Book review 'The World of Hrishikesh Mukherjee: The Filmmaker Everyone Loves' - A slow trudge from Anand to Mili to...

Here’s a 331-pager of prodigious industry — involving research, re-re-viewing (give or take a re) of the filmmaker’s work, interviews, emails, notes and assorted travails — which, woe betide, is as refreshing as yesterday’s chai.

Cuppas were sipped constantly in the oeuvre of Bombay’s loveable grandmaster of medium wave cinema spanning the years 1957-’98, in his capacity as the director. And those cuppas are just one of the elements which fascinates the author of this hither-thither quasi-hagiography, besides other such necessities of life as the makan. What about roti, kapda, sex aur sacha pyaar? That too, even if such elements are to be found in any film, good, bad or yucky.

Truth be told, I was tempted to abandon The World of Hrishikesh Mukherjee: The Filmmaker Everyone Loves after the preface and a couple of chapters, because its purported high-mindedness and merry-go-round structure were enticing spasms of vertigo. The more I read, my eyes drooped towards deep slumber, and the head, if I may be immodest enough to credit myself with one, performed a virtual tandav.

I was suffering. To be fair, this could have been because the Hrishikesh Mukherjee being pen-sketched here was obtuse even though the thesis advanced by Jai Arjun Singh is that the master filmmaker was amazingly simple and honey-sweet.

Next, if I don’t expect whines about bumpy air flights from a travel writer, from a film writer I don’t expect accounts of the hazards which come with a metro ride and a 20-minute walk towards the Siri Fort in New Delhi’s murderous summer.

The heat was endured by Singh in his Indiana Jones-like mission to re-re-you-know-what Anand on the big 35-mm screen. This seemingly led to a moment of epiphany. Watched outside the TV inches, Anand assumed an entirely different import, experienced as it was with an appreciative audience parroting lines of dialogue before they purred out of the Fort’s speakers. Fantastic. Moral of the story: size matters.

Lamentably, there is much self-righteousness on the subject of what the book isn’t and what it is. It is not a biography (yes, okay). Then it’s stated “at least, not in the usual sense of the word — by which I mean that any (the italics are Singh’s) analysis of a creative person’s career will naturally reveal things about him: his influences and beliefs, how he interacted with people, the culture he came from, the circumstances he worked.” Aah analysis! So far, so gravitas.

Next, on imbibing Singh’s catchphrase, “This has also been a journey of self-discovery”, I’m convinced that this is going to be one helluva ride. It is: s..l..o..w..e..r than a bullock cart making far too many halts’n’hems and scant haws-haws. In toto, the content hinges on the resonances in dialogue, situations retreaded, mythological allusions to Lord Krishna, not to discount the frequent presence of actors David Abraham and Deven Varma as surrogate sutradhars.

“As mentioned earlier” and “elsewhere in the book” persistently serve as speed breakers. Also the refrain of “my favourites” is underscored to the nth degree.

Of the 42 Hrishida films directed, Singh’s toppers are the usual suspects with the exception of Biwi aur Makan, which is upgraded to the class of a near-masterpiece. Fine, wonderful, but the criss-crossing between those favourites go yawn till kingdom come, yoked to lofty pronouncements on the lines of describing the ultra-honest Satyapriya of Satyakam as “…a glitch in the system, an outlier in a body of work that is so often about deception, artifice and general tomfoolery being put to desirable ends.” Quite.

Moreover, it seems if Satyapriya were to ever encounter the terminally ill Anand, “he would admire Anand’s fortitude, I’m sure, but he might raise an eyebrow at his habit of accosting strangers on the streets and addressing them familiarly…” Hang on now. Satyapriya, despite his moral rectitude, it is theorised, “might tolerate the pretended cook of Bawarchi.” The imagination reels.

Hrishida’s contemporary filmmakers are given short shrift. According to Singh, Shakti Samanta and Asit Sen often dealt with similar material but their cinema has “more of stereotypes associated with the emotional social film.” Arguable that.

In any case, why pull down Samanta and Sen? They had their style, pitch and moments of glory. The way Hrishida had his.

Symbology is a dangerous area, especially when a writer sets out to discover meaning and signs where there are none. The one that shook me up here relates to Mili. For Singh, the airplane ending transporting Mili and the man she loves to a doctor in Switzerland suggests that her “beemari is nothing more than the fact that she is single, that she hasn’t been completed yet by having a man in her life. No wonder the film ends with the hope that she might be cured.”

In other words, being single means being incomplete. And that’s not all. It’s suggested that the flight to the Alps could well morph into a honeymoon. How’s that for imposing an all’s-well happy ending?

Inevitably, the writer slams “strident” critics of yore who “over-politicised art… not allowing it to mirror the minor complexities of the real world.” How smug is that? The self-anointed analyst probably missed out on the inspired defence of Khubsoorat by the then Filmfare editor Bikram Singh.

Throughout the book some quotes from interviews are acknowledged, naming the journalist in question, albeit whenever that grabs the writer’s fancy.

Others are ascribed to the newspapers and magazines they originally appeared in.

I don’t have any quarrel with being quoted, even if it’s without the basic courtesy of being consulted. Mini excerpts from my reviews of Khubsoorat and Naram Garam pop up, to illustrate Singh’s ire presumably against the strident beasties. These excerpts harp on the “regressive” tone which I detected in moments like a woman falling at a man’s feet. If such acts mirror the complexities of real life, Singh needs another think.

Neither can I quite digest oddball conjectures like Ashok Kumar’s Rail gaadi song from Aashirwad being a precursor of Red Hot Chilli Peppers’ rap anthem Give it away give it away… Hilarious too is the comparison of the Bawarchi familywallas (who are metaphorically devouring themselves) to the ghoulish Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Poignantly, Singh wonders if others have thought of this, “Or is it just me?” It’s just you, sir.

Clearly, the cinema of Hrishida has become vital with the passage of time. It calls for re-assessment, particularly since the quality of multiplex-catered films plummet every week.

Technically rudimentary, yes, but for Hrishida’s cinema the story was the thing. On a personal note, I may add that he relished criticism, he wasn’t blind to his weaknesses or for that matter to his strengths. He detested being unilateral. That was The World of Hrishikesh Mukherjee. Not this.

Khalid Mohamed is a journalist, film critic and film director