Sridevi .The ultra glamour of Chandni, the simplicity of Sadma. She could do it all with such finesse. The accomplished Indian actor and superstar, Sridevi.

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Sridevi .The ultra glamour of Chandni, the simplicity of Sadma. She could do it all with such finesse. The accomplished Indian actor and superstar, Sridevi.

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~ Caressing the mentally challenged each other! ~
Sadma (1983) dir. Balu Mahendra
chhota sa saaya tha, aankhon mein aaya tha
humney bhi do boondon se mann bhar liya
35 Years of #Sadma. (08/07/1983)
Sadma is a 1983 Indian romantic drama film, written, directed and filmed by Balu Mahendra. It stars Sridevi and Kamal Hassan in the lead roles along with a music composed by Ilaiyaraaja.
The film tells the story of Nehalata Malhotra (Sridevi), a young woman who regresses to childhood as a result of retrograde amnesia after suffering a head injury in a car crash. Lost, she ends up trapped in a brothel before being rescued by Somu (Haasan), a lonely school teacher who falls in love with her. The film was a remake of Mahendra's own 1982 Tamil film Moondram Pirai, which also starred Sridevi and Hassan. Sadma was widely acclaimed by critics for its direction, screenplay, music, and performances. Sridevi's performance as an amnesiac woman was widely praised and is considered as one of the finest performances in Indian film history.
Although a commercial failure upon release, Sadma over the years has gained a cultural following and cult status and is considered to be one of the finest Indian movies to be ever made.
At the 31st Filmfare Awards, Sadma received three nominations: Best Actress (Sridevi), Best Actor (Hassan) and Best Story.

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Artist : Puneet Sharma
Devi... Sridevi...
" A Madras boy remembers the actress, the star who could do everything every kind of director wanted her to do"
Growing up in the seventies and eighties, in Madras, meant you grew up with Sridevi. Actors and actresses, those days, made a ton of movies a year, working in multiple shifts, across multiple languages. So Sridevi was everywhere in Tamil and Telugu cinema. There wasnât a number system those days. At least in the south Indian press, titles like âQueen Beeâ or âNumero Unoâ did not exist. In the sixties, Saroja Devi was a top actress, and so were Savithri and Jayalalitha. In the seventies, Sridevi was popular, and so was Sripriya. âPopular,â those days, meant they starred in many films with up-and-comer young stars like Kamalahasan (the spelling change to âKamal Haasanâ was a while away) and Rajinikanth.
But Sridevi was special. It was a time Tamil cinema was changing. Directors like P. Bharathiraja, J. Mahendran and Balu Mahendra â even K Balachander, whose seventiesâ style is markedly more âcinematicâ than what he did in the preceding decade â were finding ways of expression that were different from those of melodrama monarchs like P Bhimsingh. And Sridevi fit into that mould as well. She fit into every mould, really. In Hindi cinema, they called her the ultimate âswitch-on, switch-offâ actress. That must have been true, for she certainly did not have a great deal of life experience to draw from, having grown up in the studios, in front of the cameras from when she was a child.
In Hindi cinema, they called her the ultimate âswitch-on, switch-offâ actress. That must have been true, for she certainly did not have a great deal of life experience to draw from, having grown up in the studios, in front of the cameras from when she was a child.
Perhaps her greatest gift was that she gave each director what they wanted. If Bharathiraja, in 16 Vayathinile (1977), wanted her to do nothing more than stand still, conveying sadness through her eyes (they were big, beautiful eyes) as his camera zoomed in, she did that. If Balachander, in Varumayin Niram Sivappu (1980), wanted her to mimic S Janakiâs wordless musical phrases in the Sippi irukkuthu song sequence, she did that â she was a marvellous âsong performer,â which is its own kind of acting. And she did what S.P. Muthuraman asked of her in Adutha Varisu (1983), where Rajinikanth tries to pass her off as the heiress to a province. The sceptical queen quizzes her about the state symbol. She throws her head back and laughs exaggeratedly (sheâs saying, through that laugh, âSurely you donât expect me to not know the answer to this!â), buying time till Rajinikanth gestures to the lion carving above the queenâs throne. She collects herself and gives the right answer.
GIF Source : Manmarziyan
Itâs not easy, this kind of acting. The passing of Sridevi is a good time to dwell on âIndian commercial film acting.â Itâs dying out in the north because everyone wants to make real films, with naturalistic performances that seem to be the only kind that get appreciated anymore, and itâs dying out in the south because mainstream Tamil and Telugu cinema is filled with actresses who donât speak the language and are required to do very little. This kind of performance has less to do with Stanislavsky than the Natyashastra, the navarasas â which may explain why so many actresses of that era were such good dancers as well. There was a touch of the gestural, the performative. Nothing was internalised, or even if it was, there had to be something declarative, something the audience could not just feel but also see â say, a tiny twitch of the lip.
Trained actors cannot do this kind of acting, which is a direct (a trained actor may call it âshamelessâ) appeal to the audienceâs emotions. Yes, some of this has to be seen in the context of the films that were being made, and their style, but that is why Kamal Haasan called Sridevi an excellent bag of tricks. She had a bottomless bag, apparently, and she could pull out whatever âtrickâ whichever director wanted. One cannot speak of Sridevi without speaking about Kamal. Like the tagline in the Wills ads, they were Made for Each Other, one bag of tricks constantly up against the other. If he did that Methody, mumbly thing he began to do from around the time he made Kokila(1977), she threw something actorly right back at him. Theirs wasnât chemistry. It was electricity.
Oh, the songs they made together. Ilankiliye from Shankarlal (1981). Devi Sridevi from Vaazhve Maayam (1982). Look at Radha Radha nee enge from Meendum Kokila (1981). Heâs goofing around, a Krishna in a silver jacket and a fedora from which a peacock feather sticks out. She matches him step for step. It isnât easy matching Kamal Haasan step for step. Vadivelan manasu vechan from Thai Illamal Naanillai (1979). Seen today, perhaps some of these songs come with a âyou had to have been thereâ warning label, but Iâm talking about a certain kind of unembarrassed commitment to the goings on, where the actor says, âOkay, so this is what I have to do, and maybe itâs something I personally wouldnât do, but Iâm going to do my darndest to make everyone believe that this really is me.â Acting, in other words.
Then, she went to Bombay, where the press was more ready with labels. She was anointed âNumero Uno.â But something seemed different to those of us from the south. Here, she was cute. There, she was âcute.â Thereâs a difference. She seemed to be more plasticky, the nose looked different, the voice was squeaky and didnât fit. None of this is to say she still wasnât great. She was just great in a very different way. The films relied more on her glamour, her outsize-ness â and again, she dug into that bag of tricks and gave exactly what her directors wanted. Sometimes, like in Mr. India (1987), magic happened. I admit this may be a very âsouthernâ reaction, rising from a sense of ours becoming theirs. Tamil and Telugu cinema still needed her. What was she doing jumping around with Jeetendra? But her mind was made. When she did return, for the one-off Naan Adimai Illai (1986) with Rajinikanth, it wasnât like a homecoming. It was like a queen on a state visit.
She went on to become the next in a line of south Indian actresses who became the leading heroine in Hindi cinema. Her most memorable role? Iâd still pick Moondram Pirai (1982), and my favourite scene is the one where Kamal gives her a sari and drifts off into a reverie, expecting this amnesiac with the mental faculties of a little girl to have magically transformed into a woman. Ilayaraja sets up the mood with a languorous piano duetting with violins. Sridevi steps out of the room, the sari perfectly draped. She does everything Kamal wants her to. Sheâs sophisticated. Sheâs romantic. Sheâs in control. Sheâs even motherlike, drawing his head to her bosom, giving him milk from a glass. Then he snaps out of it, and sees that sheâs tied the sari all wrong. Sheâs still the little-girl amnesiac. The scene showcases everything Sridevi was, the child-woman, the aloof and unattainable beauty, the seductress, the idealised (and idolised) star.
Bhardwaj Rangan, Critic of Film Companion South, 2018
Sadma (1983) dir. Balu Mahendra
âO Babuaa Yeh Mahuaâ