"
Geet decides the only option for getting out of the marriage to Manjeet is to run away and elope with Anshuman. She goes to Aditya to tell him she's leaving, and he decides to leave with her rather than having to face her family when they find her missing.
Aditya accompanies Geet to Manali, where she plans to marry Anshuman, and in this song, she sings about love:
Truly, though, Geet is doing more than just singing about being in love. Watch Kareena Kapoor in this picturisation -- her Geet is blissful and joyous. Love makes her glow, it makes her dance....if you've forgotten what that's like, what it's like to feel so much in love that you almost burst from happiness, then watch Geet and remember.
But also watch Aditya in this -- Geet is clearly not singing this to Aditya, she is clearly expressing how she feels about being in love with Anshuman and wanting to marry him, so she rarely looks at Aditya, even when she's right next to him in the frame. Aditya alternates between looking lost in thought, and watching Geet from a distance. This is the moment when we see he may actually have fallen in love with Geet, and the regret that appears on his face hints that he knows he will be leaving her behind. Note, too, Geet's wardrobe in this song. It will appear again.
4. "Tum Se Hi"
Aditya has left Geet in Manali, and he's returned to Mumbai. He's turned his business around. He's successful. And we learn a little bit more about how he's managed to do that in this song:
"Tum Se Hi" shows us clearly the effect that Geet has had on Aditya's life -- he's found the joy of music again -- he's found joy in everything again. But if we weren't quite sure he was in love with Geet before, we can be sure of it now. Everything he does, every moment is because of Geet, and he imagines her based on his last memories of her, mostly wearing what she wore in Manali, in the song "Yeh Ishq Hai". She's not there, yet she's always there with him. This will nicely echo what he tells her later in the film, that every time he had to make a decision, he wondered what Geet would do, and then he would do that. "Whatever I am," he says, "it's because of you."
5. "Aaoge Jab Tum"
Geet's distraught family contacts Aditya, believing Geet is with him -- they assumed the two of them were eloping together. Aditya assumes that she is with Anshuman, but her original plan was to get married and then go confront her family with the fait accompli. Aditya promises them he will bring Geet to them, and he sets out to find her. "Aaoge Jab Tum" is the song that reveals to us what actually happened when Geet and Aditya parted ways in Manali:
"Aaoge Jab Tum" is probably the most poignant and heartbreaking moment in the film. It neatly sums up Anshuman's rejection of Geet, her sadness, her attempts to change his mind, and we see her gradually become colourless, lacking confidence, listless, and so very, very, very sad.
The song is actually rather bittersweet. The words "When you come, beloved, the courtyard will be in bloom" are contrasted with lines like "My life is in your hands." It's as if the song is reflecting Geet's hope that Anshuman will finally come around, and her realization that things are not working out as she'd hoped. Geet is living in a world where she is stuck because she can't go back, and she now has no future, no way to get herself out of this situation she finds herself in. It's as if, in this song, Geet still hopes that her dreams will come true, yet somehow at the same time, she knows her hope is in vain.
6. "Mauja Hi Mauja"
Aditya takes Geet home, bringing Anshuman, who has finally come to his senses regarding Geet, along with them. The aim, of course, is to have Geet and Anshuman get married. But Geet saves a few surprises right 'til the very end, and the film ends with "Mauja Hi Mauja":
Okay -- this is where I admit that club dance setting picturisations are not my favorites, but they're very common for closing credit sequences. Let me tell you why I like this one better than most:
First -- they make an attempt to tie the song back to the film. The song opens with the preparations for a celebration, and partway through, there's a delicious moment where we revisit Geet's grandfather and his prophetic words: "At my age, one glance is enough to realize what is going between a boy and a girl".
Second -- hello? It's Shahid Kapoor and Kareena Kapoor dancing, and they look wonderful!
Third -- "Mauja Hi Mauja" is a terrific song, and it sums up Geet and Aditya's relationship perfectly. "The whole world is glittering now that love is in the air." "My love is like lemonade" -- in fact, when I was trying to think of how to describe Geet, I actually contemplated saying she was like my favorite salty lime soda, all sweet and tart and savoury and bubbly at the same time, so finding this reference in the lyrics here just tickled me to bits. "Let's celebrate," says the song, but also, "let's keep talking every moment." No more fitting way for this relationship, begun through talking, nurtured through talking, to continue. The film is over, and Jab We Met's final song just ties a bow on it and wraps it up neatly.
"Till date I have not missed a single train," says a breathless Geet (Kareena Kapoor) as she finally follows her belongings (handed up ahead of her) onto the train taking her home to Bathinda in Punjab. Little does Geet know that this will be the last train she actually manages to catch, and lucky for us that she does.
Geet finds her way to her seat, only to find it occupied by Aditya (Shahid Kapoor). If Geet's train journey has purpose and energy, Aditya's is the result of a completely random act. Depressed and shell-shocked, he boards the train only after leaving his office (where a legal battle is brewing), visiting a wedding (where his girlfriend is marrying someone else), after walking away from his phone, his car, even stripping himself of his tie and expensive cufflinks -- Aditya is walking away from his life, and his chance boarding of that train brings him into contact with the irrepressible, bubbly, talkative Geet.
Essentially, in Jab We Met, two strangers meet on a train, and although they don't know it yet, both their lives will change in ways that neither of them could have imagined when they boarded it. It's a simple enough premise, and in the hands of a lesser writer and director than Imtiaz Ali, Jab We Met could have ended up merely a banal repeat of other films with similar themes. In fact, there are echos of Ali's previous work (Socha Na Tha which he wrote and directed, as well as Ahista Ahista which he wrote and was directed by Shivam Nair) -- but Jab We Met isn't merely a rehashing of those earlier films. Instead, Ali is exploring similar themes in slightly different ways, giving them slightly different twists. What connects all of his films (including the more recent Love Aaj Kal) is a meticulous attention to craft, to the art of making films, from the art to the cinematography to the music to the script itself, the story and characters that inhabit it.
One of the things I love about Imtiaz Ali is his ability to create small, intimate moments and to capture the conversations that happen in them. This was, frankly, the best part about his debut film Socha Na Tha; the moments that Viren and Aditi spend talking to each other tell us more about each of them, and connect them to each other in ways that are powerful and meaningful. Most importantly, these private conversations feel real, not contrived in any way.
And these moments, the moments Geet and Aditya take to talk to each other are, perhaps, my favorite moments in Jab We Met, and they're where we get to know each of them just a little better. In the hotel room, when they miss the train (Aditya gets off at a stop, Geet rushes off the train to get him back on it, and ends up missing it, effectively breaking her previously impeccable record), Geet reveals her plans to marry Anshuman; Aditya opens up and finally shows Geet the photo of the woman he loved, who married someone else. Geet encourages him to be childish, to burn her photo and flush it, to flush her out of his life.
Later, sitting on a tree overhanging a river, Aditya reveals his passion for music, and Geet encourages him to be crazy, grabbing him and pulling him into the water with her.
When Aditya finally accompanies Geet home to her family, they meet out in the sugar cane fields, and she tells him about the twist in her plans to marry Anshuman: her parents have already arranged her marriage to Manjeet. The two discuss her options, bantering ideas back and forth, already sounding more like longtime friends than two people who only just met on the train.
What is particularly lovely in the crafting of this film is that all of these moments will twist back and return -- we'll see Geet and Aditya talking in a different hotel room, with Aditya now the one encouraging Geet to be childish, we'll see these chances to revisit conversations they had when they first met -- only this time, the conversations will gradually pull Geet and Aditya closer together.
It's one thing for a writer to create interesting characters; it's yet another for actors to take those characters off the page and make them breathe, make us love them, make us care for them, make us feel what they feel. But the magic of Jab We Met is that its two leads, Kareena Kapoor and Shahid Kapoor, manage to do just that. In fact, I'd say that for me, Kareena and Shahid are another one of those pairings I would love to see again onscreen, but regret that it probably won't happen (qv. Govinda and Rani). They invest Geet and Aditya with so much life, so much sorrow, so much sparkle that we fall in love with them and root for them all they way through the film.
Jab We Met is a film I've never managed to write about before, simply because I love it so much, and trying to analyse what about it works for me is a bit like taking apart a watch to see how the gears fit together. I could try, but I also know that once I got the thing apart, I'd be hard pressed to put it back together in a way that would be meaningful and useful. And sometimes, the magic of a watch is just knowing that the gears and bits and bobbles are all in there, and they work without our even knowing, really, how. We're just comforted by the small tick the second hand makes as it sweeps around the clock face, by the hum of the thing we can hear if we hold it close enough -- or, in the case of Jab We Met, by the rocking sound of a train that haunts Geet, that puncutates the moments when she realizes her life could be slipping away out of the station without her on board if she doesn't hurry up and catch it.
But, if I've chosen to make a frankly feeble attempt at it now, it's because of Kapoor Khazana, and frankly because of Kareena Kapoor. Kareena is magnificent as Geet. Geet is effervescent, endlessly chatty (she even talks in her sleep, a detail that is totally, utterly charming); and if sometimes her family members think maybe she needs to learn to think before she speaks (something Aditya might concur with), the lovely, often naive Geet (she honestly has no clue that the desk clerk at the hotel thinks she's well, as Aditya puts it, a "call girl") is given to moments of incredible insight and perspicacity. In Geet's world, things are often not quite as she perceives them, but how she wants them to be.
It's this latter quality that eventually knocks the wind out of Geet's sails -- as we discover in the second half of the film, her relationship with Anshuman is anything but the perfect dream she has described to Aditya before he leaves her in Manali (Geet has run away to elope with Anshuman, Aditya has gone with her before returning to take the reins of his own life in hand again). And when Geet's family finally finds Aditya, and he learns that Geet has been missing without contact for nine months, Aditya sets out to find out what happened to her. We are, frankly, relieved that he finds her; we are not, frankly, prepared for the Geet he finds. Rejected by Anshuman, Geet has undergone a transformation. Gone is the bubbly, vivacious chatterbox; in her place is a woman so disappointed in her life that she is silent, subdued, colourless.
Kareena Kapoor is magnificent as Geet. Her personality is so infectious that we never find Geet annoying, as she could so easily have been. Instead, she is charming and wins us over just as she does Aditya. And our hearts break to see the change in her, to see her so sad and so defeated at having the air released from her dreams that she doesn't even feel she can go back and face her family. Her cousin Ranbir Kapoor called her "phenomenal" in Jab We Met, and in that, I wholeheartedly agree with him.
Beyond that -- beyond the fact that in the film's two leads are wonderful -- Imtiaz Ali creates a whole host of supporting characters that breathe life into his film. From the clerk in the train station who gives Geet a life lesson when she finds herself stranded after getting off the train ("a girl travelling alone is like an open treasure box"), to the desk clerk at the Hotel Decent, to Geet's own family (including her imposing Punjabi grandfather, played by Dara Singh, who calls her a devil, and who insists from the moment he first sees Geet and Aditya together that there is something between them) -- all of these pepper the film with humour and grace. Geet's family in particular is lovely -- they are angry with her when she runs away, yet they are distraught at not hearing from her for so long, and when Aditya finally brings her home, they welcome her as the prodigal daughter returned, with a celebration (and a wee bit of a scolding from her grandfather, whose constant refrain, "At my age, one glance is enough to realize what is going between a boy and a girl" turns out to be prophetically true).
The relationship that develops between Geet and Aditya is refreshing, too, borne out of those small moments of conversation that pepper their travels, and without any expectations or obligations. Well, just one, in Geet's mind -- she finds herself obliged to Aditya for bringing Anshuman back to her, because, as she tells him, if he hadn't, she never would have figured out what she really wanted in life. What is particularly lovely and deftly handled here is that while Aditya clearly has fallen in love with Geet when he drops her in Manali, he says nothing except to wish her well and to take care. When he returns to Manali to find out what happened to her, he does so with no expectations that helping Geet and taking her home will mean a chance at a relationship with her.
Best of all in my mind is the fact that Jab We Met is a road movie. I love road movies. I love how they act as metaphor for a life journey, and what I love about Jab We Met is that it takes a traditional road journey and gives it a twist. We think the one whose life needs changing is Aditya, and we're not wrong in that, and, in fact, the first half of the film lays the groundwork for Aditya to figure out how to walk back into his life and turn it around, all with the help of the vivacious Geet and her zest for life.
Jab We Met is particularly delicious for a fan of road movies, because here we get not one journey, but two. In the second half of the film, we come to realize that Geet needs her own transformative journey, too. In the first half, Geet transforms Aditya's life; in the second half, he transforms hers. In the end, they both manage to catch that train, together.
In the midst of searching for something else, I stumbled across an article entitled, "Ranbir Kapoor, on being a Kapoor." , an interview he did with Anna M.M. Veticad.
Some of it's banal, some of it doesn't change my opinion that Ranbir is probably not the Kapoor I'd choose to sit down and chat with over a cup of tea, but still, there were some really lovely moments in that interview.
What did impress me was his very candid take on the fact that he didn't feel ready to take on reviving the RK banner himself, something that had been bandied about in the press not to long ago.
Tucked into the interview, though, is a really lovely little memory of his grandfather, Raj Kapoor:
Me, Riddhima, Karisma and Kareena used to go hang out with him. He used to call us to his room, he would ask us to do salaam and give him a kiss on his cheek, and he would give us these yum caramel toffees which he used to buy from abroad. I used to really cherish going to his room and getting that toffee. Once when I was 4 or 5, he was on a short trip to Russia, and I called him and said I wanted a suit. He was never a shopper; he was more of a person who liked to see culture and the city. But I remember he bought me two bags full of suits.
Frankly, he had me going, "Awwwww," after the toffee.
Dil To Pagal Hai (dir. Yash Chopra, 1997) is yet another film in the YashRaj tradition of fluffy, spun-sugar romances, its tag line "someone, somewhere is made for you" tipping us off to its happy ending (even if it's a happy ending with a bit of a twist). It starred Shahrukh Khan as (of course) Rahul, a dancer and director of a dance troupe, and Madhuri Dixit as Pooja, the dancer who replaces Rahul's star, Nisha, when she breaks her foot.
Nisha is played by the incomparable Karisma Kapoor (AKA "Lolo"), sister of Bebo (Kareena Kapoor). The role of Nisha in Dil To Pagal Hai (a role she got only after it had been turned down by the likes of Kajol and Juhi Chawla, amongst others) earned Karisma a National Award for Best Supporting Actress.
Choreographer Shiamak Davar also won a National Award for Best Choreographer for his work on the film. Dil To Pagal Hai was his first film as choreographer, and he, of course, has gone on to choreograph for films such as Taal, Dhoom 2, Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi and, most recently, Game (amongst others).
So, combine the marvellous Lolo with the award-winning steps of Shiamak Davar, and what do you get? The song that opens the film, "Le Gayi":
Word is that Karisma will be returning to films after a break of five years, during which time she's had two children. I can hardly wait to see her back on the screen!
I saw a snippet of Kareena Kapoor's IIFA 2010 performance on television last night, and couldn't resist finding the clip of the whole thing and posting it as part of Kapoor Khazana. There is really, truly, only one Bebo:
Every creative artist attempts one theme in various moods and permutations. Guru Dutt made the same film about the tortured protagonist in conflict with society, over and over again. Each time the artist tries to make his story more perfect in its telling. In comedy, when you make your first film you put in as many gags as possible. With time you make sure the gags diminish. Finally, there should be comedy without laughter. Japanese director Yasujiro Ozu made transcendental cinema. He made comedies that reduced the laughter.
Chintu Ji was released on Rishi Kapoor's 57th birthday, September 4th, 2009. I offer up this little tidbit simply because, frankly, I think he deserved a better gift than to have this little gem of a film come and go with so little fanfare. The film was a favorite with critics, but with little publicity beforehand, the film was out of cinemas pretty much inside of a week.
Ranjit Kapoor might be most well known as a dialogue writer for the cult classic Jaane Bhi Do Yaaro, which put its finger into the pie of social issues of the early 1980s. Chintu Ji is a film cut from the same kind of cloth: issues of what constitutes progress, the hollowness of the cult of celebrity, the nature of the modern PR and newspaper businesses, right down to the duplicity and cynicism of the film industry -- none of these are sacred.
And least sacred of all is Chintu Ji himself, with Rishi Kapoor playing a version of himself that only further serves to highlight the delicious absurdity that often exists between the lines of fiction and reality.
It is, of course, possible, that Chintu Ji is merely and utterly a film made for me, which kind of reduces the audience potential for it. But let me tell you some of the reasons I loved Chintu Ji, and then you can decide for yourself if it's made for you, too:
1. "Every grain of soil preaches that truth resides here."
From the successful Canadian television series Corner Gas, set in fictional Dog River (“40 kilometres from nowhere”), where the mere mention of rival town Wullerton causes residents to spit disdainfully on the ground; to Patrice Leconte’s La Guerre des Miss, small, fictional towns and their rivalries are useful lenses through which to view wider societal concerns.
Sometimes the reasons behind these rivalries are lost in the mists of time, as is the case with Corner Gas; sometimes they reflect a competition over benefits, as in La Guerre des Miss, where the village of Charmoussey, hit by the recession, wants to win the contest for the "Miss locale" over rival Super-Chamoussey, a prosperous ski station that has won that right in the previous 22 outings.
In Chintu Ji, the fictional village of Hadbahedi is a paradise. There are no cell phones, the residents believe in values such as truth and non-violence, and if little things go wrong, the residents console themselves with the cheery, pep-talky phrase "Yahan sab theek hai" -- "Everything's all right here."
The almost Utopian Hadbahedi is contrasted with its rival, Triphala. Whereas Triphala is clearly a place inhabited by those with loose morals – it’s where you go for liquor and chicken dinners, and its fame is built upon its political candidates (a criminal running from jail and the owner of a distillery) – Hadbahedi is a paragon of goodness and virtue. No alcohol is permitted, the residents are largely vegetarian, there is no crime. Life in Hadbahedi is not perfect though: the electricity is only on sporadically throughout the day, the local newspaper is a weekly instead of daily, the airport is shared with rival town Triphala. The residents of Hadbahedi are not unhappy with their lot, yet, they long for a little more, and they dream of the possibilities of something just a little bit better.
And they see the key to raising their profile enough to command the attention that gets those benefits in the election of a high-profile politician themselves. When the local midwife reveals that she assisted at the birth of one “Chintu” – that is, one Rishi Kapoor -- the locals think they've got their man, and send an invitation to Rishi Kapoor to visit. The invitation from Hadbahedi dovetails nicely with Rishi Kapoor’s own eye on making a run at political office, and he arrives with his assistant and his newly-hired PR representative in tow. The visit gets off to a very rocky start when Chintu Ji slips on a block of ice and hurts his back, confining him to bed at the house of the hosts who provided a lunch for him, instead of in the air-conditioned guest house he was scheduled to stay in.
2. "Under the pretext of tea."
The romance track, between Arun Bakshi (Priyanshu Chatterjee) and Devika Malhotra (Kulraj Randhawa in her first Hindi film -- her second of course, was Yamla Pagla Deewana) has been described by some as unnecessary to the unfolding of the main story -- but I'd argue otherwise. Apart from the fact that the love story is rather small and sweet, I'd say that it's essential, in a way, to highlighting what's going on in the film.
It also gives us a black umbrella moment.
Because Arun, of course, is the editor of Hadbhahedi's weekly paper, and Devika is Chintu Ji's Public Relations assistant. And between the two of them, they actually form the moral core of the story, somewhat of an ironic twist from what we might expect of people in the positions they occupy. Arun is proud of his paper, hopes to see his readership expand, wants to go from a weekly to a daily. But unlike a lot of journalists, Arun has standards. When Chintu Ji questions the quality of the paper Arun prints on, Arun's disdain at the suggestion of shifting to glossy paper is palpable. For Arun, glossy implies a certain lack of standards, and the suggestion that much of what appears there is rumours and rubbish, not what Arun wants to indulge in. This stands in contrast to the journalist who shows up to investigate Arun's past, under the pretext of wanting to interview Chintu Ji -- the level of disinformation and shoddy reporting he represents is handily summed up by the fact that he arrives from a bigger paper with presumably more resources, is disdainful of the local counterpart, and yet, he gets the nature of Chintu Ji's injury wrong.
Devika, of course, has recently been hired by Chintu Ji, who has aspirations to public office. It's Devika who constantly has to remind the boorish Chintu Ji of the basics of polite, respectful behaviour. At first, you might think, well, that's her job, to make him look good, and that's true, up to a point. It becomes clear as the film unfolds that Devika doesn't take any guff from Chintu Ji either, often putting him in his place.
And whereas in real life, the coming together of journalism and public relations is often cynical, in the case of Chintu Ji, it's a shining example of how two very decent individuals do their jobs in ways that are professional and moral and respectful.
3. "An actor has only one motivation...."
One of the particularly delicious aspects of Chintu Ji is how it looks at the business of cinema. The film Is packed with all sorts of filmi references -- when Chintu Ji arrives in Hadbahedi, the residents demand a song, a dance, a dialogue, and Rishi Kapoor responds with one of his most famous ones, the introduction to the song "Om Shanti Om" from Karz. When he finally graduates to using a wheelchair after being bedridden with his back injury, someone comments on how well he manipulated a wheelchair in Chandni.
The film also delivers some wry commentary on the nature of celebrity, and the Indian fondness for placing images of their screen idols everywhere. The residents of Hadbahedi erect a 35-foot image of Rishi Kapoor -- and deliciously, when he arrives, he's unimpressed until he is assured that similar images of Amitabh Bachchan and Rajnikanth erected elsewhere are not as high as his. The town's doctor, treating Rishi for the back injury, turns out to be a closet screenwriter, and offers Rishi a "medicinal dose" of alcohol that he procures surreptiously from Triphala in exchange for the chance to narrate his script to Rishi. The doctor acts out the script in meticulous and excruciating detail, not noticing that the actor merely downs the whole bottle of booze and passes out in an attempt to drown him out.
Equally delicious is the shooting of the film that ends up stalled when Rishi is delayed in Hadbahedi after his fall. Malkani (Saurabh Shukla), the director of the film, decides the actor has caused him so much trouble, delaying his already over-budget and behind schedule film, that he asks the writer to kill him off. The writer, who constantly reminds everyone of his Filmfare and National awards, objects, only to recant when Malkani threatens to replace him with a writer who will do the needful. When the only person who can help the crew get to Hadbahedi turns out to be a wannabe actor, Malkani suddenly offers him a role. And Malkani's response to the actor wanting to know what his motivation for a scene is? "Actor ka ek hi motivation hai -- money" (An actor has only one motivation -- money).
One bittersweet reference is to Mere Naam Joker, Raj Kapoor's failed masterwork. Rishi, narrating his memoirs to Devika, tells the story of being cast for the film, and being so excited he starts practising signing his autograph. Ksyenia Ryabinkina, the actress who played Marina in the film, makes a brief appearance here. Her dying wish is to return to India, and she requests to see Rishi Kapoor, bringing him a photo album of stills from his father's film. She tells him his father was a good actor, but a better human being, and she encourages Rishi to be like him. The meeting serves as the catalyst for his eventual change of heart.
4. "Akira Kurosawa"
I've read two diverging opinions of Chintu Ji's item number, the quirky little "Akira Kurosawa". At best, people find it kind of wacky and entertaining; there are those, however, who object to what they see as a kind of laundry list of the names of the some of the world's finest filmmakers.
Personally? I adore it, precisely because it is absolutely and totally cracktastic, and precisely because of that laundry list. Here, watch, and then I'll explain:
Here's the thing: I think, watching the song like this, out of the film, and out of context, well, it does just sound like a list of directors. And that's highly amusing for some of us (seriously, I was on the floor practically laughing).
But I think you have to think about this in the context of what's going on in the film. Upon his arrival in Hadbahedi, director Malkani is delighted to find out the name of his rickshaw driver: Antonioni. He was named this after his own father served as rickshaw driver to the great Italian director who had come to India on a visit. Malkani delights in this brush with greatness, obviously making the connection between the Italian director and his own work, as if Hadbahedi now has had two brushes with great movie-making to its name.
The irony in all this, of course, is that Malkani is obviously making a B-movie with a star whose glory days are clearly behind him, and a newcomer to the business who can't even get her line right -- it's a deliciously trashy affair called Khooni Khazana. And the item song highlights the contrast between all the great world filmmakers and, well, the B-grade director Malkani, between "cinema d'auteur" and, well, trash.
It's a brilliant bit of skewering, as well as being wonderful and wacky.
5. Chintu No. 1
Chintu Ji would not work at all if it weren't for the immense talent and the extreme generosity of Rishi Kapoor. The fictional Rishi is, frankly, a horror show. He’s boorish, rude, insufferable, cranky; he’s jealous of other stars in the cinema confrérie. Worse – he drinks, and he demands non-vegetarian food. He threatens to sue his hosts for causing his back injury. He cheats at snakes and ladders. He makes fun of the way his Malayalee nurse speaks. He sneaks behind the backs of the residents of Hadbahedi to broker a very sweet deal with Triphala -- for the tidy sum of one crore and some land, he'll go into politics on their behalf instead. Not even his family is spared; his assistant phones Neetu (no, she's not in the film, that would have caused my head to implode) to tell her about Rishi's injury, and she asks him to handle it as she's off to Switzerland.
And yet -- when his change of heart finally happens, he invests the moment with so much emotion, so much regret and dignity, that we absolutely believe in him, that all along there was a good man lurking inside the insufferable ogre. The entire film hinges on this, and Rishi Kapoor delivers. Because of him, Chintu Ji is a joy to watch from beginning to end.
What happens when you take the original R.D. Burman song "Bachna Ae Haseeno" from Hum Kisise Kum Nahin (dir. Nasir Hussain, 1977), featuring Rishi Kapoor:
And the remixed version of the song used in the film Bachna Ae Haseeno (dir. Siddharth Anand, 2008), featuring Ranbir Kapoor:
Why, the magnificent papa Rishi/son Ranbir "Bachna Ae Haseeno" mix, of course:
"Yesterday was our third interview, our third white night.[...]..I went to meet her with a full heart, and was all impatience. I had no presentiment that I should feel as I do now, that it would not all end happily."
"Do you know why I am so glad," she said, "so glad to look at you? -- why I like you so much to-day?"
"Well, I asked, and my heart began throbbing.
"I like you because you have not fallen in love with me. You know that some men in your place would have been pestering and worrying me, would have been sighing and miserable, while you are so nice!"
"Goodness, what a friend you are!" she began gravely a minute later. "God sent you to me. What would have happened to me if you had not been with me now? How disinterested you are! How truly you care for me! When I am married we will be great friends, more than brother and sister. I shall care for you almost as I do for him..."
"Suddenly she became extraordinarily talkative, gay mischievous; she took my arm, laughed, wanted me to laugh too, and every confused word I uttered evoked from her prolonged ringing laughter....I began to feel angry, she had suddenly begun flirting."
"Do you know," she began, "I feel a little vexed that you are not in love with me? There's no understanding human nature! But all the same, Mr. Unapproachable, you cannot blame me for being so simple; I tell you everything, everything, whatever foolish thought comes into my head."
"Listen! That's eleven, I believe," I said as the slow chime of a bell rang out from a distant tower."
"She ceased speaking, and pressed my hand warmly. I too could not speak without emotion. Some minutes passed."
"Yes, it's clear he won't come to-night," she said at last raising her head. "It's late."
"He will come to-morrow," I said in the most firm and convincing tone."
"Yes," she added with no sign of her former depression. "I see for myself now that he could not come till to-morrow. Well, good-bye, till to-morrow. If it rains perhaps I shall not come. But the day after tomorrow, I shall come.
*****
My original plans for this were to continue right to the end of the story, matching excerpts from Dostoevsky's short story with stills from the film. I found that the film stuck fairly faithfully to the essence of the original early on -- in fact, in the first half of the film, which I actually kind of like. But in the second half, Sanjay Leela Bhansali drifts further and further away from "White Nights" which, in of itself, is not a bad thing. I certainly don't expect adaptations to stick to the letter of the work that inspired them, and I understand that interpreting a written work in a visual medium does change what you can do in terms of storytelling.
But I did wonder: why did I connect so much more with Shivam Nair's Ahista Ahista, also loosely inspired by "White Nights", than I did, in the end, with Sawaariya? Bhansali's film seems to actually come unwound after the interval, and as it drifts further from the short story, it becomes a much messier bit of business, and becomes less able to capture my attention.
That takes nothing away from the fact that I think it's beautiful to watch, and that I do actually like the songs and their picturisations. As a fan of both Rani Mukherjee and Zoya Sehgal, I was delighted every moment they were on the screen.
As for the debut performances of Sonam Kapoor and Ranbir Kapoor, well, of course, they are both raw around the edges, and that's fine with me. Ranbir is undoubtedly very talented, though, and later films have allowed him to develop and round off the rough edges. I think, truthfully, that the role Sonam was given required a maturity and experience as an actor that as a beginner she just did not possess; both she and Ranbir were at their best when interacting with the more experienced Salman Khan and Rani Mukherjee, respectively. (Yes, this is another one of those films where I actually liked Salman, so go figure.)
To be quite honest, I think my obsessive tendency to watch and rewatch films worked against Sawaariya. I watched it so many times, trying to find the connections to the story, trying to figure it all out, that I think it was just all too much in the end. That said (and oh, I cannot believe I'm saying this), all the films I've been watching for Kapoor Khazana make me actually want to watch the film again and think about it solely as Ranbir Kapoor's launch, and how that was constructed, because there's lots of meta-Kapoor goodness going on there.
And although I've long known Sanjay Leela Bhansali really isn't making films for me, all is forgiven when he throws me a lovely bit of Rani eye-candy, like this:
Over the years it's become apparent that Rishi Kapoor is clearly my favorite of all the Kapoor clan. I might love Raj Kapoor's early films; I might appreciate the unabashed enthusiasm of Shammi Kapoor; but none of the Kapoor clan comes close to Rishi for consistently capturing my undivided attention in whatever film he's in. I even joke about having a "Rishi Rule": if Rishi is in the film, that will automatically redeem it for me, no matter what else is going on.
I will also confess to a great admiration for how Rishi has managed to navigate his career -- where other actors try to hard to extend their hero roles way beyond their welcome, Rishi has settled into a charming uncle phase. You only have to watch films like Love Aaj Kal or Delhi-6 to appreciate him, and he lends charm and grace to whatever he's in. It's probably no surprise that he won awards for the role of the struggling teacher Santosh Duggal as he tries to balance the dreams of his family with the reality of life on a teacher's salary in Habib Faisal's 2010 film Do Dooni Chaar.
It was a challenge to pick out five favorite Rishi songs, but I think these are the ones that maybe make my heart go "ping" every time I watch them.
1. "Main Shayar To Nahin" from Bobby (1973, dir. Raj Kapoor):
If I have mixed feelings about the film, that's not the case for the film's music. Every song in Bobby is a gem, and though others may show Rishi off as a performer, I love him in "Main Shayar To Nahin" for his gentleness and restraint. He may say he's not a poet, but his performance is pure poetry:
2. "Dil Dena" from Rafoo Chakkar (1975, dir. Narender Bedi)
Inspired by Some Like It Hot (1959, dir. Billy Wilder), Rafoo Chakkar is a film I love to bits, and "Dil Dena" gives me an opportunity to indulge in some Neetu-squee, too. Rishi and Neetu (now married in real life) are another of my favorite screen couples, and I love any opportunity to see them indulge in some silliness:
3. "Parda Hai Parda" from Amar, Akbar, Anthony (1977, dir. Manmohan Desai)
Another chance at a wee bit of Neetu-squee, and for me, "Parda Hai Parda" is probably the moment that my heart went "pingpingping" and Rishi became one of my favorites forever:
4. "Om Shanti Om" from Karz (1980, dir. Subhash Ghai)
Probably one of the most iconic Rishi moments, and no wonder: Rishi dancing on a giant turntable. It, of course, inspired director Farah Khan to recreate the moment in her 2007 film Om Shanti Om:
5. "Khullam Khulla Pyaar Karenge" from Pyaar Mein Twist (2005, dir. Hriday Shetty)
I have never seen Pyaar Mein Twist, and my efforts to procure a copy for Kapoor Khazana have so far been in vain. But how can I resist a film that reunites the two Bobby stars, Rishi Kapoor and Dimple Kapadia? I cannot. No, I cannot, indeed:
This video alone caused me to create a new catogory on the blog, the long-overdue "Rishi Squee".
"Romantic love lies at the core of his films. The iconic R.K. logo says it all. A man, his hair a bit wild, his body taut, holds a violin in one hand, his arm stretched downwards in line with his body. In his other arm he holds a woman arched backwards in a pose of sublime submission. The logo recreates this epiphany of passion of the scene in Barsaat when Nargis, overwhelmed by the plaintively lovesick strains of Raj Kapoor's frenzied violin, rushes to him and falls into his arms. Over the years the original, more fleshed-out figures metamorphosed into these stick figures. Countless films copied that scene but failed to recreate its magic. The legendary chemistry between Raj Kapoor and Nargis made this the epitome of screen passion in Indian cinema history."
-- Madhu Jain, in The Kapoors: The First Family of Indian Cinema, page 128.
This is a review that first appeared at Bollyspice in November of 2009. There are no screencaps because I saw the film in the theatre. But I also highly recommend checking out the reviews on Dolce and Namak Talk Indian Movies and Beth Loves Bollywood for your full Kapoor Khazana dose of Ajab Prem Ki Ghazab Kahani, complete with lovely photos!
Ajab Prem Ki Ghazab Kahani (APKGK) is the latest film and the second comedy from director Rajkumar Santoshi. Santoshi is probably most well known for his realistic message-driven films (such as Damini and Lajja), but his 1994 comedy Andaz Apna Apna is considered by some to be a bit of a cult classic. Billed as a "bubbling comedy of errors", it consisted mostly of gags and slapstick strung together, and generally meandered all over the place. While it contained some cracking dialogues and genuinely funny moments, it was watchable mainly because of the talents of its two stars, Salman Khan and Aamir Khan.
APKGK is the story of Prem (Ranbir Kapoor) - the strange Prem of the film's title - and how he falls in love with the pretty Jenny (Katrina Kaif). And it's the story of how Prem goes from being unable to express his love for Jenny, to finally finding the words to tell her he loves her.
Prem is an unemployed school drop-out who, along with the fellow members of the Happy Club (of which he is President), spends his time conning the local uncles into joining (and coughing up the membership fee to keep the club afloat), mooching meals from his frustrated father, and occasionally arranging an "abduction" (like the one that opens the film) in order to unite couples in true love. It's in the course of one such "abduction" that he meets Jenny. They become fast friends when they realize they both are given to stammering when overcome with strong emotion. Prem falls in love with Jenny, wants to ask her to be his life partner - but in true filmi fashion, he waits too long to do so. Jenny is packed off to Goa by her family, who want to marry her off to the rich and boorish Tony.
Prem and his Happy Club buddies come to her rescue - they believe, as does Prem, that this will be the moment that unites the two of them once and for all. Jenny is thrilled that Prem has come to help her, and tells him of her love - for Rahul (Upen Patel). Because Prem truly loves Jenny, he will do anything to help her, even arranging to abduct Rahul so that he and Jenny can elope.
Along the way there are chases, lots of slapstick, some decent music and dance numbers, a few well-appointed gags, and a gangster and his gang. There is also a particularly well-orchestrated fight scene, as well as the occasional sharp bit of dialogue.
I was intrigued when I first saw the trailer for APKGK: with its cheerful comic-book inspired style, it seemed bright and bubbly and well, a bit of a comedy of errors - shades of Andaz Apna Apna.
But if I'm honest, APKGK is a bit like a trip to the fair, where, instead of a ride on the roller-coaster, you settle for one on the merry-go-round. And it's pleasant enough, but eventually you realize that all you're doing is going around and around and around, and when you feel like you might like to get off, it goes around one more time, and then another.
APKGK is pure cotton candy - all spun sugar and air on a slim paper cone of a plot. It is brightly coloured, frothy, very silly, and despite some crackling moments, just a bit too long and occasionally draggy. As sweet a treat as it is, too much cotton candy is still not completely satisfying, and APKGK, not unlike Andaz Apna Apna, suffers from a little too much froth and not quite enough substance.
The film is, in fact, not the amazing story of the title: it is, however, a sweet but small story about love, about how Prem falls in love with Jenny and spends the first half of the film working himself up to tell her, and a strange story about how, simply because he loves her, he spends the second half of the film doing everything he can to ensure her happiness. Because what is love if not that, the desire to see your beloved happy, with "no complaint, no demand", as Prem might say.
APKGK is, however, the story of one amazing guy, prepared to sacrifice his own happiness for that of the one he loves, and if it succeeds (and it does, surprisingly, despite its tendency to meander terribly and rely on too much fluff to lift it up), it is because of Ranbir Kapoor. Kapoor lights up the screen from the moment he first appears on his runaway bicycle, and he runs away with the film thanks to his impeccable comedic skills, his charm, and his physical grace (and by this I mean not only his dancing, but also how he moves at all times). Katrina Kaif acquits herself adequately here, but let's be honest - she's here to be the pretty object of Prem's affections. There's no doubt that she is lovely, and that there is some evident chemistry between her and Ranbir Kapoor; and happily, she does manage a few moments of comedic charm of her own.
But it's also clear that the film, with its slim plot and seemingly endless slapstick, would go nowhere if not for the immense talents of Ranbir Kapoor, who, more than anything, gives the film what sparkle it has.
Kapoor's Prem puts the amazing in Ajab Prem Ki Ghazab Kahani, and makes that extra turn on Rajkumar Santoshi's merry-go-round totally worth it.
"Love, star-crossed love, being in love with the idea of love, passion and lust -- he takes me through his personal repertoire of romance, his voice soft, if a bit gruff at the edges."
-- Madhu Jain on Raj Kapoor in her book The Kapoors: First Family of Indian Cinema
In Barsaat, two rich city slickers, Pran (Raj Kapoor) and Gopal (Prem Nath), go on holiday in the mountains of Kashmir. Pran, the sensitive, poetic one of the pair, meets Reshma (Nargis), and the two fall in love. Gopal, the womaniser, meets Neela (Nimmi), who faithfully waits for him to return during the monsoon season (the barsaat of the film's title); the faithless Gopal, however, has no intention of returning, preferring to spend his time galavanting with other women.
Barsaat, really, is a film about love -- about a kind of philosophy of love. Pran and Reshma represent true love, love at first sight that hits like a bolt of lightening in a storm of emotion, and that survives any trial or tribulation put in its path. The couple must overcome parental opposition and class differences (Reshma's father wants to set her marriage to someone in a neighbouring village), accidents (Reshma is washed away in the river when her father, preferring to see her die rather than dishonoured by crossing the river to see Pran, cuts the rope by which she's secured herself; Pran, obsessed by the thought of Reshma's marriage, loses control of the car he is driving and is seriously hurt), and the attempt by the fisherman who fishes Reshma out of the river to force her into marrying him. Their love is tested, and it is true, and it finally makes an impression on the faithless Gopal, who realizes that he must finally return to Neela and prove himself worthy of her love.
Barsaat makes most sense to me if I look at Pran and Gopal as two facets of one personality, with two views of love, two experiences of love struggling to exist. Given what I know about Raj Kapoor (oh, and it is so woefully inadequate, I think), that would make some sense too -- most of Raj's films are known to be highly autobiographical, and given the level of philosophising in Barsaat, I can't help but wonder if this was Raj's way of trying to explore and perhaps reconcile these two seemingly disparate facets of his personality -- on the one hand, a man who believed in the fundamental truth of romantic love; on the other, a complex personality who needed women as muses, to serve as inspiration, to fuel his creativity. And I think because it's generally acknowledged that Raj stored away his personal experiences just to use them in his films, it makes it much more difficult for me to separate how I feel about his personal life and how I feel about what he created out of it.
Barsaat troubles me at times, because I see these very conflicting views of women in it: on the one hand, the woman as someone to be worshipped, especially in her avatar of mother -- this can be seen when Gopal takes Pran to the woman who is prostituting herself -- love can be bought, according to Gopal, but what Pran sees is a woman forced into this situation because of the love she bears for her sick child. Pran gives her money for the child, and he touches her feet.
Yet, women are also shown as potentially faithless: Pran tells Reshma the stories of Heer and Sohni, the implication being that what she should be is faithful like Sohni, and not betray her love, like Heer. The faithful woman as embodied by Neela goes unrewarded, so it's diifficult for me to reconcile what is being asked of Reshma. Unless, of course, what is being asked is faithfulness on the part of both partners, in which case it makes sense that Neela's love is in vain, since Gopal treats her feelings with so little care.
And ultimately, both Reshma and Neela find themselves prostrating themselves at the feet of the men they love -- the lover as god, needing to be worshipped, the woman almost begging for love. Sometimes, it's hard not to think that Raj Kapoor was placing his women on pedestals, only to knock them off them.
That said -- Barsaat consolidated Raj Kapoor and Nargis as an on-screen couple, perhaps one of the greatest in Indian cinema -- certainly one of my favorites, that's for sure. In her book, Jain suggests their on-screen relationship was more than just their obvious chemistry:
"What was important was the way the two balanced each other on screen. They brought out the best in each other, one a catalyst for the other. Raj Kapoor's searing, at times maudlin, intensity was offset by Nargis's spontaneity; his clowning by her innate dignity."
Something I hadn't realized (but probably should have) was that although Nargis was already a star before Raj Kapoor started putting her in his films, she wasn't considered a great film beauty; certainly, her looks were unconventional, but I'm constantly in awe of her beauty. "Nargis," writes Jain, "was never as luminous as when caressed by Raj Kapoor's camera":
But from Barsaat onwards there was a subtle transmogrification of the screen Nargis: her face often looks as if it has been lit by the rays of the moon. The camera lingers on her profile, gingerly exploring the landscape of her face, incandescent with an inner glow.
And if there's one thing I can state unequivocally about Barsaat: it is an incredibly beautiful film. I had the odd sensation that I was watching something that combined some of my favorite Hollywood films with those of Satyajit Ray -- and discovered that I probably wasn't wrong in that. Raj Kapoor admired Ray's films, apparently going so far as to ply Ray's cinematographer with drink and pick his brain about lighting and composition; certainly Barsaat contains an element of intellectualising the concept of romantic love that probably owes much to Raj's desire to create arty films that Jain suggests was equal to his desire to create popular, entertaining films. But Raj also acknowledged that much of the camera work in Barsaat was highly influenced by the films of Orson Welles, especially Citizen Kane. The result is a film that is worth watching, for me at least, for the beauty of its cinematography -- its lighting, its framing -- perhaps even more than for the story itself.
"Raj Kapoor's trinity of women -- Nargis, Padmini and Vyjanthimala -- is widely known. Less so is his very special relationship with Lata Mangeshkar. He was entranced by her voice, and she by his chikna face and blue eyes as well as his formidable talent and powers of persuasion. She looks girlish and coy in photographs taken during the early days of their collaboration. There is an air of intimacy, of unspoken complicity in a photograph in which Raj Kapoor is grooming Lata. He is standing behind her as she sits. A cigarette dangling from his lips, he is dressing her hair, while she looks like a blushing teenager. Lata Mangeshkar became yet another woman in white; she only wore white saris, but with coloured borders. While Nargis was his screen beloved, Lata Mangeshkar was her voice and the aural incarnation of the poetic soul of Raj Kapoor in his early days."
-- Madhu Jain, writing in The Kapoors: the First Family of Indian Cinema, pp. 144-145.
The great and seemingly timeless play-back singer Lata Mangeshakar's career preceeded Raj Kapoor's films, and it has certainly lived on beyond them. Probably the only singer to come close to rivalling her close to seven decade career is her sister, Asha Bhosle. Lata-ji is purported to have been the inspiration behind Kapoor's Satyam Shivam Sundaram. Originally planned to be called Soorat aur Seerat (Face and Soul), Kapoor planned to have Lata (who had also worked as an actress early on in her career) star in the film. According to Madhu Jain, the film was something they planned together, to explore the theme of internal and external beauty -- a theme, of course, that Raj Kapoor had already touched on in his first film as a director (Aag), and then returned to when he finally made Satyam Shivam Sundaram, starring Zeenat Aman
You'd think it would be easy to narrow down a Lata-ji "best-of" if I were to limit myself to the songs she performed for Raj Kapoor films, but you'd be wrong. Part of the problem, of course, is that I love every single song in every single Raj Kapoor film I've ever watched. This fact alone stuns me. Every. Single. Song. Every Single Film. Kapoor's meticulous craftsmanship extended to his music, from his choice of music directors to the choice of singers, and I've spent hours this morning trolling YouTube and trying to figure out what to pick.
Likely, other Lata songs will surface during Kapoor Khazana, but if I had to choose just one? It would be the exquisite "Ghar Aaya Mera Pardesi" from Awaara.
In it, Raj (Raj Kapoor), torn between his life of thieving working for the evil Jagga (K.N. Singh) and his love for the beautiful Rita (Nargis), the ward of a judge (who is really Raj's father), falls asleep, and finds himself lifted out of the hell he finds himself in up to heaven, a metaphor for what Rita's love is doing for him.
Of course, my bias is showing here, because I *think* that Awaara may just turn out to be my favorite Raj Kapoor film. Certainly the metaphorical dream sequence that makes up "Ghar Aaya Mera Pardesi", with the ethereal Nargis, the vision merging with the voice of Lata Mangeshkar (as Madhu Jain suggests) is one of my favorite picturisations, ever. Ever:
And, of course, the male singer providing the voice for Raj Kapoor is Mukesh, who, although he wasn't the only playback singer Kapoor worked with, was almost synonymous with Raj-sir.
Shree 420 (dir. Raj Kapoor, 1955) is at its heart a social drama, an exploration of post-partition India as it struggled to balance deeply-rooted social systems with a need for modernization. What was this new India? What would it become? And what would its relationship with the rest of the world be?
The optimism and pride of the newly independent state shine in the film's opening song, "Mera Joota Hai Japani" in which Raj (Raj Kapoor), educated but poor, comes to Bombay to find work and seek his fortune. His shoes may be Japanese, his pants English, and his red hat Russian, but, no matter what, his heart is proudly Indian:
It's a delightful opening to the film, and was an immensely popular song. It was, of course, referenced in Aditya Chopra's Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi (in the song "Phir Milenge Chalte Chalte"). But its essence is also echoed in the title song of the film Phir Bhi Dil Hai Hindustani (dir. Aziz Mirza, 2000):
You would think that a logical place to go from here would be a write up of Shree 420, but I'm saving it for later in the month. But more Kapoor treasures, and a little more from Raj Kapoor before I start branching out into the wider Kapoor family tree...
"Gone are the days when Raj Kapoor enacted a love song amidst heavy rains, tucked under an earnest black umbrella. This timeless favourite from Shree 420 was by no means the only example of a screen pair cloaking its sweet nothings behind an umbrella. The parasol has been as key to Bollywood's romantic tales as trees for lovers to run around and the rain that drenched the heroine's contours. Where would pre-liberalisation Bollywood have been without this handy monsoon accessory? Introduced at the strategic moment, didn't it shield a generation of viewers from going astray?"
Bollywood may no longer need to hide demurely behind a black umbrella, but that doesn't stop it recreating and reinventing this iconic film moment from Raj Kapoor's 1955 film Shree 420, from the song "Pyaar Hua Iqraar Hua". It begins to rain, and Vidya (Nargis) awkwardly offers her umbrella to Raj (Raj Kapoor).
Eventually, they end up sharing it, shyly, demurely at first:
And as the song progresses, and they speak of the love blossoming between them, they walk through the rain under the umbrella:
It's a beautiful song, beautifully sung by Lata Mangeshkar and Manna Dey, and beautifully picturised:
And, of course, so iconic that it has been recreated in other, later films, including in Aditya Chopra's 2008 film Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi, where, in the song "Phir Milenge Chalte Chalte", we're treated to Shahrukh Khan and Kajol under the infamous black umbrella:
And more recently, in Anees Bazmee's forthcoming film Ready, the song "Character Dheela" puts Salman Khan and Zarine Khan under the black brolly:
Finally, the umbrellas may no longer be black, but they still signal the blossoming of love, in this case between Pia (Kareena Kapoor, granddaughter of Raj, of course), and Rancho (Aamir Khan) in Rajkumar Hirani's 2009 film 3 Idiots:
Just a wee reminder that Kapoor Khazana, an internet treasure box of Kapoor goodness (and thanks to Amaluu of Bollystalgia once again for the name, it is PERFECT) will run from June 1 to June 30!
I was watching OMNI2's "Bollywood Top Ten" on Sunday night -- or, I was going to watch it, when suddenly a storm blew in and the satellite went out. It came on just in time for the recap of the Top Nine Filmi Dynasties -- and the presentation of the Top Family: The Kapoors.
I did manage to catch the rebroadcast of the show yesterday, and though all of the families are fascinating (and we've done blogfests devoted to the Khannas and the Deols already out here in the blogosphere), it did strike me that with the Kapoors, you've got a massive number of talented individuals all in the one clan.
So. Here are the Rules of Engagement for Kapoor Khazana:
1. There are no rules.
You may contribute one post, you may contribute many. All the posts, no matter how few or how many, will be gathered up at Delicious to become the Kapoor Khazana Collective Wisdom of the Filmi Hive Mind.
This, in fact, is what I love best about these kinds of blog fests: the whole is greater than the parts, in the end. Personally, I see this as an opportunity for me to learn stuff or see things in a new way, to expand my Kapoor knowledge in a way that I just couldn't do on my own. Or, at least, not in a month.
2. Really. There are no rules.
Your posts can be about anything: you can write about all the Kapoors, or just one. You can write up a film, many films, or you can write about anything Kapoor-related that catches your fancy. I, personally, am fascinated that someone arrived at my blog by using the following search term:
"neetu singh kapoor in pearl necklace"
So, you know, maybe I might want to explore that a little bit further.
3. Okay, maybe there are a couple of rule-like requests.
First, if you're tweeting about your posts, please try to use the #KapoorKhazana hashtag so Twitter users can search for posts that way.
Also, I'm not always on Twitter, so if you could @ me (@kaymatthews) to let me know a new post is up, I'd appreciate it. You could email me if you're not a twitter user (email is in the sidebar at left). This is just so I don't miss posts to add to the Delicious links.
Finally: here's a list of blogs from folks who indicated they'd be participating when my first call went out. If you'd like to participate, too, let me know, and I'll add you to the list:
Okay -- I think I'm missing some of the Twitter folk who said they were interested, too, so if you are one of them, @ me on Twitter or leave a comment here, and I'll make sure you're added to the blogroll.
And with that, I think the Kapoor Khazana train is ready to roll!
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