Chupke Chupke (Hrishikesh Mukherjee, 1975)

by Elissa Jayne Toohill

Hrishikesh Mukherjee and N.C. Sippy’s Chupke Chupke holds a surprisingly low rank in the mainstream collective memory of important South Asian films. Although it is not considered particularly obscure, it is certainly not a regular among popular top-ten rankings lists (not even in All-Time Favorite Bollywood Comedies lists) either, and we don’t see it referenced in many later films.

Having been a relative newcomer to South Asian Cinema fandom upon viewing this film for the first time, I found it difficult to understand why it the film doesn’t enjoy icon status. How can this be?

Well, despite the fact that its lead actor Dharmendra manages to accomplish the near-impossible task of playing the character Dr. Parimal Tripathi successfully (the character is a charismatic trickster that possesses a strong moral compass—a highly intelligent academic with a definite benevolent bent to his personality, he at the same time manages not to take himself too seriously), and despite its timeless brilliance in dialogue and humor, thoroughly enjoyable songs, and undeniable chemistry between romantic interests, Mukherjee-Sippy’s gem failed to attain much more than critical acclaim and cult classic status.

This outcome can be chalked up to simple temporal misfortune. Just shy of four months before the premiere of Sholay–the blockbuster megahit that cemented Amitabh-Dharmendra’s immortality–the very same duo starred in this lighthearted comedy together, an act further rendering Chupke Chupke temporarily forgettable. When you have the same exact headlining actors performing in such thematically disparate films, you are bound to relegate one to the backburner, however undeserving of relegation one of the films may be.

Popularity-related injustices aside, Chupke Chupke is a joy to behold. It fulfills its primary duty as a comedy for sure: the story is hilarious from start to finish, and it provides us with well-rounded comedic content. It pleases in ways from simplistic to intellectual—silly physical gags seem right at home with unpretentious-yet-highbrow humor. The technical prowess of the film crew is noteworthy (we notice their subtle artistry even in the opening credits, beautiful flower shots hinting at the recurrent botany theme). The story, while not airtight, glides smoothly from scene to scene. Humor is the near-constant primary focus, but not at the expense of social critique.

Not long after the opening credits, we get the first glimpse of Parimal’s mischief maker-cum-humble hero persona. During his stay at a hill station, our young Professor of Botany learns that the poor old solitary caretaker of the station is in a bind. The caretaker’s grandson has fallen ill, but the man fears he will lose his job if he heads back to the village to attend to his grandson’s needs.

Upon hearing this, Parimal promptly trades his coat for the caretaker’s typical chowkidar (caretaker) outerwear, offering to take over his duties while the old man heads home to care for his grandson. While the caretaker initially refuses (the reason being that he has a bus full of students on the way for a fieldwork excursion) Parimal insists, and the fun begins.

Too soon after the caretaker’s departure, the expected bus full of (female) botany students arrives. Parimal affects the caretaker’s accent and mannerisms, and while he is perceived to be subpar due to his lack of strength and his near-inability to anticipate his guests’ needs, he conducts his ruse well enough that it goes by undetected… that is until the highly-curious Sulekha Chaturvedi (played by Sharmila Tagore) overhears Parimal welcoming back the actual caretaker. Impressed with Parimal’s good deed, Sulekha demands to see Parimal without his caretaker’s hat, and she openly shares her positive opinion of his looks. Now impressed with Parimal in two ways, Sulekha slyly slips Parimal her number along with his chowkidar tips, and through their mutual attraction, love begins to bloom.

Shortly after Parimal’s subsequent matrimonial engagement to Sulekha, he learns of Sulekha’s unfortunately intense reverence of her jija-ji (brother-in-law), Raghav (short for Raghavendra), who is her sister, Lata’s husband. As Sulekha’s fawning over jija-ji increases, her praises peppered with jija-ji’s negative quotes about the intellect of botanists and the legitimacy of their field, Parimal’s desire to prove himself at least equal to Raghav increases along with it.

After the marriage, Parimal and Sulekha learn that Raghav is searching for a replacement driver on the unreasonable basis that his current driver, James’ poor Hindi will spoil his daughter’s language skills. Raghav bemoans the fact James cannot speak Hindi like those from Allahabad do. Parimal teasingly quips that he should apply for the position. When Sulekha boasts that such a prank could never fool her genius jija-ji, Parimal decides to follow through with the con. With sassy Sulekha and her brother Haripad ready to assist, the creation of our lovely driver Pyaaremohan Allahabadi begins.

Through “Pyaaremohan’s” interactions with Raghav, we receive layered humor: the sheer, goofy awkwardness of using legitimately “pure” Hindi, Parimal’s inner amusement brought on through fooling Raghav, his pleasure derived from proving that he speaks “pure” Hindi at a considerably higher level than Raghav (despite being one of those intellectually inferior botanists), a nuanced social critique of the idea of the promotion of language “purity”, and criticism of those types of individuals who demand “purity”.

          Parimal impresses Sulekha yet again when she learns of his successful swindle, and they begin to create yet another prank—since jija-ji and company do not yet know that Pyaaremohan is Parimal, Sulekha decides to plant a seed in Raghav and Lata’s minds that she is unhappy with her marriage to Parimal and, therefore, is having an affair with Pyaaremohan. As the newlyweds engage in their shenanigans as a team, the subplot of their increased attraction to one another and subsequent bonding is highlighted beautifully by the actors’ effective employment and exploitation of their obvious chemistry. In addition to being highly entertaining, this prank too could be seen as a social critique of valuing tradition and societal norms over contentedness and the extended family’s enforcement of these traditions—why are Lata, Raghav and company so perturbed by Sulekha’s happiness with her “illegitimate” lover Pyaaremohan when they are keenly aware of her displayed unhappiness with her “actual” husband?

Personal notes:

*As I am often tempted—and subsequently disappointed—by my curiosity ruining my full enjoyment of a film through my reading of spoilers (yes, even if there is a spoiler alert marking warning me to turn away), I have left possible spoilers out of my personal review, both of specific jokes and plot points. That said, Chupke Chupke is an immensely enjoyable watch, whether your affinity lies in expert technical execution, multifaceted humor, or social critiques.

**Although Chupke Chupke it is indeed a remake of Agradoot’s Bengali movie Chhadmabeshi (which is based on Upendranath Ganguly's Bengali story Chhadobeshi), multiple reviewers have claimed that the viewing experience between the two films is disparate enough to warrant a full watch of both or either film. 

Kalimannu (Blessy, 2013)

by Maia Collins

Artificially inseminated with her dead husband’s sperm, Meera (Shweta Menon) must not only face the natural challenges of pregnancy and burgeoning motherhood, but must also contend with pushback from men, the media, and the public in Malayam film, Kalimannu (dir. Blessy, 2013).

Before becoming pregnant though, before marriage even, Meera performs in a club as a dancer. Wanting more than to be treated poorly by men, she aspires to become a film actress. Eventually, she achieves this dream, taking the lead female role in two films. Tragically, during the premiere of one of those films, her taxi-driver husband, Syam (Biju Menon) gets into a car accident and is pronounced brain dead. This forces Meera to rethink what she values and wants the most for herself. Through this turn of luck, Meera becomes known throughout the world, not because of her dancing and acting skills, but because she becomes the first woman in India to become impregnated by a dead man’s sperm. This sacrifice of herself to mass criticism carries with it some of the larger messages of the film as it doubly represents the difficulty of being a woman today and the questionable steps a woman must take in order to gain empowerment.

Once Meera decides to undergo insemination, she first petitions the Indian Medical Ethical Board for consent to receive the procedure. After receiving permission and leaving a meeting with the board, she, in her first interaction with the press, tells swarms of cameras exasperatedly, “I want to become a mother. I want justice.”

Her desire for a child, which begins as a longing to remain united with her husband, quickly becomes a political act, and from this point on, motherhood and justice become intertwined in Kalimannu. At first, what justice is for is unclear, but once Meera decides to share a video of her birth publically it becomes clear that justice is for women. Her intentions in releasing the film are to “open the eyes of human males.” She and her advocates within the film believe that if boys and men become more educated on what giving birth looks like, they will stop seeing women only as sexual objects, but as mothers who are worthy of respect. Meera’s pregnancy then becomes a pregnancy not only for herself, but a pregnancy on behalf of women all around India—both in and out of the film.

When Meera takes up this cause in the latter half of the movie, it at first seems like this kind of political action is out of character for her. Still, the film takes steps early on to depict the physical and unspoken violence Meera receives from most of the men she encounters. In one scene in the club where she used to dance, she alone entertains a room full of men and is cut on the arm by an old man who reaches out and grabs her. Distraught afterwards, she decides she must leave the club behind and begin a film career, yet still on the streets and in the songs she performs for her movies men grab at her, leer at her, and speak to her as if she were their own sexual treasure. Her relationship with Syam is a breath of fresh air in light of these other interactions, but to some extent, even he is guilty of looking at her and loving her before she really sees or acknowledges him. Not once, until the final scene of the film, does Meera escape the condescending scrutiny of men. She is either a woman to try a new medical procedure on, a woman performing a “seductive” dance, or a woman who a taxi-driver might—in order to better see her—adjust his rearview mirror for.

Because of the forms of assault that Meera has been forced to deal with as well as more violent crimes such as domestic violence and particularly rape, Meera in Kalimannu and Kalimannu itself seek to affect social change with their actions. The film integrates familiar news media networks, cites specific incidents of crimes against women, and most importantly includes actual footage of Shweta Menon giving birth in order to make clear that these issues do not exist only in the film, but more importantly, in the physical world.

Even in Meera’s relationship to being filmed, we see the shift Kalimannu makes to emphasize grounding oneself in reality. Meera’s attempt at representing herself and controlling her own image through filming her child’s birth is completely different from the Meera who in the first act of the film, performs in front of cameras according to the whims of directors, producers, and an audience. Her transition from dancer to actress to activist signifies the film’s valuation of the roles women fill. It’s not enough to be a dancer, a movie star, or even to be married. In order for women to be happy and liberated, they must become empowered. In Meera’s case, this comes about by lifting up other women and asserting that womanhood is dignified because of motherhood or the potentiality of motherhood. To some, this may be a hard pill to swallow in that to a large extent it suggests that either to be more worthy of respect or to be deemed worthy of respect by society (and subsequently feel safer), women must present themselves to men as supremely desexualized mother figures.

Whether or not this is what the film purports, that we have to sometimes turn women into symbols in order to keep them safe is a hard pill to swallow in itself.

Kalimannu is a delight as a love story, as a success story, and as an intriguing piece of work when it comes to it’s political notions.  It examines what makes us human and who makes us who we are, and in almost every way, it explores “the clay” which serves as both title and hypothesis as often it becomes the question: What can be made? From what we’re left with, what can we control, what can we change, what can become new again? 

Dil Dhadakne Do (Zoya Akhtar, 2015)

by Zeba Shahnaz Fazli

It is perhaps easy to dismiss a considerable swath of mainstream Bollywood films as candyfloss stories about the romantic trials and tribulations of the Indian elite. Films that situate themselves squarely within that distinctly upper-class milieu, even in part, with a focus on spectacular set design and locations, over the top song sequences, and sheer star power, among other aspects, sometimes risk alienating potential audiences as being too unrealistic, and not in an escapist way. Zoya Akhtar is just one of the filmmakers accused of only writing and directing stories set in elite worlds similar to her own, as a so-called star kid and as an A-list mainstream director in her own right. Her most recent film, Dil Dhadakne Do (2015), about a dysfunctional upper-class Punjabi family and the interpersonal conflicts that rise to the surface when they and seemingly the entirety of their social circle go on a luxury cruise around the Mediterranean, could be (and has been) easily construed as yet another poor little rich family story. But that summary dismissal is hardly fair, especially because this film is 100% aware of what it is (or what it will be understood as), and executes it with a focus on characters with rich inner lives, resonant arcs, and compelling relationships.

That self-awareness is underlined within the first fifteen minutes, as the somewhat quirky, ironically detached narrator introducing us to the peculiarities of the Mehra family reveals himself to be Pluto, the Mehra siblings’ dog (voiced by Aamir Khan). Pluto’s knowing narration grants us permission as an audience to enjoy the main characters’ high society shenanigans, romantic and otherwise, as glossy (but not disposable) entertainment, just as it explicitly points out and reflects on the absurdity of everything that is happening on screen, in terms of the luxury being put on display and the convolutions of the plot. Akhtar and Reema Kagti’s script, however, does not rely excessively on this somewhat meta narrative structure. For the Mehras’ foibles, in Pluto’s eyes and therefore in those of the audience, are symptomatic not just of their elite socioeconomic status, but rather, of their very humanity. Akhtar’s approach to portraying the Mehra family as a version prototypical modern Indian family, albeit on a bigger scale, is, then, completely warranted, and moreover is executed with a knowing authorial wink and a great deal of affection.

To that end, Akhtar fills her cast with family-member tropes we all know and are meant to love. There is Kamal (Anil Kapoor), the selfish, philandering CEO whose company is secretly on the verge of bankruptcy; Neelam (Shefali Shah), his steel-willed wife, struggling to save face in the eyes of her social circle and save her company from insolvency; Ayesha (Priyanka Chopra), their put-upon married daughter, whose professional success almost everyone undermines; and Kabir (Ranveer Singh), their somewhat spoiled prince of a son, who wants nothing more than to fly planes instead of run his father’s company. The particulars of their problems may be rarified, but at their core, these characters and the rest – and indeed, the cast is sprawling, including everyone from catty aunties to secondary romantic jodis to precocious cousins, and many more besides – are not too far removed from people we may know in our own lives, with concerns that echo in fundamental ways those of mainstream society. Kamal and Neelam’s marriage has become adversarial, even broken, over the years, but they stay together because of social expectations; they scheme to marry Kabir off to the daughter of their rival for their own financial gain, and restless Kabir is not immediately opposed to the idea; Ayesha is expected by everyone to forego her business and become a mother as soon as possible, even though it is the last thing she wants to do. None of the characters, in the Mehra family or beyond it, can admit that they are not the people they are expected to be to anyone other than themselves; they all contort themselves to fit into certain roles, and they are all fundamentally unhappy because of it.

The inclusion of ‘outsider’ characters like Farah Ali (Anushka Sharma), the “fearless” Muslim cruise ship dancer with whom Kabir falls in love, and Sunny Gill (Farhan Akhtar), the rugged-gentleman journalist son of Kamal’s manager who happens to be Ayesha’s ex-boyfriend, ensures also that there is a more middle-class, down-to-earth, consummately modern point-of-view that intrudes upon the Mehra milieu as well. Farah and Sunny are in fact are the ones who really break the straw on their respective love-interest’s backs, and encourage them (and through Kabir and Ayesha, the rest of the family) to follow their hearts, confess what they truly wish for in their lives, and thereby become a whole family again. The end of the movie sees the Mehras (and Pluto!) racing on a lifeboat to reunite Kabir on the shore with the departed Farah. We don’t see the result of this adventure, but we don’t need to, and not just because the utterly charming, retro-style title song featuring the whole main cast (and sung by Chopra and Farhan Akhtar) that plays over the credits more or less confirms Kabir and Farah’s reunion. The Mehra family is finally supporting one another as they chase their dreams and begin to live their truest selves. It’s a beautiful thing, with or without the romantic plots, and Zoya Akhtar does well to close out the narrative plot with not an ending, but a promise of a beginning.

As well-characterized as the Mehras and the rest of their guests are, the freshest and most compelling character in this stacked cast is easily Ayesha. Despite having been married off by her parents against her will at twenty-one to keep her away from her lower-class boyfriend Sunny, she has become one of the top young entrepreneurs in the country, and on top of that, is a genuinely kind, thoughtful, mature, loving woman. Her family and society, though, understand her worth as a human as resting in the image of her successful marriage and the promise of her fertility. That she is secretly taking birth control, and not-so-secretly contemplating divorce, despite the lack of apparent ‘problems’ in her marriage to Manav (Rahul Bose), makes Ayesha one of the more progressive characters to be portrayed in Bollywood of late; that she still finds herself succumbing to familial and social pressure to try to become the wife she is supposed to be makes her one of the most realistic. She embodies so many of the tensions that women everywhere, let alone India, must navigate as they are encouraged to become modern and worldly yet hold the goals of marriage and motherhood paramount. The ways in which she navigates those tensions – her dead-eyed “lie back and think of India” sex life with Manav, her desperate pleading with Kabir to not fall into their parents’ meddling the way she did, her quietly allowing her mother and her passive-aggressive mother-in-law (Zarina Wahab) to talk over her when she expresses her unhappiness, her rekindling of feelings for Sunny – show that she is a woman so of our times that she often becomes paralyzed by the very modernity she, and many in the audience, so prizes, as it collides at times with a more traditional outlook on social roles. But she still gets to rise triumphant: her desires are finally vindicated by her family when they finally support her decision to leave Manav, and gets a promise of a life with Sunny in the not-too-distant future. Pluto marvels at the beginning that Ayesha is not like other girls, but that is not quite true. Ayesha Mehra is every girl who needs to be reassured that her wishes are legitimate because they are her own, and that she is depicted in such a viscerally honest way without that characterization compromising the perhaps required happy ending is a big step for representation of women and their stories in Bollywood.

 And to her immense credit, Akhtar pulls it all off with aplomb. The luxurious world she depicts never seems ostentatious or obnoxious, and she never lets the spectacular visuals overwhelm the human core of her plot; instead, the stunningly appointed polished ship interior, the beautiful sequences in and around the Mediterranean, including scenes in Turkey, France, and Tunisia, and certainly the ultra-sleek costuming choices for almost all of the characters, all paint a picture of a world that is as lush and, dare I say, exotic to experience as a viewer, as it can be suffocating for those trapped within it. The characters have real (if trope-dependent) personalities that are portrayed, to the entire cast’s credit, with deftness and sincerity, and the plot never forces them to descend too noisily into over-the-top melodrama. With excellent dialogue (by Farhan and Javed Akhtar), all the actors bounce off each other effortlessly, even in confrontational scenes, with what feels like years of comfort (and, granted, discomfort) behind all of it. The Gallan Goodiyan song sequence in particular, involving the entire cast and numerous extras and background dancers, captured in a single elaborately-staged tracking shot, exemplifies just how deeply interconnected and how effectively drawn this cinematic world really is.

           At first glance, Dil Dhadakne Do may indeed seem like escapist, elitist candyfloss. But Zoya Akhtar turns a critical eye on some of the conventions of that genre, and in the process uses them to create a fully realized world, populated with characters not too distant from types we as an audience recognize in our own realities, and those who deserve to be portrayed more often on screen. She treats everyone, including her narrator Pluto, as mundanely, pettily, selfishly, and therefore gloriously, human – and to really be human is to, as the song says, let the heart beat.