by Connie Haham
Desai was a person who used energy, who gave it off, who passed it on, who stirred it up in his team. At the end of the chain it is the public who receives this accumulated vitality in the final work that appears on screen. The limitation of working as he did came at the moment of discerning the delicate distinction between energizing stimulation and a sense-numbing excess of bright colors, loud music, and quick movement. Perfect pacing is necessary to maintain a balance on the tightrope towards an exhilarating high. A few too many seconds in a dynamic scene can plunge audiences into a jittery low, similar to that produced by an excess of caffeine. At times Desai probably did not get off stage, as it were, soon enough. At other times he judiciously offered welcome breathers. In Desh Premee, for instance, Navin Nischol, playing a policeman, has come to search Parveen Babi’s house for stolen diamonds planted in her bag. Mistakenly believing him to be a criminal, she grabs her father’s gun and pursues him in a fast, funny, action-filled scene. Abruptly, the mood changes. In the midst of the scuffle come a close-up and a slowing down, marked by romantic music, as the two suddenly touch, gaze into one another’s eyes, and realize their physical attraction. Viewers need such pauses, and Manmohan Desai often, but not always, gave them.
It is possible that some of the hostility on the part of the intelligentsia to Manmohan Desai, even if it was never stated as such, could be traced to Desai’s very use of time, which was, in many respects, at odds with a traditional sense of Indianness. Satyajit Ray’s Shatranj ke Khilari (The Chess Players, 1977) illustrates this gap in sensibilities when, as British troops march in after crushing the 1857 Revolt, the two chess players agree on the need for a faster, more modern game of chess. Writer Mark Kingwell considers speed to be part of an existential malaise, a doomed human effort to escape death:
…desperate attempt to get away from ourselves. And I think that’s really what boredom is. It’s a sort of deep unhappiness or restlessness with the fact of one’s own existence. Speed isn’t the answer because it simply doesn’t solve the problem, but of course it’s very difficult to see that when you’re in the grips of boredom.1
Leaving possible motivations aside, what is observable is the way in which Desai dismantled the time-space connection through quick cutting. His characters appear freed of the laws of physics and transported about as if in dreams. In Suhaag soon after their first encounter, Shashi Kapoor and Amitabh Bachchan must fight a bully who has attacked them both. To light, fast background music, they kick the man down a flight of stairs; miraculously, before he lands, one of the two heroes is waiting below. Desai’s time is double time, magic time, Superman time. It is cinematic time writ large.
Everyday life is full of boring repetition and tedious humdrum activities, the very stuff that adds to our ‘existential malaise’, our sense of the limited nature of life itself. Fiction, generally, tends to eliminate the daily grind. Indian popular cinema, unlike much of art cinema, is particularly unmindful of realistic time considerations. In the seventies and eighties, the fashion of the multi-starrer required ever-greater speed to maintain the progression of all of the characters’ stories. Thematically, Desai’s series of items are often lumpy at the linking points. Cinematographically, however, many of the lumps are smoothed and the action further speeded through the use of clever transitions. In Naseeb alcohol is poured for Vicki (Shatrughan Sinha) in London; the next shot takes us to India where a drink is placed on the table by Bombay waiter John Jani Janardhan (Amitabh Bachchan). Alcohol serves as a more meaningful link when Vicki breaks a bottle on the street, a sign that he has decided to give up his debilitating habit. Two shots later, we see John, the teetotaller, now drunk, circling an intact bottle of whisky on a table. Alcoholism, like a virus, has passed from friend to friend.
Desai offers an array of locomotion, from stilts to elephants, from submarines to balloons. In Aa Gale Lag Jaa, the final fight takes place on roller skates. And in Naseeb the restaurant revolves! Manmohan Desai pointed with pride to the motion in his motion pictures, ‘We commercial filmmakers make movies. Something moves on screen and within you.’
accumulation and invention
Accumulation, the art of packing every scene with as many details as possible is the fruit of hard work and a quick mind. This most essential, most characteristic element of Desai’s style can result in a geometric complexity of relationships, as in the picturization of the song ‘Pardah hai’ from Amar Akbar Anthony, one of the director’s favourites. It would have been funny enough to see tiny Taiyabali (Mukri) waddle into the auditorium for the qawwali programme or funny enough again to see him accompanied by a tall daughter. But he is followed by six tall daughters, all clad in black burkhas; together, they fill an entire row. A series of links is established throughout the song; first, between Akbar (Rishi Kapoor) and his musicians, then, between Akbar and Salma (Neetu Singh), the daughter he is attempting to woo, between Salma’s infatuated sisters and Akbar, between Anthony (Amitabh Bachchan) and the woman he calls ‘Ma’ (Nirupa Roy), between Anthony and Taiyabali, who must be physically restrained from walking out, between Anthony and Akbar as Anthony unexpectedly belts out ‘Akbar tera naam nahin hai’ (Then your name isn’t Akbar), and finally between the on-screen audience and Akbar and Salma when, at the end of the song, they cheer the triumph of love over paternal authority. The props offer further embellishments: the daughters’ black veils lift in unison under Akbar’s spell until Taiyabali’s cane brings them down with one quick thrust; Taiyabali’s eyebrows bob as Anthony rhythmically pulls a garland of money from his shirt, and like a magician, Akbar produces a series of poetic items—coloured veils, a rose, a mirror, wine and fire—to bring the words of the song alive.
Desai explained the development process:
It was only after the song was recorded that I and Mr. Kamal sat down for days together to think about these ideas. Hence the props came into the picturization after the song was recorded and not before. So the credit for the recording goes to Laxmikant and Anand Bakshi. And we did full justice to it by putting props according to the lines of the song… . Taiyabali’s bobbing eyebrows was Mr. Kamal’s idea… . It took about five days to picturize the song. We had only one camera.
We might react to one of Desai’s complex, idea-packed scenes somewhat as we would to a group of acrobats constructing a human pyramid. With the ascent of each additional member of the troop, we become progressively more awe-struck. A five-member pyramid impresses us. The troupe that succeeds in building a ten-member pyramid amazes us. So it is that Manmohan Desai added one element after another to make not a good scene, but an outstanding one. And in his best work, like a good circus group, he stopped when he was thrilling us, a moment before the entire construction would have collapsed under its own weight.
technical choices
the audio component
Cinematic sound is that which does not simply add to, but multiplies, two or three times, the effect of the image.
—Akira Kurosawa1
A particularity of Indian cinema is the importance given to the ‘audio’ aspect of this audiovisual medium. Audience interest in Hindi cinema dialogues, music, and songs probably has no counterpart in the world. Background music and sound, which audiences are less consciously aware of, are also an essential part of the package. Desai explained:
Now, you cannot visualize the film today without good, appropriate background music. I’ll give you an instance. In the Bond films, there is just a simple shot of James Bond walking through those pipe-like things. (Desai imitates the music.) The public starts tapping. There is nothing in that shot. The man is just walking, and he takes a gun and fires at the viewer. But that background music, when it comes on, people start tapping; they start clapping… . Now without the background music that shot would not carry any weight. Any American film, any action sequence without sound effects or without background music falls flat. Absolutely flat. You can judge from the silent films.
It is only in the last decade, that is, after Shola
y, that people in India have started realizing the meaning and effect that the sound track can have. When they did the 70 mm stereo mixing of Sholay, they made you hear even the toss of the coin. Since then, we have been trying to put as many sound effects as possible in films. In my films it takes 30 days to do the re-recording—I think that is the maximum anyone takes in India—because we want to put even the minutest footsteps or the click of a button and everything possible to heighten the effect.
Laxmikant and Pyarelal were responsible for the music, i.e., the songs and background score, of nine of Desai’s twenty films— Roti, Chacha Bhatija, Parvarish, Dharam-Veer, Amar Akbar Anthony, Suhaag, Naseeb, Desh Premee, and Coolie. Manmohan Desai discussed their collaborative effort:
First, we have to have the script ready… . Then we work on the song situations. Then we go and narrate it to the music director. They give an idea. I’ve been working with Lamikant for about 10 to 12 years, so I give him the story first; then he hears the song situations. Then he works on the tune; he calls me after a couple of days. In the meantime, I also try to hum out some tunes. Though I don’t know classical music, nor can I play piano or harmonium, I have an instinct, a flair you can call it, to compose tunes. And I also try to hum out some tunes. When I meet my music director, he plays a few numbers, and I select one of them. Sometimes, it’s not okay, and he may have to make more tunes. But I always share an excellent rapport with Laxmikant. And sometimes, when he hums out one line, I feel the next line comes out from me. I remember in Amar Akbar Anthony there were so many numbers that we sat down together, and at every sitting we could take out a song.
First of all, you must inspire the music director. After that, there are two ways. First, you have a tune, and you get the lyrics written out. For the other, you get the lyrics and then make the tune. In my case, I would like the tune to be composed first, and then we fit in the lyrics.
So with Laxmikant I had a very beautiful rapport, and we could come up with something nice… . During the process of recording, I start to think what I’m going to do in the song, where I’m going to start the song, where I’m going to end the song, and I start thinking of the gags and business in the song because if the song is not picturized well, the Indian public—they like to hear songs; they care for music— but if they don’t like it, they’ll walk out of the theatre. You’ll find half the auditorium out. So in order for them to be seated, not only the tune has to be catchy, but the situation has to be good. They should feel, ‘Yes, a song should come at this situation,’ and if it’s well picturized, they’ll laugh and they’ll clap.
When you share an excellent rapport with the music director, then it becomes sort of teamwork. So we got along famously and had many hit songs. The credit is entirely Laxmikant’s… . Now Mr. Pyarelal comes into the film during the interludes of the song… . Laxmikant is the one who composes the tunes, the mukhra (introduction, leading phrase) and the antra (any verse other than the first). The interludes of the song and the background music are done by Mr. Pyarelal… . He sees the film, assesses the film and then gives me an idea of what he wants to do. Like, say, for instance in Coolie Pyarelal worked at great lengths, took four or five shifts only to compose the last background music where Coolie, that is Amitabh Bachchan, has been hit by four bullets and he’s still going on and on and hits the villain. Pyarelal gave fabulous voices, choir music. It gave an eerie feeling to the whole sequence. His background music and Amitabh’s voice reciting those passages from the Koran lifted the sequence sky high.
The precision of language required for the Arabic in this scene required Amitabh Bachchan to spend two full days for dubbing a few lines. Attention to the sound track is expensive, as Desai explained:
Pyarelal watches the film, notes the footage, says that from here to here is eighty feet or about two and a half minutes, then composes and times it. An eight-hour music shift costs Rs. 20,000 to 25,000. A film needs a minimum of twelve shifts. Coolie took 23 to 25 shifts. The background music for it cost rupees eight lakh.
The high cost of the music component no doubt explains the repetition of some background music from one Desai film to another. Much time, energy and money went into developing the music for Amar Akbar Anthony. In Suhaag and Desh Premee, bits of the Amar Akbar Anthony score were brought out and refurbished.
An excellent analysis of the importance of music in Indian cinema comes from composer Vanraj Bhatia who explained the operatic nature of Indian cinema:
The most dramatic moments in our films are often those where all the action stops and the song takes over, expressing every shade of emotional reverberation, and doing it far more effectively than the spoken word or the studied gesture. The situational songs in the films of Guru Dutt, in Bobby 2, and in Amar Akbar Anthony work extremely well as condensations of dramatic action… .3
Songs being a must, good lyrics are essential. Many of Anand Bakshi’s rhymes are an alliterative joy, as in the ‘jise meri yaad aaye jab chahe chale aaye’ line (the one who thinks of me may come to meet me whenever she wants) in ‘My name is Anthony Gonsalves’ from Amar Akbar Anthony. The success of a song depends not only on its writer but also on its interpreter. Manmohan Desai had his favourite singers:
Singers like Lata Mangeshkar and Mohammed Rafi can make even an ordinary tune nice whereas a bad singer… it would not be fair of me to name the singer, but in Coolie I had an experience. I recorded the song ‘Sari duniya ka bojh’ by another playback singer, and I was not satisfied, so I had to change the playback singer and give it to Shabbir who sang it fairly well. So a good tune can be enhanced by a good singer, and in the same way a good tune can be spoilt by a bad singer.
Rafi sang many songs in my films because I was a great admirer, you can say a devotee, of this man. I remember even when I was a kid, I used to go to somebody’s recording; I would inquire if it was Mohammed Rafi’s recording. I would go to hear him and then go and touch his feet… I think that was the voice of God… . The man was so versatile! Give him a sad song; give him a light song; give him a song with a low bass, a high pitch; he would excel in all of them. At the same time, he was a great human being… . The amazing thing about Rafi sahib was that he could change his voice. He would always ask at the recording, ‘This song is being picturized on which actor?’ Now, on Shammi Kapoor, he would sing it the Shammi Kapoor way. On Dharmendra, he would sing it the Dharmendra way. On Amitabh, he would sing it his way. His versatility was truly amazing. And he was excellent in high notes as well as in bass… . So my childhood idols were Lata Mangeshkar and Mohammed Rafi, and I have said that even God got jealous of his voice and wanted to hear him in person; that’s why He called him up at such a young age.4 I don’t compare anybody with Rafi and with the going away of Rafi, I am at a great loss. I don’t have any good singers who have a voice like Rafi, who could do justice to my songs. It’s a great loss to me as well as a great loss to his family.
There was a time when many of the big music directors boycotted Mohammed Rafi for three or four years, and they projected Mr. Kishore Kumar in a big way after Aradhana. But when I made Amar Akbar Anthony, and even during the time of Dharam-Veer I told Laxmikant Pyarelal that I wanted only Mohammed Rafi to sing my songs and nobody else. They were a little hesitant, but then they agreed, and they asked me whether he would be ready to sing for them because he was almost boycotted for a couple of years. I went to Rafi Saab and I said, ‘Saab, this is my first film; these are the films I’m making. I’m coming up in a big way. Would you please sing for me?’
And I remember Rafi Saab telling me, ‘Manmohan, for your sake I am willing to sing for these people; otherwise, I would never sing for them.’
I said, ‘If you want, I will ask them to come to your place for rehearsals.’
He said, ‘No, I will go to the music director’s place and rehearse.’ In a way you can say Rafi’s comeback in 1975 was due to Manmohan Desai because I insisted on bringing him back with a song in Dharam-Veer—‘O meri mehbooba.’ After that, Rafi S
aab never looked back again. Due to certain power politics he was shunned by the music directors, and when I brought him back in Amar Akbar Anthony, everybody flocked to Mohammed Rafi again, and rightly so.
On the subject of film music Manmohan Desai expressed himself well. He could analyze, tell anecdotes, sing beautifully himself, or turn sentimental. Very opinionated, he could also become livid on the subject bad habits within the industry:
The one who set this trend of too many musicians was Naushad. He used 100 musicians in Mughal-e-Azam, for background music and even in songs. Now everybody has started to do that. But do you need 100 musicians? There’s a hall in Tardeo. The capacity is only 60, but they take 100 because Naushad took 100. Twenty of those musicians are sitting on the road and playing, I think. Or else, they sit outside and eat paan! And the poor producer has to pay the bill for them. So this shouldn’t be done. When you need 100 musicians, you take 100 musicians! Then you need a hall that big.
Biddu proved that you can make a song with eight or 10 musicians. He made the song ‘Aap jaisa koi’.5 How many were there, eight to 10 musicians? My brother made a film called Janam Janam Ke Phere. There was a song called ‘Zara saamne to aao chhaliye’ It became a big rage in 1958. It was recorded in Basant studio—no recording hall, mind you. It was a studio stage where you close the iron doors and outside you can hear the birds. Musicians would sit there at Chembur. There was a small recording room where there would be two knobs only. That song was recorded on only two tracks and it became a legend. It’s not the recording that is important. That’s only a fad. Music directors sometimes complain that the recording did not come out right. What has it got to do with the recording?? What is your mukhra? If your mukhra is no good, you can keep recording it: four tracks or eight tracks won’t make any difference. So basically, it’s your tune, your mukhra. The antra can be anything. Nobody sings the antra; they sing the mukhra. Today with all the electronic equipment you have, a clever musician can make it with 15-20 musicians. When you need choirs and violins, okay. Otherwise, (if you have a big orchestra), you end up with eight people playing the tabla. Never heard of such a thing!
