Kaleidoscope

KALEIDOSCOPE: BOLLYWOOD MOVIES WERE MY TEACHERS

by Utpal Datta March 28 2025, 12:00 am Estimated Reading Time: 11 mins, 27 secs

A personal journey from street performances and film posters to poetic storytelling, Utpal Datta traces how an unexpected question unlocked deep-seated memories of discovering cinema in a small town in Assam.

In this evocative recollection, filmmaker Utpal Datta revisits his earliest memories of cinema—from watching Assamese and Hindi films in small-town theatres to being mesmerised by Bollywood song-and-dance performances in bustling markets. The narrative offers a nostalgic dive into vintage film culture, cinema posters, radio broadcasts, and the poetic essence of storytelling. As his non-feature film 'Bohubritta' screened at IFFI's Indian Panorama, Datta reflected on how so-called ordinary movies laid the foundation for his exploration of global cinema icons like Bergman, Ray, and Kurosawa, shaping his unique cinematic voice.  

My non-feature film, Bohubritta, was screened at IFFI—Indian Panorama. After the show, I mingled and took photos with familiar faces and a few new-found friends in the Inox courtyard. At that moment, a stranger introduced himself as an English literature professor and film enthusiast. In a calm tone, he inquired, "What incident or moment sparked your interest in cinema?"

I hesitated at the question; it was something I had never encountered before. No immediate answer came to mind, yet the question kept resonating within  me. I glanced at his face, astonished. He reiterated, “You’ve made a film with a poem, so I’m curious about how your journey began.” Feeling honoured, I invited him to dinner. Sitting on the beach at my hotel in Panaji, I began to reflect on my past under the night sky. My love for cinema didn’t originate from learning about acclaimed directors or iconic films. In fact, I can honestly say that I wasn’t familiar with any notable movies or filmmakers when I first fell in love with cinema.

The Allure of Posters and the Market Song

In early seventy-one, it was a cold day. I was then a junior high school student. There was a cinema hall near our school—Bharatiya Talkies. Until then, I had seen only one film in that theatre: the Assamese film Dr Bezbaruah. As a regular visitor to the cinema hall campus, I noticed some film posters inside and outside the hall. I was drawn to the colourful posters, but the film I got a chance to watch was in black and white. Perhaps that's why I was curious about the film posters; otherwise, I wasn't interested in watching black and white films. More importantly, I didn’t have permission to watch the movie. One day, for some reason, the school was dismissed early—it was Friday, the Weekly Market Day in Nalbari. I was heading home from school on the road that runs through the market with my friends. A gathering of people had formed on the roadside in the market. They encircled something, and a Hindi song was playing from inside. I made my way through the crowd and entered the circle. What an interesting sight—a young girl dressed in bold makeup and vibrant clothes was dancing and singing. A drummer was sitting and playing a dhulki. I watched the dance intently and listened to the song—Aaj Kal Tere Mere Pyar Ke Charche.

The dancer's voice was somewhat masculine but not bad either. I had never heard or seen such a song before. There are many religious films, like Rambhakt Hanuman, which I watched after Dr. Bezbaruah with my grandmother and siblings. This song was completely different from all the songs I had encountered before. At one point, the song and dance ended, and I heard some of the audience saying that the song was from a Hindi movie. One person said the dancer was not a girl but a boy. They distributed bidis to the crowd and announced they would give them at a lower price if purchased in bundles. I was mesmerised by the continuous sequences, but the song kept playing in my ears.

The music and dancing are over; the advertising and business have concluded. I hoped to see the song performed again, but the group stood up and began to leave. I followed them with my friends. They paused at the other end of the market and started again—aaj kal tere mere pyar ke.

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Posters, Lobby Cards, and the Forbidden Films

This song was the first Hindi movie song I had ever heard. I hadn't listened to the original, and I didn't even know such a song existed, but after enjoying the live visual remake, I felt a strange attraction to that type of song and to Hindi cinema. One factor that sparked that attraction was the various coloured posters at Bharatiya Talkies near our school. Two large posters displayed a small printed sticker glued to them—'Now Showing.' Several smaller posters were also pasted on nearby walls, with one featuring the same type of sticker, 'Next Change,' while others proclaimed 'Coming Soon.' Inside the cinema hall, in the lobby, there were photographs about half a foot by one foot, depicting moments from the ‘now showing’ film, with one inch of white space on all three sides and two inches below. Underneath was the movie's name and a couple of facts. These cards were called lobby cards. We watched those cards with hungry eyes and tried to feel the film. Small booklets containing songs and stories with suspenseful endings of the film were sold at the pan stalls outside the cinema hall. There was also a magazine called Picture Post. A new movie was released every week, but access to watch them was limited for us. I satisfied my thirst for cinema by observing these posters, lobby cards, Picture Post, and more. Watching Assamese movies was a family rule, but it was different for Hindi cinema. Sometimes, I unexpectedly had the opportunity to watch Hindi movies, one of which was Pakeezah.

Yet, Pakeezah did not fulfil my craving for Hindi films. The spirit of the posters that had drawn me to Hindi cinema was absent from the film. However, I loved the LP record cover of the film's songs, featuring Meena Kumari’s sad face covered with a black dupatta, her gaze directed toward the sky.

It took me several years to find the film song that drew me into Hindi cinema. When YouTube came along after all those years, I finally got to see it. Unfortunately, I didn't enjoy the experience; I felt frustrated as that song played on my computer screen. The version I had seen near the market was more colourful and lively. After waiting so long to watch the song, I was disappointed, especially since I had previously watched another song by Shammi Kapoor from Teesri Manzil—Deewana Mujh Sa Nahin Is Amber Ke Neeche. I didn’t realize it at the time, but now I can confidently assert that no one in Bollywood could shoot and edit dance scenes as brilliantly as Vijay Anand. The director of Brahmachari, Bappi Sonie, falls far short of Vijay Anand's standards. It still seems that Shammi Kapoor replicated the choreography from Teesri Manzil in his later films, which is quite evident in Brahmachari. 

The Mystery and Memory of 'Call Girl'

One of the films I wanted to watch was Call Girl. At that time, we listened to Hindi songs on the B channel of Akashvani Guwahati because the number of Hindi songs on this channel was much higher than on the A channel, which was more popular as it broadcast in Assamese. One day, I heard a song—Ulfat Ki Mein Zamane Ki—sung by Lata Mangeshkar, with music by Swapan Jagmohan. Swapan Chakraborty was Rahul Dev Burman’s assistant, and I knew nothing about Jagmohan. One day, I heard the same song as a duet performed by Lata Mangeshkar and Kishore Kumar. With two versions of the song, my interest increased. One day, I saw the film's poster at the Bharatiya Cinema Hall—Call Girl with 'Now Showing' displayed on it. A girl wearing high heels and a short skirt sat on a stool with her back to the audience, her back completely uncovered, holding a telephone; the photo was in black and white. This poster was the main reason for both attraction and fear. It took courage even to pronounce the name of this film, and we lacked that courage. Therefore, there was no question of watching the film. However, the right combination of the film's name, the poster design, and the song kept the film alive in my mind. The film starred Zahira, who looked somewhat different from the heroines of the time; she stood as the poor producer's Zeenat Aman. Later, I watched a film called Aadmi Sadak Ka, which also starred Zahira and Shatrughan Sinha. Her acting was lifeless, but she looked good in the film.

About thirty years later, I saw the DVD of Call Girl in a shop. There was no need to think twice; I bought it with immense interest. However, I did not find the song on the DVD. The DVD cover features the same poster, but I did not see such a shot in the film. I felt that if I hadn't watched the DVD, the impression of the film might have remained mysterious in my mind. Once, while writing a screenplay, I presented a female character in a scene at a bar. It came to my mind spontaneously during the writing process, but now I think the poster probably influenced it. 'In this place, only night comes after night; morning does not come.' Yaha raat ke bad sirf raat hoti hai, subah nahin. The film’s title was Prabhat. The poster with the 'Coming Soon' sticker did not feature a picture or photo of anyone; only the tagline was written on it. The combination of the tagline and the film's name attracted me. This poster was displayed at Anand Talkies in Nalbari. I waited for the film; the poster faded, but the film still did not arrive. The emergency and the Assam movement came and went, but the film still did not appear. I'm not sure if I will ever be able to watch it. I did not find any reading material about the film.

The Elusive 'Prabhat' and the Small-Town Screens

In 2003, almost thirty years had passed. One day, I was listening to Vivid Bharati on the radio. At that time, Vivid Bharati broadcast a program titled Bioscope ki Baatein every Friday evening from 4 pm to 5 pm. I heard the announcement that today’s film was Prabhat. At the same moment, the power supply went out. When the electricity came back, the ceremony was over. Just two years earlier, Amborish, a Mumbai-based journalist, provided me with the film link; it was a great gift.

The only public theatre in Nalbari was converted into a cinema hall, and a proper license was issued to Mukunda Mohan Talukdar. When the time came for the license renewal, the government denied it, prompting him to go to court. Talukdar was one of the producers of Upagraha, the second film produced in Nalbari. Some technicians who came to shoot the film stayed in a room on the first floor of the Anand Talkies. The physical condition of the cinema hall was not particularly appealing, making this hall our second choice. I watched a few Assamese films in this hall, including Ganga Chilnir Pankhi, Bishesh Erati, and Duronir Rong. One of the films I saw there was Ranga Khush, starring Joginder, who was the writer, producer, and director of the film. About two years ago, I read an autobiography by Nawazuddin Siddiqui and was pleased to know that he, too, had watched the film.

From Bollywood to World Cinema

The names of celebrated films and directors came to my knowledge only in my senior year of high school. The film that first revealed the enchantment of cinema to me was Johny Mera Naam, which I watched in 1975, although it was originally released in 1970. Another film, Sholay, released in 1975, also caught my attention that same year, but it didn’t leave a lasting impression as the visuals from A Few Dollars More, which I had seen just months earlier, overshadowed it. At that time, I was a senior in high school with limited exposure to film, yet I realised that Vijay Anand was a more original creator than others from his time. Later, I was allowed to watch more Hindi films as I reached the senior classes, of course after proper scrutiny. Those Hindi films were the only entertainment for me and the people in that small sleepy town, and I grew up with those films.

The gentleman asked, “You grew up with so-called ordinary movies. How did you develop yourself into serious cinema?”

True, I learned to love cinema through Bollywood movies that many people look down on. I grew up watching those films, and with that attachment, in my youth, I went on to explore works by creators like Bergman, Kurosawa, Satyajit Ray, Ritwik Ghatak, and others, discovering a different form of cinema I had never seen before. Without my passion for film, I would not have found the other world beyond Bollywood. I greatly admire Indian cinema, a blend of literature, painting, music, and dance. Therefore, whenever I think of cinema, the names of Bimal Roy, Guru Dutt, Shyam Benegal, Ray, Vijay Anand, Shaji Karun and Bhabendra Nath Saikia immediately come to mind along with their films. I love films; I love some films even more.