A Hindi Cinema fangirl takes you through the highs and lows of the Bollywood universe. We'll see love, betrayal, dancing, singing, more love and more betrayal and the occasional bloody shootout. Your adventure starts now.
I know, I know, longest intermission ever. But what's five years in the great expanse of time? Appropriately long considering our subject matter. Which of course is: Bollywood! I started this blog six years ago as a way to talk talk talk (well, write write write) about my favorite films, stars and songs in the Bolly-verse. At some point I switched to a bit of first hand storytelling from my time in India which was fantastic fun and as an added bonus helped me remember why I fell in love with the country in the first place. If you read those posts and enjoyed them that makes me happy. If you didn't, I'm still pretty happy, so win-win! Now I find myself missing a creative outlet and perhaps more importantly needing that masala-style escapism that only Bollywood can provide. Feeling stressed by a demanding job? Country not-so-slowly descending into chaos? Sit back and get your Bollywood on.
So, Back to Bollywood. Getting back to Bollywood means returning to the world of mistaken identities, star-crossed lovers, over the top villains, and all the dream sequences your heart can handle. It also means exploring the influence of traditional Indian folk theater in Bollywood's early development, the portrayal of social issues such as caste, women's rights, and religious intolerance, and the continual redefinition of what it means to be Indian. In truth, the films that expertly mix elements of escapism with these very real issues are what attracted me to the genre to begin with, and in turn have been some of the most successful blockbusters in Hindi cinema.
Newest library book!
Dancing Queens. I went to a Bollywood dance once. Well, twice. The first was a surprise; one of the greatest gift ever given to me. It was in Pushkar, India while we stayed with the lovely Pandey family. Vasu, the Pandey's teenage daughter, brought a boombox into the room and played Lata Mangeshkar and Asha Bhosle (neither of whom I had heard of at that point). We all stood up and danced in a circle mimicking her precise hand movements, twirling our arms, not having a clue what we were doing but knowing it didn't matter. My second Bollywood dance was at a swank Milwaukee hotel and ended up being less classic Bolly and more, "Wait, are they playing Nelly?" I feel a true Bollywood dance party is certainly in my future and until then I'll continue to indulge in the best of Bollywood's dancing queens. For my first in-depth post I'll share my top five Bollywood dance numbers, complete with behind the scene tidbits. Who knows, maybe you'll find inspiration for the next time you find yourself at a wedding, a few drinks down, and dateless. Until then, please enjoy the unique actress Helen in a classic "item number."
There are two ways to experience India. One is from a safe and respectable distance, sitting on the balcony of some comfy hotel with fancy western toilets and showers that run hot water. There is nothing wrong with this India. It is perfectly acceptable and even preferable for those who are light of heart and stomach. This India will not drive you to hallucinations of midnight laser fights (true story) but it also won't inspire a blog.
The other way of experiencing India is by going all in. And by all I mean ALL frickin' IN. Forget western toilets, heck, forget toilet paper. Showers are for the weak. You will now use a bucket of water you either get yourself from the communal spout or that a friendly neighbor will bring you. Your bed won't be a bed so much as an assortment of fluff and monkeys will regularly break into your room and steal food, or shiny things, or really anything they want because they're monkeys. Sounds amazing, right? It is. And it's better than the sanitized version of India because it's the only way to understand the way millions of people live.
Hands down the best accommodations we had were when we stayed with an Indian family, the Pandeys in Haridwar. The Pandeys were old friends of our professor, providing him with housing as he completed his doctoral work on the Kumbh Mela festival. There was the father Mr. Pandey, a kind gentleman who took to wearing a fur hat our entire stay, mother Mrs. Pandey, son Himanchu and daughter Vasudeva (Vasu). The Pandeys owned a four story home that included several guest rooms generally rented out to pilgrims. We were incredibly lucky that we were invited to stay with the Pandeys and share their home as we visited the Ganges and nearby temples. The physical space itself wasn't much different from some of the hostels we stayed in, but the family made it a unique and warm experience with home cooking, nights on the roof flying kites, the Pandey ladies taking us saree shopping and not laughing as I showed them the old lady saree I inadvertently bought, oh and Bollywood dance parties.
You read that right. Before I even knew what was what in the world of Bollywood,Vasu brought out a little black radio, blared some (what I now know was) old school Lata Mangeshkar and we danced. Those who know me well will know this was a highlight. Those who don't know me well just need to know that my "About Me" portion of Facebook has only six words: Singer of Songs, Dancer of Dances.
Our visit to the Pandeys happened to fall on Mr. Pandey's birthday and we celebrated with delicious food and by sitting in a semi-circle and listening to stories from Mr. Pandey's youth. We ate and laughed, and laughed some more. It was great. Mr. Pandey then asked us for a birthday gift. He would be very happy, he said, if each of us would sing him a song. Shouts of "okay!" could be heard as my fellow travelers, many of whom were music majors (specifically VOCAL PERFORMANCE music majors) beamed in Mr. Pandey's direction. The good news was the singing started on the exact opposite end of the semi-circle giving me at least seven turns before I was expected to sing. The bad news was my brain went into meltdown mode (I'm assuming this is a common thing among those of the introvert persuasion) and I couldn't think of a single song I knew the complete lyrics to. This is ridiculous for a number of reasons, foremost is that obviously there are songs I know all the lyrics to (you saw the part where I called my self "Singer of Songs," right?) and then to make it even better the only song I could think of was Madonna's Like a Virgin. Umm yeah. I maybe could have come up with something else if I hadn't been distracted by resident nice-guy, captain swim-team, boy next door from Iowa who happens to study Sanskrit didn't bust out with Coolio's Gangsta's Paradise and knew ALL OF THE LYRICS. Complete silence followed his first verse, then we all sang the chorus as he rapped the other nine versus.
Yep. That was pretty much my reaction.
My turn at last and while I can be socially awkward at times even I know it's not okay to sing Like a Virgin at a birthday party for anyone. ever. So what do I sing?
Say, say, oh playmate,
Come out and play with me
And bring your dollies three
Climb up my apple tree
Shout down my rain barrel
Slide down my cellar door
And we'll be jolly friends
Forever more more more more more
Say, say, oh playmate
I cannot play with you
My dolly's got the flu
Boo hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo
Ain't got no rain barrel
Ain't got no cellar door
But we'll be jolly friends
Forever more more more more more
It's an old nursery rhyme my mom and grandma used to sing and at that point I hadn't heard it in at least ten years. Why did it suddenly come into my head? Why did I then decide to let it out? And why did my voice crack when I sang the Boo hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo? I was too mortified to register the reaction of our host, or my anyone else for that matter. What I do know is there was request for another round of songs but conveniently it was "getting late" before it reached my turn again. Hey, believe me guys it was as painful for me as it was for you. I'm glad that I at least had the opportunity to redeem myself later that night with some mean dance skillz.
The vast majority of my India experience focused on religion. The purpose of our class was to study the three great religions found in the Northwestern part of the subcontinent: Islam, Hinduism and Sikhism. This meant we went to temples. Lots of them. And mosques. And Gurudwaras. And any other site remotely connected to the holy. Simply put, it was amazing.The place where Lord Brahma slayed that demon? Oh yeah, it's right over there. The tomb of one of the most celebrated Sufi saints? Yep, walk about 5 blocks and take a right. The Golden Temple, symbol of faith for an entire people? Sure, just turn around.
Pushkar, India. I attempted to climb one of those mountains. It didn't go well.
Sufi tomb. We visited a couple, only one got weird. I'll save that story for later.
The Golden Temple, or Harminder Sahib. Fun fact: I did NOT throw up in the stairwell.
We also visited an ashram. Even if you have no interest whatsoever in India, I bet you've at least heard of an ashram. Basically it's a secluded religious community where residents meditate and focus on spiritual exercises such as yoga or music.The Beatles stayed at an ashram in Rishikesh and wrote some of their best and most iconic material. I visited an ashram outside of Delhi and developed an aversion to rolled up posters.
You don't know what's inside! You get how scary that is, right?
Neem Karoli Baba was a devotee of Hanuman and a guru to millions. Baba has ashrams around the world (including the U.S.) and he continues to draw followers more than 20 years after his death. His Delhi ashram is lovingly cared for and on our visit we were given a tour of the grounds complete with peek into the Baba's old room. In all, it was a nice, peaceful visit. Then it was time to say goodbye.
Standing in a semi circle we expressed our gratitude to our guides. In turn we were thanked for our visit and for celebrating Maharajji, and asked won't you please take this gift to keep Maharajji in your thoughts? We were each handed a poster. I almost placed the poster in my messenger bag but I didn't. Instead, I and several others, decided to unroll the poster while our professor continued with his farewells. This is what we saw:
the holy Neem Karoli Baba, "Maharajji"
in a reclining yogi pose
wearing yogi garments (as in, very tiny garments)
Written out none of these things are remotely funny. But can we all agree that slowly unrolling a poster and seeing the image below (minus blanket) is startling and, when combined with fatigue, culture shock and feeling like (as one fellow traveler described it) you're about to give birth to a calf, can lead an otherwise rational, cultured person to giggle inappropriately?
Remember: minus blanket.
Don't worry I didn't embarrass myself and this was only our introduction to Baba. He made an unexpected appearance later on in our travels in what became the single strangest night on our entire trip. It included: howling wolves, "special" lassi, christmas svastikas, and of course, Neem Karoli. Watch for The Baba is Watching You, Part 2!
I started this blog to review films and share the wonders of Bollywood with you all. This hasn’t really happened. I know my failure to produce weekly reviews (did I actually say weekly in my Namaste post?) has distressed you and for that I'm sorry. This is me making it up to you. Friends, please enjoy the first in a series of posts about my time in India. I once was a naïve, self-involved person. Then I traveled to India and came back a naïve, self-involved person with a whole lot of stories.
Kidding! But not about the stories, those I have.
Jumping From Moving Trains and Other Ways of Dying
Haridwar in January. Do people outside of India realize how cold this country can get? It’s no Wisconsin winter but there’s also no heating. In one of Delhi’s bazaars I bought a red and black blanket for a couple of rupees. It was ugly and kind of scratchy but it did its job, my nightly incantation ensured it: "keep me warm, o blanket gods! And also, sometimes, please let red-scratchy blanket serve as a passable pillow for my world-weary head!" And so I was somewhat protected against the cold but, as with all things, it came with a price.
I took great pride in the luggage I brought to India. 3 ½ weeks crammed into a medium duffel; for me it was proof of the miraculous. The plan was to buy another duffel on the last leg of the trip to stuff full of all the hanumans, ganeshas and dupattas my rupees could buy. Enter red-scratchy blanket (as the blanket will henceforth be called). Red-scratchy blanket threw off my duffel, messenger bag to arms and hands ratio making navigating the treacherous streets, alleys, trains, rickshaws, etc. even more difficult. It doesn’t sounds like a big deal, but trust me it is. This, my friends, is a typical street scene in urban India.
Can you find Waldo? No, because he's pinned under a rickshaw.
I wasn't being cute when I said treacherous. I meant it literally. Of all the ways I almost died in India, being run over by (insert type of motorized vehicle, large four legged animal, or variety of wheeled-cart here) counts for at least half. The remaining half is divided between almost dying while riding (insert type of motorized vehicle, rickshaw or large four legged animal here) and eating street vendor food. One that stands out, mostly because while it was happening my mind nearly rebelled and refused to operate my limbs at a very crucial must-operate-limbs moment, involved jumping from a moving train.
My time in India was spent primarily in the north west region of the country and rail transportation was how we covered the most ground. From Delhi to Haridwar, Haridwar to Amritsar, all by train. This trip being a crash course in all things authentically Indian, we skipped all the amenities provided to first class passengers and stayed in the third class compartments. Third class meant traveling without such luxuries as "ventilation" and "space." Squeezed in our bunks stacked three tall to the ceiling of the train with ancient metal fans inches from our faces we lay trying to will ourselves to sleep. In the dark I heard my fellow top bunker whisper "this is what prison must feel like." I nodded silently in agreement and closed my eyes. I woke once in the night to use the bathroom and was never seen again.
At least that was I was thinking as I stared into what could only charitably be called a toilet. It was really a hole in the train floor and it taught me an important lesson: never say you've seen it all, you're only tempting fate.
Don't call top bunk.
If I were a realtor I'd call this cozy.
A much nicer version of what still haunts me.
The thing about Indian trains they didn't tell me, which also happens to be the single most important thing to know about Indian trains, is that sometimes they don't stop. Wait, isn't that the whole point of transport, you may ask, to pick up and drop off at various locations? You with your logic, there is no place for you here on this train. Now don't get me wrong - the train will stop, just not every time. If you're getting off in Delhi don't worry. You'll get the full stop treatment. One of the other towns along the way? Brace yourself.
We were headed for one of the "other towns" and I was still under the assumption I would be able to leisurely step onto the train platform, bags and red-scratchy blanket in hand ready for whatever new challenge awaited me. The train slowed then slowed some more. But it didn't stop. It.didn't.stop. This is when my travel companions began to jump off onto the platform. I remember thinking "Oh so we're doing this now" and "Maybe I fell asleep on the floor toilet and am dreaming this." No such luck, it was my turn to take the plunge.
Let's skip to the end first: I made it to the platform, physically unscathed. That's what really matters, right? Not the part where I nearly lose my group because I refuse to jump or when I slowly shook my head no when told by everyone to get off the train or when I did "jump" and red-scratchy blanket got caught on the side of the exit and threw off my equilibrium so much I landed like a sad rag doll on the concrete while (bonus!) the rest of the group lands like the graceful swans they are. Thankfully this incident was never mentioned again because these people were (and still are) some of the coolest people I've ever met. Thanks for that guys.
Red-scratchy blanket was eventually left with a family who lived outside of the YMCA in old Delhi. The six year old son used to follow us around with a bull whip (another story for another day) and we left them blankets and clothes that we hoped helped during the cold nights.
For people who didn't feel like reading my rambling story and cut to the end of this post for a summary, here it is: I jumped from a train and didn't die. Sounds fun, right?
I'll be posting more near death stories and other ramblings soon (I promise!) so keep watch. And because this is a blog about Bollywood here's a musical number from Chandni (1989) with superstar Sri Devi. She's hilarious and this always makes me smile. Enjoy!
As this post’s title suggests, I have some strong feelings about Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge (DDLJ for short). If you only watch one Bollywood movie make sure it’s this one. I have yet to meet someone who hasn't fallen in love with this film. It has the perfect mix of youthful charm with a gooey romantic center. The leads Shah Rukh Khan and Kajol have amazing chemistry and the music is down right iconic. In short, you'll love it and if you don't we can't be friends. You don’t have to take my word for it either. Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge appears as one of only two Indian films in 1001 Movies You Must See Before You Die. Released in 1995, it has been continuously shown in cinemas making it the longest-running film in Indian Cinema. So what makes this movie so great? How much time do you have? This may take a while.
Now you'll forever equate true love with running and hugging in a field of mustard plants.
Our heroine is Simran (played by my personal favorite Kajol), whose family moved to London from India when she was a small child. Her father is a bit overprotective and is obsessed with ensuring his family maintains the traditional Indian (in this case Punjabi) values of their homeland. None of this Britishness for his wife and daughters. This doesn’t seem to bother Simran. She listens to popular British tunes, and quickly changes to old school Indian music when Papa Simran gets home. She’s learned to walk that line between cultures like so many first generation kids. She’s respectful of her family’s traditions and still tries to carve some independence for herself. So far it’s worked.
The lovely Simran. We'll get to the eyebrows.
While Simran has a decent relationship with her father, as evident mainly by her doing everything he asks, we see a deeper more intimate bond with her mother. Simran shares entries from her diary with her mother about a mysterious man who visits her dreams. She hasn’t met him yet, but we’re about to. Cue dancing!
And this is our hero: Mr. Raj Malhotra (played by THE Shah Rukh Khan). Hmm, from Raj’s intro we know he plays rugby in the rain, likes to race air planes and is no stranger to the (hitchhiking?) ladies. Raj’s character represents the antithesis of Simran’s. Here’s a guy who eschews the qualities typically associated with proper behavior by Indian men. Raj doesn’t pass his exams and parties all night with friends. He tries to buy beer at a gas station that has already closed by lying and when caught in the lie, runs away beer in hand. (Bet you can’t guess whose father owns said gas station. Psst, it’s Simran’s dad.) One of my favorite aspects of Raj’s character is his relationship to his own father. They’re honest and understanding with one another. Papa Malhotra has worked hard his entire life and barely had a childhood; he’s okay with letting his son play around in a prolonged state of carefree adolescence.
So here are our main characters folks: Simran and Raj. Obviously they fall in love. This wouldn’t be a Bollywood movie otherwise. But it takes a while and Papa Simran is anything but helpful. Simran and Raj both live in London but couldn't exist in more separate worlds. It's going to take a series of unlikely events to bring these two together. How unlikely? Prepare yourself, this is Bollywood.
Simran's dedication to her family's traditions is tested when her father gives her hand in marriage without so much as glancing her way. What's worse is she has never met her intended; he is the son of a family friend back in India. Papa Simran doesn't even question that his daughter may have other ideas in mind for matrimony (like say a mysterious man she keeps dreaming about). Simran agrees to the marriage and returning to India permenately under one condition: a rail trip through Europe with friends. Papa Simran agrees and Simran's off to enjoy her last days of (semi)autonomy. She may think this is her last hurrah but it's just the beginning.
Running late the day of her trip Simran just makes it to the train and is given a helping hand by...you guessed it: Raj! He is also taking a trip to Europe and was also running late. The first meeting! Will there be sparks? Longing looks, an instant connection?
No.
Not a good start. Simran deflects Raj's standby pick-up lines like a pro. She's not impressed. Her friend is though and that's enough to ensure Raj & Co. tag along with the girls through their first stop in Paris. Simran tries her best to ignore Raj, he makes sure she can't. His teasing gets out of hand (at least by Indian standards) when he gets a little too handsy during a bizarre dance number incorporating trumpets and thriller-esque dance moves.
Simran can't stand Raj and decides to keep her distance, which is fine except they both end up missing their train and are left behind in Switzerland while arguing over who is going to buy a big shiny cow bell at a tourist shop.
If you weren't so worried about a stupid bell this wouldn't have happened.
They're stranded and what's worse is they're together. Simran decides she's better off on her own and takes off to hitchhike (never heard of stranger danger there Simi?). Raj rents a car and decides to try and catch up with the rest of the group at the next train station. As he drives he sees a flustered Simran being escorted into a police car. It turns out Swiss police don't like hitchhikers, especially ones that have no form of identification. Raj to the rescue! By pretending to be Simran's husband he convinces the police to not carry her off to jail. You're saved Simran! You're totally grateful, right? Not exactly, although she does manage to cool off enough to thank Raj for the save and for renting a car that will let them catch up to friends by the day's end.
Five minutes into the drive, and after Raj gives Simran the endearing nickname Senorita, the car breaks down. Not.Good. It's impossible to catch up with the train by nightfall now. Raj and Simran find lodging for the night at a nearby guest house. As they both walk into a large, spacious room complete with sofa and queen bed, Simran asks "Where's your room?". Here's the thing, Raj explains, they only have one room available so we'll be sharing. Wrong move Raj. Simran is a proper Indian girl and even the suggestion of sharing a room overnight with a man is outrageous. She refuses to share. He refuses to leave. The only option left is for her to spend the night in a decrepit barn. Wait, what?
Yes, Simran would rather freeze to death in an old barn than share a room with Raj. Raj turns out to be too nice of a guy to leave her out there alone so he joins her in the barn for the night (isn't this the same as sharing a room?!) Raj apologizes for suggesting they share a room, Simran forgives him and they're friends again. That is until it snows and the temperature drops. Raj pulls out a bottle of alcohol to help keep warm and Simran is shocked he would drink in front of a lady. Better than dying in front of a lady he replies. Zing! Raj soon discovers Simran is slightly less of a prude than he thought when he awakes in the night to find his bottle half empty and Simran singing loudly.
Simran wakes the next morning in the guest room bed with no memory of last night. What's worse is she's wearing Raj's shirt. Okay, time to panic! Raj walks in nonchalantly with breakfast and Simran pleads with him to tell her the truth. Did anything happen last night? You tell me he says while pulling open his shirt to revel lipstick marks on his chest, does it look like something happened? Simran freaks out, and I mean that literally. She screams and holds her head in her hands. The whole thing would be ridiculous if it wasn't so sincere. Seeing she didn't get the joke, Raj tries to calm the hysterical Simran to no avail. Finally he grabs her face and sets the record straight.
Raj makes it clear that despite what others may think he is Hindustani (Indian)and this means he understands how important a woman's virtue is. He's not low enough to take advantage of it (just mock it endlessly.) It's a powerful scene and firmly establishes Raj an iconic NRI hero (NRI meaning non-resident, or foreign born, Indian). It's also an eye-opening scene for Simran who gets to see Raj being sincere for the first time since ever. It doesn't last long. He's back to his joking self in no time but there is a definite shift in their relationship. I think we can safely call them close friends.
Raj and Simran's roller coaster of a vacation is nearly over and once they reconnect with their friends it's pretty much smooth sailing. That is until Raj finds out about Simran's impending marriage. He mocks her mercilessly, but there's no escaping the tinge of sadness on his face. He quizzes her to see how far she'd really go to please her family. What if she fell in love with someone else, would she still marry this stranger her father picked out? What if this person she fell in love with was on this Europe trip? What if that person was him, would she leave everything to be by his side?
You're engaged?
Simran's face flashes annoyance then confusion as she takes in his words. Is Raj declaring his love? Does she feel the same?
Aaaannnndddd...INTERMISSION.
I warned you this was a long movie. Part 2 will be up soon! Hang in there, we still have crazy eyed Papa Simran to deal with along with enough love songs to last a lifetime.
I know I mentioned this in the last post, but just to make it extra clear (and further label myself a Bollywood snob)here are definitions to some terms I’ll be throwing around this blog like nobody’s business.
Bollywood: Hindi language film industry based out of Mumbia (Bombay), India. Largest producer of films in the world. Pretty much the best thing ever.
Not to be confused with Tollywood or other –woods (these would be Indian films produced outside of Mumbai, most often in a language other than Hindi).
Here’s one Bollywood poster and Tollywood poster.
See? Completely different.
Playback singers: have you ever wondered why all Bollywood actresses have the exact same singing voice? Well it’s because it IS the same exact singing voice (75% of the time at least). The songs that form such an integral part of Bollywood films are sung by professional singers and recorded over lip syncing actors.Playback singers are hugely popular and sales from film music, an industry known as Filmi music, are a large part of the Bollywood money making machine. I have some favorites I’ll write about and my reviews will definitely include mention of a film’s quality of music. Until then please enjoy a song by the most prolific singer in Indian Cinema, Lata Mangeshkar. (The beautiful Meena Kumari is a bonus.)
Masala: much like the spice mixture, Masala films combine multiple seemingly disparate genres into one yummy serving. Masala film are melodramatic, romantic, comical, and action packed.
Desi: refers to Indians and Indian culture.
Those are the important ones, more to come later….
My adventures in Bollywood began as most adventures do, suddenly and while trying not to hurl. I should explain. It was 2005, I was a sophmore at a small liberal arts college in the Midwest and I was going to spend the next three weeks traveling through northern India. As part of my religion minor coursework I enrolled in a study abroad class called "Religion and Society in Modern India." Two things need to be said here. 1. The course was as bad-ass as it sounds and 2. If you haven't been to India you need to go. I mean it. You should get up, grab a phone, call a travel agent (do these still exist?), and book a trip. You won't regret it. Unless you end up hating it, in which case you've actually learned the most valuable lesson of all: not making life decisions based off the ramblings of strangers on the internet. You're welcome.
I'm in there somewhere.
The day of my journey arrived and I began my 14-hour flight to India. It was in the last hour of the Frankfurt-New Delhi lag that I started to take notice of the in-flight movie. An impossibly beautiful girl is trying to decide between a handsome wealthy businessman and a handsomer wealthy musician. Obviously this heart-wrenching decision can only be made during an Latin-inspired dance number featuring what appeared to be extras from In Living Color's Flygirls. What was I watching? Who were these people? Did beautiful girl choose business guy or music guy? (I wasn't too invested in names at this point.) What was in the in-flight meal? Why was my head spinning, and where is my barf bag? These were the questions I was left with as our plane landed. Since the next three weeks were spent taking in the sounds, sights and smells of India you can imagine how very little I thought about the new cinema genre I had just encountered and instead focused on not dying of food poisoning or getting robbed on the street by monkeys (for the record, monkeys in India ain't no joke.)
Don't be fooled. He will cut you.
While my adventures in Bollywood started on that flight to India, I didn't become a superfan until I return to the States. I discovered my local library's wonderful Hindi-language film collection and what could have been a quaint interest transformed into an obsession. The only downside to being a Hindi film fanatic were the blank stares and prolonged "huuuhhhs" directed my way when I explained I spend my Sundays catching up on the latest Karan Johar films. If only there was a place where I could share why I love these movies; the beautiful cinematography, the synergy between music and storytelling, the performers, and the dancing, oh, the dancing. And so the idea for this blog was born. Here is a place where both Bollywood newbies and and Hindi film veterans can become immersed in the world of Bollywood along with me. As a wise woman once said "ain't no party like a Bollywood party cuz a Bollywood party don't stop." Well said, commentator aishandabhi2003 from bollywoodglitz.com, well said. The Bollywood party will never stop and neither will I.
So, wait....what's the deal with the blog?
The deal is I write reviews on Bollywood films and discuss prominent actors, directors and musicians. You may also be asking, what exactly is Bollywood? And to that I say thank you for making it this far in the post even though you have no idea what I'm talking about. Bollywood is defined in different ways by different people but I'm going old school and limiting it to Hindi language films produced by companies based out of Mumbai (formerly Bombay). Bollywood is not synonymous with Indian cinema, it is one example of Indian cinema but by no means the only. Other types of Indian cinema include Tollywood (Bengali), Punjabi, Kollywood (Tamil), among others. I won't stray far from the Bollywood world but if I do travel into other Indian cinema it will be for good reason (A.R. Rahman I'm looking at you.)
I'll try and post film reviews at least once a week with other topics spread throughout the month. If there are topics you are particularly interested in let me know and I'd be happy to oblige. For now, thanks for reading and enjoy this clip from one of the most popular Bollywood films ever, Hum Aapke Hain Kaun!
