Hindi Film Reviews (1931-1950)
By: Arunkumar Deshmukh
Edited by: Prof Surjit Singh
Published by: professor toofaani publishers, East Lansing, MI, USA
I have reviewed Arunkumar Deshmukh’s first two books on this forum – Forgotten Artists of Early Hindi Cinema Book 1 and Book 2. I know enough about Arunji through our couple of meetings and his writings on Atul Song A Day and other blogs that he has many books in him. Sometime back he asked me for my postal address and, after a week, when he asked whether I had received a packet, I had to say, No. Then he sent me the courier’s tracking id, and I came to know it was this book. The courier’s local office was in shambles, and after a good deal of follow up from his side and my side, the book finally arrived, after considerable delay.
Something about the author which would place the context of the book. There was a time from the 1950s to 1980s when only single screen theatres were in existence. Some theatres exclusively showed only old films; most reserved one show a week, usually Sunday mornings for old films. There was an audience for old films who would not mind travelling long distances for their favourite old films. There were also some theatres which showed only classic English films. With the disappearance of single screen theatres and arrival of multiplexes, that ecosystem has disappeared. This is ironical because total number of screens must have gone up, but choices have reduced. Arunji grew up in a large joint family in Hyderabad. He was always fond of films, films of all kinds – mythologicals, fantasy, stunt, adventure, action, social dramas. As the male child in the family he used to chaperone the family’s ladies to cinema halls. He was always an organised person. He used to take down notes of the story, credit titles and other details. These voluminous note books became the source of his writings.
Hindi Film Reviews (1931-1950) contains about a hundred reviews, arranged alphabetically, with their years of production in brackets. This makes the search quite convenient. You get to know details of yesteryear stars, the film scenario of those days, a lot of interesting trivia. In many reviews or synopsis the broad context of how he got to watch that film is given.
My curiosity was piqued when I saw the mention of the first talkies, Alam Ara (1931), because no print of the film is known to have survived. Did he see it when its prints were around? And how did they get destroyed? Throwing some light on that would have been quite useful. However, we do get a synopsis of the story and some interesting trivia. The credit of the first Hindi film song goes to De de khuda ke naam pyare taakat hai gar dene ki, sung by and picturised on Wazir Mohammad Khan. The Imperial Movietone’s boss Ardeshir Irani hired the handsome Vithal (known as Douglas Fairbanks of India), who was on contract with Sharda Movies who dragged Vithal to court. Vithal was defended by Jinnah.
Like many superstars of the silent era, Vithal’s limitations in dialogue delivery was soon exposed. Irani was planning to replace him with Mehboob Khan. Now Vithal dragged Imperial to court with Jinnah as his counsel. Imperial had to continue with him.
At some other forum I remember Arunji had mentioned another trivia about the court battle between Imperial and Sharda on Vithal. The judge held an open auction between the two producers. Imperial outbid Sharda, and thus they retained Vithal. On very old trivia, which cannot be verified, the readers should go by my friend Subodh Agrawal’s dictum, why let facts spoil a nice story. Choose any which strikes your fancy.
A landmark picture of the 1930s was Shantaram-directed Aadmi (1939), which was the story of love affair between a police constable Moti (played by Shahu Modak), and a courtesan Kesar (played by Shanta Hublikar). Kesar herself dissuades Moti from marriage, realising the vast chasm in their social backgrounds. She also encourages him not to feel dejected and get on with life. Some commentator’s viewed this film as a counterpoise to Devdas (1935), in which the dejected hero self-destructs in alcohol. Arunji says that Shantaram did not intend his film as making any counter-statement to Devdas. I remember one interesting scene from the film, referencing to song-picturisation those days. Shahu Modak and Shanta Hublikar on the run are caught up in a group of crew engaged in a song picturisation. This bit of meta-cinema shows hilariously the perils of live song picturisation when the camera, props and recording equipments had to be hidden from the view in bushes and tree branches.
Bhabhi (1938) of the Bombay Talkies, directed by their regular German director, Franz Austen, was a significant film of the 1930s – for its heroine Begum Khurshid Mirza. Khurshid came from a traditional Muslim family. However, her progressive father was very clear that his daughters, and Muslim girls in general, should get a modern education. He set up a Women’s College in Aligarh. Khurshid grew into an educated, beautiful girl with mind of her own. After a love affair, she married a police officer and became Begum Mirza, She already had a child when she decided to take up the offer of Devika Rani to act in films. Supported by her family she moved to Bombay. Devika Rani introduced her in Jeevan Prabhat (1937) under the name Renuka Devi. Renuka Devi was an accomplished singer. Her Jhuki aayi re badariya sawan ki (Bhabhi, 1938, Saraswati Devi) is a beautiful song remembered till today. After the Partition, she migrated to Pakistan where she had a successful career with Pakistan TV, and finally she was a highly respected social worker. Quite a remarkable woman who lived life on her own terms.
While talking about Comrades (1939) of Sagar Movietone, Arunji mentions a number of interesting trivia. Its director Nandlal Jaswantlal started his career with Ranjit Movietone. After Sagar and National he joined Filmistan where he directed his most famous films, Anarkali (1953), and Nagin (1954). He came back full circle and directed Ranjit’s last film Akeli Mat Jaiyo (1963) which was also Nandlal Jaswantlal’s last film. Talking further about such coincidences, though unconnected, Arunji mentions Kanhaiyalal did the same role of Sukhilala in Aurat (1940) and its remake Mother India (1957). Jayant played the same role in Mala (1941) and its remake Amar (1954). But WM Khan takes the cake in this regard. He essayed the same role of a fakir in Alam Ara (1931), Alam Ara (1956) and Alam Ara (1973) and sang the same song in the first two versions of the film. In fact we are familiar with the tune of De de khuda ke naam pyare from the 1956 version. This song is available on the YouTube.
Deccan Queen (1936) was the launchpad of Surendra as the Bombay Saigal. He was a handsome man with a very good voice. He sang Birha ki aag lagi mere man mein composed by Pransukh Naik, on the tune of Balam aaye baso mere man mein (Devdas, 1935). I don’t think Surendra was able to displace Saigal from his pedestal, but they must have thought his makeover as Bombay-Saigal was complete.
Interestingly, Devdas (1935) is not in the list of films covered by Arunji, as also missing is Street Singer (1938), though some other important films of New Theatres are covered.
Most films covered in the book are connected in some way with an important slice of history of our film making. Brahmchari (1938) was the first film in which the heroine – Meenakshi Shirodkar (mother of Nanda – since corrected. See the author’s comment at #3) – was shown in a swimsuit in a pool. This was considered obscene those days.
Dhoop Chhaon a.k.a Bhagyachakra (1935) was the first film to have introduced playback singing, thought it took some years before it became the norm. KL Saigal was not in the film. But two songs – Jeevan ka sukh aaj prabho mohe, jeevan ka sukh aaj; and Andhe ki lathi tu hi hai tu hi jeevan ujiyara hai – which were sung by KC Dey in the film were recorded in Saigal’s voice and these songs became one of Saigal’s most remembered songs.
Shantaram-directed Duniya Na Maane (1937) was the first film to deal with the issue of young girls forcibly married to old men. This was also the first film in which Shanta Apte sung an English song, In the world’s broadfield of battle (A poem written by Longfellow, ‘A Psalm of Life’). Gramophone Singer (1938) had many firsts to its credit. Zohrabai Ambalewali debuted as a singer in this film with Piya ghar naahin akeli mohe dar laage composed by Anil Biswas. Kanhaiyal started his acting career with this film. In his early days he also wrote lyrics for some films. He was the younger brother of Sankata Prasad who was a regular with Sagar Films since the silent era. This was also the first film of its director duo Virendra Chimanlal Desai and Ramchandra Thakur.
Arunji asserts though Karwan-e-Hayat’s (1935) music is credited to Mihir Kiran Bhattacharya, it was actually given by RC Boral. Mihir Kiran was his assistant and his name is not associated with any other film. For me this film is significant for Saigal’s two songs – Hairat-e-nazara aakhir ban gayi ranaaiyan, and Dil se teri nigah jigar mein utar gayi. Arunji has not given the source for his assertion. Therefore, I would not like to deprive Mihir Kiran Bhattacharya of the credit for creating two immortal songs of Saigal. Karma (1933) is known for a long kissing scene between Himanshu Rai and Devika Rani.
Similar details are given for selected films of the 1940s.
Now you get the hang of the book. You are exposed to the films of the era, their star cast, story line, and plenty of trivia. You might have some issues on the omission of some films and inclusion of some less worthy films, but that is the author’s prerogative and we are grateful for what he has done. I always look for books about that era, because so much is unknown to us. But I look for some critical essays giving an overview of the period, evolution of various trends, comparisons in the style of acting, dialogue delivery, and our poor record in preservation of our legacy etc. A couple of such overview essays would have enhanced the book significantly.
I have mentioned the special charm of duets for the variety they add to the film music. In the Vintage Era it is more pronounced as we come across many gems by singers whose names we have not heard.
The spectrum of Mohammad Rafi’s songs through his entire career contains innumerable hues and shades, even within a given genre. Moreover, every historian or an analyst or a fan of him who have been writing, or airing the views, about his songs have had their own context or view. As such, every piece has always come out as a totally different view under the kaleidoscope. It would, perhaps, be a very safe bet to say that anything written or said about Mohammad Rafi’s songs will start repeating if, and only when, human imaginations and interests (or even those of AI in the future 😊) will reach their limits. The occasion of celebration of Mohammad Rafi’s birth centenary year has made the viewing of the spectrum of Mohammad Rafi’s songs more intense and more microscopic, and hence, much more interesting. 
As the readers are aware from the year-wise reviews, the female solos on the average far outnumber the male solos. In the 
If you were to ask me which singer I associate most with Kalyanji-Anandji, my answer would be instantly Mukesh. It was natural I wrote a post on Mukesh-KA in the initial years of the blog with the title, 
Almost two years back, I had written my first blog for SOY on the theme of Rafi’s songs for unrecognised composers. In this birth centenary year of the legend Mohammad Rafi, AK Ji and myself were discussing on something similar and it was AK Ji who came out with the brilliant idea of focusing on his songs for those actors who were not the top heroes. Writing for SOY is always a privilege and I thank AK Ji for providing me an opportunity to continue my blogs here.
When you think of Kalyanji-Anandji’s main playback singers, Mukesh comes to mind first. They seemed to be made for each other, and there is already a post on 
