The best moments in Vidhu Vinod Chopra's 1942: A Love Story don't belong to Vidhu Vinod Chopra. They come courtesy of Sanjay Leela Bhansali and cinematographer Binod Pradhan. I am, of course, referring to the song sequences helmed by Bhansali, with an eye for grace and beauty that became a crucial part of his directorial style. In Ek Ladki Ko Dekha, for instance, the sweet, hypnotic lyricism with which Bhansali captures Anil Kapoor's Naren expressing himself as if in a trance while driving on the road and playing with some kids on the terrace is so comforting, so soothing to watch that you feel as if you've levitated. Naren's romantic intoxication is not so different from that of Sanjay during Pehla Nasha in Jo Jeeta Wohi Sikandar. Then there is Pyar Hua Chupke Se, which opens with an iconic shot of Manisha Koirala running towards the hills. A few minutes later, there is another stunning moment when Koirala's Rajjo runs from the right side of the screen to the left, while the camera gives us a view of the clear blue sky with white clouds resembling fluffy white dandelions. And who can forget Kuchh Na Kaho, perhaps one of the most sensual sequences ever filmed in the history of Hindi films? Naren's gentle kisses on Rajjo's neck and lips have more tactility and eroticism than most explicit sex scenes in modern films.
But once these songs are over and the movie returns to Chopra's hands, the entrancing spell is broken, and you are left with an undercooked story desperately reaching for meaning, style, and significance. In 1942: A Love Story, Chopra fuses romance with patriotism—love for an individual gives way to love for the nation—but this transition is fuzzy and undeveloped. Rajjo, given that she is played by someone like Koirala, is dreamy enough to lend credibility to Naren's infatuation. Nonetheless, when 1942 extends this infatuation into great romance and then into a zeal that makes Naren willing to sacrifice himself for India, it seems as if Chopra is biting off more than he can chew. Much of the problem arises from the director's application of "mainstream sensibilities," which he adopted after facing struggles with Khamosh, where the characters are flattened and their psychology overly simplified for easy consumption by a mass audience. There is very little we get to learn about Naren and Rajjo. She likes books only so that we can get a library song. He acts in a play just so we can get another song at the theater. These songs again and again underline how much Naren and Rajjo love each other, though there is no mention of the "why" aspect. What Chopra, along with writers Bhansali, Shiv Kumar Subramaniam, and Kamna Chandra, elides is the profound, personal conversations that could take puppy love to the level of an intense, I-will-die-for-you affection.
Without that important bridge, Naren and Rajjo come across as shallow Romeo-and-Juliet archetypes (there is a balcony scene as well) who heavily rely on Kapoor and Koirala to lend them credible force—and they do, to an extent. Before 1942, Chopra made the overrated Parinda, which, too, suffered from a similar problem: Karan and Paro were too thin, with the latter written almost like a puppet, which is why their death scene derived its strength solely from the barrage of bullets and the sight of blood. In Parinda, Chopra used birds as a metaphor for the yearning for freedom. This was just too literal to be effective or poetic or whatever (it became literal because the metaphor was overused to hell). In 1942, Indian revolutionaries and soldiers working under the British repeatedly come between Naren and Rajjo during the song sequences. The first time it happens, in Ek Ladki Ko Dekha, it feels like a nice visual touch—a subtle warning for the future. But when it is repeated the second time and then the third, the image loses its strength. You want to whisper, "Yes, we get it. Please move on."
There are some good ideas nonetheless. 1942 is frank about showing Indians betraying their own country and its freedom fighters to lick the shoes of British officials (Naren's father wants to be a "Lord"), and as Naren's mother, Sushma Seth impressively subverts the typical Sentimental Mother Role by presenting herself as a woman with dignity, love, and the courage to tell her son to stand up against the oppressors even if it means death and destruction. Seth's character is an ideal blueprint for the Indian mother. Chopra also does something noteworthy with Chanda (Chandni), Major Bisht's (Danny Denzongpa) daughter: after discovering that Naren loves Rajjo, she doesn't turn into a jealous schemer who tries to separate the two lovers. These choices, though, are just worth admiring from a distance. They don't significantly elevate the film to a higher, more emotionally complex level. Much of 1942 is held together by the performances and some stunning images in the preinterval portions. But as it inches towards its climax, it begins to lose its grip on your senses.
The climax especially is cartoonish, with a cartoonish British general (Brian Glover) and too many cartoonish explosions. The final nail in the coffin has to be the visual of Shubhankar (Jackie Shroff) falling from a roof, briefly holding on to a flag, and then dropping to the ground. Is any part of this fiery finale meant to be taken seriously? I couldn't suppress my laughter. I was so completely yanked out of the film that the burning bodies reminded me of The Towering Inferno. I also wished that Naren had just said "Jai Rajjo" instead of "Jai Hind" while being taken to the noose, as the former would have rung truer. Naren, after all, becomes patriotic because of Rajjo, but his patriotism is devoid of any attempt to understand what the freedom fighters are planning or doing, or how they are communicating and coordinating with one another. His desh bhakti simply seems like a small extension of his attachment to Rajjo rather than a conviction of his own.
Chopra, though, is firing on all cylinders as a filmmaker. He uses the songs, the cinematography, the performances, and the political background to lend meaning to a surface-level romance. The filmmaker basically does everything except write with greater depth. He also plays the National Anthem at the end as a last-ditch attempt to appeal to your own patriotism. 1942, in other words, might have been released in 1994, but it shares a similar DNA with many recent political projects: the union of shallow characters and crowd-pleasing, bullet-point-like moral messaging, all resulting in a self-congratulatory vision. Chopra essentially made a movie for the Twitter audience before Twitter even existed.
Written by - Vikas Yadav
Follow @vikasonorous on Twitter
Publisher at Midgard Times