Category Archives: Dusted Off

Meera (1947)

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I am not a one for mythologicals or devotionals.

If you go through the list of Hindi films I’ve reviewed in the sixteen years this blog has been in existence, you’ll probably only find a handful of films that fit the bill (offhand, I can only think of Mahabharat, though in Telugu, I’ve also reviewed the excellent Maya Bazaar and in Tamil, Karnan). I have watched more than that, but nearly all I have found to be so ho-hum, I couldn’t be bothered to review them.

The story of Krishnabhakt Meera, wife of Bhojraj, was not one I expected to be any different. A woman, so completely devoted to the deity she has chosen to worship that she gives up everything, down to her husband and the kingdom of which she is queen, in order to go to Vrindavan to fall at Krishna’s feet… I was quite certain this film would be a hard slog. There was only one reason I wanted to watch it, and that was MS Subbulakshmi, who played Meera. I knew that Meera had originally been made in Tamil (in 1945), and was later (in 1947) dubbed in Hindi, with some scenes being reshot. MS Subbulakshmi, of course, given her stature as one of the greatest vocalists the Indian subcontinent has ever produced, sang all the songs.

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Ten of my favourite bhanwra songs

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Late February and early March are, to me, the best season in the Delhi NCR area. Our (alas all too brief) spring is a lovely time: cool, the sunshine just right, the breeze pleasant—and flowers all round. In our housing society, spring is especially exuberant because the local Residents’ Welfare Association invests heavily in our society gardens: this time of the year, every path, every patch of grass, is lined with flowerbeds crowded with petunias, daisies, hollyhocks, stock, pansies, snapdragons… I could go on and on. It’s a riot of colour and fragrance.

And bhanwras. The carpenter bee, glossy and black and so easily visible, is everywhere right now, sipping at the hollyhocks and the dahlias in particular (in our society’s garden). Its size and its blackness makes the bhanwra look a little intimidating, but the males (which are aggressive) don’t have stingers and so cannot really harm you, and the females (which do have stingers) will generally sting only in retaliation if you disturb them. Usually, if all you’re doing is standing by and admiring one getting its nectar from a flower, they’ll leave you alone.

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Matira Manisha (1966)

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Aka ‘Man of the Soil’ (though in the film itself, the subtitle that appears below the title of the film is ‘Two Brothers’).

This is a first for my blog: an Odia film. I remain on the lookout for old films in regional languages, and I always, too, have at least some cinema-related books to read. Recently, I read an interesting book on the cinema of Mrinal Sen (review here), and—my interest piqued—went searching for some of the films mentioned in the book. To my surprise, I came upon this film, made in Odia (Sen had a penchant for making films in languages other than his native Bangla or Hindi: he even has, to his name, a Telugu film based on Munshi Premchand’s superb short story, Kafan).

Matira Manisha, based on a classic novel by Odia writer Kalindi Charan Panigrahi, is set in a village in Odisha during World War II. The story focuses on the family of an old man named Pradhan (?), who lives with his family here, farming a small piece of land on which—like the rest of their village—they grow paddy.

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Ten of my favourite songs picturized at Mughal sites

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This blog post was inspired by an Instagram post by one of my favourite handles of all the social media channels I follow: Mad Mughal Memes, an absolutely delightful account that manages to combine informativeness with fun and often totally loony humour (my type, in case you don’t know that yet). Some time back, Mad Mughal Memes did a post in which they listed, with screenshots, some ten or so songs from Hindi films that were picturized at the Taj Mahal. Unlike me, of course, they weren’t constrained by a time period, so they had songs from very recently as well. Some songs (a very few) I was familiar with; others I had never heard of.

But it provoked a thought: why not a post on songs picturized at Mughal monuments? After all, it’s not just the Taj (though that, I agree, is the Mughal monument to beat all others). There are also forts, mosques—and gardens. Many of them very scenic, a perfect setting for a song.

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Chitralekha (1964)

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I have decided it’s high time I began rewatching some of the old Hindi films I last saw when in my teens (or, in some cases, even before that). Back then, all our film viewing used to happen on India’s sole television channel, Doordarshan, which would telecast Hindi films every weekend, and sometimes in between as well. Most of the films were old classics, and I have fond memories of first viewings of films which became firm favourites almost from the get-go: Junglee, Teesri Manzil, Nau Do Gyarah, Dekh Kabira Roya, Woh Kaun Thi?, Mera Saaya…

There were also films that I watched (we watched everything, there was such a paucity of options for entertainment) but which I ended up not liking. Or, as in the case of Chitralekha, not really understanding. I guess this was a simple case of being too young, too immature, to grasp the niceties of a film that wasn’t the standard masala entertainer.

About time, I thought, I saw this one again.

Kidar Sharma, who directed Chitralekha, had already made this film (based on a novel by Bhagwati Charan Verma) earlier as well. The 1941 Chitralekha starred Mehtab (who of course later married Sohrab Modi) and the juiciest bit of information about the film is that it featured a bathing scene (Cineplot used to have an article about this, an excerpt from Kidar Sharma’s autobiography, but since Cineplot now seems to be sadly defunct, that’s gone). Kidar Sharma did say, from what I recall of his autobiography, that the original Chitralekha was far superior to the 1964 remake.

But the 1941 film is, I think, gone—or at least not available for viewing online, though there are songs and stills galore. I may as well watch the 1964 Chitralekha, I decided, since that was the one I had hazy recollections of watching as a child.

The story is set in Pataliputra during the heyday of the Gupta Empire. Aryaratan Samant Beejgupt (Pradeep Kumar), a high nobleman, has just returned to Pataliputra after a sojourn elsewhere. Beejgupt’s arrival in the city is greeted with anticipation: his fiancée Yashodhara (Shobhna) is shyly hopeful that this time he will marry her.

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Ten of my favourite Pradeep Kumar songs

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This post is ten days late. January 4, 2025 marked the 100th birth anniversary of an actor who, in an industry dominated by Punjabis, was one of just a handful of Bengali leading men. And, unlike—say, Biwasjit or Joy Mukherjee—to have a respectably long innings as an actor, playing lead roles right through the 50s and 60s, and then continuing as a character actor up to the last years of the 1900s. Impressive.

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Neither Here nor There: Rafi Sings for the In-Betweens

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When, to celebrate the birth centenary (on December 24, 2024) of the one and only Mohammad Rafi, I compiled this list of my favourite Rafi songs for the top leading men of the 1950s and 60s, I was uncomfortably aware that I wasn’t doing justice to Rafi’s oeuvre. Even though I had tried my best to bung in mentions (and links) to many other songs Rafi had sung for these men. Because there were many other Rafi songs I could think of, which he had sung for actors absolutely opposite to these: extras, or actors who had woefully short-lived careers—in many cases men whose entire career might be said to hinge around one fantastic song that Rafi sang for them. A second Rafi list, arranged actor-wise, was therefore in order.

But in between the stars and the entities were a host of other actors who had the honour to lip-sync to Rafi’s voice. These were often character actors, or men who acted as villains. Even, in cases like Sanjay Khan, Premnath and Ajit, men who did appear in a fair number of films in leading roles, but cannot be said to have ever reached the heights of popularity or success of, say, a Dilip Kumar or Dev Anand, or even a Biswajit. They were the in betweens: not at all obscure, but not the Jubilee Kumar types.

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Famous songs, Not-so-Famous Faces: The Magic of Mohammad Rafi

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Some days back, in celebration of the birth centenary of Mohammad Rafi, I posted a list of ten Rafi songs, picturized on ten different actors. Each of those men—Dilip Kumar, Dev Anand, Shammi Kapoor, even Johnny Walker—were immediately recognizable. Big names in their own ways (yes, even Johnny Walker, whom I personally think of as the greatest comedian to have lit up the Hindi silver screen). But even as I was compiling that list, I was thinking of all the many other times I’ve listened to a Rafi song, and have been unable to put a name to the man who’s lip-syncing to his voice.

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Ten Men, One Voice: The Magic of Mohammad Rafi

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Today, December 24, 2024 marks an important birth centenary: that of one of the greatest singers ever to hail from the Indian subcontinent, the inimitable Mohammad Rafi. Born on December 24, 1924 in Kotla Sultan Singh (Punjab), Rafi would go on to dominate the world of Hindi playback singing in a way few of his contemporaries could, singing thousands of songs, winning awards by the dozen—and rarely (a rarity in itself, in a competitive industry) antagonizing those he worked with.

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It Happened One Night (1934)

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Last week, to commemorate the 100th birth anniversary of Raj Kapoor, I reviewed my favourite film of his as an actor: Chori Chori, which was a remake (uncredited) of It Happened One Night. I had seen Chori Chori before; I had also seen It Happened One Night before, though in both cases, I had not reviewed the film in question.

Since I’ve finally reviewed Chori Chori, it seemed to me about time I reviewed It Happened One Night as well (which is why there’s also a comparison with Chori Chori further along in this post). Directed and co-produced by Frank Capra, this film was based on a short story, Night Bus, by Samuel Hopkins Adams. It is generally regarded as the first ever screwball comedy, having pretty much invented the genre; it was also the first of only three films so far to have won all five major Oscars: Best Picture, Best Actress, Best Actor, Best Director and Best Adapted Screenplay.

But, to start at the beginning: on a private yacht moored off the coast at Miami, where Ellen ‘Ellie’ Andrews (Claudette Colbert) has been confined by her banker father (Walter Connolly). Mr Andrews disapproves, unreservedly, of Ellie’s having gotten married to a man named King Westley (Jameson Thomas), whom he (Mr Andrews) is convinced is a rotter: only interested in Ellie’s wealth, nothing else.  

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