Amar Akbar Anthony

It's Amar Akbar Anthony

Now the story of a family who lost everything, and the one nation state that had no choice but to keep them all together. Its Amar Akbar Anthony (1977). Before I launch into post-graduate-education-mandated analysis, an overview of the film for the uninitiated. Fredric Jameson (1979) argued that all post-colonial film is national allegory. He was perhaps thinking of AAA (1977), which is the most entertaining national allegory to ever sing and dance cynically/jubilantly across the silver screen.

The boys left at Ghandi's feet

The film opens with would-be patriarch Krishinlal’s (Pran) release from prison. His crime: he confessed to a hit-and-run accident perpetrated by the villainous Robert (Jeevan), his employer, after receiving assurances that his family would be cared for during his incarceration. Upon his release, however, Krishanlal finds his wife tubercular and his children starving. Krishinlal confronts Robert, shooting him and stealing a suitcase full of money. Rushing home, Krishanlal finds his wife Bharati (Nirupa Roy) gone, having left a suicide note. Gathering up his sons, he drives off, chased by Robert's thugs. He drops his sons under a statue of Gandhi, and crashes his car. Snagging the cash, Krishanlal returns to the statue, only to find his sons gone, adopted by a Hindu police officer, a Muslim tailor, and a Catholic priest. Bharati is crushed under a tree branch, goes blind, and is rescued from the side of the road by the above-mentioned Muslim tailor, who returns her to her home, where she finds her family gone.

Donating blood in the hospital

Fast-forward 20 years. The boys are grown and all end up together in a hospital in time to give their mother, named Bharati (literally ‘of India’), a life-saving blood transfusion. Please observe the heavy-handed visual- the Christian brother in front of a church, the Muslim brother in front of a mosque, and the Hindu brother in front of a temple. Subtle it ain't.

This is all during the 23-minute long prologue. Before the opening credits start to roll. AAA is a long film. The copy I own (this film is so awesome I bought it) runs to three disks. Sholay, another 1970s classic, is equally long. Hindi films require commitment, but I promise- this one is well worth it.

Amitabh Bachan is the top-billed star of the trio of brothers, and receives the most screen time. He is also the most gifted physical comic of the trio. His drunken dialogue with his reflection, which peaks with his application of iodine and bandages to the mirror, is world-class. “My Name is Anthony Gonzales”, featuring cosmopolitan beats and a misquote from a speech delivered by British Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli, is another highlight of the film. The fact that Christians rarely emerge singing from Easter eggs at Easter parties is entirely beside the point, because really, wouldn't Easter be even better with more singing and dancing men in tails emerging from Easter eggs? And Amitabh Bachan is undeniably charming, especially circa 1977. OutlookIndia asked "Amar, Akbar or Anthony?" This is a stupid question- Anthony, every single time.

Of course the Christian character spouts pompous English-language nonsense and attends religious events. Not one to discriminate against stereotypes, director Manmohan Desai calls upon nearly every possible filmy trope in this film. Taking the notion of Hindu-Muslim bhai bhai to new heights of literalness, the three brothers fight, frolic, woo religiously appropriate matches (same same!), and defeat imperialist influences, all while confirming the power of the Hindu Nation-State, as embodied by eldest brother Amar. To elaborate: the villain is English-speaking, whiskey-drinking Robert, replaced by the Hindi-speaking (and obviously less villainous) whiskey-drinking Krishanlal; only Britishers and bad Indians ever drink alcohol. Akbar, the Muslim brother, sings qawwali (sufi religious music) and his father is a tailor. Anthony, the Christian bother, is a bar owner and flim-flam man with a heart of gold and a Jesuit priest as a spiritual and stand-in father; aren't all Christians simultaneously devout and up to no good? Amar, the Hindu brother, is solid, upright, forgiving, and fundamentally virtuous police officer (Nation-State!). Unsurprisingly, he is also the least entertaining brother. Most importantly to the story-line, when push comes to shove and there are women in wedding gowns to be rescued, the three men and three faiths come together to save the girls, sing another song, and celebrate their unity as brothers and Indians. Unity! India! Hooray! Spoiler alert: this film has a happy ending, and just in case there was any question, the Nation-State was right all along.

Or maybe not. More than just national allegory, AAA is also a self-aware satire of post-colonial, post-Nehruvian Indian nationalism. The forth wall is broken throughout the film by Anthony, who winks with self-awareness at the camera, acknowledging the impossibility of the tale and the fantastical elements of the story and action. The stereotypes are a little too pat, the ending a little too jolly. As Tobias exclaimed, "This is ripe for parody!", and the campy exuberance often feels like the parody of Nehruvian propaganda, in which religious tensions, injustices, and economic stagnation are subsumed by the love of a just, modern, brotherly India.

Given the political climate in which the film was released, the underlying cynicism is unsurprising. The film's release coincided with the ending of Indira Gandhi's Emergency Rule, which lasted from June 25, 1975 until March 21, 1977. The Emergency saw opponents of Indira Gandhi imprisoned, the press censored, civil liberties suspended, elections canceled, slums cleared, and the poor forcibly sterilized. The Emergency remains controversial, and was the greatest challenge to Indian democracy to date.

Thus, the image of Lucille Bluth is appropriate- Lucille, like the Indian Nation-State, claims to want to “hold this family together”, while in truth, neither has any interest in anything of the sort except to the extent that the repetition of the idea can be harnessed as a means to self-serving ends. This underlying theme is not immediately obvious- on the surface, AAA is an unabashed celebration of a pluralist nation and benevolent nation state. However, the fact that the film was both extremely popular and censored until 1977, after the Emergency ended, lends still more relevance to Lucille's snap, “If that’s a veiled criticism about me, I wont hear it, and I wont respond to it.”

Is this film perfect? No. When people joke about ridiculous fight scenes in Hindi films, AAA's kind of fight scene is what they were talking about. It is very, very, very long. I love this film. It is very long. However, if there is any doubt in your mind about the use of 3.5 hours of your time on this film, remember - Amitabh Bachan emerges from an Easter egg- an actual Easter egg- in a top hat and tails.  

Bollyweird.blogspot.com, by Byron Aihara, offers insights into the "lost and found" themes in the film and additional context.

Film: Amar Akbar Anthony (1977) 

Director: Manmohan Desai

Writer: Smt. Jeevanprabha M.Desai, Kader Khan
Runtime: 184 minutes
Languages: Hindi, Urdu, English
Country: India

×

The Lunchbox

Fruit on banana leaves in Kolkata

Mainstream cinema is about people running toward socially prescribed endings. Parallel cinema is about people running toward beginnings of their own choosing. Compare the endings of DDLJ (1995) and Dor (2006): both feature women running down station platforms to catch trains, but the futures they run toward could not be more different.  The Lunchbox (2013), directed by Ritesh Batra and set in Mumbai, is a gem of the parallel cinema scene, and accessible to newcomers to Indian cinema. 

Snacks in Lucknow

Ila (Nimrat Kaur), an unloved wife in Mumbai, sends her husband his lunch in a tiffin every day. She sends her culinary devotion via Mumbai’s extraordinary tiffin transport system of Dabbawallas, which boasts an accuracy rate most delivery services can only dream of. However, on this particular day the tiffin reaches the desk of Saajan Fernandes (Irrfan Khan) an ornery widower on the verge of retirement. They strike up an unlikely conversation through notes enclosed in the tiffin, and the story develops from there. Food becomes the sometimes heavy-handed metaphor- Ila feeds Saajan, Saajan feeds Shaikh (Nawazuddin Siddiqui), Auntie feeds her husband, Shaikh feeds his bride Mehrunnisa (Shruti Bapna). When Ila sends Saajan an empty tiffin, she is making an angry point of her own emotional hunger. 

There is a lot of hunger in this film, which is as much about loneliness as love. Khan's widower Saajan is isolation personified, but the marriages of all three female characters are also ending, due to ill health, death, or infidelity: Ila, Auntie-ji, who lives one floor up and who is never seen, only heard, and Ila's mother. All three are facing life without the companionship and support marriage is meant to guarantee; loneliness can creep up on all of us without warning. The counterweight to this melancholy is provided by the marriage of Shaikh to Meherinusa and the budding affection between Ila and Saajan. Love offers no permanent solutions, but without the hope it offers, what do we have? The suicide early in this film suggests we have nothing.

Guavas, cauliflowers & cabbages in Nishat Ganj, Lucknow

Given this, Saajan's choice to chase Ila is unsurprising. That said, the ambiguity of the ending struck my mother and sister, who watched the film before I did. However parallel this film, it was unsurprising to me- it would be highly unusual for an Indian film to end with a married woman leaving her husband and taking up with an older man of a different faith in a different country. The ambiguity allows different viewers to imagine individually acceptable endings, while also avoiding anything cloyingly sweet or vulgar. 

The only thing I love more than parallel cinema is food, and contemplating this post, I am struck by how many of my memories of India revolve around meals shared, discussed, organized, cooked, and enjoyed. I remember the spicy soups I ate with my friend Jyoti in her cozy dining room and the sangria I drank with Jamiesista, the masaala chai I drank in the mornings after my long walks through the Himalayan foothills, the grilled cheese and tomato soup I made for my friend Vaidehi’s birthday and the chocolate cake my friend Aisha prepared for mine. I remember foods I ate off steel plates on mud floors, in restaurants with white table cloths, around kitchen tables, and on worn stone steps. I remember the people I ate with, the conversations we shared, the person I thought I was. Food is spiritual, eating or abstaining religious ritual. Small wonder it flavors our memories.  

Vegetables for sale in Lucknow

Food in South Asia varies from region to region, as it does everywhere else, but food ways also vary by gender, caste, religion, economics, and circumstances. Women in some parts of India may fast for their husband’s continued health on Tuesday; some sadhus fast for weeks. Muslims fast for Ramadan, unless ill, travelling, menstruating, pregnant, nursing. Some Brahmins eat fish or mutton, others do not. Some vegetarians don’t eat onions, eggs, garlic. Caste-based purity hierarchies meant (can still mean) that members of some castes can give to or receive water from some castes, but not others. City dwellers may not maintain the same food ways as relatives in a village. I was welcome in the kitchen in my Sunni host family in Lucknow and upper-middle class host family in Kolkata, but was shooed out with horrified gasps from the kitchen of my Brahmin host family in Naukuchiyatal.  

The most accessible guide to the complexity of South Asian food and food ways I have read is Curry: A Tale of Cooks and Conquerors by Lizzie Collingham. Collingham charts the changing development of food in South Asia, from its Ayurvedic roots through the arrival of Arab, Central Asian, East Asian, and European traders and colonizers, highlighting the role each group has played in the development of foods now considered “quintessentially Indian”.  The chapters about what the British ate in India dragged on- there are only so many ways to say that British food is not very good, and it is not exactly a new thesis. However, the chapter devoted to chai is fascinating; I knew the British encouraged tea production and consumption in India, but never before knew how or why. Collingham also explains Ayurvedic medicine in a way I finally understood, and made 16^th and 17^th century geopolitics compelling reading. I suspect the pictures and recipes helped. The best and most readable discussion of the impacts of urbanization on food ways in India is "Dining Out in Bombay", by Frank F. Conlon.

My mother and sister requested cultural explanations. Although not an exhaustive list, here are some high points:

The necklace Ila removes and leaves by her nightstand while reflecting on the suicide of another woman is called a mangala sutra (spelled as one or two words). These necklaces are tied around a bride's neck as one of the wedding ceremonies. Ila also removes her bangles, which also mark her as a married woman.

Saajan Fernandes is a Christian- his Portuguese name, and the fact that his wife has been buried in a cemetery make this clear.

Ila's apartment includes a washing machine, which marks them as middle-class. They do not, however, have a cook, which suggests they are not upper-middle class.

I look forward to the day when the life of a Mumbai tiffin man is also the subject of a film.  You can bet that film will fall under the umbrella of ‘parallel cinema’.

Film: The Lunchbox (2013)
Director: Ritesh Batra
Writers: Ritesh Batra, Vasan Bala
Runtime: 105 minutes
Country: India
Language: Hindi

×