THE HISTORY OF BOLLYWOOD

Shammi Kapoor, the younger sibling of Raj Kapoor, commenced his acting journey in 1953. His initial 20 films faced consecutive disastrous failures. It wasn't until his 21st film, "You Haven't Seen Such a One" (Tumsa Nahin Dekha, 1957), that he underwent a transformation, reshaping the very framework of expectations for Bombay cinema. This film marked the directorial debut of screenwriter Nasir Hussain. Within the realm of black-and-white cinema, he introduced an entirely new approach to film and life itself – the viewpoint of a youthful individual for whom adult troubles were mere trifles. Hormones and youthful energy whispered a single truth: the world is yours. Even the titles of many of his forthcoming films sounded like impulsive mantras of youth, capped with an unwavering exclamation mark: "We're No Worse Than Others!" (Hum Kisise Kum Nahin, 1977), "I'll Prove It to the Whole World!" (Zamaane Ko Dikhana Hai, 1981). In this youthful world, the rhythms of disco and the pursuit of enjoyment reign supreme; even villains, like mosquitos, are defeated not by fists but by uncontrollable laughter. For a quarter of a century, Hussain would remain loyal to this theme and mood, shaping the stream of Bollywood's youth culture into the 1980s. These films emerged as the most colorful, boisterous, and restless in Bollywood. Initially constrained by crudely drawn black-and-white backdrops adorned with cloudy skies and skewed rear projections,iThe film shooting technique known as ‘projection mapping’ or ‘projection blending’, relies on the combined projection of actors and scenery for a more seamless integration of visual elements. Hussain ingeniously turned this simplicity into a vehicle for self-parody. This held true even for the inevitable melodramas, where he instructed actors to perform with ostentatious exaggeration, reminiscent of silent films. He introduced characters who would carry a girl through the jungle in a romantic pursuit, only to abruptly release her, resulting in hearty laughter as she tumbled from a height of one and a half meters. When she exclaimed, "Where are you going? Wild animals might devour me!" he responded with a casual toss of his words over his shoulder, "They won't. They're clever and prefer their meat fresh."

Certainly, to bring it all together, a distinct kind of individual was required. Shammi Kapoor wasn't merely ordinary – he was unconventional. This very uniqueness prompted his wife, the actress Geeta Bali, to propose that since he couldn't portray the polished hero in the manner of a conventional Bombay idol, he should channel his inner Elvis Presley. And that's when everything began to fall into place. While Dilip Kumar embodied the introspection of actors like James Dean and Brando, Kapoor embraced the outward exuberance of the image – the expansive shoulders, grand gestures, cigarettes punctuating the air like exclamation points, the restless body that bounced and hopped from chairs, and sprang back up in the midst of dialogue, stretching nonchalantly. In contrast, Kapoor eschewed introspection and replaced it with the physical motor skills that defined rock 'n' roll stars. He styled his hair like a Beatnik, he sported short, puffer jackets – and he simply reveled in everything around him, except for those rare moments when he was piercing a girl with a conspicuously suggestive gaze: "So, are you genuinely interested in continuing to dance, or do you have something more interesting in mind?"

The film left the young audience astounded, and two years later, the Kapoor-Hussain duo solidified their youth-oriented success with a similar musical comedy, "Give Your Heart" (Dil Deke Dekho, 1959). However, on a broader national scale, engulfing audiences of all ages like a typhoon, Kapoor's comedy – with his alternating twitches, at times simultaneous from the twist and laughter – became synonymous with the film "Junglee." The formula underwent several significant refinements, thereafter only being varied and expanded, both in terms of geography and genre, over the span of seven years.

The foremost contributing factor was, without a doubt, color. Naturally, it wasn't solely Kapoor's parrot-like attire that warranted the experience of color. Color was indispensable for the mass dances at discos and concerts, where Kapoor hopped around, convulsing like he was seized by a fit, traversing the frame from left to right, palms waving above his head, much akin to Liza Minnelli during the climactic moment of the "Cabaret" number. Emerging from the depths of the frame, similar twirling girls adorned in feathers and sequins gravitated toward him. In "Junglee," Kapoor encountered the vivacious dancer and star of the seductive vixen roles, Helen. Born to British Colonel Richardson, after his passing, she fled war-torn Burma with her mother. Upon her entrance into Bollywood as an actress specializing in cabaret roles, her countenance bore an infectious smile of gratitude that captured the audience's hearts until the 1980s, when she wed Salim Khan, a screenwriter and a pivotal figure in the creation of masala cinema. Helen was the effervescent soul of 1960s and 1970s Bollywood – with her blue eyes and fiery red hair and a face reminiscent of British actress Sarah Miles.

The renowned documentary filmmaker Aisha Margara, who was taken from India to Canada during her early childhood, dedicated her globally acclaimed 2003 film "Desperate Search for Helen" to the enigmatic dancer. In this film, she embarks on a journey back to her cherished homeland to seek her lost childhood, mother, and India. For her, these elements are not embodied in iconic figures like Nargis and Meena Kumari but rather in the effervescent persona of a carefree dancer.

Following "Junglee," Helen not only becomes Shammi Kapoor's steadfast dance partner but also his full-fledged on-screen collaborator, as seen in Nasir Hussain's detective film "Teesri Manzil" (1966). While Rocky (Shammi Kapoor), the heartthrob of the resort youth, drums away in the foreground, Miss Ruby (Helen), the star of his troupe, dances within a cardboard, 12-meter-wide eyeball set at the center of the stage, adorned in a red dress and a white chignon. Each eyelash of the eyeball is embodied by a live dancer moving to the rhythm. Color undoubtedly plays a significant role here.

Factor #2: a novel, freshly born subgenre into which Kapoor is thrust in "Junglee" and which he would traverse throughout the 1960s. "Junglee" was directed by Subodh Mukherjee. Similar to Hussain, Mukherjee leaned towards exuberant merriment, but his approach as a director was distinct. Hussain paved the direct path to the masala films of the 1970s. In "Teesri Manzil" ( The Third Floor ), comedy seamlessly transforms into a musical and then eventually transitions into a detective story. Yet, the film lacks uniformity: the initial 40 minutes consist of a continuous stream of jokes and gags, succeeded by songs and dances, while the detective element remains devoid of songs. Suddenly, all characters become suspects, and their prior actions that elicited laughter and admiration take on concealed implications. Detached buttons, one of which is clutched in the victim's hand, assume greater significance than individual character traits. The ideal masala formula would blend more cohesively, with elements distributed evenly and genres intertwining.

Hussain's films present a plot that moves with deliberate restraint, offering a series of attractions linked solely by the recurrence of the same characters. "Teesri Manzil" stands out due to the extraordinary fact that the central portion of the film – a full half-hour – was long considered lost. Nevertheless, this did not hinder the comprehension of the film's intrigue, including its detective aspect. Yet, Hussain cannot be accused of directorial negligence; he was among the pioneers in developing a system of camera movements and editing codes, from which the distinctive language of masala films would evolve. A prime illustration is the opening number of "Teesri Manzil," where the camera and the dance group move in opposing directions. The scene on the carousels showcases the camera affixed to one of the seats, alternately rising above the singing protagonists or swiftly tilting beneath them, sometimes flying past, occasionally drawing near, and then withdrawing from their faces. Hussain's musical numbers are timeless, self-playing masterpieces on YouTube. This principle extends to his selection of hits as well. Over half the songs from his films can be found in any Bollywood musical anthology. "Teesri Manzil" marked the first high-budget film where the musical component was entrusted to Rahul Dev Burman, the future king of funk and disco in Bollywood, a musician with whom others in the mid-1960s simply declined to collaborate.

Mukherjee, on the other hand, stands out as a consistent comedic playwright, adept at crafting and intensifying humorous scenarios in a gradual narrative progression. He shapes a snowball of escalating confusion over the course of an almost three-hour film. His final theatrical bow is aptly named "Upside Down" (Ulta Seedha, 1985), a work that encapsulates his comedic legacy. However, in terms of actual film direction, he displays a lack of initiative: actors perform theatrical scenes for a static camera, akin to films and plays such as "The Wedding with Dowry" or "Wake Up and Sing." This doesn't diminish the humor; in fact, it often enhances it (especially considering the extravagantly styled ladies delivering lines from beneath creatively shaped wigs and other nostalgic sixties delights).

Both Mukherjee and Hussain emerged from the same collective: Mukherjee's elder brother Sasadhar’s studio "Filmalaya” in the 1950s, Hussain penned scripts while Mukherjee directed films based on them. A year prior to "Junglee," Sasadhar decided to produce a comedy set entirely in a high-altitude resort. This choice aimed to extract laughter from beneath the weight of somber social realities, infusing the comedy with a sense of elevation. The result was "Love in Simla" (1960), packed with a dozen captivating twists that were fully realized and deservedly successful. Nevertheless, it encountered obstacles. Firstly, like the early films of the Kapoor-Hussain duo, it was presented in black and white. Secondly, the mischievous protagonist was a heroine – either the Indian audience wasn't quite prepared for this, or the delightful Sadhana simply lacked the temperament that Hema Malini would bring to a similar role twelve years later, finally settling the question: can a woman carry off a comedy?

In "Junglee," Subodh drew inspiration from the carefree resort ambiance of "Love in Simla," but he injected it with vibrant color and directed Shammi Kapoor to belly-slide down snowdrifts, accompanied by his familiar "Yahoo!" cry from "Jis Desh Mein Ganga Behti Hai." The fusion worked seamlessly. The playboy at the resort became the formula shaping Bollywood plots in the 1960s, characterized by abundant laughter and eccentricity. In "Kashmir Ki Kali" (1964), Shammi Kapoor had already pioneered the trend of donning women's attire and swaying his well-fed hips to such an extent that he mesmerized a marijuana-intoxicated truck driver. In "Arzoo" (1965), the impulsive Sadhana, bewildered by conflicting signals from her lover, defiantly heads to a lumberyard, places her foot on a log, and awaits the chainsaw's swift action. This decade, painted by airplanes crisscrossing through the skies (with opening scenes scenes of "Junglee," "Arzoo," "Evening in Paris" all inside airplane cabins), resonates with the honking of convertibles, svelt females figures in sleeveless multicolored dresses, and a total rejection of all "boring" genres which were quickly replaced by comedies, detective stories, capers, spy adventures, and underworld romances – at the center of the party, the suave and stylish playboys, who parted with their cigarettes and wine glasses only when going in for a quick twist and shake in the midst of dancing, had come into its own. It had firmly established itself. Bollywood was aligned with the global cinematic trends of that era, yet it appeared magnified, akin to how Soviet cinema of the 1960s might have appeared with only Gaidai left directing (the dynamic montage of close-ups capturing excited guests in the finale of the "Suku Suku" number from "Junglee" – an Indian rehearsal of the final song "Black Horseshoes" from "It Can't Be!") or as if French cinema was solely directed by de Funès during that period, while Delon danced to his tune.

Commencing the chapter on the 1960s in his 1983 book "Cinema of India: Past and Present," Indian film historian Feroze Rangunwala lamented, "After seventy years of existence, Indian cinema regressed into its teenage years along with its audience." If we substitute anger with compassion and annoyance with admiration, we would need to concur with him wholeheartedly. Why did this type of cinema garner the most fervent response from the 60s audience? The answer is clear: fifteen years after achieving independence, persisting social problems, primarily extreme poverty, remained not just unresolved but actually escalated. Gradually, people's patience wore thin, leading them to seek solace in dancing. A similar phenomenon occurred in the Weimar Republic after Germany's defeat in World War I, when the nation turned to revelry. It also transpired in America when the oil crisis, followed by the economic downturn of 1973, spawned an escapism trend built upon three pillars: retro chic, disco music, and psychostimulants. Furthermore, over these fifteen years, a generation of young Indians grew up who hadn't witnessed the struggle for independence or the partition with Pakistan and therefore weren't driven by the fervor of nationalism. Instead, under Nehru's late 1950s push for industrialization, they flocked to major cities, where they were exposed to clubs and hotels, places where the nouveau riche set the scene ablaze.

In Bombay, the majority of these newfound well-off were moviemakers. Bombay teemed with tales of meteoric rises from poverty to prosperity. A notable example is the story of Hiralal, a rural dance teacher from Rajasthan, who arrived in Bombay penniless in the early 1950s and, within a decade, was living like royalty in a mansion, after becoming a choreographer in the film industry. This narrative inspired his granddaughter Vaibhavi Merchant to create the musical "Bollywood Merchants" in 2005, which received acclaim in Sydney, Zurich, and London. The fixation on cinema as a rapid path to wealth was echoed in the hugely successful comedy "Keep Loving" (Piar Kiye Jaa, 1966), featuring a lineup of film stars and comedian Mehmood in the role of the millionaire's son who establishes his own film company, "Wah Wah Productions," transforming an already chaotic estate filled with young individuals and brides-to-be into a formal but uproarious madhouse. The youth yearned to shine and bring laughter to a world where, despite impassioned speeches, change remained elusive – and Bollywood bolstered their aspirations.

The second point: it was in the 1960s that India realized its identity as a self-reliant nation, a significant player on the global stage. By the conclusion of 1961, Indian rebels and armed forces ousted the Portuguese from the resort state of Goa, a territory they had governed since the early 16th century. These events form the backdrop of the lighthearted adventure film "You Are My Life" (Tu Hi Meri Zindagi, 1965), where young men, universally referred to as Johnny, sport rolled-up jeans and denim jackets, while the girls, predominantly named Maria, unabashedly rendezvous with them at night in circle skirts and ballet flats. Entire streets burst into boogie-dancing in support of the lovers even before their wedding. This budget-friendly black-and-white adaptation of "West Side Story," adapting Hollywood musical aesthetics to the theme of Goa's fight for independence, vividly illustrated how Indians interpreted this triumph.

Many are unaware that a portion of India's territory was under French rule, and though these French territories were returned to India in the 1950s, France's formal signing of the relevant papers only occurred in 1963. Before long, in the film "An Evening in Paris" (1967), Shammi Kapoor will be seen pursuing Sharmila Tagore, the grandniece of the renowned Bengali poet Rabindranath, up the steps of Sacré-Cœur. However, fate, or more precisely, substantial finances and a penchant for revelry, will take them to Beirut by the end of the initial episode, where Shammi will serenade about love while suspended from a helicopter above Beirut Bay. Meanwhile, Sharmila, wearing an audaciously bold swimsuit that would become the film's most discussed detail, will glide through the bay on water skis. In the climactic scene, he will ascend a rope ladder lowered from a helicopter, embracing Sharmila high above Niagara Falls. Yet, the most impassioned discussions will undoubtedly occur on the observation deck of the Eiffel Tower.

However, it will be Raj Kapoor, the elder brother, who will lead the way to the Eiffel Tower. His three-part film "Sangam," the lengthiest in the history of Indian cinema with two intermissions, will ascend as the highest-grossing film of 1964 and secure four Filmfare Awards. This film cannot be dismissed as trivial, even though Vijayantimala, while refusing to accompany her husband to a Parisian music hall, lounges in her hotel room with dressed with a very "Moulin Rouge" vibe, with a torchiere lampshade atop her head and snug black leggings on her legs – an ensemble that would become customary in films portraying foreign escapades. In just a couple of years, Asha Parekh will dance in a similar outfit alongside an entire Japanese variety show cast in "Love In Tokyo" (1966). The whole of the second segment, capturing a carefree honeymoon journey, was filmed entirelyin Europe – the Swiss Alps, London, and Paris. The humor that transcended local resorts found its place on the global stage. Alongside the aforementioned films, there's "Night in London" (1967), and this journey culminates with Raj Kapoor's "Around the World" (1967), becoming the inaugural Indian widescreen film released in 70mm format intended for projection on colossal curved screens extending from floor to ceiling without any partitions.

"Sangam," in which Raj Kapoor's intention wasn't solely to amuse the audience but rather to capitalize on a moment of liberalization, returned to the theme of love triangles that had intrigued him since the days of "Monsoon," and had effectively evolved into a kind of encyclopedia of themes and visual motifs that would pervade Bollywood during the latter half of the decade. Among these is the notion of circumnavigation, and another is the plot involving a military pilot whose funeral proceedings unfold prematurely, only for him to reappear alive and eventually reunite with those who had mourned him. This motif will lay the groundwork not just for numerous melodramas but also for the truly remarkable detective film "Hamraaz" (1967). As observed by Russian film critic and Indian cinema historian Boris Grishin, in "Sangam," Kapoor takes to the skies as the pilot of an English Canberra jet bomber: "In December 1961, India dispatched eight such planes to the Katanga province in the Congo, where UN forces were contending with local separatists. This experience proved beneficial to the pilots in 1965 during the Indo-Pakistani conflict." Clearly, the 1960s marked a period when India began to see itself not only as an independent entity but also as a nation engaged in conflict.

In 1962, while in the midst of filming "Sangam," India encountered its first defeat – a border conflict with China. This eroded the influence of Jawaharlal Nehru, who had guided the nation for 15 years and was affectionately known as "Uncle." He was succeeded by another Prime Minister who aimed to shift investments from heavy industry to agriculture, but he, too, was later replaced by Indira Gandhi within two years. Clearly, after numerous years of a quasi-familial existence under the unchanging leadership of a paternal figure, this succession of leaders and policies further entrenched the Indian populace's predisposition to dutifully follow and consistently execute government initiatives. In the realm of cinema, this diversity is mirrored by a plethora of genres.

The political fluctuations in Bollywood find expression in cinematic upheavals like "The Time Machine" (Waqt, 1965) – a full five years before "Airport," which ignited the trend of disaster movies in Hollywood and Western cinema. A multitude of detective films emerged, all echoing themes of "Nothing is what it seems" and "Nobody can be trusted." A standout hit was the movie "Gumnaan" (1965), based on Agatha Christie's novel "And Then There Were None." Here, a quintessential 60s touch emerges when Helen transforms her character Miss Kitty's drunken hiccup into a recurring refrain within a song she performs for the audience after lunch. This is juxtaposed against an artificially eerie atmosphere. A similar approach of blending Gothic elements with parody and then resolving it all within the framework of a classic detective narrative is evident in Mehmood's directorial endeavor, "Bhoot Bangla" (1965). This is akin to what the aforementioned "Hamraaz" did for a different kind of detective story. A comparable technique is employed in "Death on the Nile," where the entire initial portion of the film persuades viewers they are watching a melodrama until the main heroine is suddenly murdered, prompting a reinterpretation of everything seen earlier to establish the crime scene. The genre of procedural detective fiction, akin to the Perry Mason novels, was introduced to the Indian audience through "Duniya" (1968), where Dev Anand delivers lines like: "With the court's permission, I request the high court to allow the accused to personally testify for the defense!"

Even the illustrious Satyajit Ray, known for his foray into children's detective literature, gained confidence during this era to direct a detective film with a cinephile twist – one characterized by a hypnotic rhythm and somnambulistic pace – "Chiriyakhana" (The Zoo, 1967). A landlord presents the Calcutta counterparts of Holmes and Watson with what seems like an absurd request: to identify an old Bengali film based on a song from it. The intrigue lies in the fact that he hears the song sung by a ghostly female voice within his mansion at night. The trio ventures to the mansion to hear the song firsthand, and it doesn't take long for murder to transpire. The solution to this heinous act will be found in old film reels preserved within the archives of a local film studio.

A trend of "mysterious" films centered on psychoanalysis emerges, marked not only by inventive concepts but also by adept performances by leading film stars. Nargis, Raj Kapoor's steadfast on-screen partner, portrays a split personality in her farewell film "Raat Aur Din" (Night and Day, 1967): her character occasionally identifies herself as her childhood friend, whom she greatly admires. Following a grave accident, Meena Kumari doesn't turn to psychoanalysis for solace in the film "Baharon Ki Manzil" (Mansions of Spring, 1968). Instead, through intensive therapy, she eventually uncovers that she is the twin sister of the person she believes herself to be and that her alleged son-in-law is actually her husband, who married her to inherit her fortune following her sister's death. As evident, psychoanalysis interweaves with the detective genre as well.

Films featuring the robust figure of Dara Singh also experience a brief yet radiant ascent. The spectacular hodgepodge of popular Anglo-American film themes, such as "Tarzan Comes to Delhi" (1965), "Tarzan and King Kong" (1965), and "Golden Eyes Secret Agent 077" (1968), is tossed together haphazardly. Concerning Tarzan films, they were initially introduced to India by an Englishman, the future director of "Death on the Nile," "King Kong," and "Airport," John Guillermin. In 1962, he crafted the film "Tarzan Comes to India," where Feroz Khan, the future icon of 1970s style – known for his love of racing cars and checkered shirts – plays one of the leads in one of his early roles.

Nonetheless, a much more creatively fruitful landing in India was orchestrated by another foreigner: it was in 1963 that the artistic journey of the most refined of American directors, James Ivory, commenced here. He would later establish himself as an authority on Edwardian England through films like "A Room with a View," "Maurice," and "Howards End." Ivory's cinematic journey began in India, where he forged a friendship with Ismail Merchant, the scion of a local magnate, who would become his consistent producer. Their inaugural collaboration, "The Householder" (1963), delicately portrays newlyweds united through an arranged marriage, a practice customary in India where the bride and groom don't see each other until the wedding. Unlike Indian films of that era that criticized this tradition, Ivory's work demonstrates that if two very young and unseasoned individuals, unaccustomed to independent living, are left alone together in an apartment, their shared sense of loss and nature itself will eventually guide them to each other's hearts. In "The Householder," Shashi Kapoor, the younger of the Kapoor brothers, assumes his first lead role in cinema. An incredibly handsome man with celluloid's most velvety eyelashes and a finely honed acting talent, he stars in three of Ivory's films (as well as the sole respectable screen adaptation of Hermann Hesse's "Siddhartha" by Conrad Rooks in 1972). These roles demanded the depiction of heightened sensitivity in conveying delicate emotions and an ironic detachment from the characters. The narrative of their second collaboration, "Shakespeare Wallah" (1965), draws inspiration from Shashi's personal life. He married an Englishwoman from a Shakespearean troupe that had arrived to entertain British soldiers but ended up staying in India post-independence. In this film, Ivory first showcases his skill as a perceptive observer of the paradoxical effects that arise from the intersection of two cultures (a theme that resonates in his work like "Le Divorce," a depiction of Americans in Paris). While the Shakespearean actors navigate boarding houses, wash laundry by hand, and are perceived by the young feudal lord (portrayed by Shashi) as a cross between trained monkeys and circus oddities, the Bollywood star sips whiskey atop a central heating boiler, basking in its authentic warmth.

Despite such a splendid beginning, Shashi didn't shy away from the world of Bombay films – and his first two ventures in this realm dominated the 1965 box office. One was another tale of "Love in Kashmir," the remarkable "Jab Jab Phool Khile" (Whenever Flowers Bloom, 1965), where he portrayed an enamored gondolier. The other was the aforementioned earthquake film "Ispytanie Vremenem" (Trial by Time), in which he shared the screen with Sharmila Tagore, who also transitioned to Bollywood from the realm of art cinema. Tagore was a creation and muse of Satyajit Ray, which speaks volumes about the enterprising and carefree era when stars were both intellectually inclined to take on roles in complex, thought-provoking films by master filmmakers and captivating enough to mesmerize the masses. Tagore was a trailblazer in sporting high chignons and outlining her eyes to the edges of her face. Coupled with her long nose bearing a slight hump, this profile granted her a resemblance to Nefertiti. Satyajit Ray captured her in this form on a poster for his film "Devi" (Goddess, 1960), which he personally hand-painted and displayed on New York cinema marquees during that period. There's reason to believe that Barbra Streisand, then working as a ticket-taker at a cinema and mingling with beatniks, may have borrowed her distinctive style and even mannerisms from the granddaughter of the renowned Bengali figure. At the very least, when Miss Tagore sways like a boat in red chiffon flares with a golden buckle and a feathered headdress in "An Evening in Paris," performing her captivating "Le Ja Le Ja Le Ja Mera Dil" (Take Away My Heart), which amalgamates ethereal notes from The Shadows' "Man of Mystery" and Marie Laforêt's "Mon amour, mon ami," it leaves an impression as if we are seeing and hearing the Streisand we had long desired, but were hesitant to ask for.

Let's talk about our hero, Shammi Kapoor. Speaking of past idols, we've extensively chronicled their "Filmfare" awards and box office achievements. However, Shammi didn't amass numerous "Filmfare" accolades. His only nomination came for the uproarious comedy "Professor" (1962), where he spent much of the film portraying an elderly man, egged on by the crafty card-playing shrewish old woman played by Lalita Pawar (who played Shammi's mother in "Wild," forbidding him to laugh). None of his films achieved absolute box office supremacy. His true value lay in personifying the spirit and essence of that audacious era – a fertile ground that saw the flourishing of unique debutantes, each of whom left an indelible mark on Bombay's cinematic landscape for at least a quarter of a century.

While Shammi allowed his younger brother to lead in 1965, it was the lad from the Punjab village of Nasrali, Dharmendra, who embodied the endearing image of an amiable drunkard without a rudder or sail in the Bombay pantheon during the following year, 1966. Later, he even played Alibaba in the 1980 Soviet-Indian blockbuster. Dharmendra grabbed attention as a platoon commander in the first Indian war drama, "Haqeeqat" (The Reality, 1964), a film centered on the Indo-China conflict. With his youthful demeanor, the actor effortlessly led an on-screen squad entirely composed of offspring from esteemed Bombay film families – all of whom would later become stars. Nevertheless, it was the gritty film "Phool Aur Patthar" (Flower and Stone) in 1966 that catapulted him to the zenith of fame. We've noted that each era and idol left their distinctive imprint on this genre, creating its distinctive path.

Dharmendra did not delve into introspection, existential challenges, or social critiques. He simply hummed along to the seductive cha-cha-cha performed by his on-screen cabaret siren, Helen. Such was his life as he floated through it, remaining a good-hearted guy and a steadfast friend. In this film, he first appeared alongside a street urchin and a stray dog – a trio of vagabonds that would migrate to his other films, including the legendary "Seeta Aur Geeta" (1972). For the 1960s, it's essential to emphasize that comedy took precedence in gritty films – for a significant portion of the film, we follow the exploits of a quartet of transvestite thieves led by the film's director himself, O.P. Ralhan and the elephantine yet timid-as-a-mouse woman, Tun Tun.

The subsequent year, 1967, marked the emergence of an idol who was practically Shammi's kindred spirit, especially considering rockabilly iA musical style, a synthesis of rock and roll and country. was the primary allure of his charm. The film in question was titled "Farz" (Duty), and it represented the cheapest and poorest imitation of the Bond genre. So budget-constrained was the production that the 25-year-old actor, a young lad from a boy band named Jeetendra, at one point realized that there was no room in the budget for a costume designer. On the first day of filming, he arrived with his favorite white canvas shoes from home, borrowed a white jacket from a thrift shop, and paid little heed to the hairdresser's inquiries, instead stepping under the spotlight with the voluminous, pomaded quiff he typically flaunted at dance parties. Thus, an image was born that garnered more derision from critics than any other yet endeared itself to the audience for a longer duration. So much so that the pennies invested in the production of "Farz" yielded returns twentyfold for its producers, setting a precedent that would only be replicated by "Disco Dancer" (1982). On-screen madness ensued, even in the realm of dance. A 17-year-old assistant was recruited as a choreographer – after the film's release, her name, Saroj Khan, would be indelibly etched into Bollywood's Hall of Fame. For four decades, she would choreograph dance sequences in the most resounding blockbusters, including epic films like "Mr. India" (1987) by Shekhar Kapoor (the same director who steered Cate Blanchett to her first Oscar in "Elizabeth") and "Tezaab" (1988). In "Farz," Jeetendra leaps, runs, jumps, and capers to the music more than he dances; he energetically yet chaotically waves his arms and legs. When the film hit the screens, India discovered a young actor who seemed to dance bonelessly. As an American reviewer aptly put it, "I usually recommend that non-Indian audiences fast-forward through Bollywood films, skipping the songs and dances. But in 'Farz,' you can fast forward through everything – the ludicrous dialogues, dubious plot twists, and disorderly fight scenes – but for heaven's sake, watch the dances with both eyes wide open: they are pop art masterpieces!" We'd like to add that this is how the very essence of "Bollywood dance" came to life, or as it's referred to in India, "filmi" – a dance style loosely grounded in neither national traditions nor Western trends, but rather a form of impromptu, visually captivating cardio.

Finally, in 1968, Shammi Kapoor received a role that earned him a "Filmfare" award. Granted, he had to add a dozen orphans and a couple of melancholic songs to it, but even this Pyrrhic victory genuinely delighted him. Come spring of 1969, he accepted the statuette for his performance in the film "Brahmachari" (The Bachelor, which also clinched the Best Film of the Year Award). Accompanied by this recognition was an unprecedented shower of applause, a customary tribute to someone who truly embodied the spirit and symbol of an era, even though he was often dismissed as merely acting foolishly. In that triumphant moment of acknowledgment, neither he nor the applauding audience could foresee that in just six months, three films would grace the screens in a mere three-week interval, introducing the viewers to a new actor who would make them forget all that had existed before in Indian cinema. While this enchantment would have a relatively brief lifespan, it would engulf the nation in the intoxicating trance of unconditional love...