Tag: Bollywood Classics

Pakeezah – The Courtesan’s Classic

By Mahendra Ved

What can one say about a film that took 16 years to make, its genre no longer popular when released, and its main attraction looking jaded, only a sad reminder of her resplendent beauty?

Well, you can say that despite these and numerous other debilities, it remains a classic that has grown with time. Fifty years after its release, Pakeezah (The Pure) continues to be viewed and debated by the discerning in the new century.

India was in a triumphant mood after the 1971 war when Pakeezah was released on February 2, 1972. People had no stomach for its deep melancholia. Romantic and opulent historical and “Muslim socials” of 1950s-60s (with notable exceptions Shatranj Ke Khiladi-1977, Junoon-1979 and Umrao Jaan-1981) were yielding place to contemporary themes. The “angry young man” was knocking at the cinema door.

After many expensive fits and starts, writer-director Kamal Amrohi barely managed to complete filming Meena Kumari, his estranged wife and muse. Both knew she was dying. Despite its rich artistic content and popular songs, Pakeezah flopped commercially. It marked the end of a life-time dream. Until…

Re-released after Meena Kumari died, just eight weeks later, on March 31, it stormed the cinema theatres. Not only were the fortunes revived and the fame restored, Pakeezah and Mena Kumari became synonymous. They overshadow her earlier acting triumphs and for that matter, also Amrohi’s outstanding films, with and without her.

Although it loses out in most departments except in music, Pakeezah often gets compared with Mughal-e-Azam (1960), a magnificent story of another bygone era, arguably one of the greatest films ever made in India.

ALSO READ: Unparalleled Reign Of Mughal e Azam

Many stories, real, apocryphal, even autobiographical, fuelled the making of both the films. Amrohi, appointed as one of the four writers for Mughal-e-Azam, abandoned Pakezaah because both had similar themes drawn from the Anarkali legend. Separated for five years from wife, he considered replacement. But he couldn’t imagine Pakeezah without Meena Kumari, and gave up again. Friends Nargis and Sunil Dutt helped their patch-up.

To lighten his burden, Amrohi engaged Satyen Bose, but couldn’t quit direction. Signing writers Akhtar-ul-Iman and Madhusudan led to disputes. He had to pay a fine to disengage with the latter. So, no Pakeezah without Amrohi as well.

The film’s German cinematographer, Joseph Wirsching, died in 1967. Technology switch was needed from Black & White to Eastmancolor. Composer Ghulam Mohammad died, requiring Naushad to complete the soundtrack, finally ‘arranged’ by Kersi Lord.

Pakeezah is the story of a tawaif, a courtesan. Unable to marry her lover Shahabuddin, she begets a girl-child before dying. Her sister Nawabjaan raises the child, grooms her as a dancer. The love story repeats, this time between Sahibjaan and Salim, a forest officer, also a nephew of Shahabuddin.

Family patriarch, common to both situations, rejects Sahibjaan. He shoots Shahabuddin who, shamed by Nawabjaan, wants to redeem himself. After this blood-letting, Salim has his way. He marries Sahibjaan, his Pakeezah. A poignant ending with justice, a rarity, for a courtesan.

Thanks to frustrating time-loss in production, Ashok Kumar, signed to play Salim, grown old, had to play Shahbuddin. From ‘stars’ of the day — Dharmendra, Raaj Kumar, Rajendra Kumar, Sunil Dutt, and Pradeep Kumar – Amrohi chose Dharmendra as Salim. But well into shooting, he found the wife getting on “too well” with Dharmendra, enough to distract filming. There were rumours galore. The possessive husband-director dropped Dharmendra.

It was finally Raaj Kumar. He sees Sahibjaan sleeping on a moving train. Smitten, he leaves a note between her foot thumb and finger: “Aapke paon dekhe, bahut haseen hain. Inhein zameen par mat utariyega… maile ho jaayenge” (Your feet are really beautiful. Do not step on the ground… lest they be soiled). The dialogue is rated as one of the most romantic/erotic scenes in Indian cinema.

When released, the courtesan culture, the kothas of Lucknow et al, were passé. Not that there was no room for romanticism. But India was ready for another theme, Garam Hawa (Hot Winds-1973), about the plight of a Muslim businessman and his family, in the aftermath of the 1947 Partition. Only a year separated it from Pakeezah.

However, these “hot winds” couldn’t dampen the romance of Pakeezah and its songs. They also blew across the border from an aspiring India to a just-truncated Pakistan. Thankfully, Pakeezah helped a catharsis between the neighbours.

End-1972, I witnessed an India-Pakistan border “flag meeting”. A Pakistan Army officer, with roots in India’s Moradabad, half-seriously urged his Indian counterparts tasked to remove the explosives on the minefield, to “leave one mine only to be cleared by me, with a gramophone record of Pakeezah songs concealed underneath”.

India’s Doordarshan telecast Pakeezah from its Amritsar centre on September 29, 1973. Columnist Ibn-e-Imroze wrote in Daily Imroze: “The day Pakeezah was televised, Lahore cinemas wore a deserted look. Black-marketers sold their tickets even below the face value. Lahorewallahs had resisted (India’s) 1965 and 1971 attacks, but surrendered to this invasion of 1973. People invaded TV shops. Those who could not get one, fixed bamboo antennae on the roofs of their houses (to watch direct telecast), to console their frustrated feelings. Traffic came to a halt, pockets were picked, even doctors said to their patients: ‘If you remain alive till then, I’ll see you tomorrow. Today I am going to see Pakeezah’.”

To anyone with an ear for music, the film’s pull is undeniable. Among those gems, alas, Inhin Logon Ne seems plagiarised. It can be heard on Youtube in Shamshad Begum’s voice, sung for a 1941 film Himmat. The lyric is by Aziz.

Film analyst Gautam Kaul writes: Majrooh Sultanpuri had stolen the lyric from Aziz for Ghulam Mohammed, a contemporary of Pandit Gobind Ram, the original composer from the Lahore School.

Cut to 1972. Kaul notes: “It is the same kotha, the same assembly of men, the same musical score, the same song, the same Kathak style, but it is Technicolour, and a bloated Meena Kumari, with leathered skin due to constant drinking, is attempting to dance. The dancing isn’t a patch on the rendition by the light-footed young actress Manorama in the original.”

Truth be told, Meena Kumari was too sick to dance. She was filmed sitting. Padma Khanna performed all her dance movements, not credited to any choreographer.

None of these prevented the film’s earning five times the sum spent on production. Its soundtracks sold the best across Asia and topped the popularity charts of Radio Ceylon’s Binaca Geetmala, then a decisive benchmark.

Chalte Chalte, “Aaj hum apni duaon ka asar and Thaade rahiyo, for which she designed the costumes, remain the most memorable song-and-dance performances. A storm of protests from the film fraternity damned Filmfare that denied awards to Pakeezah because its leading contenders were dead.

In 2005, the British academic Rachel Dwyer called Mena Kumari’s character a “quintessentially romantic figure: a beautiful but tragic woman, who pours out her grief for the love she is denied in tears, poetry and dance.”

Meena Kumari’s fee for acting in Pakeezah was one sovereign gold coin. Kamal Amrohi gave that to his dying wife. She clutched it till she passed away, never able to see it or the released film. Pakeezah was truly, Meena Kumari’s film.

The writer can be reached at mahendraved07@gmail.com

Awaara – Of Tramp And His Times

By Mahendra Ved

Exploring Awaara, found a clip of a Turkish film made in 1946. It has a song identical to ‘Awaara hoon…’ with the capped hero walking the street, happily singing to strangers, including pretty women. Words sound similar, the musical score is identical. Only, it could be Ankara or Istanbul, not Bombay. When a song you grew up humming turns out to be a ‘copy’, it hurts a bit, even if momentarily.

Film analyst Gautam Kaul says this was probably the first case of plagiarism by Shankar Jaikishan, the composer duo. Like Raj Kapoor, the film’s producer-director-actor, they badly needed to establish themselves. The film itself was a gamble after two Kapoor flops. To get a ‘star’ like Nargis, Kapoor had to stage a hunger strike outside her home and melt her mother Jaddan Bai’s heart.

The rest is history: the film was a universal hit. The title song has had presidents and prime ministers foot-tapping, if not singing it.

The world has changed a lot since Awaara was released 70 years ago. Whether it is for better or for worse depends upon one’s values, circumstances and the nostalgia quotient. To compare the world with a film may look simplistic, but Awaara is a good landmark and a benchmark.

Although billed as a crime-and-romance film, it was the story of a newly independent, aspiring India with Jawaharlal Nehru guiding the nation’s destiny. Whether he left the glass half-full or half-empty is currently being vehemently debated. Constantly demonized, he is being struck off history books on modern India.

The most striking change is about the message of socialism that the film carries. Khwaja Ahmed Abbas, the left-leaning journalist and filmmaker who co-wrote the sorry with V P Sathe, also wrote the dialogues. He sharpened his message in Shree 420 (1955), in a similar tale with a wider span.

ALSO READ: Sahir – The Poet Of The Underdog

Few Indians talk of socialism, declared as a failed ideology. Much of the world is currently dominated by right-wing demagogues, all ‘nationalists’ (or ultra-nationalists) with narrow vision. Judge Raghunath, played by Prithviraj Kapoor who nursed a wrong ‘usool’ about a criminal begetting only a criminal, would be uncomfortable today. He shows the humility of accepting his ready-to-reform son. Not so today’s little men wielding big power, backed by money, muscle, media and blind supporters.

Raghunath may be forgiven for his single prejudiced judgment that altered his life, when one sees some present-day judges – taking some recent instances – justify marital rape, acquit molesters of minors, condone state-sponsored violence, help the executive suppress public dissent and much else.

Judges no longer live in palatial mansions like Raghunath. Not, at least, in Mumbai. Abbas sharpened his pen and vision of the city in Shree 420 and his own Shehar Aur Sapna, to make this Urb Prima in Indis, independent India’s first global city. It never sleeps. People flock there to fulfil their dreams, also to the dream factory called Bollywood.

Awaara’s romance blended the western with traditional India. Not much change here. By and large, men are weak and confused (when not stalking their hapless ‘prey’), but women are bold and caring. Patriachy persists, but from president to peon, women, given half-a-chance, have been pushing their way.

The gender-bender in this film is Rita, played by Nargis. In a well-etched role, reflecting a strong character, she carries the film on her shoulders. She dares to love her childhood friend despite the huge gulf in education and lifestyle. She weans bim away from the world of crime. But when told that law doesn’t listen to matters of heart, she says with quiet defiance: my heart, too, doesn’t listen to law.

In an evocative sequence at the beach, Raj goes close to where Rita is changing. A gentleman would never do this, she chides him. He admits he is not one. She calls him junglee (savage) thrice. He chases and slaps her thrice and twists her arm, even tries to strangulate her. But she surrenders, falls at his feet, willing to be slapped more. He caresses her and the two embrace passionately. ‘Libbers’ today would revolt against her ‘surrender’ to a ‘junglee’. Yet she would be a torch-bearer in any campaign to support inter-caste and inter-faith marriages, being opposed by ‘khaps’ or in the name of “love jihad”, by bigots.

Awaara’s theme appealed to the universal sentiment of social upliftment and justice. Its advocacy of the reformative theory of punishment puts some of the onus on the society for creating a criminal. This makes it a landmark film.

It’s a film about relationship. Raj fights to win legitimacy. He explodes when the society ill-treats him. He takes his insecurities out on Rita, and that makes their romance uncomfortably bruised and traumatic. Beautifully portrayed, it shows that real human relationships are messy, unpleasant – even painful. The message is: everyone, from a wealthy judge in his mansion or a tramp on the street, needs a bit of love.

Raj Kapoor emulated Charles Chaplin as he introduced him to Hindi cinema, perfected it in Shree 420 and continued till Mera Naam Joker (1970). Chaplin must have had more avatars in India than anywhere else because Indians have, long before Chaplin, digested Hollywood. That enterprise continues well into this century, even as Indians offer Hollywood some run for the money around half he world.

Certainly not the first since Indian cinema had caught attention outside even before independence, Awaara was a rage in many countries across the world. It was called The Vagavond, The Tramp, Tavarish Brodigya in Russia, and many other names. It crashed the Iron Curtain, gently pushing the de-Salinisation process in the erstwhile Soviet Union. Those were early days of Hindi-Rusi Bhai Bhai. It shaped India’s cultural outreach under Nehru, making cinema integral to India’s ‘soft’ diplomacy today, something few countries possess.

ALSO READ: India’s Soft Power Drives Hard Bargains

The egalitarian ideals Awaara championed resonated in the newly-independent nations and those emerging from miseries of the World War II. Unsurprisingly, it was wildly popular in Russia, China and across the Eastern Europe, but also in Turkey and the Arab world, more familiar than the West with India’s song-and-dance.

It became a family movie in many countries. Dr Amar Kumar Sinha hosted me to the Hungarian version, Csavargo, way back in 1973. At the interval, we Indians were surrounded and asked about the film and those behind it. Sinha says the movie doesn’t run in European theatres any more. But “Awaara Hoon” can be heard on YouTube in multiple versions in Russian, in Uzbekistan, China, Japan – you name it. That takes away some of the plagiarism sting.

Well-written and well-composed songs quicken the momentum in this slow-paced movie. Ten songs were the standard input those days. Some are forgettable, but others, mainly those penned by Shailendra, make for rich experience.

Awaara gave Indian cinema its first dream sequence, uniquely, with three songs, performed amidst a sea of twirling clouds or mist. Choreographed by Zohra Segal, the songs depicted heaven-to-hell-and back episodes. It ends on an optimistic note, a metaphor of life.

Awaara, his third film as a director, established Kapoor. He was only 27 then, but at 22, Nargis was his ‘senior’. Rita’s character went well with her modern-girl image. She dons a one-piece swim suit, considered daring seven decades ago. It also underscored the success of a fine team job by some of the brilliant minds and hands, including cameraman Radhu Karmakar and art director M R Achrekar.

Dina Iordanova, professor at the University of St Andrews, and other experts cite several texts and anecdotal evidence to state in a special issue of the journal ‘South Asian Popular Cinema’ that Awaara may be a candidate for the title of the “most popular film of all times”.

The writer can be reached at mahendraved07@gmail.com

Unparalleled Reign Of Mughal-e-Azam

By Mahendra Ved

Mughal-e-Azam, released six decades ago on August 5, 1960, remains a landmark for the Indian cinema. It can also be a mark to measure much that happened then and is happening now.

Twelfth years into the independence, despite problems galore, a poverty-stricken India had proved the Winston Churchills wrong by staying united and ticking. The world was taking note of its global affairs (Korea, Non-Aligned Movement, UN peacekeeping and more) and achievements in art and culture (Ravi Shankar, Raj Kapoor, Satyajit Ray and more). Even critics like Nirad Chowdhury and V S Naipaul couldn’t ignore India. Jawaharlal Nehru was leading a secular democracy, howsoever flawed.   

Six decades hence, the world’s largest democracy and movie-making nation (majority bad ones) does have a global reach. It is economically stronger with a bigger place in a more complex, competitive, world. But its image as a pluralist, inclusive nation that the world has known and come to expect has taken a beating. It is becoming the anti-thesis of what Mughal-e-Azam was and is all about.

The story of Jalaluddin Mohammed Akbar (1556-1605 AD) the third Mughal Emperor, his Hindu Queen Jodhabai and their only son Salim, later to become Emperor Jehangir, was and is celebrated for depicting mutual respect and tolerance among the Muslim rulers and their Hindu subjects. History calls Akbar ‘Great’ because rather than fight them, he had consciously struck alliances with the Rajput rulers. The film makes no claims to historical accuracy, though. But the anniversary comes when its ethos is being challenged and history itself is sought to be re-written.

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Rachel Dwyer, author of the book “Filming the Gods: Religion and Indian Cinema”, says Mughal-e-Azam highlights religious tolerance between Hindus and Muslims. Her examples include scenes depicting the presence of Queen Jodhabai, a woman and a Hindu, in Akbar’s court. Anarkali, the courtesan Salim loves and to get whom he rebels against the father, sings a Hindu devotional song.  

Celebrating Janmashtami, Akbar is shown pulling a string to rock a swing with Krishna’s idol. Film critic Mukul Kesavan writes that he was unable to recall a single other film about Hindu-Muslim love in which the woman is a Hindu.

One sequence needs citing. Durjan Singh, Salim’s Hindu military aide, is seriously wounded while rescuing Anarkali from prison. On his death, the Hindu priests and doctors let Anarkali pay last respects to her saviour. She spreads on him her dupatta, the ultimate symbol of modesty for a traditional Muslim woman.

The film’s other theme is justice. A vanquished Salim is arraigned before the court and offered a pardon provided he abandons Anarkali. He defies and is sent to gallows. Akbar keeps word given to Anarkali’s mother, the maid who had brought him the news of Salim’s birth. He circumvents his own order to bury Anarkali alive, lets her escape into exile and suffers the odium.

The film was released amidst great fanfare and expectations.  A 12 year-old, I remember seeing the milling crowds before a huge cut-out of Akbar and Salim in full battle gear outside the newly-built Maratha Mandir theatre in Mumbai.  

Ranked as India’s ‘greatest’ by film historians, the film held the record of being, both, the most expensive and also the biggest grosser at the box office for 15 years. India has not seen anything so grand and opulent, before and since. Indeed, everything about it was excessive, surpassing all film-making norms.

It would arguably hold the record of taking the longest to complete if counted from being conceived by a young Karim Asif in 1944 to being shelved during the Partition turmoil, a complete change of the star cast and even a financier, and taking almost nine years to complete. 

Shapoorji Pallonji, a newbie to film financing, agreed to produce and finance solely because of his interest in Akbar. He, too, had doubts when the budget of each department of the film exceeded. He never financed another film.

Dilip Kumar, perhaps the only survivor of the mega project, when he could talk (in his late 90s, he cannot any more), said in a 2010 interview that the long period became of no consequence to those involved as each person was deeply committed.

He played a largely subdued Salim to theatrical Prithviraj Kapoor (Akbar) and Durga Khote (Jodhabai). Dilip had reservations about acting in a period film, but was assured a free hand. “Asif trusted me enough to leave the delineation of Salim completely to me,” Dilip said in his 2010 that interview.  By contrast, Madhubala who was keen on the role, pipped Suraiya to it.

The soundtrack was inspired by Indian classical and folk music and composed by Naushad. Of 20 songs, some had to be left out. Included was a rendering by the legendary Bade Ghulam Ali Khan. He reportedly charged ₹25,000 when Mohammed Rafi and Lata Mangeshkar took ₹300 per song.

ALSO READ: Forever Fragrance Of Kaagaz Ke Phool

The theme based on a 1922 play by Imtiaz Ali Taj attracted many, from a ‘silent’ one to a ‘talkie’ by Ardeshir Irani. When Asif’s project was seen as abandoned, one of his writers, also a director, Kamal Amrohi, planned to make a film on the same subject. Asif convinced him to shelve it. The same play prompted Nandlal Jaswantlal’s Anarkali, starring Bina Rai and Pradeep Kumar. With memorable songs, it became the highest grossing Bollywood film of 1953.

Made in black-and-white, Mughal-e-Azam had a seven minute song-and-dance sequence, “pyar kiya toh darna kya”, shot in colour. The set conceived as sheesh mahal (glass palace) was fitted with numerous small mirrors made of Belgian glass. It took two years to build and cost more than ₹1.5 million (valued at about US$314,000 in 1960), more than the cost of an entire film in colour those days.

The mirrors’ excessive glare made filming difficult. Wikipedia records that foreign consultants, including British director David Lean, advised Asif to drop the idea.  But Asif spent days to have wax applied to each mirror to reduce the glare.

Lachhu Maharaj was on board for choreography and Gopi Krishna performed. Among the myriad problems was one of a seriously ailing Madhubala not being able to deliver on intricate Kathak moves when it came to girki (spinning one’s body). A male dancer, Laxmi Narayan, performed that portion. He wore a mask matching her face made by Mumbai craftsman B R Khedekar.  

Besides Amrohi, three of the best film writers of the day, Amanullah Aman, Wajahat Mirza and Ehsan Rizvi were on board. None knows how they collaborated. Their “mastery over Urdu’s poetic idiom and expression is present in every line, giving the film, with its rich plots and intricate characters, the overtones of a Shakespearean drama,” Times of India wrote on the film’s 50th anniversary.

The battle scenes used 2,000 camels, 400 horses, and 8,000 troops, mainly from the Indian Army’s Jaipur Cavalry, 56th Regiment. Bollywood could not better those scenes for several years despite technological advances. 

Many fell sick filming it in Rajasthan’s desert. Armour and weapons were borrowed from the Jaipur royalty. But even the burly Prithviraj found them too heavy. Aluminum replicas were got made.

Each sequence was filmed three times as the film was being produced in Hindi/Urdu with plans for Tamil, and English versions. Dubbed in Tamil and released in 1961 entitled Akbar, it flopped commercially. Asif abandoned the English version for which he had engaged Romesh Thapar and British actors.  

Years later in 2004, Mughal-e-Azam became the first black-and-white Hindi film to be digitally coloured, and the first in any language to be given a theatrical re-release. The colour version was also a commercial success.

Speculation abounds on its cost. It has ranged from cost ₹10.5 million (about US$2.25 million at the time) to ₹15 million (about $3 million). That made Mughal-e-Azam the most expensive Indian film of the period.

There is more to and about the film than the space here can accommodate. As a piece of cinema-art, it is impossible to recreate those conditions. Investors, national and global, are too conservative and calculating to afford and risk such a venture.

There is no Asif, the talented and passionate, but highly erratic man, to rally the best writers, composers, cinematographers and actors. Are audiences ready? 

Mughal-e-Azam came in an era when Hollywood too was making films that were grand spectacles. It doesn’t any more. The way Asif made it, warts and all, could itself be the subject for a mega film. But then, India long ago stopped making a film like Kaagaz Ke Phool (1959) that, by sheer coincidence, was on the life of a film-maker.

The writer can be reached at mahendraved07@gmail.com