Piku: ‘Feel good’ in a different package

Bollywood’s “feel good” romances of the 1990s, a genre re-inaugurated by Hum Aapke Hain Kaun and reinforced by Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jaayenge, had a heyday in the hands of Karan Johar, but gradually began to lose steam, when its gelatinous sweetness began to rack the nerves. Plus, the incredibly affluent families in which these romances were usually set also began to appear tormenting, for the sheer un-realism of the abundance of wealth which they shamelessly paraded: expensive kanjivarams as kitchen-wear and designer jewellery in plush hospitals became difficult to digest, although there was an initial awe at Bombay Cinema’s sudden rise from poverty and exaltation of the propertied class, as opposed to its lachrymose moralising against the latter ever since it came into being. However, an economically devastating downslide all through the second half of the 2000s brought in the need for realism, when even first-string production houses, such as Yash Raj and Dharma Productions, devoted to fantastical melodrama and barefaced revelling in opulence, began encouraging a closer brush with everydayness. In a certain way, Karan Johar’s growing friendship with Anurag Kashyap is symbolic of the ‘commercial’ and the ‘arty’ making a conscious effort to enter into an astutely planned arranged marriage. The family drama, the romance set against it, the songs and the dance sequences – all are still sustained, but in a different, more believable package. Shoojit Sircar’s Vicky Donor and his latest venture Piku are both products (endorsed by movie-tycoon Aditya Chopra) of this new trend, which has proved to be successful not only in urban sectors or among multiplex viewers, but also in small towns and rural areas.

Piku is a family drama, sans the mushy sentimentalism of its 90s counterparts, sans an epic range of sugar-sweet aunts and uncles, greying and sagacious grandparents, well-dressed cousins having nothing to do, and plush weddings and tear-jerking funerals. Piku, despite certain ethnic specificities, manages to rise above two overused stereotypes, at least: first, the conventional Bollywood brand of an Indian family and second, Bengaliness. Although highly emotional, Piku saves the sentimentalism by bringing to familiar emotions a comic distance, or by viewing them with brash sarcasm. Father-daughter relationship has been an interesting emotional (and sexual) tie which both cinema and literature have explored time and again; Piku brings to it a mint-like freshness, despite the family’s endless toilet discourses. It’s hilarious how father and daughter alternatively bond and separate over constipation and bowel movement, Piku finding it hard to deal with the tantrums of an ageing hypochondriac father, never satisfied with his toilet ventures. But what comes through is a profound love for each other, the importance of being together, the pleasures of care-giving.

Piku, without being preachy, successfully conveys a social message which is rather timely. At a point, when even nuclear families are breaking down, with children relocating to other cities, leaving their parents behind, Piku brings together certain moments which inspire a strengthening of the parent-child relationship. Perhaps, the film touches a chord with everyone, by stringing together certain easily identifiable familiar moments, moments of despair and happiness, when one has an ageing, almost child-like parent to look after. While the film critiques the power relationship, in which the parent always takes advantage of being the parent, it also unveils the sheer joy in the ability in successfully parenting a parent. In this father-daughter equation, there is often a role reversal, shifting of power dynamics, but what comes through is the pre-eminence of affect, over and above the politics of emotion. Rana Chaudhury’s petulant mother and her regular squabbles with her son reinforce the message that there’s nothing to romanticise about the family, yet, there’s enough reason to stick to it. By associating a dysfunctional digestive system with emotion, Sircar generates a powerful symbol.

It’s interesting how Piku dismantles middleclass social decorum, by veering the narrative through endless talk on the lower bodily stratum, menopause, loss of virginity, nighties, sex life, and nuances of family feuds. This brings the film closer to everydayness, in which none is saintly, none is heinously evil. The ending divested of sentimentalization, delves deep into questions of unpredictability of life and inevitability of death, bringing to the latter a rare ‘feel-good’-ness, when it seems that there was indeed nothing more for which the old father could live on.

Amitabh Bachchan never appeared so lovably cute since Paa, and Deepika Padukone has never been so next-door. Irrfan underplays Rana with a rare panache, while Moushumi Chatterjee returns to Hindi cinema with her characteristic vivacity and chirpiness. The supporting cast is equally brilliant.

Amid the constant father-daughter row, what stands out is 

the consensus on need-based sex...well, that was indeed 

pleasantly surprising, for that one thing was powerful 

enough to dislodge all pretensions of moral high-

handedness and purity associated with the ‘tradition’ of 

old North Kolkatan families residing in palatial mansions, 

endlessly stereotyped in popular culture. 

‘Bombay Talkies’: An ‘Ajeeb Dastaan’ to be Remembered!

If Raja Harishchandra is considered to be the first full-fledged Indian film ever made, Indian Cinema would officially be a century old this year, although ample evidence pointing towards an earlier beginning exists. That is, however, subject to debate and here, I do not have adequate scope to address the squabble. Whatever it is, those who have grown up on Bombay Cinema have enough reason to celebrate this hour: the release of Bombay Talkies which is a fascinating tribute to the largest film industry and its consumers (the title has been inspired by Himanshu Rai, Devika Rani and Rajnarayan Dube’s legendary studio which was founded in 1934, and had monopolized the industry for quite some time, producing the greatest films and the biggest stars of the early years). What Bombay Talkies seeks to do is delineate through four different narratives the impact of the magic of Bombay Cinema on the lives of ordinary people. The four narratives dovetail stories of people across different classes, age groups and locales, and probe into the extent to which Bombay Cinema has merged seamlessly with each life. Bombay Talkies, in other words, is not about the stars or the filmmakers; it seeks to tell the other side of the story – the story of the star-makers or in other words, the viewers, you and I. Four big names join hands to pay tribute to the PUBLIC, considered the God of commercial cinema. Simultaneously, presumably by an agreement of sorts, all four have very ingeniously invested their films with something that defines and marks themselves out from the others: Dibakar Banerjee’s debt to Ray and Tagore, Anurag Kashyap’s small-town connection, and Karan Johar’s and Zoya Akhtar’s non-normative sexual leanings. Interestingly, the four short films do not have individual titles; they are identified by the names of the directors, perhaps, obliquely implying the personal investment of each into the narratives.

Karan Johar

            In recent interviews related to Bombay Talkies, Karan Johar has been constantly ruing the creative compromises he has had to make time and again, in order to play to the gallery. While making his short for Bombay Talkies, he did not have the ‘box-office sword’ hanging over his head, and therefore, he could be himself. The film is vaguely reminiscent of his Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna where Johar, who had been romanticizing about love and purity of the institution of marriage in film after film, had dared to unravel the apparent show of marital bliss. In Bombay Talkies he moves a step further, and effortlessly throws to the wind the moral barriers he could not break through in KANK. If you remember KANK, you would recognize that it had set the template for this film; what you would notice with surprise is how Johar has come of age over these seven years that separates KANK and Bombay Talkies, and to what extent an artist might need to compromise with audience’s expectation. But then, the audience has also matured over these seven years. What could have been fatal to KANK could uninhibitedly be addressed in Bombay Talkies. In this sense, Johar’s contribution to this portmanteau film when viewed against his 2006 venture could also provide a vague idea of the changing nature of the Hindi film audience in the past one decade or so.

            

 Gayatri (Rani Mukherjee) and Dev’s (Randeep Hooda) apparently happy married life is disrupted with the entry of the vivacious Abhinash (Saqib Saleem), a gay intern at Gayatri’s office. Dev and Abhinash connect through their mutual admiration for old Hindi film songs, and in no time, Abhinash finds himself madly in love with Dev. Terrified and disconcerted at Abhinash’s sexual advances, Dev violently abuses him. Abhinash understands that Dev has been deceiving himself all his life and unlocks his chamber of deepest secrets, leaving him devastated. Gayatri is shattered but admonishes her husband for living a lie for so long. As she declares herself free and decks up in front of the mirror, a repentant Dev sits on the footbridge in little Savitri’s company, as she mellifluously sings Ajeeb dastaan hain yeh…

             

Although the focus is on the two male lovers, it is Gayatri who steals the show. Dressed provocatively and candidly indulgent towards inviting glances, Gayatri seems to put herself through a test: it is never explicated, but evident that Gayatri enjoys inviting glances from young men, for it reassures her of her sexual prowess. The growing distance with her husband and irregular sexual encounters with him seem to have made her less confident of her looks, which she, accentuates often not realizing where to draw the line. When Abhinash tells her in jest, ‘Roz toh Dirty Picture banke aati ho’, he does not realize Gayatri’s vulnerabilities. Johar has commendably brought out Gayatri’s insecurities without being didactic about them. And Rani Mukherjee delivers brilliantly, completely unself-conscious of her body which is more articulate than the dialogue given to her. Bombay Talkies is definitely her crowning glory. But, the men are no less lovable. Saqib Saleem strikes a fine balance between the mischievous, garrulous and charming boy and the depressed, lonely mad lover. Randeep Hooda is remarkably restrained, and his expressions are so measured as not to give away his deepest secret. Johar has always made his actors perform; but in Bombay Talkies he has proved his mettle as a director like never before.  

             

Yes, Johar does it finally! Is it his penance for the number of times he has laughed at queer characters in the past? He makes Abhinash beat up his father, the violently homophobic patriarch who cannot accept his son’s sexuality. Perhaps, this film is Johar’s own attempt at purging the unbearable burden of populist demand for ‘othering’ the queer man or woman. Although such dialogues as ‘Gay ho terrorist nahi’ grate on the nerves, the film ends up celebrating queerness by allowing Dev to come out to himself. This is the ‘Ajeeb Dastaan’ of queer lives; sometimes, you do not want to acknowledge yourself your innate queerness, such is the social pressure. What is interesting is that Johar appropriates same-sex desire through the template of existing discourses of heterosexual romances: Hindi film songs. Lag ja galey ki phir hasi raat ho na ho effortlessly transmutes into an anthem of unspoken homoerotic desire.

Dibakar Banerjee

Although I waxed eloquence about Karan Johar’s film, I would put Dibakar Banerjee on top of the list. Based on Ray’s short story ‘Potolbabu Filmstar’, Banerjee’s film is a little masterpiece of sheer brilliance. It is indeed a fit tribute to the maestro of Indian Cinema, and it would not be an exaggeration to claim that Banerjee is as good as Ray himself in this flick.

           

 Banerjee’s film is one such work of art you feel hesitant to dissect, fearing that you might spoil its splendour. An actor of inimitable potential, Nawazuddin Siddiqui brings to life Ray’s Potolbabu, as if he was born for this role. Banerjee improvises on the original story quite remarkably, and every frame, every shot, and every twitch of the muscle on Siddiqui’s face he captures, is a mark of classic cinema. Banerjee tells an intensely emotional story of a father, an actor, and a chawl-dweller, who incidentally gets to act as the ‘dhakka man’ in a film shot on a street in Bombay. As he rehearses the dhakka, his dead father, a yesteryear natya-samrat, materializes from nowhere and sarcastically reprimands him for not taking acting seriously ever. He leans on a corporation bin and says ‘Main ajkal yehi rehta hoon!’ before disappearing leaving you to absorb the suggestiveness of the dialogue. But, before that he mocks his son who is disappointed with the dialogue given to him: a mere interjection, ‘Ay!’ The ghost of the father mouths ‘Ay’ in five different ways, underlining that acting has barely anything to do with the length of the role. Sadashiv Amprapurkar excels as the ghost-father.

           

 I leave to you to judge whether Potolbabu disappoints his father or makes him proud by that one ‘Ay!’ he utters, as Ranbir Kapoor collides with him and runs past. The rest of the story is Siddique’s heart-felt performance to cheer up his ailing daughter, who is obsessed with stories of Bombay films. Banerjee makes him adapt another form of acting --- the mime (Banerjee did not forget that silent films was the beginning) ---- as he relates to his daughter the amusing story of the day! The Tobu mone rekho track creates the right kind of ambience for an emotionally charged closing scene. Ray would have been proud of Dibakar Banerjee.

Zoya Akhtar

Although this film is the weakest of the quartet, the story Zoya Akhtar narrates was indeed needed to be told. Little Vicky (Naman Jain) hates football, and wishes to gyrate like Katrina Kaif! He dreams to be a dancer, but faces insurmountable resistance from his father (Ranvir Shorey) who is devastated on chancing upon him in drags and performing to Aj ki raat! Vicky’s fate seems sealed when one night Katrina Kaif visits him as a fairy godmother who teaches him the trick to survive: sometimes it’s important that you keep your dreams hidden from others, while nurturing them with perseverance. Vicky learns this lesson well, and tricks his father into believing that he wants to become a pilot. The conventional patriarchal father is happy that his son has a conventional man-like dream. His sister is surprised at his cunningness but becomes the greatest strength in realizing his dream. The end is a bit too fantastical, in fact, illogical; but, you tend to overlook that remembering Hindi films have always demanded of you a willing suspension of disbelief.

             

Akhtar’s film is remarkably queer, and very suggestively questions gender categories and constructed nature of gender roles. I was constantly reminded of Mahesh Dattani’s play Dance Like A Man which is an intriguing tale of a male dancer’s tussle with his disapproving father. In fact, Akhtar has given voice to a very common dream which has been nurtured by many a queer man in India. Many of them have dreamt to dance like Sridevi or Madhuri Dixit; while others have often found in Meena Kumari their icon or have identified with Rekha’s anguish in Umraon Jaan! The Hindi film heroine has always been a queer icon in India, and Akhtar has chosen a very commendable topic for her film. The film also reveals the obsession with fame and glamour, the dream of ‘good life’ the film industry has been peddling successfully since its inception. Although the film is weak compared to the first two films, the subject deserves two-thumbs up!

Anurag Kashyap

I had expected a lot more from my Dev D man on the occasion of celebrating 100 years of Indian Cinema. He doesn’t disappoint, but appears remarkably lack-lustre in comparison to the two brilliant pieces of art in the first half. Like the first three films, Kashyap also delves into the father-son relationship. While Johar and Akhtar present non-conformist sons, Kashyap’s protagonist Vijay (Vineet Kumar) is a much too obedient son, who goes to extraordinary lengths to grant his father his weird wish.

             

The film is a testing commentary on stardom and fan-following. The film uncovers in meticulous detail star-power and its impact on the aam-junta! Vijay (named after several Amitabh Bachchan characters) leaves his hometown Allahabad carrying a murabba which his father wants Bachchan to take a bite from. Vijay is made to believe by his father that this murrabba would be the antidote to his ailments, and Vijay leaves no stone unturned to make Bachchan take a bite from the murabba. The film is delightful till a point, but grates on the nerves at 27 minutes! What keeps the film going is Vineet Kumar’s honest performance. Note his retro hairstyle and costume, and his faint resemblance with Bachchan. The iconic status of Bombay filmstars and their abiding influence on the crowd come out brilliantly, and many obsessive fans would identify with Vijay and his father. In fact, in the end, you would feel like pleading with Bachchan to have a bite and relieve Vijay of his Herculean task.

           

 The film ends not with triumph, but cruelty! The last scene however is subtle commentary on how it is always desirable to worship stars from a distance; they are indeed beautiful on the silver screen. But, it takes a lot to negotiate with them in reality. Kashyap, surely doesn’t or did not intend any moral lesson, but this is what you would certainly reap from the film.

NB: After the final fadeout, wait for a while…it begins all over again…the history of Hindi cinema…although quite shoddy in execution, it is nonetheless fun.

 
Image courtesy: www.top10bollywood.com; indiatoday.intoday.in; in.bookmyshow.com; movies.sulekha.com

Is Stardom Already Dead?

www.fanpop.com

I am suddenly missing the romantic distance with the world of films which existed even fifteen years earlier. It has been replaced with an intimacy, or an imposed familiarity in recent years, which has robbed the celluloid world of its magic. News channels, tabloids, newspaper supplements have exposed the stars and their everyday lives to such a degree that their enchanting charm has remarkably weakened. As I was musing how Madhuri Dixit’s willing return from a self-imposed exile amid strident media clamour has done her more harm than good, the openness to which all the stars are willfully subscribing is rendering them ordinary. Ordinary people with ordinary aspirations! When stars are a click away, they do not remain stars. But that does not seem to affect their projected stardom at least apparently. When everyone is hankering for media attention and is ready to make commercials out of their own lives and put them up on billboards, the definition of stardom must have undergone a transformation. The more you are visible, the more is your popularity, replacing the old definition that the less available you are, the greater is your stardom. But is that really so? Some old golden rules are sometimes hard to break, I suppose.

bollywoodanthropology.blogspot.com

That secrecy and enigma are the hallmarks of stardom is realized the hard way almost every Friday. A film’s fate is decided on the basis of the first day’s collection and stardom is enjoying a very short lease at the theatres. Perhaps, we cannot have another ‘Sholay’ or another ‘Hum Aapke Hain Koun’ again: I mean films which picked up through word-of-mouth publicity after suffering a not-so-delightful start. The general public does not need to dwell on any one star, nor does it have the time to do so. Every star is equally always, already available, so, where’s the scope of romanticizing about them? And, if we miss them at the theatres, why the films will be aired within a month on the television or well, the DVD will be available much too soon. Although the industry profits are now tied up with the private channels and DVD companies, and no one is perhaps suffering remarkable material loss, what is being lost is the magic of stardom and its long-lasting spell.

gypsy-therebirth.blogspot.com

As far as Bombay cinema is concerned, this trend of stars abandoning ivory towers of mysterious lives and stepping on to the earth is perhaps contingent upon the changing themes of current films. The larger-than-life hero is dead; and the virtuous maiden waiting for her lover has found her place in the curio shop of Bollywood. Films are brushing more closely with reality or life as we live it. Filmmakers have to hide behind the new generic label of ‘Superhero films’ if they have to make their heroes larger-than-life. Therefore, stars are no longer inaccessible dreams, but lived realities. Although films such as Dhoom or Jab Tak Hain Jaan have still kept the world of fantasy inviolate, every film is at least attempting to imitate a semblance of realism, if they cannot afford be too realistic. But stardom as it is traditionally understood is bound to die: I mean why Naseeruddin Shah was never a star as Amitabh Bachchan was or still is? Shah was always the man of the neighbourhood, while Bachchan was that superhero who exists only in fantasies. While films are gradually becoming realistic, that traditional star is steadily counting his days. With one exception, perhaps: Salman Khan? Right? But then, he is no exception indeed, if we probe a little deeper. Although he is still larger-than-life, in fact, almost super-human in every film of his, none of his films enjoy a long life at the theatres. He too is a victim of availability. 

Just a thought! Share your views!

As Yash Chopra Lives On!

Image Courtesy: merinews.com

Life has its own dramatic ironies, and who could have better exemplified that than Yash Chopra who breathed his last with the promise of peddling dreams, as he had done all his life, with the self-assertive Jab Tak Hai Jaan! The titanic dream merchant almost tiptoed away into the twilight zone, as if he were on a clandestine date with death. It seems he had struck a deal with life: he would make films, sell dreams, and celebrate love jab taak hain jaan. And as a true artiste and honest entrepreneur, he stuck to the deal till the very last day of his life. 

                What we identify today as the Yash Raj brand of cinema, which incidentally has become metonymic of Bollywood romances, was born only two decades ago. In 1989, after a few box-office debacles (Maashal, 1984; Faasle, 1985; and Vijay, 1988), Yash Chopra returned with a bang with the immensely stylish Chandni which rescued Sridevi from getting wasted in raunchy, seedy, over-the-top Bollywood potboilers and reinstated her as a diva which even the high-nosed elitist took note of. The lilting melody of Tere mere hoton pe meethe meethe geet mitwa which reverberated in the delightful dales of Switzerland brought to Bollywood romance an ethereal beauty which reconfigured the concept of love forever. That falling in love was not just falling in love with a person, but is also an iconography of beautiful things and locales was first established by Chandni. Chopra celebrated true love, sacrifice and devotion, but also transformed love into a commodity. Lamhe (1991), Darr (1993), Dil to Pagal Hai (1997), and Veer-Zaara (2004) have faithfully rolled on the tradition, when falling-in-love is unwittingly imagined by many as an assortment of chiffon sarees, designer jewellery, unruly aanchal waving in the breeze, expensive cars, sprawling houses, picturesque getaways, perfect bodies and guaranteed happiness in the end. But, Chopra’s journey had begun much earlier with Dhool ka Phool in 1959, when he was a different filmmaker altogether. 

Yash Chopra’s films, when seen chronologically, reveal a linear narrative of history fraught with complexities. Chopra, in association with Saleem Khan and Javed Akhtar, had given birth to the quintessential Angry Young Man and made of Amitabh Bachchan the megastar as he is. A product of the Emergency, the Angry Young Man who rocked the nation with Deewar (1975) became a personification of the deprivations, the desires and most importantly the anger which was simmering in the hearts of the youth.  The demolition of the Babri Masjid, and the bloody communal riots that sent deadly ripples across the country, especially turning the most cosmopolitan of the Indian cities into a necropolis, gave birth to another angry young man, who was no longer interested in social reform, but was a psychopath, inhabiting a state of mind with which the youth again identified. The invisible singer of Jadoo teri Nazar who remained in the dark and romanced from a distance, but got brutal when his beloved was taken away from him, became the new hero of the early nineties. It took an Emergency and a communal riot for two great stars to be born: Amitabh Bachchan and Shah Rukh Khan. The mastermind behind their stardom was Yash Chopra, and their stardom, was, therefore, not accidental. 

However, the economic liberalization changed it all, and the new Yuppie hero was born. It was the Silver Jubilee Year of Yash Raj Films. Yash Chopra launched son Aditya with the revolutionary Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jaayenge (1995), where the rich Indian diaspora returned home to take back their matrbhoomi with them! The East/West binary which ruled Bollywood so far, completely dissolved and the transnation was born as a dimpled NRI Shah Rukh Khan held out his hand to a disheveled Kajol who ran alongside the departing train, with the staunch patriarch fading away in the distance but giving up a ‘thumbs-up’ to their union! Chopra had him return with Dil to Pagal Hai, where he reveled in an iconography of abundance and romanced a sublimely beautiful Madhuri Dixit who dreamily strolled and danced across undulating and sprawling meadows looking for her Prince Charming. And it was with Kajol and later with Madhuri that the Chopra brand of Indian womanhood was born.

Chopra was the originator of not only this genre of candy-floss romance, but also of the immensely popular ‘lost-and-found’ genre with Waqt (1965). He tried his hands at serious cinema with Ittefak (1969), with moderate success though. He ventured into controversial arenas of Hindu fundamentalism quite early in his career with Dharamputra (1961) which ruffled the feathers of the saffron-clad crowd. Although he is known for giving love the most stylish makeover, he is also the one who has questioned monogamy, marriage and socially-approved sexual relationships. While Daag (1973) delved deep into the problematics of polyamory, Kabhi Kabhie (1976) uncovered uncomfortable zones of failed marriages and pre-marital sex. Trishul (1978) turned the focus on the illegitimate son, while Silsila (1981) made adultery almost desirable. 

His demise marks the end of a history which has made Bollywood what it is today. Thankfully, a Yash Raj brand of cinema has already arrived, and would stay on! The man who has remarkably changed with changing times, Yash Chopra might just be waiting out there to re-enter the limelight, with lights, camera, and action. Yes, Jab Taak Hai Jaan is waiting in the wings. The dream merchant can never really die.

 
Image courtesy: merinews.com