THE HISTORY OF BOLLYWOOD

Backed by a somber arrangement of tolling funeral bells and the crackling of firecrackers, masterfully orchestrated by the new composer duo Kalyanji-Anandji, this was the first of their many background masterpieces that would render producers of the era speechless. Then, the boy awakens with a scream, now a young god, his fear replaced by rage. He submerges a villain in cocktail attire because, in his police uniform, he's restricted from doing what will define the core of this film and the subsequent decade of Bombay cinema. Five-minute extended fights, an intricate dance of kicks and blows, culminating with both heels crushing the defeated foe's chest. The satisfying clang of chains connecting. Car chases, transforming the traffic into pandemonium. A glamorous yet fierce display of power, drawing inspiration from the East – the nascent Indian action film was nourished by the essence of Hong Kong action movies.

However, the Bollywood and Hong Kong action genres soon became intertwined, evolving through shared inspiration. Experts suggest that Bachchan's next film, "Deewar" (1975), was reimagined by the Shaw brothers into the cult classic "The Brothers" (Long hu xiong di, 1979), which in turn inspired John Woo's "A Better Tomorrow" (Ying hung boon sik, 1986). The screenplay for "Deewar," where Bachchan portrays a mafia enforcer ultimately shot by his own police officer brother (Shashi Kapoor), was penned by the same duo, Salim-Javed, who crafted "Zanjeer." In essence, "Zanjeer" brought together a team that not only defined Bollywood's frenzied, scattered, and impulsive spirit during the latter half of the 1970s but also continued to ignite the sparks of Diwali iThe festival of lights in India symbolizes the victory of good over evil. celebrations with its outstanding contributions to global pop culture well into our present century.

In 2013, the Australian director Baz Luhrmann made a noteworthy choice by selecting Amitabh Bachchan as a partner and role model for Leonardo DiCaprio's grand production "The Great Gatsby."

Furthermore, in 2006, The Black Eyed Peas secured the Grammy Award for Best Rap Performance with their track "Don't Phunk With My Heart." Interestingly, they had to clarify that their award-winning composition "Don't Phunk With My Heart" was a musical blend of two songs by Kalyanji-Anandji, originally performed by Helen in films. One of these songs, the immortal "Yeh Mera Dil" ("Oh, My Heart!"), she performed while wielding a freshly uncorked whiskey bottle and dancing with a glass to captivate Bachchan's character dressed in a distinctive green-white-brown jacket. This scene was from the movie "Don" (1978), which marked Bachchan's fourth Filmfare Award.

In fact, during "The Prolonged Reckoning" period, Bachchan was already an established figure at the Filmfare Awards. He received recognition for his role as a friend and doctor to the terminally ill protagonist Rajesh Khanna in the movie "Anand" (1971). This poignant drama about a poet embracing life with a smile won seven awards, including Best Film of the Year, with both actors receiving accolades. Despite his growth, commanding presence, and resonant deep voice, often sought by parallel cinema directors for voice-over work, Bachchan was not given much dialogue in the familiar and comforting film, where Rajesh Khanna held sway. Interestingly, in the Rajasthan-set spaghetti-western-inspired Romeo and Juliet themed story "Reshma Aur Shera" (1971), his character was altogether portrayed as mute.

His relatively small role in "The Prolonged Reckoning" came about mainly because other stars declined roles in a film lacking the crucial element for Bombay cinema – a love story.

Throughout most of the film, Bachchan's towering presence was overshadowed by Jaya Bhaduri's spirited performance (the two would marry shortly after the film's release). Bhaduri played a street knife sharpener, whom Vijay shelters in his home in accordance with his understanding of aggressive individualism – governing all actions of both this character and almost all future characters of the actor – a witness protection program. While romantic melodies played by wandering musicians outside the window and meaningful smiles from Vijay's family and acquaintances kindled a glimmer of hope in the girl's eyes, Bachchan's on-screen interest in Bhaduri was limited to explaining the difference between whiskey and milk glasses. Moreover, Bhaduri's portrayal of awakening was marked by a detached delicacy, characteristic of Satyajit Ray's cinema, a style distinct from mainstream melodramas. The final passage of the heroes amidst those very Diwali firecrackers and pyrotechnic smoke, which framed the credits with horses, is accompanied by bells, not of a wedding, but of a funeral - over the mountain of corpses, which in just over two hours were laid out in stacks by Vijay, over his childhood obsession that had scattered after the act of vengeance, and as a result, over the exhausted storyline of an unprecedented movie that we were ready to watch indefinitely.

The film's triumph and the emergence of the new hero, Bachchan, were nothing short of overwhelming. The press quickly christened him as the "angry young man," a characterization further solidified and elevated through subsequent cinematic roles. The case of "The Prolonged Reckoning," centered around revenge for parental murder, is straightforward. Similarly, in "Trishul" (1978), Bachchan portrayed another character named Vijay, whose mother confessed on her deathbed that his father abandoned her to marry the daughter of a construction magnate. This Vijay not only employed physical strength but also economic leverage to dismantle his father's empire, engaged in industrial espionage, seduced his secretary and even got behind the wheel of a demolition excavator to tear down the structures he loathed.

Bachchan adeptly portrayed characters who grew up as victims of their own youthful naivety, often misunderstanding their fathers' actions as youngsters. Vijay from "The Wall" ( "Zanjeer" ) becomes a target for his brother because he took the unjust anger of the union members, who had tattooed the words "Son of a traitor" on his young hand, at face value. Additionally, this film introduced a unique form of intimacy for Bollywood through a scene where two lonely individuals meet behind a bar counter - their conversation captured by the camera through a row of bottles - and by the next morning, her mane rests on his bare torso as he lights a cigarette for himself, and for her as well.

In "Shakti" (1982), another Vijay will not only uncover himself but also his companion in an intimate scene. The camera obligingly makes a turn on the dolly at that moment to be positioned behind Smitha Patil as she touches her nipples to Bachchan's chest hair.

This Vijay calculated two plus two in his childhood, realized in a life-threatening situation that justice meant more to his police officer father (Dilip Kumar) than his own life, and turned to the path of thievery. It's his father who will end him, shedding tears while holding his son as he gasps his departing breath amidst the nighttime lights of the international airstrip: once again, a nod towards Eastern counterparts in action films, the impactful finale's setting is borrowed from the closing scenes of the film "The 109th Goes Uninterrupted" (1975) featuring Ken Takakura.

The heroes of Rajesh Khanna brought order to villages, freeing them from the clutches of usurers and corrupt officials. Bachchan stands alone, often battling windmills and at times (more on this later), constructing sandcastles,iUnofficial name for armed communist groups in India. enduring suffering, and growing angry as the waves erode their walls. Following the suppression of the Naxalite movement in India in 1973, a student protest movement gained momentum. Despite increased centralization of power, social conditions saw only minor enhancements, primarily in isolated instances. Nonetheless, protectionism, familial favoritism, and the concentration of power under the prime minister's authority were apparent. A wave of strikes surged, amplifying the chorus of opposition. In June 1975, Indira Gandhi declared a state of emergency: opposition parties were banned, strict press censorship was enforced, and curfews were imposed. Thus, a year and a half passed, a period many intellectuals recall as India's "black hour." When, in the spring of 1977, Gandhi audaciously held democratic elections, she and her party were firmly ousted from power. The people did not accept the dictatorship…

Certainly, the hero navigating a world where discerning right from wrong is an elusive task was just what the doctor ordered for that era. The final fate of such a hero, unlike Khanna's triumphant truth-seekers or Kapoor's amiable adventurers, remains a fifty-fifty proposition with Bachchan: sometimes, this fate offers mere release. With utmost depth and a kaleidoscopic approach, Prakash Mehra, the director of "The Prolonged Reckoning," aided Bachchan in exploring this theme of disorientation so profound that death becomes a preferable way out. However, in "Muqaddar Ka Sikandar," the highest-grossing film of 1978, the team behind "The Prolonged Reckoning" united in full force: screenwriters Salim-Javed and composers Kalyanji-Anandji. This time, they weren't crafting an experimental film but an opulent three-hour widescreen spectacle, accompanied not by wandering musicians but the richly orchestrated disco masterpiece, "Pyar Zindagi Hai" ("Love is Life"). This song served as both the tolling of the hero's shattered heart and the haunting melody of his hangover as he awakens with his face on the table in an empty restaurant.

Without delving into the intricacies of the plot, it's sufficient to state that Bachchan's character in "The Lord of Fate" (Muqaddar Ka Sikandar) was so multi-faceted that the director and actor later divided it into two characters, forming the basis for equally realized three-hour films with telling titles, "Orphan" (Laawaris, 1981) and "The Alcoholic" (Sharaabi, 1984). It's the combination of these two circumstances that prevents Bachchan's character in "The Lord" from recognizing what he himself perceives as love. The object of his childhood admiration is viewed as the unbearable, persistent behavior of a chronically drunk nouveau riche. Naturally, when a person is deceived by the illusion that his actions are motivated by love, despite its nonexistence, but rather it only flourishes within his chosen one, his fiancée desires to rid herself of him, ultimately resulting in catastrophe.

This chosen one, portrayed by Raakhee Gulzar, was Bachchan's former co-star in numerous films and the only actress whose name preceded his surname in the credits. She could fittingly be likened to the Indian Elizabeth Taylor – both for the beauty of her eyes and for embodying the theme of elusive happiness entwined in the fabric of everyday life, that surge of emotion for which the world has little to offer: it's too impoverished to adequately respond to such an impulse.

Born on India's Independence Day, August 15, 1947, Raakhee projected the same restlessness, obstinacy, and grandiose sense that the world was much smaller than she – as attested by what her co-stars Rishi Kapoor and Bachchan recounted. In her films, Raakhee pursued the same line of aggressive individualism and blindness to the actual state of affairs as Bachchan, yet she illustrated how it could manifest in female behavior and destinies, which in 1970s India starkly differed from those of men. When these actors collided in a duet, it wasn't a love story but more of a dialogue between a blind person and a deaf-mute, as in "The Lord," or a compelling blend of complete comprehension and obstinacy, like when Raakhee, portraying Miss Computer, her father's secretary in the film "Trishul," fully comprehends the motives behind Vijay's attention and genuinely shares his sense of solitude in the bustling city. She even finds it just and objectively necessary to expose some of her boss's less-than-legal dealings, but she values her solitary peace and well-being too much to disrupt it with the expensive luxury of professional and romantic escapades.

In the film "The Other Man" (Doosara Aadmi, 1977), her character is a graphic designer who remains unemployable because she charged too much and only appeared at the office when she feels like it. The nature of this lady, perpetually draped in black and white saris and sunglasses, living a solitary life in a house overlooking the ocean promenade, is aptly portrayed in the scene where she invites the handyman who came to fix her faucet to stay for dinner. Newlywed Rishi Kapoor hires her for his agency, only to be abruptly dismissed from her office on the very first working day. By evening, he discovers an ashtray filled with cigarette butts alongside a brilliantly designed ad campaign. Mistaking his admiration for love, the entire second act transforms into a bittersweet trance of their intoxicated lunches in deserted midday restaurants and their wordless, tipsy strolls by the sea and the highway.

In "Home for a Rest" (Baseraa, 1981), Raakhee embodies a character that, enclosed in the quotation marks of postmodern irony, would later find a counterpart in Pedro Almodóvar's film "Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown" (1988). After 15 years of amnesia in a mental institution, her character regains her senses and takes a taxi home, unaware that years have slipped by and that not only has fashion changed but also her husband's latest love interest. Her own son, who she doesn’t realize has grown up, is engaged to a woman that he has feelings akin to a son's affection for.

The theme of self-deception shared by Raakhee and Bachchan finds expression through a concurrently personal and universally relatable scenario: here, melodrama serves as both a magnifying glass and metaphor for a state familiar to many of us – getting stuck in the past and realizing it too late.

Another noteworthy film with Raakhee, though not directed by Talwar, is "Melting Clouds" (Pighalta Aasman, 1985). The narrative revolves around a Kashmiri businesswoman who, upon discovering that her deceased lover's attention wasn't solely devoted to her, dies in protest. He had promised her father to care for an orphaned girl who had worked as her secretary. Yet, the film's significance doesn't solely rest on its director; Kalyanji-Anandji's music also plays a memorable role, gifting a dreamy melody to all those who like embarking on lengthy road trips.

Now, having allowed the central character of the latter half of the 1970s to leave his mark, we must retrace our steps to 1973 for two reasons. Firstly, we need to establish another significant factor explaining how Bachchan rapidly dethroned Rajesh Khanna. Secondly, we need to identify the birth of the masala film, a crucial artistic aspiration borne from the cumulative Bombay cinema experience. This decade in Bachchan's career epitomized Bollywood's golden era, and 1973 stands as the precise starting point.

Now, after having allowed the central character of the latter half of the 1970s to establish his influence, we need to return to 1973 due to two pivotal reasons. First, we must illuminate another significant factor explaining why Bachchan rapidly surpassed Rajesh Khanna. Second, we need to pinpoint the inception of the masala film, an artistic goal integral to the evolving Bombay cinema experience. This decade in Bachchan's career marked Bollywood's golden era, and the year 1973 served as its precise start.

Following "Zanjeer," Bachchan commenced filming another movie with Khanna under the direction of the same filmmaker, Rishi Kapoor. Two years earlier, Kapoor had choreographed both actors to the "Filmfare Awards" stage with "Anand." Our emphasis here isn't primarily on the film's narrative, even though it absorbed the polarized socio-political landscape of the era like a sponge. It directly addressed the conflict between industrialists and unions in "Ungrateful" (Namak Haraam, 1973) rather than merely alluding to it through criminal plots. What truly stands out is its aftermath. At the "Filmfare Awards," Bachchan secured his second "Filmfare" award for Best Supporting Actor.

However, Khanna didn't just miss out on an award; he wasn't even nominated. As you might recall from the preceding chapter, Khanna was generally averse to sharing the screen with other actors. The experience of "Ungrateful" only validated his reservations about male co-stars, to the extent that he quickly married in real life and sought solace in the bottle on screen. The plot and essence of his subsequent film "City of Love" (Prem Nagar, 1974) can be distilled to Hema Malini imploring him for three hours not to drink. In moments when she turned away, he engaged the vivacious dancer Aruna Irani in a game of strip poker, eventually leaving her in nothing but her undergarments on the sofa.

In stark contrast, Bachchan, with his commanding stature, looked upon his colleagues with a benevolent gaze. He and Vinod Khanna formed a dynamic duo in fight sequences; with Shashi Kapoor, he could engage in debates for hours on end, both often ending up in tears from their passionate discussions; and with Dharmendra, they achieved the unimaginable. The film "Vengeance and Justice" (Sholay, 1975) not just became but remained India's highest-grossing film ( the 70-millimeter western played continuously for five years at Bombay's largest cinema, "Minerva," with over 100 million tickets sold); they performed the first male duet in the history of Indian cinema. This spirited duet was sung while riding a motorcycle, and after the film's release, a song by the male heroes became a mandatory ingredient in any masala film aspiring to make any significant impact and sales at the box office.

While one film brought all three of the aforementioned actors into Bachchan's realm, Rishi Kapoor was humorously added to the mix, symbolizing the student audience of that time, known for their audacity and cheerful nonconformity. In "Bobby" (1973), the highest-grossing film of that year and the one that earned Kapoor his "Filmfare" award, he appeared bare-bottomed. Kapoor's encounter with his future wife, Neetu Singh, involved both of them cavorting before the camera in fishnet stockings and feathers on their bottoms in "The Disappearance" (Rafoo Chakkar, 1975), a remake of "Some Like It Hot," where he played Josephine, and she portrayed Dushyant. Additionally, to add a touch of tragedy, Dilip Kumar played the role of the father. However, Bachchan cherished each of these collaborations. With every co-star, he discovered something within the frame that resonated, infusing the thrill of friendship and the delight of collective acting, scattering sparks of joy throughout the audience.

If Bachchan engaged with the societal pulse of his time through his chosen themes in acting, then his camaraderie in ensemble work, his enthusiasm, and willingness solidified his position as the preeminent and irreplaceable star of the latter half of the 1970s. This distinction emerged because he seamlessly responded to the aesthetic aspirations of the Bollywood era. And in Bollywood, the dawn of the golden era was approaching. And in Bollywood, the golden era was emerging. Because - and many experts agree on this - it was in 1973 that the audience was presented with the first hundred percent artistically realized specimen of masala cinema.

In the first chapter, we previously delved into the concept of nava-rasa – the Indian dramaturgical concept rooted in ancient theater, where the audience must experience nine emotions or states for a complete aesthetic encounter. Just to recap, these are love, joy, sorrow, anger, courage, fear, disgust, surprise, and tranquility. As we discussed earlier, Bollywood aimed to satisfy nava-rasa criteria from the late 1940s, believing that alternating genres within a single film would contribute to this fulfillment. While experiments were conducted and successes were achieved, achieving direct success remained elusive. We remember the efforts of Nazir Hussain, whose films often contained extraneous elements that could be trimmed without the audience noticing. We also recall the experience of Manmohan Desai – as we explored in the previous chapter, his film "Dangerous Resemblance" lacked dramatic catharsis, presenting its resolution through rapid dialogue as if the sequence of moods and genres was the sole objective, not necessitating a resolution. It's a crescendo, but not quite. Interestingly, these very individuals would now ascend to the throne of masala cinema.

The solution was quite simple: the screenwriters. In the duo of Salim-Javed, masala found skilled craftsmen capable of intricately weaving the nine emotions and nine genres into an inseparable tapestry, constructing narratives in a way that only their collaborative genius could ensure catharsis, crescendo, and resolution. In my assessment, from a genre perspective, they cracked the masala code a year earlier in the film "Seeta Aur Geeta" (1972). In that film, all nine emotions were present; there was comedy, melodrama, martial arts, a musical revue (with Dharmendra and Hema Malini's characters as street performers and singers), and a swashbuckling tale with villains imprisoning a princess in a tower while knights storm the castle – all seamlessly intertwined. Hema Malini became the first female lead in a comedy genre: in her scenes, she engaged in playful banter with the comedic old lady Manorama, performing in the traditions of national theater masks. Similar to Raakhee Gulzar, Malini also presented a feminine counterpart to Bachchan's indignant hero. However, while Raakhee portrayed internal turmoil, Malini embodied external dynamics – the kinetic energy of indignation. In "Seeta Aur Geeta," she played cards with street thugs, fought villains with swords and sabers, and, when taken to the police station, climbed onto a chandelier to continue her fiery outbursts.

"Seeta Aur Geeta" not only clinched the title of the highest-grossing film that year but also earned Malini a well-deserved Filmfare Award. She had debuted in Bombay four years prior alongside Raj Kapoor, captivating audiences with her radiant beauty and infectious smile. She had showcased her prowess as the most skilled dancer the screen had seen, and her films were already smashing records. However, it was "Seeta Aur Geeta" that truly put her in the spotlight, with the theme of "Fight if you must – fight." In "Hum Tere Aashiq Hain" (1979), when a gang of rapists attacked her character on a deserted beach at night, dressed in a form-fitting maxi dress and a horsehair plume in her hair, she instinctively seized a beam, hurling the men away while delivering resounding blows with her heels. In "Prem Nagar," her interest in Dharmendra is piqued by his ability to teach her how to shoot a gun. And in "Satte Pe Satta" (1982), she takes on seven brothers, including Bachchan, seamlessly transitioning from a Cossack dance to a Ukrainian hopak in suede boots and a skirt.

However, for the birth of a masala formula that could be followed rigidly, resembling the conventions of classical detective stories, a particular seismic shift, a radical solution, was required. After three splendid experiments that explored different directions ("Haathi Mere Saathi," "Seeta Aur Geeta," "Zanjeer"), Salim-Javed discovered this formula in 1973. The film was titled "Yaadon Ki Baaraat" and was directed by Nasir Hussain. In retrospect, the recipe might seem obvious, as it worked so effectively that a plethora of films based on it flooded the scene, each finding success due to the formula's inherent strength. Today, it feels as if Indian cinema has always been this way; nevertheless, someone had to conceive it.

Enter three brothers separated from childhood. One embarks on the wrong path, laying the foundation for an underworld narrative with shades of gangster drama, action, and crime. Another becomes a singer, introducing elements of vaudeville revue. The third remains unemployed, representing a social drama, and falls in love with a wealthy woman, giving rise to a melodrama centered around inequality. Naturally, all three are portrayed by charismatic movie stars catering to various tastes. Moreover, each brother has a girlfriend, equating to three more movie stars and a diverse spectrum. For some, courtship is laced with misunderstandings and pranks – humor emerges. For others, it's marked by tears or perilous escapades. Each brother has their rivals and antagonists – introducing more stars into the equation. And when the singing brother performs a song from their mother's lullabies on stage, drawing the other two brothers to the stage as they recognize the tune, the crescendo arrives. United, they face adversaries, embracing a martial arts film. Finally, with jubilation, they joyously dance under the wedding canopy alongside their chosen brides.

And it all fell into place perfectly. The silver screens were inundated with films featuring a plethora of stars, where the foundational genre was endlessly augmented: a Western vibe in "Sholay," an industrial drama in "Kaala Patthar" (1979), a disaster movie in "The Burning Train" (1980), a Bond-style spy film in "Shaan" (1980) complete with a villainous underground bunker on a remote island populated by crocodile-humanoids, and a pseudo-historical tapestry somewhere between "Cleopatra" and Jean Marais in "Dharam Veer" (1977). Surprisingly, the most effective ingredient for these multi-superstar concoctions turned out to be horror films – a feat achieved at a time when Hollywood was hesitant about delving into this genre! Leading the box office charts in 1976 was "Nagin," where a shape-shifting snake, alternating between the forms of Mumtaz and Rekha (we'll delve into this super-diva in the next segment), seeks vengeance against five men (Sunil Dutt, Feroz Khan, etc.) for slaying her spouse (Jeetendra) on the eve of their serpentine wedding. Reena Roy, in her human form as the snake's intended bride, was the tragic harlot – a requisite element in such films. She also starred in the 1979 blockbuster "Jaani Dushman," revolving around a werewolf with a predilection for brides clad in red saris. Furthermore, she appeared in the more modest adaptation of "The Exorcist" – "Jadu Tona" (1977).

In Nasir Hussain's films, special emphasis was placed on song battles. For at least 20 minutes, fresh hits by R.D. Burman followed one another on the cinematic stage. Hussain generously scattered them, paying homage to one of the greatest love songs ever composed, "Chand Mera Dil" ("The Moon is My Heart"), dedicating it to our era. He lavishly inserted it for about one and a half minutes amidst half a dozen compositions during that musical showdown, skillfully weaving it into the film "Hum Kisise Kum Nahin" (1977) and even assigning its delivery to the lesser-known actor Tariq. However, in his subsequent film, "Zamane Ko Dikhana Hai" (1981), he learned from his previous experiences and included the world's premier friendship song, "Puchcho Na Yaar Kya Hua" ("You Asked Me, My Friend"), which, let's be honest, was a sheer delight with its on-screen performer Rishi Kapoor. At the climax of such a musical face-off, a quartet of dancing can-can players adorned in sportswear graced the finale of the song, transforming the sequence into a truly unimaginable spectacle.

Manmohan Desai, on the other hand, struck a more balanced chord, leading to an unprecedented occurrence in 1977: all four (!) masala films released that year by the director secured positions in the top five box office hits. The crown of victory was claimed by the film "Amar Akbar Anthony" (our hero Bachchan earned his third Filmfare Award for his portrayal of Anthony Gonsalves). In this tale, the three brothers weren't just separated – they were raised in families of three distinct faiths. The film's release was put on hold during a state of emergency when previously opposing groups on religious grounds joined forces against the Gandhi dictatorship for ideological reasons.

Democracy had a common adversary, leading to yesterday's unyielding Muslims and Hindus embracing one another and Hindus from those very parties engaging in namaz while Muslims participated in Hindu festivities. Imagine the jubilant celebration that ensued upon the release of this film, centered on universal brotherhood, after a year and a half of repression and censorship after Gandhi was ousted from power through a nationwide vote!

Cinematographers swiftly advanced a sophisticated camera movement system, incorporating cranes and dollies, allowing viewers to instantly grasp characters' emotional states and the tension between them in the intricate multi-character compositions of masala films. For instance, when an argument is captured in an eight-angle shot, a dialogue where characters listen to each other employs a different approach: a dolly-mounted camera executes a seamless semicircle from a close-up of one participant to the other. Concluding a conversation with a sense of dejection is accentuated by an overhead angle, visually pressing the participants of the fruitless exchange against a chandelier of rug-sized proportions. Arrogance is portrayed from a low angle, while bewilderment is depicted from above. This dichotomy is intriguingly employed in a single-shot sequence in Prakash Mehra's film "Hera Pheri" (1976), where Bachchan receives a slap from his close friend Vinod Khanna. His initial reaction – grabbing a bottle – is captured from an overhead angle. But as he takes a swig, his confidence grows, and the angle shifts to a low perspective. Subsequently, the camera on a dolly trails him as he walks alongside a city wall, passing a line of posters advertising Dula Guha's films "Enemy" (Dushmun, 1971) and "True Friend" (Dost, 1974). He tears down the "True Friend" poster with his own hands. Ultimately, the camera pulls back and gracefully ascends with a crane, revealing a perspective of numerous street lamps in the night, making Bachchan's figure appear small and adrift in the deserted frame. Regardless of his choices or plans, he is now alone in the indifferent city.

While these techniques might be deemed clichés, the core of masala films is akin to that of fairy tales. The recurring cinematographic solutions in film after film function much like proverbs such as "The tale is told, but the deed is not yet done" – they pique the viewer's curiosity. Yet, there are moments when cinematographers transcend the familiar, especially when the sensation that needs to be conveyed from the screen is exceptionally unfamiliar. In the Holi festival scene in "Deewar," the spinning carousels and dance circles are complemented by the counter-rotation of the camera, inducing a dizzying effect. To underscore the impatient desperation of the heroin-addicted heroine, eager to administer a dose as swiftly as possible, the handheld camera in the prologue of Subhash Ghai's film "Vishwanath" (1978) sways like a breathless person, tracking the hero seamlessly and continuously through three halls, two staircases, and three rooms, only halting when he locates the coveted syringe case. In the same director's work, "Karz" (1980), the pioneer and exemplary instance of the purely Indian subgenre of reincarnation detective, where a murdered soul investigates its own demise in the next life, there is not a single static shot.

During this period, Bombay cinema amassed unprecedented box office profits, and what became a legend in Bollywood was that even the financially strained were willing to donate blood to avoid missing film premieres. Bollywood thrived in all aspects of artistic entrepreneurship while parallel cinema began to gain momentum. A guiding light for parallel filmmakers was Shyam Benegal. In interviews, he emphasizes the significance of adhering to rasa principles, employing archetypes from the "Ramayana" and the "Mahabharata," and narrating a modern industrialist rivalry family saga in the film "Kalyug" (1981). In this film, as well as his prior work "Junoon" (1979), the central role is essayed by Shashi Kapoor. In both these films, the film idol ventures into producing, and both movies claim the title of Best Film of the Year at the Filmfare Awards. The same esteemed accolade is bestowed upon Benegal's work "Bhumika" (1977), wherein he even introduces song and dance numbers that harmonize with the plot without sacrificing realism.

The film narrates the story of a film star from the 1930s and 1950s who spurned Bombay cinema to find solace in love. However, all her marriages and relationships dissolve into illusions, and in the finale, she hears the only genuinely heartfelt interest in herself from her longtime partner in fabricated screen escapades. He excitedly shares news of a new film in which he's cast her in a role seemingly tailored for her.

A wave of entirely new films emerges and quickly gains momentum at the crossroads of parallel cinema and Bollywood. Their success draws the middle class and urban intelligentsia to theaters. While these films touch on social and even political issues and portray daily life realistically, they serve more as a backdrop for stories about individuals whose fundamental survival concerns have been addressed. They delve into matters of relationships, leisure time, the divide between aspirations and reality – all the things that an ordinary person grapples with. Among the luminaries of this cinema is director Basu Chatterjee.

His slightly melancholic yet lyrical comedies revolve around themes of youthful nonchalance, irresponsibility, a fascination with fantasies and art, and a penchant for embellishment and exaggeration – traits that can prove costly in a world teeming with charlatans. One such film, "Manzil" (1979), features Amitabh Bachchan as the lead character.

One of the most captivating scenes in world cinema is Bachchan's stroll in the pouring rain, accompanied by the enchanting song of R.D. Burman, after a hearty – and agonizingly expensive for his character – lunch at a restaurant. This is a rare instance where a celebrity is captured amidst an indifferent passing crowd.

Filmed with a handheld camera, mainly from a distance, and employing the "cinéma vérité" style, the scene captures people rushing back to their offices after their lunch breaks. They huddle under the rain or shelter beneath umbrellas, oblivious to the presence of the leading film idol. There are no cameras or the typical bustle of shooting in such scenarios. As the crowd hurries on, Bachchan splashes through puddles, his shoe soles sending sprays of water, resembling a soaked sparrow on a stone bench by the embankment parapet. Wet hair clings to his forehead, and his face radiates a childlike tenderness as he smiles and exchanges words with the cameraman. In these close-ups, an irresistible urge to plant a kiss on his cheek surges forth. One of Bollywood's most discerning aficionados, Anastasia Belokurova, asserts that "Bachchan is not about sex at all," a sentiment that resonates genuinely. He's someone you'd want to kiss like a younger sibling or embrace like a best friend – an outpouring of pure emotions devoid of ulterior motives. This series of male portraits stands as one of the finest in global visual culture, a collection that even Bruce Weber might find emotionally stirring.