There are two reasons why one went to see 'Don' with an open mind. The first is that I never thought much of the original and it certainly wasn't one of my favourite Bachchan films of the '70s. Therefore, the lack of baggage and absence of odious comparisons. The second is that I am an unabashed admirer of Shah Rukh Khan and generally like watching him on screen unless he's doing something unequivocally horrid like 'Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna'.
With 'Don', Farhan Akhtar probably lives out all his Hollywood dreams – the influence of the James Bond films, 'Con Air', 'Face/Off' and such other action thrillers is very much in evidence. He also tries to add a few more twists and turns to the original screenplay written by his father Javed Akhtar and erstwhile partner Salim Khan. The result is a classy-looking film with some exciting chase sequences, a couple of wonderfully choreographed songs (particularly the title track) and a brilliant background score from Shankar-Ehsaan-Loy. But perhaps a trick/chase/song too many. What mars 'Don' is it's uneven pace. There are racy moments that keep you on the edge of your seat, and others that prompt you to look at your watch and check if time is actually passing.
The director, ably aided by cameraman Mohanan, gives his film a stunning look. Everything is just right -- from Don's stylish clothes, to Roma's (Priyanka Chopra) classy hair-dos to some mean cars and picturesque locations. He also retains much of the original premise of the film -– of a gangster who gets killed by a cop who then replaces him with a bumpkin look-alike to bust his gang. The cop gets killed and the fake Don has no evidence to prove his innocence. Only thereafter, there are some unexpected turns that deviate drastically from the earlier film and may provoke purists to question Farhan's intentions. To me, it works just fine.
However, what doesn't fall into place are the asides – Jasjit's (Arjun Rampal) back story or in fact, his entire presence in the narrative, the 'Con Air' rip-off of a fight sequence aboard a very fake-looking airplane, and particularly, the situation for the "Khaike paan Benaras wala" song, which really looks like an item number that just had to be fit in somewhere. Watching Om Puri enact a two-bit role too is disappointing and the logic behind casting Kareena Kapoor as Kamini (played by Helen in the original film) is beyond comprehension. This character's only purpose in the film is to do a sizzling number on Don – and obviously Kareena can't be made to look seductive even under duress.
Priyanka Chopra and Isha Koppikar, on the other hand, are perfectly cast, particularly the latter, who plays the don's moll in an unpretentious manner. Boman Irani lands one of the most challenging roles of his career so far as ACP D'Silva and executes it in a slightly exaggerated style, perhaps trying to follow Bollywood tradition.
But the film clearly belongs to SRK. There's an obvious tribute to Amitabh Bachchan, particularly in the parts where he's playing Vijay; there's also a hint of John Travolta's 'Face/Off' menace in his body language. It's sheer attitude and to a large extent it is his energy that holds the film together.
One doesn't know how well 'Don' is going to go down with audiences now getting used to shorter, crisper narratives. Perhaps Farhan needs to re-visit his editor and trim his 2 hour 50 minute film down to a watchable length.
Deepa Gumaste
At one level, I found Pedro Almodovar's 'Talk To Her' extremely offensive. Picture this. A woman is lying on a hospital bed and the camera lovingly, lyrically, moves over her body, focussing more than once on her swelling breasts. A male nurse tenderly caresses her thigh, applies cream on her abdomen (with breasts in view again), manicures her nails and talks to her ceaselessly. The woman's eyes are closed. She cannot talk back or respond to his obviously erotic handling of her body. She is in a coma, and has been thus for four years – through all of which, presumably, the said nurse has been deriving pleasure from her body. That he is in love with her, and states, "these four years have been the richest of my life", or for that matter, the fact that he is apparently a disturbed individual doesn't take away from the exploitative premise of the plot.
Similarly, more than halfway through the film, Almodovar uses the film-within-film device and narrates the story of a tragic-comic absurd silent film about a man who drinks a potion created by his scientist lover and starts shrinking by the day. Finally, he becomes small enough to fit into her purse (or anywhere else, for that matter!) and while she's sleeping, rolls off her breast, jumps over her abdomen and enters her to stay inside forever. The ultimate male fantasy one would think! But also a brilliant thematic device to anticipate what's to come next.
And that's Almodovar's greatest achievement – to create questionable characters and morally perplexing situations and yet manipulate the viewer into sympathising with them. Which is why, at another level, I loved 'Talk To Her'. Because although I found much of the film's thematic content questionable, I still ended up loving its quirky characters and their unconventional choices.
Moreover, the fluency of the narrative, the juxtaposition of various other artistic devices such theatre, music, ballet and bull fighting, cleverly woven into a story about the ambiguities of gender roles, love, morality and faith, is exquisite. As is the precision with which Almodovar uses composition and colour. The bright, often garish reds, oranges and greens splashed liberally throughout the film lend a delectable kitschy quality and provide the perfect backdrop for this mawkish melodrama about 'frozen' women and weeping men who take years to get over a broken love affair.
One learns very little about the two women – Alicia the ballerina and Lydia, the sharp-faced matador – through the course of the narrative, except from the manner in which they are perceived and described by the two men Benigno (the almost effeminate nurse) and Marco (the introspective travel-guide writer). Both men get drawn closer to each other as they sit by the bedside of their comatose lovers (an entirely one-sided affair, as it turns out, in every sense). And they talk and share each other's sorrow with a sensitivity generally associated with women.
Through this bizarre tale, Almodovar questions convention and stereotypes and leaves the audience to take its own moral position. His own, apparently lies in the undefined areas of human existence – places that most other filmmakers wouldn't dare to visit.______________________
One wonders whether it would be appropriate to speak of 'Woh Lamhe' in the same space as 'Talk To Her'. But since I watched both films on the same day, and there is a very thin thread that ties them together, I take the risk. Mohit Suri's 'Woh Lamhe' is a manipulative film of another kind, obviously leagues below Almodovar's masterpiece.
This is another chapter in the exploitation of Parveen Babi's life by the Mahesh Bhatt camp. It is utterly distasteful and worse, a badly made film. The narrative is nothing but a rehash of the Bhatt-Babi affair we've already seen in 'Arth' two decades ago. Only this time it is marred by an over-the-top screenplay and lousy performances, particularly from Kangana Ranaut who plays the schizophrenic star a wannabe director (Shiny Ahuja, serviceable) latches on to in order to further his career. Predictably, he falls in love with her and when he finds out about her illness, goes out of his way to try and protect her from her abusive former lover and calculating mother.
The film itself leaves the viewer untouched. But throughout the screening, I kept wondering how Bhatt could use Babi's life so blatantly (in her lifetime and even after her death). It raises ethical questions, which the likes of Bhatt may be able to counter with philosophical gibberish. He has made an entire career out of turning his personal life into a public spectacle (and then even advertising it as autobiographical material). But to transgress another person's life time and again under the garb of creative license is repulsive.Deepa Gumaste
It is Smita Patil's 51st birthday today. Of course she is not around to celebrate the occasion. She hasn't been, for the last 19 years. And yet, she seems like a presence that lingers on – refusing to vacate our minds and hearts – prodding us to remember milestones that no longer mean anything to her. Her death, perhaps the most tragic blow to Hindi cinema since Madhubala's untimely demise, was a significant punctuation mark in my life.
I have watched her films over and over again, ever since, to try and rationalise my obsession. But when it comes to Smita, reason fails. I have seen her friends speak with feeling about their loss. I have watched people get moist-eyed talking about her, recalling memories frozen in time – filmmakers who worked with her and were mesmerised, not just by her extraordinary talent, but her characteristic simplicity; co-stars who became intimate friends; journalists who could see how different she was from her contemporaries and were charmed by her uninhibited personality.
I became a film journalist exactly 10 years after she died. And so, while I had an opportunity to interact with the who's who of Hindi cinema, I couldn't meet the one person that really mattered. But I do meet her every now and then, don't I? Recently I re-visited 'Bhumika' and 'Umbartha', 'Arth' a little before that, 'Mirch Masala' and 'Ardh Satya' a while ago, 'Jait Re Jait' and 'Chakra' several years earlier. She was her usual intense self – her smouldering eyes piercing the screen, staring straight back at me.
'Umbartha' is a personal favourite. I believe it was a film close to her heart too. Sulabha, the film's protagonist, is a truly modern woman. She takes the audacious decision of leaving her daughter with her childless sister-in-law, to accept a job as the superintendent of a women’s reform home in a faraway place. Her decision could be perceived as very 'non-maternal' and irresponsible, particularly in a culture like ours. I consider it an act of courage, because she is walking away from a seemingly secure life to take on the challenge of working amidst women who have been discarded by society. Most women in her place would have got weighed down by guilt and by the fear of an uncertain future. Perhaps she too carries this burden within her. But when she realises that her husband and daughter don’t need her anymore, she accepts their alienation and packs her bags to embark on another uncertain journey. Sulabha is a woman who acts upon her conviction and pays the price she must, to realise her true self. A little like Smita herself....
Or, like Usha in 'Bhumika' – another woman in search of her identity. Usha is a consummate actress, a tragic heroine whose reel and real lives keep blurring into each other. Like many actresses in Hindi cinema, her troubled personal life lies buried under the persona of the larger-than-life screen goddess. Once again, Usha must abandon the conventional framework of marriage and family to find her self, and risk many failures along the journey.
Kavita in 'Arth', on the other hand, is too weighed down by her own insecurities to be free. The games her mind plays with her start weighing on her relationship with her lover and her fragile psyche cannot cope with the guilt of being a home-breaker. I rate 'Arth' among Smita's best performances – playing a schizophrenic actress without going overboard would have been a serious challenge and she met it with enough mettle to make the audience sympathise with her.
Another memorable role was that of Sonbai in 'Mirch Masala'. Sonbai is a fiery young woman in 19th century rural Gujarat who knows her mind and is capable of fending off the advances of the lecherous 'subedar', who chases her relentlessly, first as a sport and then to bolster his bruised ego after being snubbed by her. Smita brought tremendous passion and dignity to Sonbai's doggedness. Sadly, she didn't live to see 'Mirch Masala' on screen.
One doesn't just remember the Smita of these acclaimed films and several others in the same league. But of her mainstream adventures too. I cringed as she danced in the rain with Amitabh Bachchan in 'Namak Halal', and almost wished that song away. Or even that silly 'item number' in 'Sharaabi', once again with Bachchan – and wondered what she thought when she saw herself doing things that she obviously couldn't carry off with ease.
I remember dragging my grandmother to Bandra Talkies to watch 'Aakhir Kyon?' -- one of her few roles in popular cinema I thoroughly enjoyed. Or sitting in the first row of the Plaza stalls with my favourite uncle, craning my neck up to watch a disastrous film called 'Nazraana'. And the time when we went to Chitra talkies to see 'Jawab', and to Shaan for 'Waaris' a film that released months after her death.
Back then, as a schoolgirl, I had her poster on my bedroom wall. Like a true fan, I collected every scrap that was printed about her, stuck her photographs in a big brown book, and once, even called her up and spoke to her.
I was 14 when Smita Patil died. The night before she passed away, I stood before our little temple box in the kitchen and fervently asked god (I don't recall which one) to save her life. I haven't prayed ever since.
Deepa Gumaste
Why does Elizabet Vogler (Liv Ulmann) go silent in Ingmar Bergman’s ‘Persona’? The first time I watched this visually stunning and stylistically complex film, I wondered more about the form than the content. Because having grown up on a diet of one-dimensional cinema, it was very difficult to comprehend this non-linear approach to filmmaking. There was a deliberate attempt on the director’s part to elaborate on the ‘make-believe’ world of cinema – on the ‘illusion of reality’. This time, I focussed on the content. Because despite it’s seemingly ‘fragmented’ plot, there is a narrative unity (albeit deliberately broken by the filmmaker from time to time). "For the interpretation, you can interpret it any way you like. As with any poem. Images mean different things to different people" – Ingmar Bergman.
Elizabet’s decision to stop talking is an assertion of her will. She has played every conceivable role on and off stage and the thrill has gone out of ‘acting’. For the sake of this analysis, I am assuming that one must believe the images and voices Bergman is inviting us to watch and am therefore trying to construct a linear narrative of a seemingly disjointed story. She gets admitted to an asylum and the psychiatrist assigns Nurse Alma (Bibi Andersson) to attend to her. Alma tries striking a mundane conversation with Elizabet and then invites her to listen to the radio, which the latter promptly switches off. Soon after, we see Elizabet cringing in a corner of a room watching a monk setting himself ablaze on television. The horrors of the world are in your face – and Elizabet, who refuses to communicate with other individuals, somehow has no choice but to witness the rot of human civilization.
Throughout the film, everything that we understand about Elizabet is through other people’s voices and therefore it is their perception of her – which in turn is Bergman’s take on these characters (framed in uncomfortable, tight, in-your-face close-ups), filtered down to us, the audience. Elizabet plays her ‘silence’ as superbly as any other role. The psychiatrist says she understands her condition and knows that she will move out of this role too, when she’s done playing it. Meanwhile she suggests Elizabet spend a few days in her summer home with Nurse Alma.
Alma is obviously overawed by Elizabet. She speaks of trying to fit into the different roles she plays in her own life – being a nurse, looking forward to her impending marriage, the prospect of having children and rearing them. But her voice lacks conviction. She isn’t sure if this is really what she wants to do and since Elizabet refuses to respond to her monologue, Alma launches deeper into her own thoughts. Nobody compels her to speak and yet she reveals her darkest secrets to the silent woman who neither judges her nor offers any sympathy.
Perhaps Alma speaks about her deep-rooted guilt over an episode on the beach that happened some years ago -- a story she has never shared with anyone else – only because she knows Elizabet is not going to react. It is evident that Alma’s most shameful moment is also her most ecstatic. Reminds me of ‘Hiroshima Mon Amour’ where the heroine bares her soul to an unknown man because she knows that he isn’t a part of her world and therefore she is in no danger of being condemned for speaking the truth.
Elizabet writes a letter to the doctor, in which she speaks of how she finds Alma an interesting person to study and mentions Alma’s secret quite casually. Strangely, she doesn’t seal the envelope, almost inviting Alma to read what she has written. Alma is furious about being used as an ‘object’ and suddenly, her body language changes from being amiable, almost submissive to restlessness and anger.
In a confrontational moment between the two women, Elizabet finally expresses herself by hitting Alma. The latter threatens to throw a pan of boiling water on her and Elizabet speaks her first words in the film, “No, don’t.” While she seems to have accepted the futility of role-playing, she hasn’t given up on life yet. There is a fight within her, and therefore the fear of death.
From here on, the line between illusion and reality gets further blurred. We never know if what we are witnessing next is a dream, or a continuation of the psychological game between these two women. Elizabet enters Alma’s room at night and walks out through another door into a white, hazy, ghost-like light. Alma enters Elizabet’s room and runs her hand over the latter’s still face. Elizabet and Alma are framed in tight close-up, with the former running her hand through the latter’s hair. A voice calls out “Elizabet” and Alma, assumes her ‘persona’ and speaks on her behalf to a man who appears to be Mr. Vogler.
The film’s climax is a scene where Elizabet appears tentative as she covers the photograph of a boy (her son?) with her hands. Alma, looking more self-assured than ever before, reveals the photograph and then launches into a definitive analysis of Elizabet’s ‘guilt’. First, we just see Elizabet’s face (half lit, the other half in shadows) with Alma’s voice off-camera. Then, the same scene is repeated, this time with Alma’s face to camera and Elizabet’s profile (squirming?) in the left corner of the frame as she hears of her own inadequacies as a mother.
At the end of the monologue, Alma asserts that she is nothing like Elizabet. I wondered if she was trying to convince herself that she hasn’t submitted entirely to her stronger adversary, when in fact, she has.
Frankly, I don’t know yet what Bergman was trying to suggest when Alma finally convinces Elizabet to say the word, “Nothing”. To me, the whole idea of ‘Persona’ is about putting meaning into things – visuals, narrative, dialogues, characters, faces. There is nothing definitive about people, about life, about cinema. Each of us is trying to make our own sense of it – but no one knows to what end.
Deepa Gumaste
Nagesh Kukunoor is a gutsy filmmaker – an aberration in an industry so used to clinging to formulae. Where most others would cash in on the success of their previous work by casting bigger stars and choosing bankable themes, he takes the off-beat path and follows up last year’s feel-good ‘Iqbaal’ with a stunning film about friendship, love and loss – ‘Dor’.
The plotline itself is quite intriguing. Zeenat (Gul Panag), a newly married girl from Himachal Pradesh learns that her husband, who is working in Saudi Arabia, has inadvertently killed his roommate Shankar and faces a death sentence. The only way Zeenat can save his life is by getting a pardon plea signed by Shankar’s widow. And so she sets off for Rajasthan in search of Meera (Ayesha Takia), with nothing more than a photograph in hand.
As Zeenat’s character unfolds, the film starts growing on you. Here is an admirable woman who knows her mind and heart and has the conviction to follow her chosen path undeterred by any obstacle. Along the way she meets a local impersonator (Shreyas Talpade) who decides to help her and tags along. Isn’t it wonderful to watch a platonic relationship between a woman and man conducted with such grace and dignity – far-fetched as it may seem?
Zeenat’s self-confidence and resolve waver in the face of Meera’s innocence and she is unable to spell out the purpose of her mission. But being the person she is, she gradually wins over Meera and transforms the timid widow into the lively teenager she was, not so long ago. The chemistry between Zeenat and Meera is magical – a true delight to watch two radically dissimilar women bonding so beautifully, that too in the myopic universe of Hindi cinema where friendship and fortitude are generally reserved for the male hero.
The odd glitch comes in the form of occasionally preachy dialogues and Takia’s out-of-place dialect which doesn’t quite suit her rustic character. Similarly, Kukunoor himself is miscast as a Meera’s lecherous neighbour who tries to buy her off from her father-in-law (Girish Karnad).
But that doesn’t take much away from this tightly crafted film with exquisite visuals of Rajasthan (and mercifully not garish and overly colourful), an excellent musical composition in “Yeh honsla” and awesome performances. Talpade is in prime form as the ‘Bahuroopia’ who mimics popular actors. Takia looks every bit like the vulnerable girl who’s trapped in a life of drudgery following her husband’s death. But the show-stealer is Gul Panag, whose personality suits Zeenat’s resolute character perfectly. In Zeenat, Kukunoor gives Hindi cinema a rare ‘modern’ heroine.
‘Dor’ is dedicated to the memory of Hrishikesh Mukherjee. Nothing could be more appropriate. Like Mukherjee’s cinema, Kukunoor’s works are populated by people who live by their convictions and preserve their self-respect through every adversity. More power to you Mr. Kukunoor. Our cinema needs men like you.Deepa Gumaste
There are two reasons why one went to see 'Don' with an open mind. The first is that I never thought much of the original and it certainly wasn't one of my favourite Bachchan films of the '70s. Therefore, the lack of baggage and absence of odious comparisons. The second is that I am an unabashed admirer of Shah Rukh Khan and generally like watching him on screen unless he's doing something unequivocally horrid like 'Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna'.
