THE HISTORY OF BOLLYWOOD

Let us address it immediately – Mithun Chakraborty's Hindi articulation was genuinely deficient. Even his staunch Pygmalion, the producer and director Babbar Subhash, while heaping on praises, consistently appended a caveat: "Mithun's diction is the only thing that kept him from becoming another Amitabh." A decade before "Disco Dancer," he arrived at the Film Institute in Pune from Kolkata, aiming for an acting career. During auditions and exchanges with the admissions committee, he conversed in his native Bengali. This very aspect led his then-famous fellow student – and the future wife of Bachchan – Jaya Bhaduri, to remark, "You're just... too much." His excessiveness extended beyond his regional accent. As we glean from his films, his physical vigor was extravagant too. The anticipation was uncertain at any moment – a dance move, an acrobatic feat, or a karate blow. His chest protruded excessively, and his biceps rippled – Chakraborty was the first Indian actor to exhibit a chiseled physique. During those times, this sight bore an immodesty akin to the persistence of a stripper. Excessive was the desperation in his large eyes, reflecting Hiroshima innumerable times. He was not admitted because the educators deduced that since he hailed from Kolkata and the city already had a thriving film industry fostering future Bombay stars, his migration indicated an evasion of the authorities. In those days, the police and army pursued Naxalites; executions and purges followed one after another. Truthfully, his parents merely sent their son, a protesting student, to his uncle in Bombay, far from trouble. He reapplied the following year, mastering Hindi and fabricating a Delhi origin.

Chakraborty's initial ten years in Bombay were marked by poverty. He bunked at friends' abodes, subsisted through street dancing, or survived on the modest earnings of his classmate and best friend Ranjit, who had already achieved stardom by 1976. Even his inaugural role, a lead role at that, did not alter his living circumstances. Ironically, for his debut, he circled back to his roots in Bengal. Marxist director Mrinal Sen embarked on a film centered around a tribal leader's uprising. The protagonist had to leap among the trees throughout the film, clad solely in a loincloth. The sole requirement for the actor, one unmet by the then-beloved actors of the time, was a well-trained athletic physique. When observing Film Institute students, this is exactly the quality found in Chakraborty. With "Mrigayaa" (The Royal Hunt), Chakraborty embarked on his first overseas trip – to the Moscow Film Festival, where the stunning film was admitted for competition. Post his return; he received the National Film Award of 10,000 rupees for Best Actor of the Year.

Nevertheless, considering the swift depletion of funds, especially for someone indebted for eight years, it is imaginable; he bartered his interviews for sustenance, "at the very least, a plate of rice."

Progress emerged slightly when Helen invited him into her dance troupe. The pivotal shift came in 1979. Director Ravikant Nagaich, who catapulted Jitendra to superstardom with his budget-friendly spy-action film "Dharmatma" in 1967, replicated the formula and, intriguingly, success. Nagaich cast Chakraborty, upon Ranjit's suggestion, in a comparable film, "Surakshaa" (Protection): this B-grade Bond-style absurdity penetrated the top ten at the box office. The producer was Babbar Subhash, who would orchestrate a solo extravaganza, "Disco Dancer," for the actor three years later – after which the music just would not cease.

So why are we delving so extensively into this actor's biography when our series has mainly focused on the history of Bollywood rather than a collection of materials from a biographical series? The reason is that Mithun Chakraborty's early years form the basis for the film "The Disco Dancer" and subsequent films with equally clear titles that convey the essence of what the audience was about to witness on screen: "Karate" (1983), "Boxer" (1984), "Dance Dance" (1987), and "Commando" (1988). This elaboration sheds light on why he embodied these roles with such organic authenticity, erasing the superficiality of plots, the shallowness of dialogue, and the implausibility of dances and fights – the very skills advertised in the titles.

In essence, the characters portrayed by Chakraborty fight or dance just as they do in these films. If one of those movies were named "Rodeo," in reality, such a virtuoso would only be cast as a clown diverting the bull when the cowboy falls off the saddle.

If I were to recount "Disco Dancer," I risk annoying my readers, who will ask themselves: Why is he repeating this all over again? Nevertheless, here is how the story goes: In his childhood, the protagonist disrupts the societal order, leading to his mother's imprisonment, and they are compelled to flee the city to escape further persecution. In their new surroundings, he dances at weddings and takes on any job, building up his muscles. As for sustenance, they are left with only a couple of roti or a handful of rice. One day, after receiving a considerable reward, by their standards, at the wedding of the hefty Tun Tun to a dwarf in a top hat, he revels with his ensemble friends after performing (quoting Chakraborty himself, "In those days, I consumed everything, from drugs to alcohol, just to avoid thinking about tomorrow"), and then returns home at night, executing swirls on a bridge reminiscent of Travolta's characters. The producer spots him in this state and integrates him into a show. With the command "Say: a-a-a!" Jimmy Chakraborty leans into the audience with a microphone, revealing a well-defined masculine chest through the opening of his silvery shirt. The response: was screams of delight and money. However, he initially allocates his earnings to friends owed from years of shared performances. Then, enter fiction, serving as a completed gestalt for Chakraborty, who probably would have wanted to have a conversation with those who sent his fellow students from Calcutta to the gallows and condemned his prime years to a life of penury away from home.

The hero embarks on a journey to his hometown, the place that drove him away. His fame infiltrates the film industry, where old adversaries have taken refuge. Initially, he seduces the daughter of a villain with a cleft palate who marred his youth. They break his legs and instruments and instill terror with an electric guitar – his mother grabs it after rivals connect it to a 5,000-volt power source and dies on the spot of electrocution. However, support from an affluent friend (as recalled, Chakraborty had Ranjit) restores him. After triumphing at a global disco dance contest, he confronts his adversary in a hand-to-hand showdown, pinning him against an electrical panel with a severed bumper. Here, no words, no catharsis – the hero walks into the sunset with the villain's daughter, serenaded by "I Am a Disco Dancer," concluding the film.

Such a recap also unveils the film's structure. Its main allure is Chakraborty himself, evoking a sense of flight and weightlessness through his dance. Even the choreography is a hodgepodge, where he starts with aerobic moves while lying on the stage, then seizes a fan's leg and drags her behind him, resembling a one-legged person. His dancer's flight is most evident in the unstaged dance segments: the iconic walk on the bridge or home workouts, where Chakraborty alone twists and turns to the sound of a tape recorder, with a Travolta poster in the background observing. In terms of fluidity of movement, he even surpasses Travolta. He amalgamates two primary idols of that era – the dancing Travolta and the muscular Stallone. However, he anticipates a third: Van Damme. In his low-budget films, no other effects exist besides agility, nimbleness, and the captivating presence on screen. While an actor professionally skilled in martial arts would not arrive in Bollywood until the era's end – Akshay Kumar debuted in 1991 – Chakraborty preempted that phase of cinema-audience interaction for his fans that would only arrive for enthusiasts of Western cinema on the cusp of the 1980s and 1990s. By then, the world, seemingly not yet over Nicholson, having experienced Tom Cruise and witnessed the initial appearances of three young future titans who would define the face of our century's cinema - Depp, Pitt, and DiCaprio - would be confined at home, fully absorbed in repeatedly watching videocassettes showcasing Jean-Claude Van Damme's distinctive leg and arm movements. This marked an era when low-budget productions overshadowed all other forms of cinema, and Chakraborty declared this as early as 1982. This trend extended beyond India, even reaching the Soviet Union, where, not only in the case of "Disco Dancer," films starring Chakraborty secured the top spot in the year-end box office rankings of Indian films, even accounting for overseas box office results. A similar fate awaited the masala film "Jagir" (1984) two years later. In this film, as is customary in masala cinema, he worked within an ensemble cast of stars, yet his presence alone elevated the film, a point we will discuss further below.

In the previous chapter, we extensively discussed the rich composition of 1970s masala films. To envisage the structure of Chakraborty's films in reverse, let us heed the words of a distant observer of Bollywood – the renowned Russian columnist and commentator on post-Soviet reality, Yuri Saprykin. In 2002, as Bollywood fever gripped the West and nostalgia for the Soviet past spread across Russia, a central TV channel began airing old Bombay films that were popular in the USSR weekly. Saprykin, driven by natural curiosity to revisit with adult eyes what his childhood memory had uniquely preserved, engaged in watching these reruns. After viewing "Zita and Gita," he arrived at work with profound surprise and shared a straightforward, accurate insight with me: "When 'Disco Dancer' aired that week, everything was as I expected. But this weekend, I sat down to watch 'Zita and Gita' and... Now, that's real cinema!"

Indeed, he hit the nail on the head: "The Disco Dancer" is, in essence, "not quite cinema." Camera movements are scarcely present – at best, there is a simple rotation on a tripod. The protagonist dances before a stationary camera, akin to a TikToker. The interiors predominantly exude geometric simplicity, so much so that most readers would be embarrassed to inhabit such spaces. We have already touched on the subject of dialogues. The same holds true for the lighting: traditional lighting equipment is absent, giving way to natural light sources; scenes set in the night, for instance, rely on street lamps and headlights. Why this style emerged and achieved success precisely during that era involves a unique amalgamation of contributing factors that nurtured this favorable disposition towards such "non-cinema." In this context, the political factor played a relatively minor role. Yet, it will gain more prominence in the trajectory that Chakraborty and Bollywood, at large, will embark upon in the subsequent decade.

The first factor is economic in nature. Masala cinema reaped unprecedented box office returns: "Sholay" forced a reevaluation of the very financial expectations attached to Bombay films in the same year,1975, when "Jaws" prompted a similar reassessment within the Hollywood context. Cinema appeared more than ever as a realm of rapid enrichment, leading individuals who lacked funds for even basic necessities like cranes, carts, competent scriptwriters, or movie stars to venture into filmmaking. This audacity is what propelled figures like Babbar Subhash, who initiated "The Disco Dancer," along with countless others who contributed to the era of Indian cinema's overproduction by the mid-1980s. By 1985, India's annual film productions would reach an astonishing 914 films.

In 1982, another significant event unfolded that opened a door for the cash-strapped and audacious. This reason might make you smile, as it is hard to imagine Amitabh Bachchan's immense influence over the entire Bollywood film production and distribution network during that time. While filming "Coolie" in 1983, a mishap occurred during a stunt, leading to a serious injury for him. He collided with the edge of a table while attempting to leap over it, resulting in the rupture of his spleen. He slipped into a coma for several days, hovering on the brink of life.

Every news report began with updates on his medical condition. Even Indira Gandhi paid him a visit in the hospital once he regained consciousness. His condition was so delicate that he could not perform at the opening of the Asian Games. Yet, with no one able to step into his shoes, the organizers chose to play a prerecorded welcome speech from him through a tape recorder at the stadium instead of selecting an alternative host. While the threat to his life lessened, uncertainties remained about his ability to continue acting, dancing, or even participating in fight sequences. The industry grappled with anxiety, creating a fitting moment to introduce a fresh face as a potential replacement.

In contrast to the bedridden Bachchan, who retained only his voice, Chakraborty, though struggling with speech, was a dance virtuoso, an embodiment of movement. When, in the film "Mujhe Insaaf Chaahiye" (1983), he dashed after the radiant Rati Agnihotri, drenched after the pool, clad solely in a bath towel around his hips and a chain adorning his chiseled collarbones, the formerly modest female audience in the theater was enthralled.

To comprehend this audience better, we can consider a poem and a letter. The poem was published in the early 1990s in the magazine "India," which was inundated with messages from ladies of the post-Soviet space - including rhymed ones - to Chakraborty: Mithun's a poppy, Mithun's a rose, I love you Mithun, perfectly tan! Alas, you’re married and will never propose! In 2009, a letter arrived at the editorial office of "World of Indian Cinema," a publication still inundated primarily with letters meant for Chakraborty. The letter, sent as he neared his 60th birthday, is quoted verbatim to preserve its punctuation and spelling: "I wanted to know which city Mithun lives in where he was shooting. Who is Mithun's current wife, Yogita Bali? And what about Sridevi? Is Mithun jealous? Why did Mithun permit himself to cheat, but his wife couldn't? Does Mithun speak Russian? Do you retain or discard fans' letters? I write everything to you, but you don't respond, and I think you discard my letters. I'm still waiting; after all, I'm not eternal on Earth, I’m still alive. But, the years are marching on, Mithun is growing old, and we're uncertain how much longer he'll grace Earth. So, did you receive my letters or not? Convey my warm regards to Mithun. I chose him; he acted better than anyone, much superior to Bachchan. Bachchan's performances were boring and humorless."

Let us remind ourselves of the context in the Soviet Union: school education was obligatory, and higher education was free. In India during the 1980s, a substantial portion of the population remained illiterate, and television broadcasts were limited to major cities, airing only on two channels and just four days a week. For this demographic, Bachchan's performances were indeed deemed "boring and not funny." Due to the intricate psyche of his characters, the complexity of his monologues, and the cinematic aesthetic language – even with continuous panoramas, camera rotations, and tilted angles – such an audience simply grew weary. This dynamic shifts when it comes to Chakraborty. As seen in his character's verses from one of his most intricate and striking films, nestled in the pre-New Year frenzy of a hermetically sealed detective thriller revolving around an implausible murder, "Who and How?" (1983), he exudes truth and sincerity. The camera is turned on, placed on a tripod, and the dance ensues. He gets struck on the head – he sheds tears. He wipes his eyes – engages in a brawl. With a pat on the head – he returns to dancing. No extraneous decor, much like real life: wallpaper, couch, window. The Chakraborty era, the 1980s, inadvertently led many individuals, especially those in their 50s who actively watched films during that period, to believe that Bollywood cinema was entirely devoid of aesthetic elements.

Incidentally, this compulsion to shoot on actual locations, driven by financial constraints, within real apartments – adorned with wallpaper, couches, and windows – instilled a sense of familiarity following the overly ornate world of masala films. This democratization harmonized with another phase of socialist-leaning by the government: In 1980, Indira Gandhi regained her position as Prime Minister, and she once again intensified restrictions on imports while transitioning segments of the private economy into state control. However, having learned from past mistakes, she avoided the errors of centralizing authority. Parallel cinema redirected its focus toward laborers advocating for their rights, strikes, and labor unions. A surge in films depicted family narratives accentuating women's equality and the right to self-determination. These stories closely mirrored reality and were situated within the interiors we encounter in "Disco Dancer."

The stars of parallel cinema, particularly Om Puri and Smita Patil, who held Bollywood in contempt and occasionally engaged in the promotion of their "authorial" films, willingly and frequently participated in the productions of the "B. Subhash Movie Units" studio - because they provide "honest entertainment for the people and lack false grandiosity." Essentially, family drama loses its glamour - yet such familiar simplicity was favored back then. In 1984, four out of five nominations for the "Filmfare" in the Best Actress category were claimed by the main heroines of these films, including Shabana Azmi. One of these movies, "Mandi" (1983) - portraying the efforts of a public house collective defending their property against activists who attempt to manipulate public opinion by demagogically focusing on moral decay and prostitutes - was directed by Shyam Benegal.

Among all the parallel cinema directors in the 1980s, he stands as the sole filmmaker whose works genuinely endured the test of time. To me, this was precisely his prime period. In "Mandi" and the magically realistic account of an affluent family during the last months of Portuguese rule in Goa, "Trikal" (1985), the ironic yet harmonious reimagining of Bollywood genres and clichés (reminiscent of Altman's style, with multi-character compositions featuring a constellation of stars), the precision of social metaphor, nostalgia, and the lingering sense of time settling within the soul, are juxtaposed. This sensation of time, which, regardless of your actions, slips through your grasp, scatters past facades, customs, and graceful young bodies into the wind, but in those that follow, it resurrects all the former joys, errors, and mortal sins.

Nevertheless, the audience for whom Bachchan was not funny had no connection to these films. By the way, Bachchan recovered and returned to the set, but the creators of his films took into account past mistakes when they went overboard with motivations and aesthetics. They did not come to understand this from letters. The thing is, while Bachchan was recovering in the hospital, the box office results for 1982 were tallied, revealing that the seven-year gold streak had turned into a black hole where money was disappearing: out of the 2 billion rupees invested in the industry that year, only half returned in the way of box office revenue.

On the other hand, budget films with Chakraborty – and Govinda, who followed in his footsteps, adding slapstick to the formula of dance + fights + zero reflection – although they never ranked first, consistently remained in the top ten, even rising to the fourth position. Most importantly, they yielded tenfold returns on the invested dime.

Masala had taken a course toward dumbing down. The idols of masala, torn apart by contradictions and illusions just yesterday, destined to be eternal victims of their own childish mistakes and misconceptions, have transformed before our eyes into gamblers, masked avengers, lone riders, and simply seekers of adventures, spinning their schemes and weaving their romances with the same senselessness and carefreeness as the youth of the 1930s played in Errol Flynn's films.

Cautiously not entrusting itself to the intricate labyrinths of unpredictable human psyche, in these films, intellect was delegated away from humans to every other form of life - and now an octopus-assassin guarded treasures from human reach in the sunken ship ("Samraat," 1982), a venomous cobra protected a maharaja's chest of jewels ("Kaktri Musketeers"), a snake saved Bachchan, who was suspended over an abyss with man-eating crocodiles, by tying its tail to a branch with a maritime knot and coiling around his wrist with its neck ("Gangaa, Jamunaa, Saraswaathi," 1988). In another film with Bachchan, "Mard" (1985), the reins of governance were even given to a dog, not metaphorically, but quite literally - in the climactic chase, the dog single-handedly drives a horse-drawn carriage. The last two films were directed by Manmohan Desai, the king of masala, who transformed from a triumphalist and polisher of the genre into a favorite target of critics.

Never mind the "Filmfares," they had to be forgotten, and the press appealed to the creators of these films solely with vocabulary from a psychiatry textbook – since time and again, the audience distanced themselves from their idols of yesterday. And although, as pointed out by Bollywood cinema specialist Irina Zvegintseva in her publication from 1990, "Indian viewers, quite lenient towards impoverished heroines wearing numerous gold ornaments on screen and unemployed characters living in lavish mansions, would never forgive the introduction of elements of blatant magic into a contemporary-themed film" – ultimately, Bollywood would address this issue by plowing fertile ground for superhero comics with "Mr. India" (1987), and the reason for the failures was not solely this.

The thing is, the actors who just yesterday danced so gracefully with gypsy camps leaped with a backflip from an elephant's back to a royal box, jumped from a carriage onto a motorcycle seat, and from a horse's saddle to its reins, singing songs of friendship at their street-side feasts, teasing villains and playfully flirting with girls – over ten years of masala triumph, these very girls they once flirted with became their wives, they had children. They grew their bellies while the directors continued to make them do exactly the same things.

As a result, when in "Samraat," the 33-year-old Hema Malini, in a sarafan with frills and a red rose in her hair, chases a jeep on a motorcycle, driven by her present husband Dharmend taming unbroken horses and their obstinate owner one after the other, in the record-breaking box-office hit of the coming year, "Betaab," 1983), she and the 40-year-old Jeetendra sing, "Our friendship is strong and reliable: we are lucky in fights, and we're lucky in cards!" – it leaves, as Ilyinsky put it in "Carnival Night," a bad impression.

In the next scene, Malini bursts into the small apartment where these gamblers (and also divers) live as a couple. Director Mohan Segal drew inspiration from Tarantino's favorite film, "Live Like a Cop, Die Like a Man" (1976), where a pair of young cops fought, shot, chased cars together, and lived together. But when naked and fit 20-year-old Ray Lovelock with his blond locks and slim brunette Mark Purcell woke up on neighboring beds, there were no questions.

However, Malini watches as her 47-year-old husband and the father of her daughter emerge from the bathroom in print shorts. There is no debate – not only she but all of us delightedly observed in "Raja Jani" how his sophisticated playboy, recovering from a hangover, nonchalantly untied his robe in front of her. But that was in 1972! The sight that unfolds in "Samraat" is like that of a testicle that has escaped from swimming trunks. And when Jeetendra emerges from the bathroom shirtless with an impenetrable thicket of hair on his chest, the level of aesthetic pleasure becomes, to put it frankly, a matter of very specific personal preference

In the film "Like Three Musketeers," Dharmendra's threateningly overhanging belly no longer hides even under his shirt. But here, as in many masala films of the 1980s, the situation is saved by Mithun Chakraborty: his relative youth and the enthusiasm of a novice refreshed this picture, justified its existence – as it did the existence of "The Treasures of the Ancient Temple" (Taqdeer, 1982). Even the seasoned beauty Zeenat Aman, whose deceitful duo with the wealthy fool Chakraborty breathed new life into this cinema, portraying Madame Hemu Malini, who was sold into a brothel, found it challenging to breathe and move in the silvery jumpsuit of the "police officer's daughter" in "The Musketeers" just a year later. Her perpetual rival, Parveen Babi, who had been sharing the screen with Bachchan since "Walls," completely lost her sanity after filming the very scene in "Namak Halaal" (1982) by Prakash Mehra. In that scene, her villainess entices Shashi Kapoor with song and dance toward a trap door on the ship, under which man-eating sharks await him. Following that film, the only accounts heard about her were tales of a joint conspiracy involving the CIA, Queen Elizabeth, Prince Charles, and the young actor Sanjay Dutt, aimed at her killing her - and even then, these stories were mainly attributed to psychiatrists.

The visual cherry on top became the romantic nature scene from another leader of 1970s cinema, Yash Chopra's "Chandni," where, while singing a love song to Sridevi, Rishi Kapoor, overwhelmed with emotions, falls headlong into a field of flowers. It would all be fine – he and his colleagues had done this many times before – but when he did it specifically in 1989, his belly button was visually level with the mountain peaks framing the shot.

New heroes emerged, but, with the exception of Mithun, they were all unremarkable characters. There were plenty of new beauties, and some even had character. However, Bhawana Somaaya captured that time very accurately: "It never worked to analyze what led to the decline of commercial cinema in the 80s, but substantive actors gave way to conventional mannequins. None of them had an opinion you could agree or argue with."

In that decade, only Rekha was not devoid of her own opinions. She began acting at the dawn of the 1970s when she, like everyone else, was plump, round-faced, and, according to Mumtaz's memories, "so clumsy that she had to be pushed just to move from one end of the frame to the other."

In 1976, Rekha played in "Do Anjaane," where her character throws her husband Amitabh Bachchan off a train because he was hindering her from becoming a film star. The character, who was ready to kill for cinema and certainly sacrifice family life, seemed to hint to the actress how to live on. At the turn of the 1970s-1980s, she completely transformed herself: slimmed down, took Kathak iA classical Indian dance. lessons, and figured out how to wear brown-black lipstick, which fashionistas would soon call "Rekha's lipstick."

She changed her attire to churidar-kameez – a long tunic with leggings, the standard attire of the middle class. She swapped her wigs for straight hair with two braids on the sides.

She turned into a young girl you would find on a bus, but with makeup deliberately chosen to lend her an almost serpentine look, with the message "Don't mess with me – I'll kill you!" She would eliminate men from her life, never have children, and on-screen, she would create the image of a working urban woman, becoming increasingly emancipated from film to film.

In "Ek Hi Bhool" (1981), we meet her character on an overnight intercity bus among the passengers; she notices her ex-husband, whom she left with their little son – and she has provided for both of them perfectly. In "Agar Tum Na Hote" (1983), she is supporting her disabled husband, and in "Justice!" her character is a feminist lawyer fighting for single mothers' rights to child support and persuading seducers to recognize their illegitimate children and give them their surnames.

For a long time, her recognizable characters were the only alternative to the heroes of Chakraborty, who carved their path to stardom or the ring with their agility. But even she will end up with the crocodiles by the end of the decade, who will devour her face in "Khoon Bhari Maang" (1988). She will seek revenge against those who pushed her into the water, holding a machine gun in one hand and, with the other, in a leather glove that recently grasped a horse's mane and got dirty in a puddle. When she finally removes the colored contact lenses that prevent the villains from recognizing her, they immediately understand who they are dealing with and start to tremble.

"The Two Strangers" foreshadowed the trajectory of not only Rekha's career but also Mithun Chakraborty's; in this sense, the film's title sounds prophetically ominous. In this film, Mithun made his Bollywood debut: he only played a minor role, a neighborhood guy who intervenes to "sort out" things with Bachchan when the neighborhood resounds with the screams of yet another marital dispute. He fulfilled his on-screen promise.

When two titans clashed together in the film "Path of Fire" (Agneepath, 1990), the history of Bachchan and Rajesh Khanna mirrored each other once again. The actor who left with the "Filmfare" was not the one who had gone hoarse shouting over the roars of animals for seven years; it was the one who had brilliantly played the rustic character, Mithun.

Over those seven years, India was shaken by an armed revolt of Sikh separatists,iAn ethno-religious group in India. brutally suppressed and followed by even bloodier purges among the civilian population. One of the Sikh leaders called Indira Gandhi's regime "fascist," – and she was killed soon after. Her son, Rajiv, took her place, fighting Tamil iLiberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam, a Tamil rebel movement that fought for the creation of a Tamil state. separatists, and he also lost his life to their suicide bomber. Then there were premiers who could not stay in power for even six months – they were thrown out due to corruption scandals.

Mithun, who had at first cursed and later eloquently aged, was now unsure of whom to pursue; internal or external adversaries on the increasingly explosive and gunshot-filled screen and armed with two automatic rifles. In "Commandos," for instance, his armory guard confronts both Yakuza and Sicilian Mafia foes, intent on jointly seizing the world using Indian weaponry). Meanwhile, the audience continued hiding their rupees further and further away.

At this critical moment, Bollywood was saved by that same Nasir Hussain, who invented Shammi Kapoor and directed the first masala film. Now, for the third time, he brought Bombay cinema to an entirely new level – even though he had never before had to extricate Bollywood from a quagmire as deep as the one it had fallen into this time. The Bombay film industry was obviously going through an adolescent phase: shouts, cries, war games, ridiculous, against-the-grain outfits, best friend – a faithful dog, and all that. And the main thing – a discotheque, and preferably wall-to-wall.

And what is the only thing capable of distracting teenagers from fighting at the disco? Of course, first love. This time, the inventive Hussain did not try to make anything up, placing a simple and well-known screenplay into modern India: "Romeo and Juliet." Just like in the old films with Shammi, there had to be mountains, a sea of catchy songs, and two young runaways. However, they had to be genuinely young this time. His own 22-year-old nephew seemed like a suitable candidate, a seemingly innocent boy with curly hair and petulant lips – Aamir Khan. The film was called "Doomsday" (Qayamat Se Qayamat Tak, 1988), and it brought in box office revenues that had long been forgotten.

The following year, the same story, only with more sparkling and light ingredients and a happy ending, was played out on screen by the son of the screenwriter of the first and foremost masala films, Salim from the Salim-Javed duo – the 23-year-old dark-eyed bodybuilder Salman Khan: the film with a straightforward and clear title "I Fell in Love" (Maine Pyar Kiya) not only outperformed its competitors – only three films earned half of its profits, the rest were not even close. The youth was tired of gunfights, animals, and old men with shortness of breath wearing banana pants and T-shirts with the striped emblem of the GDR flag, dancing to "Brother Louie." The romance of the prom turned out to be the pill that Bollywood had been fruitlessly trying to find for ten years – and it had been right under its nose all along.

In the year 1991, in the film "Oath" (Saugandh), a true master of martial arts made his debut – a 23-year-old Akshay Kumar, who held a black belt in taekwondo and had trained in Thai boxing in Bangkok. He was a tall guy with a chiseled jawline and a torso as wooly as a carpet but very fresh.

These three were destined to shape the face of Indian cinema and remain its princes to this day. Just like during those same days in America, when from beneath the pirouettes of Van Damme, who didn't leave much hope for human emotion in films, emerged Pitt, Depp, and DiCaprio.

However, the two main protagonists, the king and the goddess, who are set to place the decisive accents to herald the Silver Age of Bombay cinema and, as a result, the global Bollywood phenomenon, will only appear on the set in the future, in the year 1992. Well, actually, they were already there, on the film stage, but for now – not in the roles that will transform Bombay cinema into a celebration of the soul, so much so that their presence will be recognized worldwide.

While working on the biographical part of this chapter, I frequently referred to the materials from the book "Mithun Chakraborty: The Heir from Kolkata" (2009) by Boris Usov, the leader of the rock band "Straw Raccoons."