Does Udan Khatola hold some sort of record for largest number of love/lust triangles?
Here’s a rough count:
There’s the unnamed aviator, the pardesi (played by Dilip Kumar) who is in love with the local peshwa’s daughter Soni. Who, in turn, loves him back.
Given that I reviewed Raj Khosla’s 1958 film Kaala Paani—based on AJ Cronin’s novel Beyond This Place—last month, I thought it appropriate to also watch and review an English-language adaptation of the same book. And, as always happens when I do something of the sort, to compare the two, see what they do with the same source material. Here, I must point out that that I haven’t read Cronin’s novel, so I cannot say how much Beyond This Place (directed by Jack Cardiff and with a screenplay by Ken Taylor) resembled Cronin’s book.
But, to begin at the beginning.
As the credits roll, we see a man, Patrick Mathry (Bernard Lee) and a boy, Patrick’s son Paul (Vincent Winter) running through the woods, laughing and obviously happy in each other’s company.
Today is the 100th birth anniversary of one of my favourite Hindi film directors, the suspense-specialist Raj Khosla (I hasten to add: I am well aware that that’s a generalization, since Khosla made a lot of films, too, that had nothing to do with the thriller/suspense genre: Mera Gaon Mera Desh, for example; Chirag, Main Tulsi Tere Aangan Ki, Do Badan, etc). But it is Khosla’s prowess with this particular genre that I especially admire, a skill and talent he showcased in classics of the genre such as Woh Kaun Thi? ((1964), Mera Saaya (1966), CID (1956) and Kaala Paani (1958). In each of these films, he managed to combine the classic elements of the Hindi masala film—a romance, a comedic side track, lots of fabulous songs—while making sure that the suspense remained (mostly) taut, the mystery a solid one.
To commemorate Khosla’s birth centenary, I wanted to review one of his suspense films. Several of these (CID, Mera Saaya, Ek Musaafir ek Haseena, Woh Kaun Thi?) I have already reviewed; I was torn between some of the others: Solva Saal, Kaala Paani, and Anita, all of which I have seen at some time or the other. I decided, eventually, that it was time to rewatch Kaala Paani, a film that I’ve watched several times, but too far back to have reviewed it on this blog.
The story begins on a night in Bombay, with a woman (Mumtaz Begum) hurrying through the streets to the home of a family friend, Mr Kapoor (?). She is in great distress, and confides in Kapoor: Karan has discovered the truth. What this truth is we discover when Kapoor hurries to Karan’s home to find Karan (Dev Anand) sitting, looking bereft. He has found out (how, we aren’t told) that his father Shankar Lal has, for the past fifteen years, been incarcerated in Hyderabad jail for the murder of a tawaif named Mala. Not, as Karan has been led to believe all these years, dead.
I was reminded of this film the other day, because I was lecturing at a Delhi college on historical detective fiction, and ended up mentioning And Then There Were None/Ten Little Indians (no, it’s not historical detective fiction, but I wanted to check how many people in the audience had read this book). The novel, first published in 1939, is Agatha Christie’s most popular book (also, the world’s top-selling mystery book), and one which Christie described as being the most difficult one to write. It has been adapted to screen multiple times, in different languages (in Hindi, as Gumnaam, which sadly did not credit Christie even though the film was very obviously based on the book).
I have reviewed—many years ago—an earlier film adaptation, And Then There Were None (1945), directed by René Clair, and I’ve reviewed Gumnaam too, but decided it was high time I watched a later version. This one, directed by George Pollock.
Ten Little Indians gets off to a flying start, the credits rolling as eight guests arrive by train at a snowy, deserted-looking railway station. They proceed, first by horse-drawn carts and then by cable car, up to a grand (but forbidding-looking) mansion situated high up on a rocky, lonely mountain. There, they are met by a couple of servants: Grohmann (Mario Adorf) and his wife (Marianne Hoppe).
The Grohmanns show the guests to their rooms. None of these guests have ever met each other, though from the curious looks some of them bestow on the others, it’s obvious they’re at least interested. The American Hugh Lombard (Hugh O’Brian) and the host’s newly-appointed secretary, Ann Clyde (Shirley Eaton) seem, for instance, to like what they see.
I must begin this list with a disclaimer regarding that title: no, not really small town. However, a title that went ‘Tier 2 and Below Cities’ would be just too clunky. So give me some leeway here.
When I was watching Sapan Suhaane a few months back, the one song that really stayed with me was Naam mera Nimmo muqaam Ludhiana. Not only because it’s so catchy and Helen is so vivacious, but also because of the words. Why Ludhiana, I wondered. Was Shailendra thinking of Sahir when he wrote the lyrics of this song? Or did Ludhiana just seem to fit the metre and the rhyme scheme well? (It does, and really well).
That thought led to another: all the other songs that, like this one, also refer to the smaller towns of India. The really big cities—the metropolitan agglomerations like Bombay (a particular favourite, of course, given that the Hindi film industry is based there and most films have Bombay as a setting) or Delhi or even Kolkata—have plenty of references to them in song. But the smaller cities, the towns: they are rather more elusive. Not, however, completely missing. And that was what I set out to find: songs that mention smaller cities and towns (not the metros).
In the original Japanese, Ten to Sen. The English title is also often translated as Points and Lines, which was how I originally saw it being referred to.
In a cinema that—at least to the outside eye—seems to be dominated by the works of directors like Akira Kurosawa and Yasujiro Ozu, films that are rather more ‘pure entertainment’ tend to get overlooked. The amusing yet insightful little look at childhood, Ohayo (1959), for example; or this classic noir, a police procedural that revolves around trains: their schedules, their stations, their networks… and how they (along with a ferry and various aeroplane routes) might have been instrumental in helping a murderer pull off a crime.
The story begins on a bleak and deserted seashore, where two dead bodies have been found. The cops from the Fukuoka Police Department have come to investigate, and seem to have reached a consensus that this is a case of a double suicide: everything points to it. A man and a woman, her head sweetly pillowed on his arm, lying stretched out beside each other. The police doctor comes to the conclusion that they’ve died of cyanide poisoning.
I have never really wanted to watch this film, the main reason behind that being a long-ago comment by my father, saying that it was a ‘serious’ film. Which meant, basically, that you shouldn’t expect a happy ending. Whatever may happen before that—starry-eyed romance, good songs, even some humour—is all the light-heartedness you could hope for. When tragedy came, it would pile up.
Mela (which I ended up watching mostly for the songs, and partly because I like both Dilip Kumar as well as Nargis) gets off to a bad start, because it begins with gloom and doom. Mohan (Dilip Kumar), old and sad-looking, is released from prison after what seems to be a long, long time in jail. He goes out into the wide world, and walking along, comes across someone singing Yeh zindagi ke mele, while—in the background—crowds of happy, laughing people throng a fair, whirling about on carousels, milling about stalls, enjoying themselves.
In 2018, for World Book Day, I compiled a post on Hindi film characters depicted with books. I had not meant it to be the first part of a series of posts; not at all. It had taken me a good bit of effort, many days of trawling through films, much research, to come up with those ten books on that list. To be honest, besides those ten books, those ten characters, I couldn’t think of any other Hindi film characters I’d seen with books.
I don’t know how it is with you, but I have noticed one thing about myself: as soon as I’ve done a post on some theme (or even thought of one), I keep noticing that theme again and again in films I watch. After 2018, I found myself spotting books in several old films I watched. Enough to enable me to post a follow-up list: ten other books.
And now another ten. As I’ve done for the other book lists I’ve made, these are all from films I’ve seen, and (barring one film, Dil Daulat Duniya, 1972), from before the 1970s. I’ve made an exception for Dil Daulat Duniya because (like—say, Sharmeelee—it has a very 60s look and feel to it, and is anyway on the cusp of the decade). These ten books are all real books, and can be bought online even today; I’ve provided links to buy, wherever possible.
This is a film I’ve been meaning to watch for a long time now—ever since someone told me that the 1961 Balraj Sahni Kabuliwala (in Hindi) wasn’t a patch on the Bengali version, directed by Tapan Sinha and starring Chhabi Biswas as the eponymous Afghan. I was reminded of it again last year when, for Tapan Sinha’s birth centenary celebrations, Anu (from Conversations over Chai) wrote this wonderful review of the film.
Then, some time back, I began reading 100 Indian Stories (edited by AJ Thomas, published by Aleph Book Company, 2025)—and one of the very first stories in the collection was Rabindranath Tagore’s classic The Kabuliwala.
I figured it was about time I watched Tapan Sinha’s take on the story.
The story begins with scenes (no dialogue, only somewhat sonorous singing in what seems to be Pashto) in rural Afghanistan. Peaks loom high above the valley, a train of camels moves rhythmically along a narrow mountain, and we see Rahmat (Chhabi Biswas) hard at work, but taking out time now and then to play with his little daughter, whom he’s obviously deeply devoted to.
RIP, Manoj Kumar.
The first week of April has seen two major actors of the film world pass away. Hollywood great Val Kilmer (whom I actually always associate with The Saint, though most others probably think Batman and Jim Morrison of the Doors), on April 1st; and on April 4th, Manoj Kumar. Kilmer, though I’ve watched several of his films, isn’t part of my timeline when it comes to blogging; but Manoj Kumar certainly is.
Dustedoff 