THE HISTORY OF BOLLYWOOD

In this dreamer, who preferred gazing out of school windows, engaging with peers, and solitary tobacco-smoking amidst the tree branches (albeit stronger substances were smoked in the novel), India immediately recognized itself – dreamy, passive, and subdued under the vast sky.

Moreover, film adaptations of "Devdas" introduced creative and technical solutions that, while seemingly minor, progressively propelled this sluggish, much like life itself at the time, cinema forward. For instance, the 1935 Bengali version with the legendary singing actor Saigal showcased that dialogue sound could be asynchronous, with characters delivering lines. Prior to that, the speaker was also the focus of attention. The Bengali "Devdas" demonstrated that it's possible to listen to the hero's lines while observing the heroine's expressions. This allowed us to simultaneously grasp both his words and her reactions, eliminating unnecessary verbal exchanges.

Directed by the intoxicated son of a maharaja, P. S. Barua, the Bengali "Devdas" resonated closely with a wealthy heir accustomed to privilege. He enlisted 25-year-old Bimal Roy as his cinematographer, nurturing Roy's exceptional photographic talent that was rare in India at the time. Roy's compositions held a particularly enchanting quality. In 1944, Roy directed a film titled "On the Morning Road" (Udayer Paathay), depicting a destitute writer rebelling against social injustice. This movie played a pivotal role in awakening Bengali social consciousness during the country's preparations to end British rule. Roy was called to Bombay to create a Hindi remake, "Humrohi" (1944), in which the famous song "Jana, Gana, Mana" was first heard, later becoming India's national anthem. Roy remained in Bombay, contributing significantly to the socially optimistic neorealist cinema of independent India's early years, even more so than Raj Kapoor. In the mid-1950s, Roy relinquished control, causing Indian cinema to shut the gates of once-thriving yet now deteriorating estates after the 1950s feudal reform, leading those behind the gates to seek solace in alcohol and discussions of "no hope, no faith, no happiness, no desires – wonderful!" These words were spoken by Dilip Kumar, his lips soaked in alcohol and tears, in his directorial rendition of Devdas.

Perhaps a viewer unfamiliar with the 1955 version of "Devdas" might perceive the screen's denials to resemble the slogan-like proclamations of leaders from strike committees in films of an earlier era but with a negative sign. However, during that time, "Devdas" didn't become merely a legend; it became the soul of Bollywood. This film encapsulated, like a water droplet, the psychological archetype and cumulative life circumstances that produce individuals living in a state of sweet paralysis, retreating where happiness and future are determined. One reason for this was Roy's direction, which, akin to Hitchcock but without Hitchcock's self-importance, could effectively and simply communicate with the audience using film techniques' language, delving into their fears, inaction, enchantment, nostalgia, attachment to home and the past, and everything that occupied their minds. For example, in "Devdas," he employed a method to convey the constancy of emotions over time through a recurring calligraphic camera movement in scenes separated by years: departure/pan left/smooth crane descent/pan right (as Devdas throws a mango on Parvati's windowsill). Another reason was Dilip Kumar and his performance.

Among all the Bollywood icons, Kumar is perhaps the least immediately comprehensible in terms of how he managed to become one of the pillars of the industry. If we draw upon ancient Indian mythology, he's one of the three elephants – Kumar, Bachchan, Shah Rukh Khan – on which the Bombay film world rests. Only he and Shah Rukh Khan have secured the Filmfare iThe main annual film award in India, similar to the Oscars. Award eight times, but Kumar won it three years consecutively, from 1956 to 1958. Between 1952 and 1965, none of his films faltered at the box office. When he reemerged in the early 1980s, nearly 60 years old after a 15-year semi-absence (including five years of complete silence), his films reigned supreme at the box office for two successive years: "Kranti" (1981) and "Vidhaata" (1982). He can't be described as conventionally handsome, although Devdas's childhood friend Parvati (Suchitra Sen) didn't hesitate to acknowledge this: "You have something to be proud of: you are handsome." In appearance, he embodies a typical Southerner, a common type encountered in films from Cairo or Lahore and on the promenade in Baku.

He was labeled the king of tragedy, but this doesn't fully explain his prowess, even though Kumar's signature became "Devdas," for which he clinched his first Filmfare Award (and the first ever awarded) for his portrayal of a fatally alcoholic character in "Daag" (1952). However, in his initial major claim to nationwide affection, the 30-year-old Kumar emerged triumphant in knightly tournaments, wielding swords with a triumphant smile and taming a rebellious princess in India's first color film – and one of the earliest masalas – "Aan" (1952). Moreover, when Leonid Brezhnev visited Indira Gandhi in December 1973, the General Secretary opted to feature Dilip Kumar on TV for two evenings instead of himself, delightfully embracing diverse roles, including diametrically opposed twins in terms of character and psyche (one being a simpleton) in the two-part series "Ram Aur Shyam" (1967).

Strangely enough, Randeep Madjumder came closer to comprehending the Kumar phenomenon. In his 2015 article titled " Before Brando, There Was Dilip Kumar," he attempted to demonstrate that Kumar employed Lee Strasberg's Method, a foundation of post-war Hollywood acting techniques used by actors like Brando, James Dean, and Montgomery Clift. This method combined Stanislavski's system with psychoanalysis. The heroes of these actors delved into self-searching more than engaging in dialogue, extracting lines with as much surprise as their co-actors and audience. Kumar's expressions weren't overly contorted; if they were, it was with a directness, like the scene in "Devdas" with his head thrown back like a woman. Yet, everything he said appeared reflective, not overly calculated. The visible but ultimately deceptive driving force of the Devdas plot is his family's refusal to approve his marriage to Parvati, who belongs to the same Brahmin caste but holds a lower rank and lesser affluence. Parvati, already engaged to another, visits his room at night and offers herself on any terms. Devdas-Kumar responds, "But my father is against it; what should I do?" in the same monotonous tone of uncertainty your cautious friend would use when you suggest mischief at night, saying, "I don't know... What if my mom comes in and I'm not there?" Devdas promises to converse with his family, and this series of discussions is conveyed through a rapid montage of brief episodes. Where a conventional Indian film would exude grandeur, Kumar inquires about marrying Parvati with nonchalance. Again, "Can I stay the night at Leokhi's?" And hearing "no," he shrugs and walks away. He approaches the tragic and the comic as someone discussing lunch options when not particularly hungry: "Is the girl you're talking about good?" "No, she's bad!" Kumar responds, lightly contemplating, much like you would reply to "Do you want beef stroganoff?" with "No, I had it the day before yesterday."

It's vital to note that to fully appreciate Kumar's acting style, you must watch his films with subtitles or translations that capture his intonations. As a schoolboy, I couldn't entirely grasp what Indians saw in him, even after watching his films, as I was viewing dubbed versions.

In the pivotal exchange with Parvati, Devdas imparts a profound truth: "You won't be happy with me." The aim of these articles isn't to psychoanalyze film characters, and anyhow, watching "Devdas" for yourself will reveal all. Yet, here lies a delicate and universal situation – the rejection of love accompanied by unwavering childhood friendship. We can't bring happiness to a friend, knowing our own shortcomings, our inclination to spend hours smoking in trees and burying ourselves under covers for days amid a collection of empty and half-empty bottles. Consequently, we can't be a source of joy. Similarly, Devdas, whose father stripped him of basic feelings of security and propriety as a young boy when catching him smoking in a tree and daydreaming instead of studying multiplication tables, isn't fundamentally convinced that happiness exists in life. He refuses to become the instrument that shatters this reality for Parvati, his childhood confidante.

A year later, Kumar declined the role of a drunken poet in the chronicle of alcoholism, "Pyaasa" (Thirst 1957). Following advice from a psychiatrist due to signs of depression, the actor started alternating between heavy roles and lighter, more optimistic ones. Ultimately, the role was taken up by the film's director, Guru Dutt himself. Yet, even without Kumar and other stars, "Pyaasa" secured the third position in India's box office earnings for 1957. This film, along with Guru Dutt's subsequent work, "Kaagaz Ke Phool" (Paper Flowers 1959), secured spots on lists of the greatest films of all time in publications like Time and Sight & Sound during the early 2000s when Bollywood's influence extended to the West. Together with the film "Sahib Bibi Aur Ghulam" (The Master, the Wife and the Slave 1962), they formed an alcohol-themed trilogy in Guru Dutt's oeuvre, a series that could have persisted indefinitely if the author, incapable of overcoming his lifetime of heavy drinking and unwilling to endure a painful and unappealing demise akin to his characters, hadn't consumed a fatal dose of sleeping pills. The second and third films, similar to "Devdas," present characters so consumed by their past that they are incapable of leaving not only the crumbling confines of their ancestral homes but also their beds. The premise of "Kaagaz Ke Phool" even revolves around the adaptation of "Devdas" that the protagonist and film director undertakes.

"Kaagaz Ke Phool" opens with an extended scene accompanied by a melancholic song, where the camera – mounted on a crane, on a dolly, always in motion – tracks a disheveled, gray-haired man entering the gates of a film studio that has undoubtedly witnessed grander days. He walks along the once-imposing driveway into an empty studio, climbing higher on the steps to the balconies. The elongated, widescreen shot accentuates the duration of this action – a novelty for India. "Cinemascope" was introduced to India by the Russians when they filmed the first Soviet-Indian film here in 1957, "Pardesi." The film was based on the book of the same name by Afanasy Nikitin, a debt-ridden merchant from Tver, who not only pioneered a trade route to India in the 15th century before Vasco da Gama but also, in his travel report created on the way home, first described for Europeans recipes and dishes whose names are familiar to any Londoner today, like kichri, for example. The main romantic heartthrob of Soviet cinema in the late 1950s, Oleg Strizhenov, played Nikitin in the film; in India, he was accompanied by stars – Nargis, Prithviraj Kapoor, and Balraj Sahni ("Mother India," "Two Acres of Land"). However, the film didn't achieve much success in India, and even though the Russians left their technology, the Bombay filmmakers didn't rush to adopt it. It was only three years later that Guru Dutt, who wanted to create a sense of endless and beginningless time characteristic of a deep alcoholic stupor in "Kaagaz Ke Phool," realized that the widescreen format would help him achieve that. And just like Truffaut and Visconti, who were making their major films "The 400 Blows" and "Rocco and His Brothers" respectively in those very days, he decided, contrary to the tradition emerging in the West, to make widescreen films black and white in order to accentuate the monotony of these endlessly alternating days without consciousness.

Meanwhile, as the prologue unfolds and the song abruptly concludes, light streams in through the doorway, accompanied by the noise of laborers entering. With the portrayal of the elderly man's disheveled appearance, flashbacks commence, revealing scenes depicting the former grandeur of the pavilion and studio. In his youth, he was clean-shaven, and from that very balcony adorned with intricate details, he salutes the enthusiastic crowds of fans descending the stairs in a torrent reminiscent of Eisenstein's Odessites.

Furthermore, within the flashback, a distinct Almodovarian portrayal of high society life comes to life, showcasing the film industry with its telephone operators (a nod to "Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown") who, amidst their own telephone chatter, entirely overlook connecting calls for the appropriate individuals – directors, and producers. All the leading comedians of that era are cast: the plump Tun Tun (as the telephone operator), the bug-eyed Mehmood, but most importantly, Johnny Walker, Guru Dutt's creation and yet another symbol of the era's inebriates, warrant special attention. Even his pseudonym, as you may have deduced, was drawn from a whiskey label.

While working as a conductor, Walker caught the attention of Balraj Sahni on the way to Guru Dutt's inaugural underground film "Baazi" (1951). Through his jokes and antics, the conductor succeeded in brightening the sleep-deprived morning crowd clinging to the footboards, motivating them to disembark at his stops with renewed energy and set off to work with smiles. Sahni believed that such a character was indispensable in the film studio and consequently enlisted Walker. The latter, while delivering food to the lighting crew, pretended to be intoxicated, evoking uproarious laughter from the studio. This is when Dutt took notice of him. He devised a pseudonym and transformed him into a comedian. If the central figure of the late 1950s was Devdas and the author was Dutt, then Johnny Walker brought mirth. In "Kaagaz Ke Phool," he portrays the brother-in-law of the main character, a socialite and drunkard, who hasn't been sober for so long that at "35 and a quarter years old, it feels like I've been alive in this world for a century." At a society event, he performs a hit song: "What we call marriage is a nightmare! It's better to stay single: come and go as you please, wherever you want, just stay there, walk the streets, drink until dawn!" The film's main character, the film director, will embrace drinking until dawn when, like Devdas, he loses his love – the actress portraying Parvati in his rendition of "Devdas" – and, like Devdas, squanders his wealth, auctioning off his possessions until he reaches the bottom of the last bottle. Following this, the flashback concludes, and the laborers from the prologue discover his lifeless body on the balcony.

In "Kaagaz Ke Phool," to evoke a disorienting sense of vertigo, Dutt employs editing techniques that seamlessly link camera movements: panoramas, tracking shots, and crane shots. This is pivotal for the development of masala cinema, which establishes a rich, highly adaptable, and easily recognizable system of codes for specific camera movements. We will delve into this topic in greater depth in the chapter devoted to the 1970s. Simultaneously, in "Kaagaz Ke Phool," this approach was too overt (unlike the tactful, economical choices in Bimal Roy's "Devdas") – upon its release in India, the film flopped.

However, much-deserved success awaited the concluding part of the trilogy, "Sahib Bibi Aur Ghulam," which clinched four Filmfare Awards and represented India at the Berlin Film Festival. Also narrated through flashbacks, it depicted the tale of marital alcoholism (four years before "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf!"). In essence, the story revolves around the wife of a zamindar who becomes so weary that her husband visits a courtesan that she becomes his drinking companion to prevent his leaving home. They become so entwined in this pattern that throughout the latter half, they are unable to detach from each other even in bed, which seems fastened to a table adorned with bottles and glasses.

All four Filmfare Awards were well-earned by the film. The first was for direction: following the commercial disappointment of "Paper Flowers," Guru Dutt swore off the director's chair and entrusted the role to his regular screenwriter, Abrar Alvi. Instead of Dutt's extravagant and grandiose style, Alvi proposed cinematic prose, a more composed approach reminiscent of Bimal Roy or the everyday tones employed by Dilip Kumar in his dialogue delivery. This manner of engagement with the audience harmonized with the narrative, bestowing the film with the ambiance of stories shared by old acquaintances who have been apart for a prolonged period, their lives have taken a downturn in the interim, akin to the anecdotes exchanged with friends over a post-lunch cigarette, imbued with a mild drowsiness from a hearty meal and alcohol.

The second award was for cinematography: Guru Dutt's consistent cinematographer, V. K. Murthy, structured the initial half with static wide and medium shots, allowing the audience to immerse themselves in the ambiance, while in the latter half, he escalated the shots of the disintegrating married couple, culminating towards the finale in alternating extreme close-ups of the husband's and wife's faces, whispering intoxicatedly to each other, as if one could perceive the warmth and perspiration of these ceaselessly entwined, ill-fated characters.

The third award was bestowed upon Meena Kumari for the best female role. By the time of the film's release, she had already been a superstar for a decade. Here, she impeccably embodied the transformation from a woman who, with a hint of irony, safeguarded her solitude as the wife of a landlord within her chambers into a woman who can no longer even open her eyes. She persisted in whispering her grievances, pressing her lips to her husband's lips. She portrayed someone desperately yearning to drift into slumber after each utterance and shot, yet sleep eludes her, and the revelry persists. Kumar's performance is precisely the kind that warrants a recollection of the lyrics from Liza Minnelli's song: Is she a singer or a song? Kumar comprehended the role she was portraying. At 28, she had already gained weight – akin to anyone who can afford a substantial meal while drinking: 10 years later, she succumbed to cirrhosis of the liver, and the film would come to be viewed as a sort of document.

Given the amalgamation of the aforementioned merits, it is entirely justified that "Sahib Bibi Aur Ghulam" secured its fourth Filmfare Award for the best film of the year.

It's time to provide historical context for this drastic turn: why, in the ninth year of India's independence, did Bollywood, after its period of social optimism and neorealism, take such a sharp turn towards decadence? It retreated from the bustling streets to dim chambers, favoring feudal lords over beggars and orphans and seemingly abandoning the very essence that Nehru had sought to strip away from them. Bhawana Somaya, a columnist for major Indian newspapers and the author of four significant books on cinema, succinctly captured the essence of that era. In her thought-provoking article titled "Where Have All the Men Gone?" (2001), she stated about the period of interest: "The newfound freedom turned into a new, now multifaceted burden."

Fighting against an external enemy, an occupier is relatively straightforward. It's even more challenging with a despised regime, and an anti-human social structure. Yet, at least in that scenario, it's clear who your friends and enemies are. When the enemy, blamed for all your troubles, is ousted, and problems and woes not only persist but multiply, then disillusionment sets in. We are well aware of this: after breaking free from the communist dictate and gaining independence in the 1990s, our former Soviet countries experienced bewilderment, which later transitioned into nostalgia for the lost order towards the end of the decade. A surplus of alcohol and other intoxicants accompanied this period.

An exacerbating factor that fueled Indians' desire to escape into oblivion and memories (often deceptive, idealizing the past order and tied to the secure feelings of childhood) was the radical shift in government policy regarding fundamental positions. For instance, the spinning wheel symbolized Mahatma Gandhi's liberation movement: he would purchase, gather, and burn imported factory-made clothes, encouraging Indians to produce their own garments. This symbolized the rejection of any services from the occupiers. "If their goods and services remain unused, they will leave, as the market will cease to be a market," reasoned Gandhi, who advocated nonviolent resistance. Many adhered to his call, leaving British factories and returning to manual labor.

However, in the 1950s, Jawaharlal Nehru, the Prime Minister at the time and a crucial successor and advocate of Gandhi, delivered a diametrically opposite call, heralding an era of industrialization in India. Such vacillation induced confusion. Cinema responded to these attempts to reason with the Prime Minister, and the response was remarkably successful. In the film "A New Era" (Naya Daur, 1957), Dilip Kumar portrayed a rural cart driver whose livelihood was threatened by the introduction of a bus route to the village. His sole chance to retain his job – and the familiar village way of life – was to defeat a bus in a race using his horse-drawn cart. In the climax, Kumar's character, with the assistance of the villagers, essentially constructs a new shortcut road, securing victory. The actor earned his fourth Filmfare Award for this role, and the film's screenplay received similar recognition. This is a clear example of cinema becoming a platform for expressing people's aspirations, even when those aspirations contradicted the government's policies.

The loss of familiar employment led to mass population migration to the city, a phenomenon historians associate with the decline of solidarity and behavioral norms. The legendary trilogy of Bengali director Satyajit Ray, consisting of "Pather Panchali" (Song of the Little Road, 1955, Cannes Film Festival Prize), "Aparajito" (The Unvanquished, 1956, Golden Lion at the Venice Film Festival), and "Apur Sansar" (The World of Apu, 1959), is essentially a heartfelt but restrained lament of a boy forced to mature into a life he's accustomed to, adhering to traditional ways in India during that time. While at the outset of "Aparajito," the hero's father dies surrounded by family, mourned as is customary and sanctified by tradition, by the film's conclusion, his mother departs this world alone, while her son earns a living in Calcutta for some unknown purpose.

Ray's films are not Bollywood, of course, but thematically, this artist is akin to Luchino Visconti, who transitioned from neorealism to mourning the departing aristocracy as bearers of high culture, and to chastising the wounds of urban industrial life, the most prominent of which was the devaluation of family bonds and broader emotional connections between people. What's crucial for us to note is that Bollywood followed a similar trajectory in the first two decades after gaining independence. In "The Big City" (Mahanagar, 1963), as we will explore in the next chapter, we delve into this territory. Additionally, in 1958, he directed "The Music Room" (Jalsaghar) – a refined ode to the declining tribe of zamindars. The film's international premiere took place at the First Moscow International Film Festival, where it won an award for its musical score. However, the local press branded it as "decadent." But that's exactly what it was! The impoverished feudal lord hears the raucous, vulgar sounds of an orchestra coming from a neighboring bungalow. The nouveau riche, enriched by industrialization, throws money around, celebrating his son's initiation. The feudal lord reminisces about the past when he gathered the most exquisite performers and musicians and organized festivals of classical Indian music. He squanders the remnants of his wealth to gather the best performers from the brothels – where, during British rule, the finest musicians used to perform – to treat his neighbors to the delicacies of days gone by: a truly refined concert. In the film's climax, we find him on the rooftop of his house, basking in the slanting rays of the sun with a blissful smile: this brief salute to high art is worth the future, especially one as unappealing as that which awaited India.

In 1977, Ray made a unique trip to Bombay and directed a Hindi film featuring Bollywood stars. He revisited the same theme, but in a more radical manner. "The Chess Players" (Shatranj Ke Khilari, winner of the Filmfare Award for Best Direction) is a tale infused with gentle irony, depicting two feudal friends who, even amidst the roar of British artillery, remained engrossed in their chess games, oblivious to the East India Company's encroachment on their principality. Amjad Khan, the prominent antagonist of Bollywood during that period, known for his role as the bloodthirsty Gabbar Singh in "Sholay" (1975), played a key role in this film and was remarkably pleased. Portraying an effeminate Maharaja, he shot glances from beneath his heavily made-up eyes while rehearsing ancient dances. When the British suggest disbanding his army, he lets out a sigh of relief, mentioning that the East India Company will now "safeguard his principality." This means he no longer has to be concerned about these matters and can fully immerse himself in Bharatanatyam.iOne of the classical styles of Indian dance. The film excels in its visual presentation, including costumes, dances, and decorations.

The latter half of the 1950s in Bollywood also witnessed a growing interest in ethnography. An endeavor to create an authentic encyclopedia of Indian culture can be observed in the color film "Jhanak Jhanak Payal Baaje" (1955), which revolves around dance competitions. Despite assigning the lead role to the esteemed Kathak iA type of classical Indian dance. performer Gopi Krishna, the dances themselves presented a curious fusion of traditional styles and contemporary Western ballet. This blend extended to the costumes as well. For instance, the dance of Kama, the progenitor of the Kama Sutra, and his wife Rati was performed in attire reminiscent of Khmer royal ballet. This combination, coupled with innovative choreography and camerawork evoking the motions of amusement park rides, contributed to the foundation of Bollywood's dance sequences.

Meena Kumari (with the help of dancer and future cabaret-style star Padma Khanna) portrayed a much more tradition-bound dance style in the film "Pakeezah" (Pure, 1972). Although the film's production was stretched out over 10 years due to various reasons, it was initiated in the early 1960s. Another significant prolonged project was "Mughal-e-Azam" (The Great Mughal, 1960) starring Dilip Kumar as the son of Emperor Akbar, an Indian equivalent of "Cleopatra."

However, even when Bollywood didn't seek refuge from contradictions in the palaces of the distant past or the waning estates of the present, the curtains before the heroes of the late 1950s were tightly drawn. Behind the well-brought-up orphan from a Brahmin family, who, with the inherent elegance of educated girls, reflects on the caste-based impossibility of marrying for love with the master's son ("Untouchable" / Sujata, 1960, directed by Bimal Roy, winner of 4 Filmfare Awards, including Best Film of the Year). Behind the once-famous singer, now compelled by marriage to assume the role of a housewife for an indispensable rural doctor, whose knowledge is vital in the village, in contrast to the luxury of her voice ("In the Name of Love" / Anuradha, 1960, directed by Rishi Kesh Mukherjee). These measured and sober films suffered from agoraphobia and remained within four walls, as befit their heroines who were paralyzed by uncertainty when the past had irreversibly gone and the new had not yet arrived.

Bimal Roy went further than others, playing the card of nostalgic paralysis as if it were an obvious theme for Indians in the film "Madhumati" (1958) with Dilip Kumar (winner of 9 Filmfare Awards, including Best Film of the Year). To be fair, this theme had already been touched upon in 1949 in the film "Mahal," but there it served as an opportunity to infuse gothic horror, which resolved quite mundanely in the spirit of "The Hound of the Baskervilles." The film adaptation of "The Hound" – transposed, of course, to the Indian context – and the precursor to it, will be created by Bollywood, as is understandable, in the period of interest to us ("Twenty Years Later" / Bees Saal Baad, 1962).

Roy's film, on the other hand, is pure poetry, with flashbacks, eternal love, and eternal return. However, in this fantasy, there is more truth than in the noisy, uplifting films about the creation of labor unions and strikes in a mill ("Call to Arms" / Paigham, 1959, starring Dilip Kumar) or the construction of a dam by the efforts of the entire village ("Mother India," 1957, rightfully criticized by The Village Voice as an "incongruous mixture of Soviet tractor opera, Italian neorealism, and a dozen numbers from a Technicolor musical"). All of this reeks of government orders, and the poster-like enthusiasm of such heroes cannot humanize even Dilip Kumar. The ending of the somewhat similar film "The People Awaken" (Insaan Jaag Utha, 1959) looks much more convincing, where the hero, who worked as a crane operator on a construction site, turns out to be a treasure hunter in search of hidden treasures.

Of course, this kind of cinema is sadly welcomed and encouraged at the government level: the artistically feeble "Mother India" was nominated for an Oscar, and there, what characterizes the state of mind of the members of the American Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, it made it to the top five finalists for Best Foreign Language Film (and only lost the award to Fellini's "Nights of Cabiria" by a single vote). The ham, treading the line of the party and the government, attempted to step on the doomed but honest alcoholics who locked themselves in their bungalows. Fortunately, the future of Bollywood was not with him, as our next chapter will explore.

During the sunset of the considered period, Dilip Kumar dealt with boorishness in his own way in his last consecutive works - "Gunga Jamuna" (1961); after this film, he began taking long breaks between shoots. In this film, he told the story of two brothers, one of whom sacrifices himself, injuring his back and even becoming an outlaw in the mountains just to ensure his younger brother’s future and education. When the younger brother returns and becomes a policeman, he, without a trace of conscience, shoots his brother who sacrificed himself to save him, in accordance with the law – and, along with his brother, he tries to destroy traces of his less-than-honorable past, from which every boor is in a hurry to distance himself. There's an opinion that Kumar was not only the author of the script but also, unofficially, the director of the film. In any case, it's well-known that he personally chose the color of each sari for his loyal partner Vijayantimala, ever since "Devdas" (where she played a courtesan caring for the protagonist). In this film, he preferred dusty shades of unnatural colors like purple and emerald over all others. His film about how the new kills what allowed it to sprout and blossom in the past gained a waxen beauty akin to artificial bouquets sold in cemeteries.