Love in the time of Recession

I happened to see two very similar films on the very same day - a coincidence that has prompted this blog. The two films I'm referring to are Going the Distance (Nanette Burstein, 2010) and Anjaana Anjaani(Siddharth Anand, 2010). Though I admit that these films are unlikely to be regarded as classics or blockbusters, they are the subject of this blog, since they have managed to subvert their parent genres in certain ways.

First the points of concurrence: both films are love stories. Both films are set in the cities of New York and San Francisco - cities already invested with a high degree of romantic charm through our exposure to Hollywood fare and American television. And the most significant similarity in terms of this piece - both films use the recent economic Recession as a narrative hook.

We know that the economic recession brought about major social changes across the world, but in Going the Distance we see how it affects the genre of "romantic comedy". The recession is one of the factors that generates conflict in the plot, as it is due to this that the protagonists are forced to stay put in different cities for a lack of jobs in the other's city.

Going...is no fairytale romance or "chick flick" (which, by the way, is the most dumbing-down way of classifying a film). It is not your typical romantic comedy of the Julia-Roberts-Meg-Ryan type, where the happy marriage of the hero and the heroine is the main narrative motivation. The climax of this film simply concentrates on bringing the protagonists closer to each other. It is the hero, Garrett (Justin Long), and not the heroine, who moves out of New York to LA, which is closer to Erin's (Drew Barrymore) home, San Francisco. There is no suggestion of a wedding, and the film is happy to end with a practical (not perfect) solution to a real-world problem. It would be unrealistic to show the two protagonists happily walking into the sunset, as most of the audience struggles with issues like career versus relationship, job security, and long distance relationships. Yet, the film has not done away the concept of "soulmates". We know that Erin and Garrett are meant to be together, but it's not going to come to them easy, like it never does in the real world.

The romantic comedy is still in its nascent stage in Hindi Cinema, as compared to its Hollywood counterpart. This is evident from the recent spate films like I Hate Luv Storys, Jhootha Hi Sahi, Break Ke Baad; better films like Jaane Tu Ya Jaane Na and Love Aaj Kal, and of course, Anjaana Anjaani.

The love story is the most common plot in Hindi films, but what makes these films different is the focus on the individual, as opposed to family. Most love stories of the 1980s and 90s followed a predictable pattern, wherein the hero and the heroine could not marry each other because of family enimity or difference in social class. These conflicts were done away with once the protagonists proved themselves to be worthy of each other and their respective families, and again, the film would end with a wedding scene. The films I have mentioned earlier completely do away with the cumbersome "holy cow" of the family and concentrate on individual choice in romantic matters. The parents are either genial friendly souls or, unhappily, dead!

We see an example of this in Anjaana....where Kiara (Priyanka Chopra's) parents do not play any consequential role in her decision-making, and Aakash's (Ranbir Kapoor) parents are hardly mentioned. Recession looms in the backdrop in this story too, as Aakash's reason for committing suicide is a major loss at the stock market. The advantage of focussing only on the main characters is that it makes for layered character structure and development, but this is missing in both Anjaana...and the other films I've mentioned. Also, these films are made without the characteristic warmth or crackling dialogue of the conventional Hollywood romantic comedy. This feature is missing in Going....as well, which is why it is a lesser film.

Anjaana....though deserves mention for a hilarious inversion of a very familiar Hindi film plot device - one where the heroine in abducted and the hero bravely fights with the goons to rescue the damsel in distress. Aakash is picked up by a beefy tattooed man at a bar, and is forcibly carried away to a room, as Kiara rushes to rescue him. The movie should be watched, even if for just this one scene.

The Romantic Comedy remains one of my favourite genres for its witty dialogue and sharp charactertisation, even though its one of the most predictable of plot lines a love story can follow. Its nice to see that it us undergoing a much needed change in Hollywood, and is will hopefully evolve in Hindi cinema.

Jogwa - Altering Identity

Costume in film can be used in many ways. Very simply, it can be used as a fashion statement. Even if the film-maker doesn't intend it, many film costumes end up as contemporary fashion trends. In period-based films costumes are used to lend authenticity to the story and characters, by being appropriate to the time setting.

Costume is also, less frequently, used to bring out some aspect of character in a film - as a symbol of a certain dimension of a character's personality. A very elementary use of this can be seen in films like Chaalbaaz (Pankaj Parashar, 1989), where costume becomes a relflection of the twin sisters' diametrically opposite personalities. So, the demure and timid Anju is seen in saris, whereas the fiery Manju gets to wear western clothes and stilletoes.

It is in this context of costume that I would like to discuss the film Jogwa (Rajiv Patil, 2009) in this blog.

One major theme in the film is "identity". Moreover the film is about the implications of loss of identity and imposing an unnatural identity on an individual. The character of Tayyapa in the film is forced to wear a sari and live life as a jogti, as a result of the superstitions prevalent among the village-folk. But as the film progresses, we notice that this is not merely a change of dress - the act of wearing a sari begins to have serious implications on the personality of the character.

The sari itself is meant to convert Tayyapa into an asexual being. He is not allowed to be attracted to women, but this conversely leaves him vulnerable to unwanted male attention. It forces him to supress instinctual behaviour. As another character (who is in a situation, similar to that of Tayyapa, and has been wearing a sari since the age of 10) in the film tells Tayyapa that even if he were to get intimate with a woman he would not feel anything.

The costume, then, becomes a symbol for how human beings can be oppressed due to superstitions and ignorance. It is instrumental in altering a character's identity. Something similar to this can be seen in a film like The Mask (Chuck Russell, 1994), in which wearing the mask is also an act of shedding one's inhibitions and gaining freedom from society's binding norms. In Jogwa, the sari performs the exact opposite function - of contricting one's personality within the dictates of society.

I would specially like to draw attention to the song 'Jiv rangala' in the film. It is a romantic number, shot in scenic, peaceful locales, like any other romantic song. But this has to be one of the most unconventinal love songs I've come across in terms of depiction of the lead pair. Both the male and female leads in the song are dressed in saris. The director could have resorted to any other device to picturise this song conventionally. It could have been a dream sequence, or just for the space of this song Tayyapa could have worn male attire. No one would have found this odd, or even noticed. The best part, though, is that inspite of both the actors wearing saris, you still don't notice. The song is not in the least bit disconcerting or strange. And therein lies the skill of the director and of his storytelling.

Jogwa is a very watchable film for many reasons. It has a unique subject, which has been dealt with empathetically. The director sends out an important message without ever resorting to sermonising or high-handedness. The performances are understated and do not go overboard, and Upendra Limaye's utterly convincing performance as Tayyapa takes your breath away. I'm sure at some point I'll be able to write a more objective analysis of the film. But for now, I'm happy being completely taken in by the film.

In attempting an analysis of Sholay, I’m painfully aware that I’m no trailblazer. Yet as a lover of Hindi cinema, and as an Indian, who like other Indians has loved and watched Sholay countless number of times, I feel compelled to contribute to the enormous corpus of information available on this film.


Use of the flashback in Sholay

The film constantly refers back to itself in its use of the flashback technique as a narrative device. The plot of the film continuously delays and defers explanations. These are later revealed only when it becomes absolutely crucial for the characters (and the audience) to know how the present state of circumstances came to be. It should be noted that these explanations occur for the benefit of certain characters in the film itself, and thereby for the audience. The flashback, in this film, is not used only to provide “back-story” to the audience, as is usually done in most other films where it is used.

The reluctance to provide details instantly can be seen in the first scene in the film itself. In a leisurely establishment shot (which actually establishes nothing in particular), we see a train pull up on an empty station in a remote village, we suppose, and a lone police officer stepping out of the train. “Where he is going? For what purpose?” – the film takes its own time to answer these questions. In the next seen, we see the Thakur instructing the police officer to find Jai and Veeru for him. The questions we asked in the first scene are answered only in the next scene (although not with the help of a flashback – the events here are chronological). The flashback pattern begins to operate at this juncture. The police officer (articulating the audience’s curiosity) asks the Thakur what he wants the two petty thieves for. Here, the film cuts into a flashback of the train dacoity scene where Jai and Veeru save Thakur’s life. As a result of the flashback, the police officer and the audience have found their answer.

This pattern also tells us how the Thakur’s arms were mutilated. After the dacoits have attacked the village on Holi and have been driven out by Jai and Veeru, Veeru asks the Thakur, “Why didn’t you pick up the gun?” The audience at this point is curious to know the same and also why Thakur is wrapped in a shawl at all times. The film once again diverges into a flashback at this juncture and we witness the mutilation of Thakur’s arms.

This stalling of explication occurs and a subsequent flashback in the film’s narrative, such as when Jai asks Thakur’s helper about Radha’s silent nature. Here, the flashback shows Radha as a boisterous, talkative girl as compared to her present subdued nature on account of the terrible tragedy she has suffered.

The flashback, then, is not simply a narrative technique in the film, but an independent motif by itself. Its most basic purpose is obviously to maintain suspense in the minds of the audience for as along as possible. As we start to wonder why someone behaves a certain way in the film, why things are the way they are, a character within the film steps up on our behalf and pops the question for us. This is an interesting way in which the film relates to the audience outside the film. Instead of reaching out, in draws them in. This is an idea of “intra-textuality” which the film, through the use of recurrent motifs, is able to achieve.

Dualism and the “khota sikka”

In scene 2, the police officer refers to Jai and Veeru as “khotey sikke”, uni-dimensional and worthless as criminals. Here, the Thakur replies that there is a fundamental difference between fake coins and human beings – human beings are not one-dimensional. This dialogue, occurring at the very beginning of the film, points towards the ideological dualism and ambivalence that we see throughout the film.

A film is not only a representation of plot and character, but also of a system of values or ideological positions. We see these ideological positions in conflict with each other through the course of the film, and this conflict is resolved when the film, at its conclusion, upholds one system of values and denounces the other. The simplest conflict of values in most popular cinema is the one between good and evil, represented by the hero and the villain respectively. The death of the villain at the end of the film signifies the prevalence of good over evil.

The good/evil contention is present in Sholay as well, clearly polarized between the Thakur and nemesis, Gabbar Singh. These two characters also symbolize the ideological conflict between law-making and law-breaking in the film respectively. Thus, the triumph of good over evil is not depicted through the death of the villain at the hands, or rather feet, of the hero. The hero, also being representative of the law-maker cannot be the perpetrator of cold-blooded murder. Then, he would be no different from the villain, or the one on the wrong side of the law. The timely intervention of the police a second before the Thakur is going to crush Gabbar under his feet ensures this does not happen. Evil has to be captured and constrained, not obliterated, because, quite obviously, there can be no absolute deletion of evil from the world. The good/evil conflict within the film is then subsumed under the law-making/law-breaking conflict.

The ambivalence in this theme can be seen in the characters of Jai and Veeru. At the onset of the film they are on the wrong side of the law. Just like the film never explains why Gabbar is so trigger happy, we never come to know why Jai and Veeru prefer to live their lives as petty thieves. The ambivalence starts to diffuse when we see the two transform into potential “family men” from vagabond criminals.

Almost the entire film depicts a rupture of the institution of the family. Most of the characters in the film do not have any known family ties, like Jai and Veeru. Basanti lives with her Mausi and has no immediate family. The Thakur’s family is murdered by Gabbar, who also kills Imam Chacha’s only son, Ahmed.

Jai and Veeru signify the conflict between the comic and the cynic within the film. The comic is a conformist, indulging in ridicule and buffoonery within the limits of law and legitimacy. The cynic, on the other hand, is a commentator who places himself outside society and outside the community. The conflict comes through in the characterization of the two and also in their attitude towards love. Veeru is boisterous and dramatic, finding a soulmate of sorts in the equally noisy Basanti. Their love story is full of fun and teasing, as their scenes together offer comic relief at several points in the film. The unarticulated romance of Jai and Radha comes as a stark contrast to the Veeru-Basanti love-track. There is hardly as exchange of words, all sympathy between the characters coming through expressions and actions only. Also, this love story has a tragic end, with the death of Jai.

The death of Jai symbolizes also the death of the cynic. The cynic is a figure who threatens to disrupt society due to his starkly realistic and at times, pessimistic outlook towards the world. He has to be either reformed or removed from society. Sholay decides to remove him. The cynicism of Jai is a milder form of cynicism compared to the ultimate cynic in the film, the villain, Gabbar Singh. The parallel between the two can be seen in the way both invert emotion in dialogue.

Before shooting Kalia, this is the conversation that takes place between him and Gabbar:

Gabbar: Ab tera kya hoga, Kalia?

Kalia: Sardar, maine aapka namak khaya hai…

Gabbar: Ab goli kha.

Gabbar has substituted the sense of loyalty in the word “namak” with the sense of violence in the word “goli”. This kind of substitution is what Jai also does at another point in the film. Consider the dialogue between him and Veeru after they have arrived at Thakur’s bungalow after a ride in Basanti’s tonga:

Veeru (referring to Basanti): Bahut pyari baatien karti hai.

Jai: Bahut pyari nahi, bahut saari baatein karti hai.

Just as Veeru tries to romanticize Basanti’s talkativeness, Jai brings him down to earth. But the audience does not see Gabbar and Jai as being similar to each other. Gabbar’s inversion evokes terror, Jai’s only humour. We mourn the death of Jai and rejoice in the capture of Gabbar. Their respective levels of cynicism help to shape the audience’s attitude towards them.

The frequent coin tosses within the film also hint towards the strain of dualism in the film. Whenever Jai tosses his coin and makes a decision, there is a feeling that it could have very well gone the other way. All their decisions, right from taking the Thakur to hospital and coming to Ramgarh, seem to be chance. The point in the film where we discover that the coin was “khota” after all, is also the point in the film when this sense of dualism starts to integrate itself into a unified value system. The film does present ideological ambivalence but makes sure all the loose ends are tied up at the end.

Jai, the cynic dies. Gabbar is captured. Veeru’s nomadic tendencies will be curbed with his anticipated marriage to Basanti. Their marriage also signals the reconstitution of the family, which is invisible in the rest of the film. The film restores order at the end of the film as all the conflicts are resolved. This integration of values in the film is the semiotic function of the “khota sikka” mentioned at the start of the film. Interestingly, Khotey Sikke is also the name of the film that Sholay is said to be based on.



“Performance” motif in Sholay

The comic sequences in Sholay operate on the “performance” motif, in the sense that one gets the impression that the character in question is performing for an audience as on stage and not on film.

Most of the comic scenes in the film are limited to the first half of the movie and are not incidental, but have been deliberately inserted for the purpose of comic relief. This offers a contrast to the second half of the film, which concentrates on the defeat of Gabbar Singh.

The “performance” motif is seen both in the comic scenes that involve the protagonists and some of the minor characters as well. The first example of this motif can be seen in the ‘Soorma Bhopali’ scene. This character is fond of telling tall stories of his bravado and does so sitting on a table, on a higher level than his audience, an enraptured group of villagers. Another example of this is Asrani’s hilarious parody of Hitler in the jail sequences. Here, he too appears first on a height, much like a raised platform and entertains the prisoners and the audience with his imitation of the “great dictator”.

Perhaps the most famous example of this motif is Veeru’s ‘suicide scene’. Veeru’s stage is a water-tank, his audience and amused bunch of villagers.

“Performance” is also apparent in one of the more serious scenes in the film – Gabbar Singh’s introduction scene. The first shot we see of him is a shot of his legs on a rock. This makes the power relationship between him and the other dacoits immediately clear.

There are many factors common to these scenes: some kind of a raised area where the performing character is placed, an audience within the film, and a lot of superfluous dialogue given to the performing character. The character relates to the audience in the film and outside it in the manner in which the stage actor relates to her/his audience.

Udaan - Talking Frames

I have always felt that there are no "good" films or "bad" films. There are either thoughtfully made films or thoughtlessly made films. And I would definitely place Udaan (Vikramaditya Motwane, 2010) in the former category. This is mainly because the director has paid a lot of attention to detail in this film. And "attention to detail" is not something that we get to see very often in most of Hindi cinema. Motwane here makes sure that every frame of his movie speaks to us - even if his actors in it have no lines, or even if they are not present in it at all.

For instance, there is a scene in the film when Rohan's father, tells him in a dunken stupor that he looks like a girl. When I thought over this, it did seem true that the actor, Rajat Barmecha, does have feminine features, which stand in direct contrast to his father's very "alpha-male" physical appearence. Where Rohan has big, round eyes and bow-shaped lips, his father is made to look almost like Hitler, complete with hard features and a moustache. Yet, Bhairon Singh's pronounced manliness is only a mask that hides his inner insecurity and waekness. On the other hand, Rohan comes out as a strong 18-year old, who his able to break free even in the face of trauma. Thus, Rohan and his father are etched out as direct foils of each other, not just emotionally, but physically as well.

This use of the visual to convey a character's emotions and state of mind, or to set the mood occurs elsewhere in the film too.

Most of the initial scenes of the film lay a lot of emphasis on Rohan lugging his heavy trunk after him - in his hostel room, up the stairs of his own home. This tells us that the boy does not have an easy life. He carries a lot of "baggage", which he will have to shed in the course of the film so that his own dreams can take flight later. So, he goes through a process of the proverbial trial by fire in this father's steel factory in order to "mould" himself into a strong and self-reliant individual.

Also, the house Rohan lives in has a barbed wire fencing around it, which is the focus of many shots in this film. This is an obvious reflection of the relationships that the people living inside the home share, owing to the father's belligerent attitude.

This kind of visual articulation must require some careful planning, which is why I said earlier that Udaan is thoughtful cinema. But mostly, if you are able to live the emotional experience of the film's protagonist along with her/him, you've got your paisa vasool and much more.

On Wake Up Sid and LSD

This one is a quick entry on two movies that I have seen recently and liked very much - the first is Wake Up Sid! (Ayan Mukerji, 2009) and the second, Love Sex Aur Dhokha (Dibakar Banerjee, 2010).

Wake Up Sid! is a movie that I have grown to like - the more I see it the more I like it. Ayan Mukherjee shows considerable depth and subtlety in his direction (something that was completely absent from his producer's indulgent and melodramatic first venture...sorry I'm not a Kuch Kuch Hota Hai fan. I really thought it was an appalling film except for one sparkling sequence, when Anjali and Rahul meet after years at the camp). Anyway, this blog is not about KKHH; it is about Sid.

There are many reasons to appreciate this film - the unconventianal love story, the acting, the way in which the director handles the emotional moments without going over the top. But I am going to appreciate the film for its characterisation. There is nothing very original or out-of-the-box about the characters in this film. We've seen them all before, in other films - the father, who has made his name only after a life of struggle, the doting mother, the boy who refuses to grow up - they are not unknown to us. But what is new about them - and all the characters in this film - is that none of them are caricatures or parodies. Mukerji draws his people from stereotypes, but refuses to let them dwell in that stereotype. Not even the minor characters like the studious Debbie, or the overweight Laxmi, or the wild Sonia. Mukerji makes sure they all have dignity, and a heart. This is what has made the film endearing to me.

And now over to a diametrically different film Love Sex Aur Dhoka. This film is dynamite viewing experience. Again, the three stories that make up the film are not unfamiliar. Maybe we haven't seen them before on film, but we have read enough newspaper reports and "breaking news" bytes to know what will eventually happen. The first two stories are especially predictable. But the treatmeant is extremely refreshing. Without being verbose or didactic, Banerjee makes his point about the invasion of the camera in our lives and the thrill of voyeurism. Not to mention making voyeurs of his audience as well. Of course, we want to see the gory details of when the first couple is hacked to death. Of course we want to know if the "store scandal" tape makes it to the internet or not.

Both these films are examples of all that is exciting and new in Hindi cinema right now. The so called "Bollywood" viewing experience is (mercifully) no more three hours of "masala timepass".

On The Reader

It is very problematic when you watch a film and don't "get it". Especially when it is a film that has won many awards and critical acclaim; it has been coveted by the Oscars and courted by critics. One wonders whose fault it is then. Is it the directors fault, who could not convey his message to me through a text that I found obscure and ambiguous? Or mine, because I failed to grasp what the director was trying to tell me, his audience, through his film? Of course, there is also a slight embarrassment one feels at not having understood the film!

The film I am talking about is The Reader (Stephen Daldry, 2008). And this blog is simply an attempt at parsing the film apart in order to figure out what it is trying to say.

What stood out for me in the film, and what must have been an obvious motif for most in the film, is the number of scenes which show Hanna scrubbing and cleaning, not liesurely, or like a chore. But almost with a vengeance, as if her life depended on it. This is, no doubt, symbolic of her trying to "wash away" her past sins, her past life as a Nazi - a secret that she hides from Michael, and us for most part of the film. In one scene, she is also shown bathing Michael, as if she is worried that she has contaminated him too with her deeds.

This makes it very clear to us that she is aware, at least subconciously, about the fact that her actions were inhumane and on the wrong side of morality. If this is the case, then why does she not admit to her crime later in the court? And why does she justify it by saying: "It was my job" - possibly the flimsiest excuse one can give to exonerate oneself from moral culpability. Of course, she is aware of her involvement in the persecution of the Jews. To me her character seemed one of a woman painfully aware of what she let happen, and desperately trying to supress her guilt by having a frivolous affair with a young boy.

Another thread in the film that didn't quite tie up for me was the fact about Hanna's illiteracy, which is represented as a major hook in the plot of the film. After all, if this secret is revealed by Michael in the court, it would exempt Hanna from a life in prison. But apart from this, what other role does it play in the film? Hanna's inability to read is also a cause for one of the levels at which Michael and Hanna connect in the film. He reads well, and wants to be read to because, well, she can't. This then keeps their affair from becoming purely sexual, which would obviously bring Hanna further down moral ladder. But then I did not see any love in the film at all, especially from Hanna's side. A strong infatuation and some goddess-worship on Michael's side, yes, but love? Nope, not at all.

Agreed that she is illiterate, but does that make her non-intelligent? Certainly not. As Rose Mather (the Jewish lady) Michael informs about Hanna's illiteracy at the end of the film mentions: "Is that an excuse for what she did?" So then why the need to show Hanna as a sympathetic character? And I have no doubt in my mind that the director wanted us to sympathise with her - otherwise he would not have taken lovely Kate Winslet in the lead role, as opposed to the hard-faced German ladies we have come across, or may imagine in such a role. Even her other counterparts who are on trial are nowhere close to pleasant looking.

I have to say, now, that I'm not trying to point out errors in the film. These are only gaps which I could not fill, and not necessarily faults in the telling of the story. Which is why, on the whole, I cannot say that I did not like the film. Perhaps it needs another watch, or some more musing over.These points apart, the film raises some very interesting questions about moral responsibility, and an unfortunate inability to turn back time and erase this ghastly period in History.

PART THREE

THE ISSUE

The three films I have analysed in this blog all deal primarily with the nature of love and what marriage does to one's understanding of it. All three films also deal with the question of a woman's choice where choosing her marriage partner is concerned. And all three films are being equally clever in answering this question.

The narrative in these films plays out in such a way that one feels that indeed it is the woman who has chosen to stay with the husband at the end of the film. The characterisation also makes it convenient for the heroine to make her choice. The husbands are shown as understanding, non-interfering, self-sacrificing men who do not impose on the heroine in any way and approach their relationship more with the emotion of a safe friendship. This almost reduces the earlier relationship in the film to a mere infatuation. So we get the sense that the heroine had an option and she chose the right man. But actually the film has short-changed us on that one. To have the heroine step out of the marriage and choose her lover would have been an impossible thing to accept in keeping with convention. Its better to keep the traditional notions of family and marriage intact and not do anything drastic in the film so that the audience goes home happy and one's film is a hit. A film that advocates stepping out of the marital bonds will only come much later - Karan Johar's Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna - and would end up doing average business. So all three film-makers have taken the easy way out by not upsetting convention in any way.

Swami includes an actual debate on choice in its script, but Mini does not even seem to choose Shyam at the end of the film. She makes a split second decision to leave her marital home with Naren and even goes to the station with him. But all Shyam has to do is to follow her there and request her to come home with him, and she meekly agrees. In the film Mini is narrating the story to us and in the final frame, we see her in Shyam's home, sitting on her bed with a look of despair on her face. She has clearly not made the happy choice either since she is not really respected or treated well by her husband's family.Her husband too is rather saintly in the face of this unfair treatment and does not object. The film, thus, seems to say that whether Mini had chosen Naren or Shyam, her life would have been equally complicated.

WSD is the cheekiest when it comes to subject of Maya's choice at the end. The director adopts a 'film-within-a-film' approach to play out the events of the second half. After Maya has told Anand her story and about her love for Prem, he sets out on a mission to locate him and make sure that he and Maya are together. He does finally find Prem by coincidence builds a friendship with him on the pretext of being a film producer and hiring Prem as the music director for his film. The story that he narrates to Prem as the story of the film is actually what Maya has told him about her life. He also tells Prem that the climax is not clear as yet as he has not decided whether Maya should stay with her husband or go with the lover.

The actual climax of the film involves an elaborate discussion on what the heroine of Anand's "film" should choose. According to Prem, she should either stay with the husband or commit suicide(!). Anand suggests that she should be reunited with her lover. Prem shakes his head and says that the audience would never accept this ending as it would go against Indian naitikta and sabhyata. Then Anand makes a pseudo-feminist argument about a woman's right to choose and that is would be inhuman for her to stay married to someone she does not love. Prem is still unconvinced, but agrees as he feels it would not be wise to disagree with the producer of the film. In the end when Maya does choose to remain with Anand, Prem endorses her decision by saying that an Indian woman would never make such a choice and that divorce is a Western import, heartily declaring that even though his ideas may be old-fashioned, but "Old is gold".

With this kind of a climax, WSD is the most non-commital of the three films in closing the discussion that it starts at the beginning of the film. The film-maker has made it all too convenient by appealing to Indian culture and tradition, closing the debate by saying if we already have certain rules in place why defy them. Tradition, therefore, becomes a blanket solution to all the problem the film puts forth.

My favourite among all three is Hum Dil... not just as a film, but also the way in which the conflict is resolved in the end. No rules are broken here as well, and tradition is also left intact in the end, but at least the film does not project itself as dealing with weighty philosophical and social questions of choice and marriage. It pans out simply as a love story, suggesting that Nandini was in love with Sameer, but that has moved on and has now come to love Vanraj. One could say that maybe the film is too simplistic, which true. But my only argument is that it doesn't pretend to be complex. The other two films pretend to be complex and then do nothing about the complexity. Swami further problematizes the issue and WSD offers a too simple solution to it.

All three films are interesting to watch, though, and also to compare. I'm not indicting any for being similar in terms of story, as this is the most interesting aspect of comparing the three films. Same question, different answers.