Kaagaz Ke Phool (1959, India)

Almost a quarter of the way through the twenty-first century, globalization has pierced the remotest corners of the planet. The examples academics and politicians cite demonstrating this globalization are almost always economic, but the most profound examples are cultural. Once known only in South Asia, Indian cinema has burst onto a global stage. Its stars and its most popular directors seem larger than life. Reading on some of modern Bollywood’s (Hindi-language cinema) personalities, I find few of their biographies compelling beyond their unquestionable status as South Asian and international celebrities – I won’t name names here because that is for another time. That is partly a result of not watching enough Bollywood films. It is also because I am making unconscious comparisons between those modern actors to actor-director Guru Dutt. Dutt was a tragic romantic – off- and on-screen – to the point where those personas can become indistinguishable.

As an actor, Dutt can be as charming a romantic male lead as anyone, as well as lend a film the dramatic gravitas it needs. As a director, he refined his sweeping visuals and theatrical flairs over time. That artistic development culminated with Pyaasa (1957) and his final directorial effort, Kaagaz Ke Phool (“Paper Flowers” in English). The latter film is the subject of this piece. Both films elevate themselves to a cinematic altitude few movies anywhere, anytime ever accomplish. They are, for lack of a better word, operatic* – in aesthetic, emotion, storytelling, tone. In Kaagaz Ke Phool, Dutt once again lays bare his artistic soul in what will be his final directed work.

An old man enters a film studio’s empty soundstage, climbs onto the rafters, and gazes wistfully at the darkened workspace below. We learn that this is Suresh Sinha (Dutt), a film director whose illustrious past exists only in old film stock. The film is told in flashback, transporting to a time when his marriage to Bina (Veena) is endangered – the parents-in-law disdain his film work as disreputable to their social class – and he is embarking upon an ambitious production of Devdas (a Bengali romance novel that is among the most adapted pieces of Indian literature to film, the stage, and television). He is having difficulty finding someone to play Paro, the female lead. Due to this conflict, Bima has also forbidden their teenage daughter, Pammi (Kumari Naaz), from seeing Suresh. Pammi is sent to a boarding school far from Delhi (where Bima and her parents reside) and further from Mumbai (where Suresh works), without any sufficient explanations of the spousal strife.

One rainy evening, Suresh generously provides his coat to a woman, Shanti (an excellent Waheeda Rehman). The next day, Shanti arrives at the film studio looking to return the coat. Not knowing anything about film production, she accidentally steps in front of the camera while it is rolling – angering the crew who are tiring of yet another production mishap. Later, while viewing the day’s rushes, Suresh casts Shanti as Paro after witnessing her accidental, but remarkable, screen presence. She achieves cinematic stardom; Suresh and Shanti become intimate. When the tabloid gossip eventually reaches Mumbai and Pammi’s boarding school, it leads to the ruin of all.

What did you expect from an operatic film – a happy ending?

Also starring in the film are Johnny Walker (as Suresh’s brother-in-law, “Rocky”) and Minoo Mumtaz (as a veterinarian). Walker and Mumtaz’s roles are vestigial to Kaagaz Ke Phool. Their romantic subplot is rife with the potential for suggestive humor (she is a horse doctor), but the screenplay never justifies their inclusion in the film.

Shot on CinemaScope lens licensed by 20th Century Fox to Dutt’s production company, Kaagaz Ke Phool is Dutt’s only film shot in letterboxed widescreen. From the onset of his directorial career and his close collaboration with cinematographer V.K. Murthy, Dutt exemplifies an awesome command of tonal transition and control. Murthy’s dollying cameras intensify emotion upon approach: anguish, contempt, sober realization. These techniques render these emotions painfully personal, eliminating the necessity of a few lines of dialogue or supplemental motion from the actor. The effect can be uncomfortable to those who have not fully suspended their disbelief in the plot or the songs that are sung at the time. But to the viewers that have accepted that Dutt’s films exist in a reality where songs about infatuation, love, loss, and regret are sung spontaneously (and where revelations are heard in stillness), this is part of the appeal. Dutt and Murthy’s lighting also assists in directing the narrative and setting mood: a lashing rainstorm signaling a chance meeting that seals the protagonists’ fates, the uncharacteristically film noir atmosphere of the soundstage paints moviemaking as unglamorous, and a beam of light during a love melody evokes unspoken attraction. That final example represents the pinnacle of Dutt and Murthy’s teamwork (more on this later).

As brilliant as his films (including this) may be, Dutt suffered during mightily during Kaagaz Ke Phool’s production. In writings about Dutt, one invariably encounters individuals who believe Dutt’s life confirms that suffering leads to great art. Though I think it best to retire that aphorism so as not to romanticize pain, I believe that the reverse is true with Guru Dutt – his later directing career contributed to his personal tribulations. In some ways, that suffering informed his approach to what I consider an informal semiautobiographical trilogy of his films: Mr. & Mrs. ’55 (1955), Pyaasa, and Kaagaz Ke Phool. Dutt directed and starred in each of these films. In each film he plays an artist (a cartoonist, poet, and film director, respectively); with each successive film his character begins with a greater reputation, only to fall further than the last. The three Dutt protagonists encounter hardship that do not discriminate by caste, professional success, or wealth.

For Dutt’s Suresh, he is unable to consummate his love for Shanti because the specters of his failed marriage haunt him still. He never speaks to his de facto ex, but marital disappointment lingers. Why does he bother visiting his stuffy in-laws when he knows they will never change their opinions about him? Abrar Alvi’s (the other films in the aforementioned informal Dutt-directed trilogy, 1962’s Sahib Bibi Aur Ghulam) screenplay is silent on the matter. Also factoring into Suresh’s hesitation is his daughter, Pammi. Pammi is young, looks up to both her parents, and cannot fathom a parent being torn from her life. Her reaction to learning about Shanti implies that neither of her parents have ever truly talked to her about their separation. Pammi does not appear to blame herself, but it seems that her parents – intent on protecting their child, perhaps speaking to her not as a soon-to-be young adult – are loath to maturely talk about the other. In a sense, Pammi has never mourned her parents’ marriage as we see her deny the tabloid reports about Suresh’s affair and express anger towards her father when she learns the truth.

When Suresh’s film after Devdas flops, his film career is in tatters. But Shanti’s popularity is ascendant, creating a dynamic reminiscent of A Star is Born. In a faint reference to Devdas, Kaagaz Ke Phool’s final act contains anxieties about falling into lower classes. If Kaagaz Ke Phool is contemporaneous to its release date, one could also interpret this as concerns about falling within India’s caste system (reformist India in the late 1950s was dipping its toes into criminalizing caste discrimination, which remains prevalent). Suresh’s fall is stratospheric and, in his caste-conscious, masculine pride, he rejects Shanti’s overtures to help him rebuild his life and film career. This tragedy deepens because Shanti’s offer is in response to the contractual exploitation she is enduring. We do not see what becomes of Shanti after her last encounter with Suresh, but his final scenes remind me, again, of opera: the male lead summoning the strength to sing (non-diegetically in Suresh’s case) his parting, epitaphic thoughts moments before the curtain lowers.

Suresh’s and Shanti’s respective suffering was preventable. Whether love may have assuaged his self-pity and alcoholism and her professional disputes is debatable, but one suspects it only could have helped.

Composer S.D. Burman (Pyaasa, 1965’s Guide) and lyricist Kaifi Azmi (1970’s Herr Raanjha, 1974’s Garm Hava) compose seven songs for Kaagaz Ke Phool – all of which elevate the dramatics, but none are as poetic as numbers in previous Dutt films. Comments on two of the most effective songs follow; I did not find myself nearly as moved by the others.

“Dekhi Zamane Ki Yaari” (roughly, “I Have Seen How Deeply Friendship Lies”) appears just after the opening credits, as an older Suresh ascends the soundstage’s stairs to look down on his former domain. The song starts with and is later backed by organ (this is an educated guess, as many classic Indian films could benefit with extensive audio restorations as trying to figure out their orchestrations can be difficult) and is sung non-diegetically by Mohammed Rafi (dubbing for Dutt). A beautiful dissolve during this number smooths the transition into the flashback that will frame the entire film. That technique, combined with “Dekhi Zamane Ki Yaari”, prepares the audience for what could be a somber recollection. However, this is only the first half of a bifurcated song. The melodic and thematic ideas of “Dekhi Zamane Ki Yaari” are completed in the film’s final minutes, “Bichhde Sabhi Baari Baari” (“They All Fall Apart, One by One”; considered by some as a separate song). Together, the musical and narrative arc of this song/these songs form the film’s soul. For such an important musical number, it may have been ideal to incorporate it more into the film’s score, but now I am being picky.

Just over the one-hour mark, “Waqt Ne Kiya Haseen Sitam” (“Time Has Inflicted Such Sweet Cruelty On Us”; non-diegetically sung by Shanti, dubbed by Geeta Dutt, Guru’s wife) heralds the film’s second act – Suresh and Shanti’s simultaneous realization of their unspoken love, and how they are changed irrevocably for having met each other. Murthy’s floating cameras and that piercing beam of light are revelatory. A double exposure during this sequence shows the two characters walking toward each other as their inhibitions stay in place, a breathtaking mise en scène (the arrangement of a set and placement of actors to empower a narrative/visual idea) foreshadowing the rest of the film.

Dutt’s perfectionist approach to Kaagaz Ke Phool fueled a public perception that the film was an indulgent vanity exercise with a tragic ending no one could stomach viewing. Paralleling Suresh and Shanti’s romantic interest in each other in this film, the Indian tabloids were printing stories claiming that Dutt was intimate with co-star Waheeda Rehman and cheating on Geeta Dutt. These factors – perhaps some more than others (I’m not versed on what Bollywood celebrity culture was like in the 1950s, and Pyaasa’s tragic ending didn’t stop audiences from flocking to that film) – led to Kaagaz Ke Phool’s bombing at the box office. Blowing an unfixable financial hole into his production company, Guru Dutt, a man who, “couldn’t digest failure,” never directed another film. Like the character he portrays here, Dutt became an alcoholic and succumbed to depression in the wake of this film’s release. Having dedicated himself entirely to his films, he interpreted any professional failure as a personal failure.

Kaagaz Ke Phool haunts from its opening seconds. Beyond his home country, Dutt would not live to see his final directorial effort become a landmark Bollywood film and his international reputation growing still as cinematic globalization marches forth. Dutt’s most visually refined films, including Kaagaz Ke Phool, are films of subtraction. The cinematography and music make less movement and dialogue preferable. Kaagaz Ke Phool is a film defined about actions that are not taken and scenes that are never shown. The result is not narrative emptiness, but a receptacle of Dutt’s empathy and regrets. Exploring these once-discarded, partially biographic ideas is not for faint hearts.

My rating: 9/10

^ Based on my personal imdb rating. Half-points are always rounded down. My interpretation of that ratings system can be found in the “Ratings system” page on my blog (as of July 1, 2020, tumblr is not permitting certain posts with links to appear on tag pages, so I cannot provide the URL).

For more of my reviews tagged “My Movie Odyssey”, check out the tag of the same name on my blog.

Pyaasa (1957, India)

When a print of Guru Dutt’s Pyaasa arrived at the Mumbai offices of Ultra Media & Entertainment (a film distribution and production company), the incomplete negative had almost completely melted. One of the most popular and acclaimed landmarks of Hindi cinema (“Bollywood” to many of you) needed immediate restoration. Several months of clean-up ensued, and the restorationists submitted the newly-cleaned print to the 2015 Venice International Film Festival. Pyaasa now has a second life for cinephiles who want to explore more of Bollywood – although, for the very fact that Pyaasa feels like a socially and thematically subversive work for its time, it is not recommended for beginners. As Guru Dutt’s first film after starring in and directing Mr. & Mrs. ‘55 (1955), Pyaasa is a magnificent feat of artistry and certainly Dutt’s most cinematic movie that he had made by that juncture in his career.

Vijay (Dutt) is a struggling poet uninterested in composing the treacly love poems that publishers and the public are demanding. “You call this gibberish ‘poetry?’” asks one prospective publisher, “You must write poems about love.” Against the wishes of his mother (Leela Mishra), he avoids living at home, lest he subject to the demeaning insults from his brothers. One evening, Vijay is wandering the streets when he hears a prostitute named Gulabo (Waheeda Rehman) singing his poetry. He follows, but she pushes him away when she realizes he has no money. Gulabo will, after reading a paper dropped from Vijay’s pocket, deduce that the person she just banished is the poet whose works she is enamored with. Further bitterness and disappointment follow Vijay when he learns his ex-girlfriend Meena (Mala Sinha) has married a hotshot publisher, Mr. Ghosh (Rehman; no relation to Waheeda Rehman). Vijay will begin work for Ghosh as a servant, leading to a finale flushed with bitter lyricism. The film also stars Johnny Walker as Abdul Sattar, a massage oil salesman who serves as comic relief.

Having gone through two previous Guru Dutt films in chronological order, my initial experiences with the Bollywood superstar included the swashbuckling spectacle of Baaz (1953) and the social satire of Mr. & Mrs. ‘55 (1955). Those two films allowed me to see the trajectory of Dutt’s directorial and developing aesthetic senses. Thematically, there is little in those previous films that could have prepared me – or frequent moviegoers in India in 1957, really – for what Pyaasa brings. The film is primarily capturing the travails of a struggling poet who composes poetry unmarketable to the masses. His words tell not of sweeping romances or witticisms, but commentaries on how cruel and destitute the world can be – heartbreak, injustice. Some of his poetry is social protest; these words seeping into the film’s soundtrack as lyrics (more on this later). For Vijay, his poetry serves to cleanse his soul of cynicism; anyone who purports to enjoy his poetry is celebrated, but he is not focused on numbers and mass popularity (although a decent paycheck might help). Yet there are still moments of the romantic in Vijay, at least from the past. In a flashback from his college days just over twenty minutes in – this scene is poorly edited, and it was not until several minutes afterwards did I realize it was a flashback – he recites this:

When I walk, even my shadow lags behind. When you walk, the universe keeps pace. When I stop, clouds of misery gather. When you stop, spring’s radiance is outshone.

That is the extent we ever hear of Vijay’s romantic poetry. 1950s Bollywood films certainly approached topics of materialism, but none to the extent and serrated cutting edge of Pyaasa. Pyaasa never reaches Satyajit Ray-levels of despondent, soul-crushing resolutions; however, this movie is more willing than most working in Hindi-language cinema at the time to avoid a glossy or compromised ending. Credit to Dutt for overruling screenwriter Abrar Alvi – who lobbied for a compromised ending – for the film’s fearless final twenty minutes. Perhaps Vijay’s decisions in the closing stages are not the most enlightened or practical, but make sense given the character’s tenacity and Dutt’s desire for an unconventional finish.

Most remarkable about Alvi’s screenplay to Pyaasa is how Gulabo is treated. No matter where movies were produced in the 1950s – the United States, Europe, across Asia, and elsewhere – the depiction of prostitutes and sex workers was a lot to be desired. As great as the following two movies both released in 1957 are, Pyaasa treats Gulabo with more dignity than Nights of Cabiria (a film that, upon seeing it six years ago, helped me recognize some personally regressive attitudes towards sex workers and learn more about the topic) does with its titular character. The tendency, even now, is to morally punish a sex worker character in a film, to demean them for their sexual expression, or to portray them as tragic figures suffering through unimaginable conditions of abuse or poverty. None of these apply to Gulabo – always in control of her situation, comprehending almost fully what she wants most in life, and subordinate to no one. Her actions throughout Pyaasa are out of love for Vijay and Vijay’s work, but there is no sense of “belonging” to a man or a romantic ideal of fixing a broken soul. A broken Vijay does not deserve the familial, financial, and mental turmoil that he is struggling through, so Gulabo selflessly helps Vijay from the desperate depths of his own mind.

In a twist, Dutt and Alvi – in a certain way of looking at it without spoiling the film – take the main character out of the film about a half-hour before the conclusion. We see Vijay’s brothers attempting to soothe their pain over their mother’s recent death (unbeknownst to Vijay) with illicit payments from Ghosh. Ghosh – a publishing executive seeking to expunge any inconveniences of his pocketbook or his twisted conscience, has a dastardly plot to help only himself. Vijay, though separated from the narrative for several resolving scenes of Pyaasa, is disgusted with what he has seen and heard from his family, his employer, and probably countless others in the past. In the film’s final musical number, Vijay recites/sings:

This world of palaces, of kingdoms, this world of power, The enemies of humanity, this world of rituals, These men who crave wealth as their way of life, For what will it profit a man if he gains the world?

The returns diminish; a desire to acquire more feeds upon itself, destroying the moral groundings of all. Though Guru Dutt and Abrar Alvi probably did not have Buddhism on their minds, Vijay’s answer – articulated with the light illuminating his figure while facing the camera – to all he has seen is a weary enlightenment. In these final scenes, Vijay appears as if he has ascended to a higher plane of existence, knowledge, and perhaps spirituality.

Cinematographer V.K. Murthy (a Dutt regular, having shot Mr. & Mrs. ‘55 and 1959′s Kaagaz Ke Phool) improves upon his previous collaborations with Dutt here. Murthy is the most important person that makes Pyaasa – by some distance – the most aesthetically enthralling movie that Dutt had directed by this point. Whether dealing with flashbacks, fantasies, or reality (or even surrealistic touches to reality, which is something that is unexpected, but contributes to the feeling Vijay is not entirely present in the corporeal world), Murthy provides gorgeous deeply-staged shots with dollied close-ups that, in less-assured hands, might come off as corny but instead heighten the dramatic stakes. But Murthy is not helped by editor Y.G. Chawhan, who handles scene transitions poorly and bungles the first hour’s flashback by not properly announcing that it is a flashback.

As an actor, this is Dutt’s most trying performance. After playing romantic leads Mr. & Mrs. ‘55 and Baaz, this performance in Pyaasa is worlds apart from his past. By the midpoint, Vijay sees nothing but the corruption of the world and is doing little to improve his situation. Vijay is Dutt’s least dynamic protagonist I have encountered thus far, but that does not devalue his character’s suffering and that inimitable way Dutt broods and listens or observes to other characters. Dutt’s character suffers silently; his performance is never labored, but enriched by his naturalistic acting. Waheeda Rehman, appearing in one of her first films as a leading actress (the role of Gulabo was originally intended for Madhubala), is stunning – her charm prevents Pyaasa’s existential and anti-materialistic themes from landing with a thud that might have excited some European auteurs at the time. Her appearance is undermined by the lengthy flashback that takes her out of the film’s first hour after one hell of an introduction.

Pyaasa includes a spellbinding musical score from composer S.D. Burman and lyricist Sahir Ludhiyanvi. But considering that the songs are built around Vijay’s poetry and the plot concerns his struggles, Burman’s music is secondary to Ludihyanvi’s lyrics – Ludihyanvi himself was primarily a poet who wrote in Hindi and Urdu. There are fewer musically spellbinding back-and-forths like “Udhar Tum Haseen Ho” in Mr. & Mrs. ‘55. For Pyaasa, poetry recital serves as musical performance for the film’s most interesting songs. Waheeda Rehman’s one hell of an introduction in “Jane Kya Tune Kahi” – where Gulabo (Waheeda Rehman was dubbed by Geeta Dutt) recites Vijay’s poetry back to him without knowing the fellow in front of her was the author – sets everything forward. This alluring misunderstanding of a song introduces the romantic tensions early, eliminating any annoying teases that might distract from the film’s larger themes. The climactic “Yeh Duniya Agar Mil Bhi Jaye To” defines the film, with its stunning, poetic lyrics, and is as context-dependent as original songs can be in cinema. Layers of meaning also sung earlier in “Jane Woh Kaise Log The” (behind the aforementioned song, it serves as the second-best poetry recital as performance) are expanded upon.

Less acclaimed from Bollywood fans but appealing to yours truly (I am grounded in Western musicals) is a fantasy sequence within a flashback: “Hum Aapki Aankhon Mein”. Sung by Vijay (Mohammad Rafi dubbing Guru Dutt) and Meena (Geeta Dutt dubbing from Mala Sinha), it is a song of budding love in a setting only possible in dreams. Or a soundstage, I guess. With maybe too many smoke machines concealing their feet, Vijay and Meena dance together with a gracefulness not out of place in any place that values the transporting nature of musicals. Johnny Walker (dubbed by Rafi), who is weirdly adorable in his comic relief roles, is endearing in “Sar Jo Tera Chakraye” while trying to sell his oil massages to passers-by. With the exception of these two, almost the entire Burman-Ludhiyanvi score draws its operatic-like drama from the plot – so make sure to concentrate a bit more on the lyrics than usual for Hindi-language movies.

For some cinephiles who have not yet ventured into Bollywood but have seen Bengali films (probably Satyajit Ray’s movies), Pyaasa might be an ideal point of entry for its combination of Bollywood escapism and Bengali-inspired parallel cinema. For everyone else, Pyaasa will be an anomalous, but memorable entry into the Hindi cinema canon.

Pyaasa translates to “thirsty” in English. That might not be the most appealing title, but it reflects Vijay’s craving for a righteous, altruistic world that just does not exist. How much of Vijay was a reflection of Guru Dutt is a point of speculation – Dutt, an advocate of social justice, seems to have enjoyed more creative freedom in Pyaasa that was not apparent in his previous films. His political voice is more pronounced here than ever before, showcasing an artist displaying a mature understanding of the medium he wields. At thirty-two years of age the year of the film’s release, Guru Dutt shows a confidence that belies his youth. It results perhaps not in a call to action, but to show us a response by a man so completely dedicated to his craft.

My rating: 9.5/10

Mr. & Mrs. ‘55 (1955, India)

Guru Dutt’s Pyaasa (1957) and Kaagaz Ke Phool (1959) are cited by international film critics as some of the greatest films of all time, not just some of the best Bollywood (Hindi-language Indian cinema) has to offer. But to be forthcoming about my expertise, I admit ignorance about those two dramas, as my knowledge of Indian cinema remains a weakness. Non-English language movies hailed as international classics tend to be dramas, not comedies. Yet both require the same amount of cultural and historical context to understand, so what are these critics and historians doing? I will leave answers to that question to you, the reader; for now, here is a delightful screwball comedy and lighthearted social satire from Dutt, building and improving upon the flirtatious humor found in Baaz (1953; hey, I’ve seen that one!).

Anita Verma (Madhubala) is a young woman who takes every opportunity to leave her aunt Seeta Devi’s (Lalita Pawar) house when her crush, tennis player Ramesh (Al Nasir), is playing a tournament. Ramesh is more interested in the upcoming Wimbledon Championships than Anita, and brushes her off. Seeta, rolling her eyes towards her niece’s tennis star worship, is a hardline, self-described feminist who simply hates men – I am certain misandry is incompatible with feminism, but feel free to correct me – and attempts to impress upon her niece her sociopolitical ideals. But struggling cartoonist Preetam (Dutt) incidentally meets Anita, falls instantly in love with her (she could care less about him at first), and will eventually wreck Seeta’s best-laid plans. But before that happens, Seeta is looking for a man to marry Anita as Anita’s father’s will stipulates that she must marry within a month of turning twenty-one years old in order to inherit his fortune.

Also featuring in Mr. & Mrs. ‘55 are Johnny (Johnny Walker, a Dutt regular) and his girlfriend from his office, Julie (Yasmin).

To call Mr. & Mrs. ’55 a feminist film is a stretch that no one should be attempting. One hopes that the “feminism” (again, more misandrist than anything else) found in Mr. & Mrs. ‘55 is satirical, and not what screenwriter Abrar Alvi and Dutt actually believe to be feminism. As Anita’s auntie, Seeta is mistrustful of any men of any status, is suspicious of her niece’s activities outside of the house, and, ultimately, is scornful of a woman’s life choices if those choices do not adhere to the concept of feminism that Seeta herself has subscribed to. Though Seeta’s depiction cannot be described as damning, the character is confrontational, condescending, and manipulative not only to men, but later to Anita in wanting to secure even a fraction of her deceased brother’s fortune for herself.

Adding to the film’s questionable writing is a scene where Anita meets Preetam’s sister-in-law (Kumkum) about ninety minutes into the film – this encounter will eventually convince Anita that traditional married life is honorable, worthwhile. The sister-in-law, residing in the countryside, extols the sources of happiness in her life: tending to the homestead, the time spent with her children, and the company of her husband. She also adds that being on the receiving end of her husband’s beatings is just an aspect of their time together, and that she does not mind at all. This line comes from almost nothing and will be received as outdated. I profess not to know about gendered norms in India during the 1950s, but even then, such dialogue should have provoked some ire from audiences. Anita has a change of heart, and becomes more open to loving Preetam. This character development arrives too rapidly, sending another conflicting message about gendered roles that could have been prevented. This is reckless writing.

Yet if one can forgive these storytelling indiscretions, the two central performances are outstanding. Beginning with Guru Dutt, he brings an intensity – not in regards to sexuality or loquaciousness, but to how he commits just enough emotion for each comical or dramatic scene he appears in – to his performance that makes it difficult to look away from. Always charming and combining a social cynicism with his character’s artistic passions, Dutt, like in Baaz, is a well-rounded, excellent romantic lead who can laugh at his own travails. He might not be the handsomest, the fittest, or the most confident-looking fellow who ever graced a Bollywood film, but his acting discipline renders all of that irrelevant. But as Anita, Madhubala is given the most to do here as her character undergoes the most change from the film’s beginning and end. Anita comes of age here, moving from tennis star fangirl to confused budding feminist (at least, in her auntie’s ideal) to a young woman understanding that happiness is something that is found and understood for oneself, not defined by others, and is not interfering or devaluing the lives of others. Indeed, her happiness is expressed in regressive ways, but the inherent truth of a modest, introverted idea of happiness remains.

Johnny Walker and Yasmin’s characters are not necessary to the plot and their scenes make the movie longer than it should be, but this film would not be as enjoyable without them. As Johnny and Julie, respectively, they supply the film with comic-musical situations that one can’t imagine Preetam or Anita finding themselves in. They serve a worthy purpose, if ultimately tangential to Mr. & Mrs. ’55 at-large.

The strong musical score by composer O.P. Nayyer and lyricist Majrooh Sultanpuri is less vestigial; the songs appearing during almost all of the film’s dramatic highs. Ever broke into song while stalking your athletic crush while they were swimming laps at the pool? Well, “Thandi Hawa Kalli Ghata” (sung by Guru Dutt’s wife, Geeta Dutt – dubbing Madhubala) might be a familiar experience to you, but I doubt you had backup dancers and singers at that moment’s disposal. It is a romp of a song, let down only by the fact that I think somebody needed to teach the extras how to properly dive into a pool (simply leaning and falling into a pool does not count). “Jaane Kahan Mera Jigar Gaya Ji” is for Johnny and Yasmin as they begin their courtship. A few lyrics are repeated a little too often and could use some variation, but this is as fun and flirty as one could ask for. “Udhar Tum Haseen Ho” (Mohammad Rafi dubbing for Guru Dutt) appears once Anita has understood her feelings for Preetam – I mean, what did you expect, that she would fly out to Wimbledon to watch Ramesh? – amid cinematographer V.K. Murthy’s floating camerawork and use of chiaroscuro. A beautiful string line carries the flowing, ¾-time melody. It is a lovers’ waltz – in rhythm, if not in how the two lovers approach and move with the other.

With the music and the acting as convincing as Preetam’s sister-in-law’s talk with Anita, Mr. & Mrs. ‘55 is a pleasure to watch. But this praise comes with some reservation – that Guru Dutt and Abrar Alvi are not interested here in portraying genuine feminists or feminism. Their intentions in how the women are portrayed might be satirical, but this is never clear (perhaps that calls for a more conscious, respectful remake; I certainly think that satire and feminism can clash and coexist in a Bollywood movie). Nevertheless, Mr. & Mrs. ‘55 represents a triumph for most everyone involved (all of whom were to build off their work here and destined for greater films), offering ridiculously watchable entertainment.

My rating: 8/10

V.K. Murthy was the D.P. for Guru Dutt's pet projects. He was part of the original Guru Dutt/Dev Anand/Raj Khosla circle that produced classics like Pyaasa, C.I.D., Mr. & Mrs. '55, Jaal, Chaudhvin Ka Chand, Kaagaz Ke Phool, etc.. He also went on to work with Kamal Amrohi in Pakeezah, and straight-up commercial fare like Jugnu. 

Watching Mr. & Mrs. '55, a careful viewer will see his complicated zooms--practiced switching from foreground focus to background focus, multiple times in one shot. Any cinematographer TODAY will tell you how difficult that technique is to pull off. Yeah, he was a genius.