Wednesday, May 07, 2014

Harmonious notes – music and manliness in Alaap and Parichay

In one of those coincidences that stalk movie buffs, last week I happened to re-watch two films in which a man is discouraged from pursuing his interest in music. Hrishikesh Mukherjee’s 1977 Alaap, perhaps Amitabh Bachchan’s most low-key and least-seen film in the first few years of his superstardom, has the actor playing a variant on some of his larger-than-life parts of the time. In mainstream movies like Trishul, Shakti and Deewaar, Bachchan was often in conflict with, or defined by the absence of, a father figure. He is in similar straits in Alaap, but the tone of the conflict is from the tradition of the grounded “Middle Cinema” that Mukherjee specialised in – less dramatic and fiery, more rooted in the everyday dilemmas that face a middle-class family.

As the film begins, Bachchan’s Alok Prasad has just returned to his home-town after studying classical music. “Ab toh saadhna ka lamba raasta hai, jo jeevan ki tarah saral bhi hai aur kathin bhi,” Alok’s guru has cautioned the students – meaning they aren’t “finished” with their studies, years of disciplined practice lie ahead and true commitment must span a lifetime. But this is not something Alok’s worldly father could ever understand. Barely greeting his son, he peremptorily asks what Alok plans to do with his life now, as if he had been away just for a lark. The senior Prasad (described as “Hitler”, though he is played by the Teddy-Bearish Om Prakash trying hard to look tyrannical) is contesting local elections and no doubt has firm ideas about what a worthy pursuit for a son is. Some of the early scenes make light of this situation (if I had to argue a murder case in court, I would do it in Raag Deepak, Alok quips to his bhabhi as he mulls his unsuitability to follow in his lawyer brother’s footsteps, “aur talaaq ka case Raag Jogiya mein gaoonga”), but soon there is a parting of ways, and it becomes obvious that the hero’s single-minded dedication to his art could endanger his very existence.

The other film was Gulzar’s 1972 Parichay, which is sometimes described as a reworking of The Sound of Music – and indeed there are similarities in the plot of a teacher who tries to bring joy, including the love of music, into the lives of his sullen young wards. But like Alaap, the story is also about two opposing views of what a man may do with his life. In flashback, we see the music-loving Nilesh (Sanjeev Kumar) playing the sitar in his room early in the morning, going out onto the verandah to sing and to contemplate the beauty of nature, and his clashes with his authoritarian father Rai Saab (Pran), who wants his son to grow out of this dreamy-eyed artistic “phase” and do the things he is supposed to do as his only heir. To, essentially, “be a man”.

Given that ours is a cinema where music plays such a vital role – and where music composers and lyricists have mostly been male – there is something faintly ironical about narratives in which men are looked down on, or disinherited, for pursuing music as a profession. But it is easy to see why music, or art more generally, can be a threat to the status quo of a feudal or patriarchal society. The artist or artiste – with his knack for introspection ("thinking too much", as the lament goes) and his frequent inability to conform to societal expectations of people or groups – can be a problematic creature in a regimented world obsessed with class or power, and afraid of change. (Even in more benevolent contexts, there have been clashes between the pursuit of “soft” interests like art and culture, and the business of engaging with the more practical side of life; the written record of the ideological differences between Mahatma Gandhi and Rabindranath Tagore includes an essay where the former repeatedly referred to the latter as “the Poet”, the refrain suggesting that Gandhi was being gently sarcastic about Tagore’s rose-tinted idealism and his disconnect from the hard demands of the freedom struggle.)


In so many films made by directors like Mukherjee and Gulzar, music is a force for egalitarianism, something that helps blur boundaries. Men become more “feminine” when they sing or dance, women can become more assertive and emotionally expressive than the codes of a conservative society would normally allow them to be; gender is transcended in each direction. Music can also be equalizing in the way it erases class and caste lines. Early in Alaap, the well-off Alok bonds over a song with the cart-driver (Asrani in a super performance) who transports him home; later he finds his true home away from his father’s mansion, in the little basti where a classical singer named Sarju Bai resides. Similarly, in another Mukherjee film Aashirwad, the music-loving zamindar Jogi Thakur (Ashok Kumar) is never so happy as when he is practicing with his guru, a lower-class man named Baiju. 

For me you are the real Brahmin, says Jogi Thakur, because a Brahmin is one who teaches. Later, the two men sit together on the floor as they watch – and eventually participate in – a lavani dance performance; sitting with them is a Muslim friend referred to as “Mirza sahib”, and the unforced bonhomie between these three men, from very different backgrounds, is a direct result of their enthusiasm for the performing arts.** What they are doing is, within their social milieu, as subversive as Alok supporting the basti-dwellers against his own father’s land-appropriating schemes, and it shows how the performing arts can – temporarily at least – bring some harmony to an inherently unjust world.

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** From Louise Brown's book The Dancing Girls of Lahore: Selling Love and Saving Dreams in Pakistan’s Pleasure District:

Because the emotional power of music was considered raw and uncontrolled, music was deemed, like love, to have the potential to rob a man of his self-control and virtue. It was believed to possess the same subversive erotic power as the beloved. Because of its potentially destabilizing feminine power, music itself threatened the mirza’s masculinity […] for a man to dance was to indicate his receptivity to erotic attention, a passive erotic behavior that was unacceptable for a mirza.
[Related thoughts in these posts: fathers and sons in the anthology film Bombay Talkies; the lavani sequence in Aashirwad. And a post about Mukherjee's lovely film Anuradha, in which the title character must sacrifice her singing career to join her doctor husband as he sets about contributing to the national cause - another pointer to sangeet as something to be reserved for the “gentler” sex, and only so long as it doesn't interfere with more "important" things]

22 comments:

  1. "Men become more “feminine” when they sing or dance, women can become more assertive and emotionally expressive than the codes of a conservative society would normally allow them to be; gender is transcended in each direction."

    Disagree with this, Mr. Singh. My assessment is that music in Indian films (even in Gulzar's films) reinforces manliness and womanliness in its own way. Women sing melodramatic, frivolous, romantic songs; men's songs -- when they are not romantic or funny -- have a certain gravitas to them, which is supposed to be associated with the notion of manhood.

    Which is why many sad songs by women are about resignation and acceptance("Waqt ne kiya, kya hasin sitam), while the same emotion in men's song is turned into contempt ("Yeh jo muhhabat hai, ye unka hai kaam...").

    Also consider the use of humor or farce, in Indian songs, which are assigned only to men. Men, presumably, can deal with a wider range of emotions, from sadness to jest. The same songs, would seem incongruent, if given a female setting, because the "chichoree ladki" image doesn't sit very well with Indians.

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    1. Well, like you say, you disagree, and we may have to leave it at that. But I don't see how specific examples like these can make a conclusive point one way or the other - I could counter with my own set of examples (some of which I have used on this blog in the past). And in any case, I wasn't saying anything like ALL Hindi-film songs or MOST Hindi-film songs perform these functions.

      This is a sweeping statement by the way, definitely not applicable across the board:

      Women sing melodramatic, frivolous, romantic songs; men's songs -- when they are not romantic or funny -- have a certain gravitas to them, which is supposed to be associated with the notion of manhood.

      Good point about humour and farce. Though again, off the top of my head (and sticking with HM and Gulzar for the time being, since I have been watching a lot of their work lately), I can think of songs like "Bechara Dil Kya Kare" from Khushboo or "Hu Tu Tu" from Mem Didi, which contradict the idea that women aren't permitted to be humorous.

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  2. Yes, I mean, we'd have to disagree, because for each example that I quote, you could come up with another example that'd turn my assertion on its head, and I again could come up with an example that'd do the same to your claim. Like Joan Robinson said: (and this could very well be applicable to Indian films and songs, too): "Whatever you can rightly say about India, the opposite is also true".

    But, at least to me, a prodigious watcher of Indian films, the examples you gave did not convince me that men become "feminine" when they sing and dance. Perhaps you are making a point about the patriarchal and somewhat misogynistic point (not saying that you are a misogynist; merely that you are describing the misogyny of others) about Indians unwilling to see their men sing and dance, and express emotions openly.

    Women's humor was quite different in its portrayal, by the way, from men's. For women, it was about the giggly, churlish demeanor that women are supposed to express; while for men it was about the unabashed depiction of their own "animal nature" ("Chahe koi mujhe jungli kahe...")

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    1. the examples you gave did not convince me that men become "feminine" when they sing and dance

      You didn't feel that way about the lavani dance sequence? Or about the Biwi aur Makaan songs I have written about earlier? Well, okay, in that case we probably have very different perspectives, or at least different ways of grading these things. But there are many other examples, some of which I have been writing about in the past few weeks (not intended for posting on the blog yet). Perhaps I'll return to this subject in the near future.

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  3. (Going off on a tangent from "lyricists have mostly been male")

    These lyricists are unbelievably gifted. So many film songs perfectly express what women feel and think. Question is, how did these men know?

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    1. They probably have unusually high levels of empathy, or what might be described as a strong feminine side. Or a strong female influence in their lives. Much like the (very few) male novelists who manage to create well-rounded women characters.

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    2. In Abhimaan, the same AB is a famous singer, his identity and fame synonymous with his voice. Until, of course, a more talented and lauded wife becomes a competitor than a companion.
      In RockOn too, Joe needs to find an alternative career as long as he is unsuccessful. Only the successful and rich Farhan can afford to indulge in music as a wealthy past-time.
      So, I guess, success is the final deciding factor. If yes, music as a career will be fawned upon. if not, it will be frowned upon.

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    3. So, I guess, success is the final deciding factor

      Not necessarily. It depends on a combination of factors. Nilesh in Parichay is successful too, but this being the world of classical music, his success doesn't translate into a large income and it doesn't count for much in his rich father's eyes. Subir in Abhimaan, on the other hand, is from a modest background and ends up becoming wealthy through his career in popular music - the music brings money as well as social status in his case.

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  4. Alaap is a very interesting film. The use of music was so good. I think Mukherjee used a classical singer who sang for the actress who was training Amitabh's character. Her voice was so good. I think even Om Prakash managed to do his role - very unlike what he was used to playing. Rekha's part was weak. I think there's also an anecdote on how Hrishida was affected due to failure of Alaap and had to make Golmaal or some other film

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    1. Yes, Alaap was made during a 2-3-year period when he was apparently feeling quite low about things (specifically the Emergency and the climate it had created) and the films he made during this time reflected that sombre/pessimistic frame of mind: Naukri, Arjun Pandit and Kotwal Saab being the others. He came out of it spectacularly with Gol Maal (a film that found a light-hearted way of returning to the "Hitler" theme).

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    2. will try to watch Naukri, Arjun Pandit and Kotwal Saab. Are DVD available of these films? I think Alaap also put an end to his collaboration with Bachchan even though they made a film called Bemisaal later. I found Bemisaal very interesting when I watched it some 12-13 years ago. The grey character was b'fully explored.

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    3. No, they continued to be on very good terms despite Alaap's failure - Jurmana was released in 79, though I think it had been in the making for many years. (There's a joke about that in Gol Maal.)
      Yes, Bemisaal was easily one of AB's most interesting roles and best performances.

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    4. P.S. don't go seeking out Naukri or Kotwal Saab - neither of them is particularly good, though both have their moments. Still haven't seen Arjun Pandit.

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    5. lol, you saved me from making an effort :) On a different track, I read that some director of "serious" films wanted to make Raavan and Eddie into a film in late 70s. Nagarkar couldnt agree with him on the screenplay and the project was shelved. Any idea who was it? Benegal, Hrishida, Basu or someone else...

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    6. Ravan and Eddie was published in the 1990s. Perhaps you meant Seven Sixes are Forty Three. No idea who wanted to make it.

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    7. Oh yeah, it should be Seven Sixes are Forty Three....

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  5. Interestingly, the movie was suggested to me by a friend who was a bit amused when Wake Up Sid! got all the acclaim. In his view, Alaap was a much superior film on the same theme and rarely ever spoken about.

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  6. Surprised that a piece about two music-themed films has no mention of the Music Directors.. anyway, random thought: if I remember correctly, Jaidev used Yesudas as playback for Amitabh in Aalaap, right before Khayyam did in Trishul, but everyone just remembers that one sullen, cynical verse in the latter.

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    1. the post isn't about the films in an all-inclusive sense, it is about a very specific aspect of their content. yes, good point about Yesudas and Amitabh: along those lines, it is notable that AB first got to do certain things in HM's films (the drunken bit in Namak Haraam for instance, or the general smouldering in Anand and Namak Haraam, or even the gibberish-spouting in Chupke Chupke) that he would later do in his more commercial roles. Think Susmita Dasgupta mentioned in her book that HM came closer than any other director to utilising the full range of AB's talents.

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    2. Oh yes, HM came closer than anyone in utilising AB's talent. In fact, if we remove HM's films, AB's body of work wouldnt be half as good. Mili for instance was a small yet a very intense role. For the lack of a better word, these are the only films which had some maturity

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  7. Yeah, Naukri was amazingly bad.

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  8. Sorry for being OT, but wondering if you knew about a movie from the seventies starring Amol Palekar called Taxi Taxie, which apparently is inspired by Taxi Driver!

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