Studies of disability in India show widely prevalent views of disabilities as being deserved as a result of some action attributable to a previous life, or a sin of another life, even among the disabled themselves. To understand how such beliefs are held and reinforced in modern-day India, we examine the portrayal of the disabled in Indian cinema to document ways in which ideas about disability may be reinforced by popular media. This article studies the portrayal of disability in Indian cinema from the early talkie era to contemporary cineplex blockbusters. We begin by relating popular cinema against the depiction of disability in Hindu mythology with characters such as Dhritarashtra, Ashtavakra, Manthara, Surpanakha and Shravan and find much resonance of these with some of the typecast representations in Indian cinema. The article argues that the stereotyping of disability has been done in a few important ways, and citing over 200 examples primarily from Hindi and Tamil cinema, we examine these in detail
Asha Bhosle has entered the Guinness Book of World Records for the most single studio recordings. In a tribute to the versatile songstress, our guest contributor Rajiv Lele list 10 of her lesser-known gems. Each one an exquisite rendition by an artist of unmatched vocal prowess.
1) Naina hain pyase mere | Aavishkar (1973) | Kanu Roy | Kapil Kumar
An absolute stunner. The way Asha glides effortlessly through the intricacies of this song—coiling, twisting and uncoiling like smoke rings from a scented stick—has to be experienced. It just cannot be expressed in words.
Our guest contributor, Canadian drag queen Muffy St Bernard writes about the Helen who’s her idol. The article originally appeared in Bombay Dost magazine.
I DON’T know who Helen is. I have only seen a few of her films. I've never read Helen: The Life and Times of an H-Bomb. I don't follow gossip columns here in Canada or abroad. I couldn't see her documentary before this article was due, and even if I could have, I don't think I would have wanted to because I hate doing research. But I don't need any of that information to explain why Helen is one of my idols.
Muffy St Bernard appears courtesy of DMent. Outfit is by Lydia Bellenie of Delirium Clothing, based on the one worn by Helen during the "Baithe hain kya" number in Navketan’s Jewel Thief (1967). Hair by Melissa Baumunk of Brown Salon (Waterloo, Ontario, Canada). Photography by Jenn Wilson
Two of the biggest Korean blockbusters in the past year were Man from Nowhere and I Saw the Devil. Man from Nowhere is somewhat of an Asian version of Leon the Professional, about a brooding introverted pawnbroker who takes an unexpectedly violent turn when his schoolgirl neigbour and her heroin-addicted mother are kidnapped by a drug-running gang. The story is standard, the execution unerringly vicious, replete with up-close stabbings, eye-gougings, and dismemberment.
I Saw the Devil is about a police detective obsessively chasing after the man who killed his fiancée. There is no suspense in who committed the act, nor any serious plot development around the detective’s search for the culprit. Instead, within the first 30 minutes, the film turns into a relentless cat-and-mouse game, in which the rest of the plot is mainly driven by next element of savagery to be committed on one or the other character.
Joyojeet Pal writes on the legacy of Dada Saheb Phalke awardee, K Balachander.
The opening sequence of the 1970 film Ethiroli remains an apt introduction into K Balachander as a filmmaker. The title cards appear with no sound other than the crackling of moving film, against the black and white backdrop of a courtroom. There is a noir-ish expectant tension as the camera pans to lawyer Sivaji Ganesan, readying himself to cross examine a witness. The camera focuses on Sivaji for several seconds as he stares down the witness. The exchange between the two of them is wordless with the focus being the intensity of Sivaji’s histrionic gaze as he taps his spectacles against his face. The camera switches back and forth between Sivaji and the increasingly nervous witness. Without a word spoken, with the witness caves and confesses. “That is all your honour", finishes Sivaji.
During the release of Sivaji in 2007, I dutifully showed up for the first day first show outside San Francisco. The tickets for the first show had been sold out within ten minutes of the day they were open for purchase. I gratefully made an underhand deal with the theatre owner for a folding chair in to be placed in front of the first row of seats for $20. At the theatre, I realized I wasn’t the only joker willing to do this, there was a long line flush with Veshtis and already screaming fans, on one side of the box office waiting for their portable chairs. Worse, I signed up my fiancée, who spoke no word of Tamil, and was clearly disconcerted by the ominous signs of what seemed likely to follow. Further, the film was late, with all of us waiting in line. The wait gave me no sense of disgust or irritation at the prospect of my likely neck-craning experience, rather increased the excitement of anticipation.
One look at the depiction of women driving car and two-wheeler drivers in Tamil cinema, and one needs little further evidence that a woman ought not to cross into a man’s domain. The office secretary is a traditionally gendered occupation and easy to depict sexually and trivialize. In fact, the secretary poses no serious threat to the supremacy of a man in the workplace, since, at least in office scenarios, the secretary reports to a man. An area of greater contestation is jobs where women replace men. Here, the focus is not only on the sexual complexity of a woman in the male domain of offices, but also on her neglect of her feminine duties through holding a job.
You've seen this before in Bachchan/Mithun/Vikram/Mahesh Babu/action movies, you've heard the music refrain in spaghetti westerns, you've seen the fight scenes in movies like The Transporter...
SalmanFanINSANITY SAYS:
Seee! It's Salman! Have you seen such style? Such attitude!
SANITY SAYS:
The plot is wafer thin. Story is not new.
SalmanfanINSANITY SAYS:
(Seetis!) Look he just put the RayBans behind his shirt collar! Look He's dancing! Doesn't he have the sexiest walk? Doesn't he have the sexiest upper thighs? Only Salman can do this! What if he looked at you like that? What if someone wooed you like that? (Melt! Melt! Melt now!)
Vampitude here is defined as the desire of a woman to undermine the rectitude of a man, usually with her sexuality as her primary weapon. The mythological nymph Menaka who helped trip over the sage Vishwamitra with her wiles is our exemplar. The classic though unwitting vamp of Tamil literature is Madhavi, the dancer who Kovalan, the husband of the virtuous Kannagi moves in with in Silappatikaram. In the epic, the dancer is herself an intellectual, and a deeply complex character who eventually gives up her life for monkhood, though RS Mani’s popular pre-independence screen adaptation (Kannagi, 1942) of Madhavi was that of a seductress, and the bête noire of Kannagi, the iconic heroine in waiting. In short, Madhavi is the starting point Kodambakkam vampitude.
In 1973, K Balachander made Arangetram. In the film, the eldest daughter of a rural orthodox Brahmin family moves to the city to get a job. She is forced by circumstances to earn a living as a prostitute, but works her family out of poverty. In 2000, Rajiv Menon made Kandukondain Kandukondain. A rural Brahmin family is likewise impoverished, and the eldest daughter must negotiate life in a city to earn a living. She gets a job as a software engineer, and works her family out of poverty.
