Tag Archives: film review

Aaya Saawan Jhoomke (1969)

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When Dharmendra passed away some months back, it reminded me that while I have seen a good bit of his filmography from the 1960s—including little-known, forgettable films like Begaana, Main Bhi Ladki Hoon, Chandan ka Palna and Jab Yaad Kisiki Aati Hai—I haven’t reviewed too many of his films. Some, yes; but plenty, even much-loved films or well-known ones, have somehow slipped under the radar. Time to correct that, I decided.

And why not with this film (directed by Raghunath Jhalani), which I had last seen perhaps a little over 20 years ago, and which I remembered vaguely. Nirupa Roy, having (once again) misplaced a child. Aruna Irani on the verge of becoming an unwed mother if some good Samaritan doesn’t come to her rescue. Asha Parekh, lower lip quivering and eyes swimming with tears. Some very well-known songs.

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Walk Like a Dragon (1960)

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I don’t know how many of those reading this post know about the actor James Shigeta. Shigeta, a third-generation Japanese American, was one of the first Asian-Americans to really make a mark in Hollywood, playing roles that were different from the (till then) standard supporting characters. I first saw Shigeta in the excellent noir The Crimson Kimono, and then in the delightful (and unusual) Rodgers and Hammerstein musical Flower Drum Song, but this is one film I’ve been wanting to watch for a while. I finally discovered it on YouTube, and so here’s a review.

Walk Like a Dragon is set in the 1870s, in California. Linc Bartlett (Jack Lord) owns a freight line and is headed home to the town of Jericho when he stops en route at San Francisco, to collect a consignment. The old Chinese man from whom he takes the goods asks him for a favour: with him is a young Chinese fellow, newly arrived from China, who needs to go to Jericho. Will Linc take him along? 

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Amar Jyoti (1936)

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This is a film I first heard about many years ago, when Memsaab reviewed it on her blog. It’s been in the back of my mind to watch it sometime, but it kept getting put on the back burner. Then, some months back, when I was watching Baaz (1953) as part of my tribute on Guru Dutt’s 100th birth anniversary, I was reminded of Amar Jyoti. If Geeta Bali’s woman pirate in Baaz seemed a surprisingly progressive character for 1953, Durga Khote’s pirate queen Saudamini, playing the lead in V Shantaram’s Amar Jyoti in 1936, was even more progressive.

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Shiraz (1928)

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This is a film that’s been on my radar for a long time—in fact, from when I first read about it on Memsaab’s wonderful but now sadly defunct blog. As those who have read my Muzaffar Jang books might know, I find certain sections of Mughal history (especially around the reigns of Akbar, Jahangir and Shahjahan) fascinating. So rich, so interesting, a period of such efflorescence, in different ways. Spirituality; art; architecture; beauty in myriad forms. Among the greatest examples of the Mughal contributions to culture is the exquisitely beautiful Taj Mahal, ‘a teardrop on the cheek of time’, as Rabindranath Tagore put it.

The Taj has been the subject of numerous films over the year (the latest one seems to be controversial enough to have run into trouble). Arguably the most famous film on the subject is the 1963 version, starring Beena Rai and Pradeep Kumar and directed by M Sadiq; there have been more recent ones, including a 2005 one named Taj Mahal: An Eternal Love Story, supposedly the most expensive Hindi film of its time.  

Long before all of these was this silent film, directed by the Bavarian film-maker Franz Osten and produced by Himanshu Rai (who also played the titular role in the film). Himanshu Rai’s interest in cinema had led him to visit Germany, where he had spent some time with the Emelka film production company, exploring ways of getting German collaboration to produce an Indian film. When Rai returned to India, he brought with him one of Emelka’s best directors, Osten, as well as several of their top technicians. Osten went on to direct 16 films in India over the years, of which the second was this one, a story about how the Taj came to be built.

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The Bishop’s Wife (1947)

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For the first few years of blogging, I marked each Christmas with a review of a Christmas-themed film: The Shop Around the Corner, A Christmas Carol, Christmas in Connecticut, The Holly and the Ivy, and so on. Then, somewhere along the way, I fell out of the habit (I am, in some ways, not a creature of habit: I get bored too easily).

But this year, wondering what I should post next—after a slew of tributes—I decided that since Christmas was coming up, and there were several Christmas films I hadn’t yet watched, why not? Therefore, this: a film starring Cary Grant as an angel. Yes, you read that right. Cary Grant as an angel sent down on Earth at Christmastime to help out a beleaguered bishop.

The bishop in question is Henry Brougham (David Niven), a harried man because he’s trying to raise funds for the construction of a new cathedral. As the story progresses, we learn that Henry used to once be a kinder, gentler man, the sort of man who had time to go out for walks and meals with his wife Julia (Loretta Young), who could take time to visit his old parish and listen to the boys’ choir. A man less obsessed with the grandeur of a new cathedral…

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On Salil’s Music for Madhumati

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Last week, a little late in the day, I posted a list of my favourite Salil Chowdhury’s Hindi film songs. A ‘little late’ because the music director’s 100th birth anniversary had been on November 19. I had hoped to be on time for this one, because Salil is a favourite of mine.

Anyhow. Though I was late to the party, at least I managed to post that list. And now, here’s another post I wrote, also on Salil Chowdhury. For Learning and Creativity’s Silhouette Magazine, an article on Madhumati (1958). Madhumati is a film I’ve reviewed earlier, on my blog, but this time I look at the film primarily through the lens of the music Salil composed for it. It was a score that brought him the Filmfare Award for Best Music Director (the film itself won a whopping nine awards, a feat unparalleled until Dilwaale Dulhaniya Le Jaayenge, 37 years later). And while Madhumati is a good film, I think Salil’s music for it plays a huge part in the film’s success, and its ability to hold its own even now, close to 70 years after it was made.

Click here to read the entire article.

Aaye Din Bahaar Ke (1966)

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(Coincidentally enough, I watched Aaye Din Bahaar Ke some weeks back, just after I’d posted my review of Phool aur Patthar. Back then I’d not known that we would be mourning the passing of Dharmendra so soon after. Consider this a tribute).

When I watched Phool aur Patthar some weeks back, I was reminded of the many fairly entertaining films Dharmendra worked in through the mid- and late-1960s. Not all of them were good (some, like Chandan ka Palna, were terrible), but quite a lot of them had at least good songs, a fair deal of entertainment value, and an undeniably handsome male lead to make them worth at least a one-time watch. Some of these (like Aankhen, arguably my favourite Dharmendra film) I’ve reviewed already; there are several others.

Here’s one. I last watched Aaye Din Bahaar Ke perhaps about 20-odd years ago, and actually remembered a fair bit of it. That I didn’t mind watching it again, even though the film is far from perfect, says a lot for it.

The story begins in Darjeeling, where Ravi (Dharmendra) lives with his widowed mother (Sulochana Latkar). Ravi is devoted to his mother: so much so that when Ma is doing her pooja, he tells her, “You may worship your gods, but I will worship only you.” She has devoted her life to looking after Ravi, educating him, etc, which is why this somewhat OTT sentiment.

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Shaheed (1948)

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RIP, Kamini Kaushal. Ms Kaushal, probably the oldest of Hindi cinema stars still living, passed away at the age of 98 on November 14, 2025.

Over the years I’ve been blogging, I’ve seen one after the other of some of my favourite stars pass out of our lives: Shammi Kapoor, Sadhana, Dilip Kumar, Kumkum… but with Kamini Kaushal, I have to admit to a somewhat pronounced sense of loss. Not because she was a particular favourite of mine (though I admitted to being quite impressed with her acting when I watched Biraj Bahu some months back). But because with her passing, the door seems to have shut firmly on those who heralded the start of the Golden Age in Hindi cinema.

Anyhow, a tribute seemed in order. A tribute to Kamini Kaushal, and to a film that I’ve been meaning to watch for a while now.

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The Spy Who Came in From the Cold (1965)

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I can safely say that Richard Burton was the first English actor I could identify (Charlie Chaplin excluded: that man’s facial hair and other distinct elements of style made him impossible to mistake for anyone else, at least as far as onscreen appearances went; even a ten-year-old me knew that was Charlie Chaplin).

But Burton. Burton I first saw in Where Eagles Dare, and though at first viewing a callow me pegged Clint Eastwood as the star worth crushing on, I eventually ended up acknowledging the impressive presence of Richard Burton as Major Smith. He who, unlike other people [who have a sixth sense] … ‘has a sixth, a seventh, and an eighth.’ Who can be suave and sleek enough to play the double agent convincingly enough, yet whistles Lorelei perfectly. And has the most brilliant repartee in his dialogues with Lt Schaeffer.

Oddly enough, though I liked Burton a lot, Where Eagles Dare remained, for a long time, the only film in which I’d seen him. It was only much later, over several decades, that I saw Cleopatra; The Taming of the Shrew; Zulu; The Longest Day; Hamlet… and I realized just what a powerhouse of a talent was Burton’s.

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Subarnarekha (1965)

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Today is the 100th birth anniversary of one of India’s greatest film directors, Ritwik Ghatak: he was born in Dhaka on November 4, 1925.

I have to confess I’ve not seen very much of Ghatak’s work, mostly from an innate tendency to shrink from ‘sad movies’. I did watch Meghe Dhaka Taara some years back (and admired it, though it was, as expected, tragic). For his birth centenary, I wanted to review another of his films, and this one popped up in the searches. It immediately drew my attention, for several reasons. For one, it stars Madhabi Mukherjee, one of my favourite actresses. For another, it also starred Abhi Bhattacharya, a familiar face from Hindi cinema, and one I’ve always liked. At least, I reasoned, if I had to watch a sad film (at a time when I’m so busy and stressed, I’d rather watch mindless fluff)… at least there would be people onscreen I enjoy watching.

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