Before you read this, read: About a Morning in Front of The Television - Part 1
Andaz begins with some lilting background music and several shots of a green valley. I have a feeling that that green valley may have been Shimla. After all, the year was 1971 and producers did not send the cast and crew abroad that often. It does seem like Shimla, it looks very much like Shimla, but I have no way of confirming that it is indeed Shimla.
What I do know for sure and can confirm is that Shammi Kapoor had managed to let his belly grow beyond bounds by the time he signed up for Andaz. Which is why Shammi - very cleverly - appears in suits throughout the movie. For all you know, it may have been the costume designer who suggested that dress code. Or perhaps the director himself may have gently made that suggestion. Whatever it was, the suits worked.
Had it not been for the lazy mood I was in, I will never have had noticed how the suits came to Shammi's rescue. The first time I saw Andaz, I was in school and so I was rather taken by its plot. This time round, I was rather idle and had enough of time to observe the extras and their clothing as well. So naturally, Shammi's wardrobe I scrutinised in minute detail. Which is how I noticed he had picked just the right length of suits to cover the fat belt around his waist.
Of course, Andaz isn't all about him. There's Hema Malini, Rajesh Khanna, and Simi Garewal as well. Rajesh and Simi do a decent job but the surprise package here is Hema!
She actually acts! And I am not joking!
Anyone familiar with her body of work knows she is absolutely hopeless when it comes to teary-eyed scenes. Her notion of getting emotional is a crease in the eyebrow and a rather constipated "Nahi, yeh nahi ho sakta! (No! This cannot happen!)" with a vigorous shake of her head. Nothing wrong with that but the thing is even the furniture accompanying her in such scenes seems much more willing to cry at her acting than Hema is willing to cry for a living! In Andaz though, she does cry for a living!
Hema plays a schoolteacher who's a widow. So apparently, white sarees are all she manages to wear. She walks about in parks, in the school lawn, romances Shammi (who plays a widower) across hill and dale and yet, her sarees remain immaculately clean! Then there is her son she takes care of. And a few minutes into the movie, there's Shammi daughter to take care of too.
I am sure you may have guessed the tale Andaz sets out to tell. Yes, it's the same old tale of a widow and widower brought together by their children. Nothing new there. You can close your eyes and picturize all the proceedings down to the colour of the uniform the tiny tots wear! So, no surprises there either.
What does inject life and spunk in the movie are the songs. Shanker Jaikishan drum up a zingy foot-tapping bunch of melodies that deftly weave in lyrics by Hasrat Jaipuri. Asha Bhosle lends her distinct breezy charm to Dil Usay Do Jo Jaan De De and Kishore Kumar yodels his way to glory in Zindagi Ek Safar Hein Suhana. Mohammed Rafi gets all childlike with Re Mamma Re Mamma Re while Suman Kalyanpur leaves a noticeable mark with her version of Dil Usay Do....
You must remember the songs are merely seven in number. And each is roughly five minutes long. That accounts for 35 minutes. Hema, Shammi, Rajesh, and Simi manage to keep your attention for, say, another 30 discontinuous minutes. The fragments that ensue in between all those minutes are sheer drivel and standard weepy drama that Bollywood stamps its romances with. If you can manage to sit through all that, well and good: Andaz will be palatable fair for you. But if you cannot digest the extra dose of tears, see if you can walk away from the television and come back to it when the songs begin. I guarantee you will not regret those.
That morning, as I sat there with nothing much to do, I did not regret them at all. For those segments are the only ones that manage to make you put back some faith in the innocence of melody and lyric and the sheer delight that they bring to your ears...
Andaz begins with some lilting background music and several shots of a green valley. I have a feeling that that green valley may have been Shimla. After all, the year was 1971 and producers did not send the cast and crew abroad that often. It does seem like Shimla, it looks very much like Shimla, but I have no way of confirming that it is indeed Shimla.
What I do know for sure and can confirm is that Shammi Kapoor had managed to let his belly grow beyond bounds by the time he signed up for Andaz. Which is why Shammi - very cleverly - appears in suits throughout the movie. For all you know, it may have been the costume designer who suggested that dress code. Or perhaps the director himself may have gently made that suggestion. Whatever it was, the suits worked.
Had it not been for the lazy mood I was in, I will never have had noticed how the suits came to Shammi's rescue. The first time I saw Andaz, I was in school and so I was rather taken by its plot. This time round, I was rather idle and had enough of time to observe the extras and their clothing as well. So naturally, Shammi's wardrobe I scrutinised in minute detail. Which is how I noticed he had picked just the right length of suits to cover the fat belt around his waist.
Of course, Andaz isn't all about him. There's Hema Malini, Rajesh Khanna, and Simi Garewal as well. Rajesh and Simi do a decent job but the surprise package here is Hema!
She actually acts! And I am not joking!
Anyone familiar with her body of work knows she is absolutely hopeless when it comes to teary-eyed scenes. Her notion of getting emotional is a crease in the eyebrow and a rather constipated "Nahi, yeh nahi ho sakta! (No! This cannot happen!)" with a vigorous shake of her head. Nothing wrong with that but the thing is even the furniture accompanying her in such scenes seems much more willing to cry at her acting than Hema is willing to cry for a living! In Andaz though, she does cry for a living!
Hema plays a schoolteacher who's a widow. So apparently, white sarees are all she manages to wear. She walks about in parks, in the school lawn, romances Shammi (who plays a widower) across hill and dale and yet, her sarees remain immaculately clean! Then there is her son she takes care of. And a few minutes into the movie, there's Shammi daughter to take care of too.
I am sure you may have guessed the tale Andaz sets out to tell. Yes, it's the same old tale of a widow and widower brought together by their children. Nothing new there. You can close your eyes and picturize all the proceedings down to the colour of the uniform the tiny tots wear! So, no surprises there either.
What does inject life and spunk in the movie are the songs. Shanker Jaikishan drum up a zingy foot-tapping bunch of melodies that deftly weave in lyrics by Hasrat Jaipuri. Asha Bhosle lends her distinct breezy charm to Dil Usay Do Jo Jaan De De and Kishore Kumar yodels his way to glory in Zindagi Ek Safar Hein Suhana. Mohammed Rafi gets all childlike with Re Mamma Re Mamma Re while Suman Kalyanpur leaves a noticeable mark with her version of Dil Usay Do....
You must remember the songs are merely seven in number. And each is roughly five minutes long. That accounts for 35 minutes. Hema, Shammi, Rajesh, and Simi manage to keep your attention for, say, another 30 discontinuous minutes. The fragments that ensue in between all those minutes are sheer drivel and standard weepy drama that Bollywood stamps its romances with. If you can manage to sit through all that, well and good: Andaz will be palatable fair for you. But if you cannot digest the extra dose of tears, see if you can walk away from the television and come back to it when the songs begin. I guarantee you will not regret those.
That morning, as I sat there with nothing much to do, I did not regret them at all. For those segments are the only ones that manage to make you put back some faith in the innocence of melody and lyric and the sheer delight that they bring to your ears...
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