believe, in the hop-step-jump, the only athletic event I ever was any good at.
After reading
Treasure Island
and identifying with Long John Silver of course, I once mailed a ‘black spot’ to a classmate, grimly informing him that he ‘had till ten tonight’. The spidery handwriting being identified as unmistakably mine, I was hauled into the Principal’s office no less, and informed that writing anonymous letters was a grand crime for which I could go to jail. I fervently protested for two whole days, hoping for the kind of miracle that had happened before with the cigarettes, but on this occasion my guardian angel had nodded off and the stains had led straight to my doorstep. I was kept standing outside the Principal’s office from morning till night, allowed only to go for meals, and then to bed with the injunction ‘Come back here tomorrow morning, Shah’ ringing in my ears. The third day was movie day and the thought of missing the movie made me crack. I confessed, believing I’d get away with a mere public flogging, and get to see the movie. But after I had received the mandatory ‘six-up’ in the study hall in front of all present, old Burke stepped into the act. Deciding that I needed further correction, he made me sit behind the projector with my back to the screen through the movie. I heard the entire film but did not see a frame of it. A more perverse punishment I would not be able to devise even for old Burke. The film was called
The Charge of the Feather River.
It’s one film I’ve never ever come across again; probably just as well.
Mr Shakespeare and St Anselm ride to the rescue
The Cowardly Lion in
The Wizard of Oz
Captain Hook in the animated
Peter Pan
Spencer Tracy in
The Old Man and the Sea
Jose Ferrer in
I Accuse!
Rex Harrison in
My Fair Lady
Peter O’Toole in
Becket
Dustin Hoffmann in
The Graduate
Geoffrey Kendal in
Shakespeare Wallah
A ll these film performances, which I first saw between the ages of five and twenty-five, hold special significance for me. It may seem strangely pretentious to some that there’s not a single Indian actor in that list. Let me explain. It’s not as if there’s never been an Indian actor I liked. I watched and loved almost every Dara Singh movie, and I found Shammi Kapoor, the ‘starriest’ star we’ve ever had, quite fascinating. The utter fearlessness, the astounding physical and emotional agility with which he performed is a quality he shared with Hindi cinema’s certified nutcase Mr Kishore Kumar, but both are undervalued as actors because they seldom or never did films of any consequence. Doubtless both these gentlemen appear terribly excessive in today’s context but then which Indian actor of that era doesn’t? With the possible exception of Mr Balraj Sahni and, in his middle phase when he allowed himself to be directed, Mr Dilip Kumar. These two gentlemen by virtue of their quiet intensity, their economy and precision of expression and their dignity and poise stood way above the crowd. For the rest, Dev Anand’s performance in the transcendent
Guide
was a one-off. Mehmood, one of the most skilful actors I’ve ever seen, was not quite up there with Chaplin in terms of ability but much ahead in terms of self- love. Yakub was a great actor who got buried in the myths of the pompous ‘dialogue delivery’ of Mr Sohrab Modi, and the very calculated cool of Mr Motilal. One could question Mr Amitabh Bachchan’s choice of projects though never his commitment to his job which was being a film star, and there is absolutely no denying that early in his career he delivered some of the most searing performances ever seen in Hindi cinema. And I fully endorse Satyadev Dubey’s view that Mr Pran Sikand was ‘the best bad actor in the world’.
And there were the luminous ladies: Waheeda Rehman and Nargis, still Hindi cinema’s most modern actresses; the divinely gorgeous Madhubala, the statuesque Meena Kumari, the unbearably sexy and utterly
After reading
Treasure Island
and identifying with Long John Silver of course, I once mailed a ‘black spot’ to a classmate, grimly informing him that he ‘had till ten tonight’. The spidery handwriting being identified as unmistakably mine, I was hauled into the Principal’s office no less, and informed that writing anonymous letters was a grand crime for which I could go to jail. I fervently protested for two whole days, hoping for the kind of miracle that had happened before with the cigarettes, but on this occasion my guardian angel had nodded off and the stains had led straight to my doorstep. I was kept standing outside the Principal’s office from morning till night, allowed only to go for meals, and then to bed with the injunction ‘Come back here tomorrow morning, Shah’ ringing in my ears. The third day was movie day and the thought of missing the movie made me crack. I confessed, believing I’d get away with a mere public flogging, and get to see the movie. But after I had received the mandatory ‘six-up’ in the study hall in front of all present, old Burke stepped into the act. Deciding that I needed further correction, he made me sit behind the projector with my back to the screen through the movie. I heard the entire film but did not see a frame of it. A more perverse punishment I would not be able to devise even for old Burke. The film was called
The Charge of the Feather River.
It’s one film I’ve never ever come across again; probably just as well.
Mr Shakespeare and St Anselm ride to the rescue
The Cowardly Lion in
The Wizard of Oz
Captain Hook in the animated
Peter Pan
Spencer Tracy in
The Old Man and the Sea
Jose Ferrer in
I Accuse!
Rex Harrison in
My Fair Lady
Peter O’Toole in
Becket
Dustin Hoffmann in
The Graduate
Geoffrey Kendal in
Shakespeare Wallah
A ll these film performances, which I first saw between the ages of five and twenty-five, hold special significance for me. It may seem strangely pretentious to some that there’s not a single Indian actor in that list. Let me explain. It’s not as if there’s never been an Indian actor I liked. I watched and loved almost every Dara Singh movie, and I found Shammi Kapoor, the ‘starriest’ star we’ve ever had, quite fascinating. The utter fearlessness, the astounding physical and emotional agility with which he performed is a quality he shared with Hindi cinema’s certified nutcase Mr Kishore Kumar, but both are undervalued as actors because they seldom or never did films of any consequence. Doubtless both these gentlemen appear terribly excessive in today’s context but then which Indian actor of that era doesn’t? With the possible exception of Mr Balraj Sahni and, in his middle phase when he allowed himself to be directed, Mr Dilip Kumar. These two gentlemen by virtue of their quiet intensity, their economy and precision of expression and their dignity and poise stood way above the crowd. For the rest, Dev Anand’s performance in the transcendent
Guide
was a one-off. Mehmood, one of the most skilful actors I’ve ever seen, was not quite up there with Chaplin in terms of ability but much ahead in terms of self- love. Yakub was a great actor who got buried in the myths of the pompous ‘dialogue delivery’ of Mr Sohrab Modi, and the very calculated cool of Mr Motilal. One could question Mr Amitabh Bachchan’s choice of projects though never his commitment to his job which was being a film star, and there is absolutely no denying that early in his career he delivered some of the most searing performances ever seen in Hindi cinema. And I fully endorse Satyadev Dubey’s view that Mr Pran Sikand was ‘the best bad actor in the world’.
And there were the luminous ladies: Waheeda Rehman and Nargis, still Hindi cinema’s most modern actresses; the divinely gorgeous Madhubala, the statuesque Meena Kumari, the unbearably sexy and utterly
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