People Will Talk (1951)

This wasn’t the film I’d been meaning to watch last weekend. That was the Humphrey Bogart-starrer, The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. But ten minutes into that, and I realized my mind was wandering. It’s probably a good film (it won several Oscars), but right then, I wasn’t in the mood to watch it. So I scrolled through my list of bookmarked videos, and came across a Cary Grant film, People Will Talk.

Cary Grant, I will have you know, is one of those rare actors for whom I will watch any film (and I have watched some less-than-enjoyable ones, simply because he happened to star in them). Mostly, though, his films range from good to excellent, so I decided I’d watch this one, dedicated to “… one who has inspired man’s unending battle against Death, and without whom that battle is never won… the patient.”

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Izzat (1968)

When I posted my ‘People with books’ list on World Book Day, I wrote that my favourite scene (in the context of the post) was the one from Izzat: Tanuja and Dharmendra, both holding books (he, Othello, she, The Tribal World of Verrier Elwin), standing in a fairly well-stocked library at her home, and discussing Othello. What more could a book lover like me want from a scene? Especially a scene starring two of my favourite actors.

To those readers who commented, saying that they should probably watch Izzat since it sounded tempting, I was quick to respond: it has been many, many years since I watched this film. My memories of it were very sketchy, with only a vague recollection of the basic plot.

So, for those who want to know what Izzat is all about, I put myself forward as the bali ka bakra. I have rewatched it, and I can safely assure you that despite presence of said library and said bibliophilic conversation (not to mention presence of dishy Dharmendra and gorgeous Tanuja), this is not—emphatically not—a film you want to watch. Unless you’re a Jayalalitha fan (this was her sole Hindi film). Or you love the Himalayas so much you will watch anything as long as there are plenty of snowcapped peaks and deodar woods and bubbling streams.

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Ten of my favourite dream sequence songs

When I posted my ‘Khwaab/Sapna’ songs list, Anu commented that, by reading the title of the post, she thought it was about dream sequences. It wasn’t, of course—it was a list of songs which literally contained the word ‘dream’ in the first couple of lines of its lyrics. And while I did write in that post about the different links between songs and dreams in Hindi cinema, I didn’t mention that I had another post lined up to follow the ‘Khwaab/Sapna’ songs list: the dream sequence songs list.

A ‘dream sequence’ is part of a cinematic production that is separated from the rest of the story—by devices such as graphics (think spiraling), fogging, music, etc—to depict an event that does not really happen but which a character may imagine. Dream sequences allow, in Hindi cinema, all sorts of interesting possibilities: grand spectacles, enormously enlarged sets, things that aren’t possible in real (or reel) life. Lovers who are forbidden, relationships that cannot be.

There are dream sequences aplenty all through Hindi cinema, ranging from the very opulent one in Aan, where Nadira’s character sees herself switching places with her rival, played by Nimmi—to the many songs that take the form of a dream sequence.

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Ten of my favourite Khwaab/Sapna songs

Some months back, I was listening to a music programme on the radio, and heard a song I hadn’t heard for ages: the title song from Dreamgirl. Once upon a time, a six- or seven-year old me used to love Kisi shaayar ki ghazal, not just because it sounded good, but because to me, Hema Malini, in all those frilly, frothy dresses was just—oh, gorgeous. This time, I heard the song with a warm sense of nostalgia; and it struck me that dreams have been, for a long time now, an important part of Hindi cinema. And of Hindi film songs.

For one, there are several songs which are set completely in people’s dreams. The heroine (or the hero) goes to sleep and dreams of singing a song along with the beloved. Then, there are songs which fit the very specific cinematic style known as the dream sequence: a dream which does not require anybody to be really asleep (though some of the best dream sequences in cinema history do involve people who are asleep). In a dream world, there can be little semblance to reality: special effects, grand backdrops, feats that people would not achieve in real life—all come to the fore, and are celebrated, in dream sequences. Look at Ghar aaya mera pardesi, for instance.

And then, there are the literal ‘dream songs’, songs which talk about dreams. Dreams in which the beloved features, dreams about a rosy future alongside the love of one’s life. (It’s interesting that dreams, in the context of Hindi film lyrics, almost always seem to refer to happy dreams, never nightmares. Those dreams may be shattered, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t wonderful to start with).

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Suhaagan (1964)

I’ve had this film on my radar for a long time. I first came across a mention of it online about ten years ago, and since Guru Dutt had acted in so few films, I was curious about this one (which, incidentally, was also his last film). Back then, I used to subscribe to a video rental service, and having found Suhaagan on that, ordered it—and what I got was the absolutely execrable, horribly regressive Suhaagan that starred Geeta Bali [if ever I decide to draw up a list of Hindi films you must not watch, that Suhaagan will be on it].

The Guru Dutt-Mala Sinha Suhaagan, which several people on my blog have mentioned in the past (including fairly recently), and which I’d searched for on Youtube now and then, finally cropped up in Youtube’s recommendations for me. So I bookmarked it.

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Hoří, má Panenko (1967)

Or, in English, The Firemen’s Ball.

I came across this film some months back, and since its description sounded enticing, I got it. Ever since, I’ve been meaning to watch it; finally, about a week back, having written up the post for a landmark anniversary I wanted to celebrate (William Holden’s birth centenary), I figured it was finally time I got around to watching The Firemen’s Ball. And it was then, just a few days back, that I discovered that the film’s director, Miloš Forman, had passed away, on the 13th of April.

To Hollywood audiences, Forman is known for Amadeus and One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, both of which won him Oscars for Best Director. But before he left his homeland Czechoslovakia and moved to the US, Forman was a well-established director in Czech cinema too, being generally acknowledged as a important personality of Czech New Wave Cinema. His first Czech-language colour film was The Firemen’s Ball, a comedy that satirized the corruption pervading Communist Eastern Europe at the time.

The film begins sombrely. In an office at a fire department, a group of senior firemen have gathered to discuss something important. A finely crafted and engraved piece (a fireman’s axe) is being passed around the table and admired by all. The annual firemen’s ball is coming up, and this item is to be presented on the occasion of the ball to the fire department’s ex-President, who is going to be turning 86.

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People with Books in Hindi Cinema

Happy World Book Day!

For a bibliophile like me, this is a very special day, because it celebrates books. I can’t imagine life without books (I read an average of about 80-90 books every year, and would probably read double that number if I didn’t watch films or Korean dramas). I love reading, I thrive on reading, I get restless if I don’t have something to read.

So, in celebration of books, a post on people with books in Hindi cinema. More specifically, about ten scenes in Hindi cinema where a character is shown with a book.

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Sanam (1951)

I started off being a diehard fan of Dev Anand’s. While in school and college, pretty much all of Dev Anand’s films I’d seen were the ones Doordarshan aired: CID, Teen Deviyaan, Tere Ghar ke Saamne, Jewel Thief, Nau Do Gyarah, Munimji… what wasn’t to like? Yes, I drew the line at Dev Anand post the early 70s—those mannerisms by then had begun to be tiresome, and the man’s ‘evergreen’ image really didn’t fool me. It was downright embarrassing to watch films like Warrant or Heera Panna.

And then, when I was in my twenties or so, I began paying a little more attention to Dev Anand’s early career—and found that here was a mix of films, some good and some pretty forgettable except for some good music. After trying out films like Vidya and Sazaa, I sort of gave up. Until Sanam was recommended to me by someone who knows his Dev Anand movies inside-out. A comedy, surprisingly modern, I was told.

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Ten of my favourite Swimming Pool songs

Summer is around the corner. And summer, for me, means mangoes and watermelon and tall cold glasses of nimbu-paani. The sight of amaltas and gulmohar trees in full bloom.

For my four-year old daughter, the Little One (or LO, as I refer to her on this blog), summer means swimming. Till last spring, we lived in one of those Delhi Development Authority colonies (which meant no decent swimming pool anywhere in the vicinity). Then, in May, we shifted to Noida, and to a housing complex which has its own lovely little swimming pool (including, on the side—much to the LO’s delight—a kiddie pool). My husband decided to start the LO off on swimming lessons immediately, and she took to them like a duck to water.

With summer looming, the LO can’t wait to get back into the water. Tuesday last week, we were given the very welcome news that the pool was going to be opened this past Sunday. Since that was Easter and the LO was pretty much partying all day, swimming was out of the question. But she knows (and she’s made sure we know) how Saturday morning is going to begin.

… which reminded me just how often we see swimming pools in Hindi cinema, especially in the 60s. You couldn’t have a film in a modern, urban setting (I’m not talking of the historicals and the stories in rural settings) without a swimming pool somewhere or the other. It could be a place where a hero and heroine flirted (Waqt); it could be a spot for some unwanted attention (Sharmeelee); it could even be used for some rigorous exercise by an ageing wannabe Casanova (Shagird).

And it could be a setting for songs.

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Raaz (1967)

For many years now, I’ve been fascinated by what I call the ‘supernatural’ subgenre of Indian suspense films. Offhand, I can’t recall too many [any?] non-Indian films that used a supposedly supernatural theme to veil what was a definitely corporeal, criminal deed. Yeh Raat Phir Na Aayegi, Mahal, Woh Kaun Thi?, Bees Saal Baad, Poonam ki Raat, Anita—all of these (and plenty more) used tropes such as spooky songs, ‘ghosts’ (invariably women in white), mysteriously creaking doors, swinging lampshades and seemingly haunted havelis, all forming part of a grand plan to convince someone that they were surrounded by bhoots when in reality they were surrounded by crooks.

Raaz is one of those films. And yet not.

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