Opera guide 4: La Boheme

Puccini's La Bohème (literally Bohemia, but usually rendered as The Bohemians, 1896) hardly needs to have more words written about it. It's easily the most popular, most-produced opera in the repertory. Opera connoisseurs often claim that they can resist La Bohème's appeal, and some treat its frequent appearances with open disdain.

But that disdain is misplaced. La Bohème deserves its place as the most popular opera of all time. Its characters are compelling, its music is a soaring and unforgettable expression of passion, and its libretto--adapted by Luigi Illica and Giuseppe Giacosa from Henri Murger's 1851 novel Scènes de la vie de bohème--is brilliantly witty. (In fact, I think the libretto would have been even better if it were longer: see below.) A good production with capable, committed singers rarely fails to be moving; one of the most effective productions I've seen was put on at a 400-seat theater by the tiny, under-budgeted San Francisco Lyric Opera company.

La Bohème's popularity obscures some things about it that are truly unusual. For one thing, it's about ordinary people living in what was for Puccini's audiences an almost contemporary urban setting. There are no gods, kings, queens, or even aristocrats in evidence (though there is a viscount, who is never seen or heard). For another, Puccini's melodies are virtually continuous--there aren't really separate numbers (although certain moments are often excerpted). In a way, it's a return to a 17th-century, Monteverdian style of composition (a future Opera Guide will cover L'Incoronazione di Poppea). La Bohème also has an odd temporal structure: the first two acts take place over the course of a single evening; the next two span about eight months. The reason for that odd imbalance of elapsed time involves a missing act.

La Bohème opens on Christmas Eve in bohemian Paris. Four friends--Rodolfo the writer, Marcello the painter, Schaunard the musician, and Colline the philosopher--share a cold, underfurnished garret. In Act I, Schaunard returns to the freezing garret with a windfall; the bohemians head out to the Cafe Momus (Momus is the Greek god of satire and mockery, the god of writers) to celebrate. Rodolfo stays behind for a few minutes to finish an article--the hackwork he does to support his true calling, writing plays. He's surprised by Mimì, a seamstress neighbor, whose candle has gone out and who is looking for a light. Rodolfo contrives to extinguish his own candle, and Mimì (deliberately?) drops her key. While searching for the key (which Rodolfo finds and silently pockets), their hands meet in the dark (Rodolfo: "Che gelida manina" (What an icy little hand)). Rodolfo tells her about himself ("Chi son? Sono un poeta" (Who am I? I'm a poet)) and Mimì responds, at first hesitantly, and then with growing warmth ("Mi chiamano Mimì" (They call me Mimì)). Ardently, Rodolfo declares his feelings ("O soave fanciulla" (Oh gentle beauty)), his voice soon joined by Mimì's in a passionate love duet.

(Rodolfo: "Oh, gentle beauty, how sweet your face looks in the moonlight; you are the dream of love that I have always dreamed." Mimi: "His sweet words delight my heart. Love, you alone command us!" This clip is from the 1965 film directed by Franco Zeffirelli and starring Gianni Raimondo as Rodolfo and Mirella Freni as Mimì.) They leave to join the other bohemians at the cafe.

Act II takes place at the Cafe Momus and its surrounding square; we're introduced to Musetta, Marcello's on-again, off-again mistress, a woman who knows her attractiveness to men and exploits them to achieve her own desires ("Quando me n'vo" (When I stroll out alone on the street)). She's arrived at the Cafe Momus with her latest conquest in tow, the rich old man Alcindoro, but leaves with Marcello--sticking Alcindoro with the bill.

Act III occurs a month or two later in a neighborhood on the edge of Paris. Marcello has been hired to paint a mural in a cafe, and Musetta is staying there with him. Rodolfo arrives to tell Marcello that he and Mimì can't stay together. He claims that he's jealous of Mimì's flirtatious nature; Marcello tells him that he should treat love lightly, as he and Musetta do. Rodolfo then confesses (overheard by an eavesdropping Mimì) that he's really concerned about Mimì's health--the cold, drafty garret is making her cough worse. Living with him is killing her; he wants her to find a better situation. Mimì reveals herself to Rodolfo and they reconcile, resolving to put off their breakup until spring. Meanwhile Marcello becomes enraged by Musetta's flirtations with the customers of the cafe--so much for treating love lightly--and after a fierce argument they split up again (not for the last time, we suspect).

The final act is set in the early fall; Rodolfo and Marcello each commiserate with the other about the company in which their former girlfriends have been seen. (From the 1965 Zeffirelli film, with Raimondi as Rodolfo and Rolando Panerai as Marcello, conducted by Herbert von Karajan with the Orchestra del Teatro Alla Scala.)

Suddenly Musetta returns, with Mimì. Mimì is extremely ill now, and the bohemians rally to try to help her--fearing, though, that it's too late.

So Act I and Act II take place over about four hours on Christmas eve; Act III takes place in winter, and Act IV in late summer/early fall. What's missing, of course, is spring/early summer. And the original libretto included an act that filled in this missing time and revealed how Mimì found another lover.

In the missing act, the four bohemians arrive at Musetta's grand apartment for a party, only to discover that--after being abandoned by her new lover the Councillor--she's being evicted. They determine to have the party anyway, and arrange the furniture removed from her apartment into a makeshift ballroom in the building's courtyard. Schaunard conducts the orchestra and, when the building's tenants start to complain, they're all invited to join the party. One of the guests is the Viscount Paolo, who dances and flirts with Mimì as a drunken, jealous Rodolfo looks on. Marcello and Musetta reunite, while Rodolfo bitterly renounces his love for Mimì. As dawn breaks, the guests stagger away as auctioneers arrive and begin selling off the furniture.

Luigi Illica felt that cutting this act inflicted an "enormous wound" on his libretto. Not only is it filled with delightful incidents, it's structurally brilliant. It sets up a reversal of the situations of Rodolfo/Mimì and Marcello/Musetta at the end of Act III, provides another solo opportunity for Musetta as in Act II, and creates an alternation of intimate settings with public festivities from act to act. But Puccini never set it to music, perhaps recognizing that it slowed the opera's dramatic momentum. Given the effectiveness of the final version, it's hard to argue with Puccini's decision.

Many versions of La Bohème have been recorded. On CD, two remain at the top of my list. The first is Sir Thomas Beecham's 1956 recording featuring Jussi Bjorling as Rodolfo and Victoria de los Angeles as a vulnerable, girlish Mimì. In terms of pacing, the conviction of the singers and dramatic effectiveness this version remains unsurpassed. You won't even be aware that it's in mono. But if it's stereo lushness you desire, Herbert von Karajan's 1972 recording with Luciano Pavarotti as Rodolfo and Mirella Freni as Mimì will let you wallow in the sheer beauty of Puccini's music to your heart's content. Like many Karajan recordings, this one favors voluptuous sound over dramatic pace, but when the sound is this lovely it's hard to complain.

On DVD, the Metropolitan Opera production is beautiful to look at (the production is by Franco Zeffirelli) and despite some occasional signs of vocal strain the cast is generally marvelous; Teresa Stratas is an especially affecting Mimì. Renata Scotto's Musetta, though, seems a bit mature for her role, and vocally she's not at her freshest, either. The 1965 Zefirelli film also has a wonderful cast--Freni's Mimì is especially lovely--but as with many opera films of the time it was either lip-synched or post-dubbed, which can be distracting. Baz Luhrmann's Opera Australia production updates the proceedings to the 1950s and offers a youthful and attractive cast in a production that otherwise seems to be reaching half-heartedly for Brechtian alienation effects. David Hobson's lyric tenor is a shade light for Rodolfo, but he throws himself into the role with complete commitment, and Cheryl Barker offers a sympathetic Mimì. But as I mentioned at the start, no matter which version you favor it's hard to go wrong with La Bohème.

The Cambridge Opera Handbook on La Bohème edited by Arthur Groos and Roger Parker (Cambridge University Press, 1986) is a wonderful companion volume to the opera. It discusses the opera's source in Murger's book and play, the origins and development of the opera (including a full libretto of the cut scenes), Puccini's conflicts with fellow composer Leoncavallo (who may have given Puccini the idea for the opera while in the process of writing his own Bohème), its reception and stage history. The Handbook makes hearing or viewing the opera a richer experience; but of course, the dilemmas of Rodolfo and Mimì, Marcello and Musetta require no background or interpretation to be immediate, vivid, and emotionally affecting.

Dil Hai Tumhaara

Can a mediocre movie also be brilliant? After seeing Dil Hai Tumhaara (My Heart is Yours, 2002), I'm compelled to say "yes."

For the first 90 minutes or so, this film's stock characters and formulaic situations provide at best a pleasant time-pass if you happen to be in a particularly indulgent and non-critical frame of mind, or happen to be (as I am) a big Preity Zinta fan. DHT is the story of the loving sisters Nimmi (Mahima Chaudhary) and Shalu (Preity, looking too adorable for words). Although neither sister knows it, Shalu is actually Nimmi's half-sister: she was born to their father's mistress, while Nimmi was born to his wife Sarita (Rekha). When the father and mistress are mortally injured in a car accident, Sarita unwillingly agrees to raise the infant Shalu as her own. But Sarita can't look at Shalu without reliving the bitterness of her betrayal by her husband, and so Shalu grows up and blossoms into Preity Zinta without ever experiencing maternal love. Instead, it's her sister Nimmi who comforts Shalu when she is sad or hurt or feeling alone, and so a fierce emotional bond has developed over the years between the two sisters:


Shalu's only other friend in the world besides Nimmi is Sameer (Jimmy Shergill), a puppeteer, who has been madly in love with her since childhood but has never revealed his feelings.

Enter Dev Khanna (Arjun Rampal), the tall, handsome son of a fabulously wealthy industrialist (Alok Nath). Dev has come to town with his father at Shalu's urging to investigate the exploitation of local farmers. The cause is factory managers Roopchand and Khoobchand, two brothers who are not only driving the farmers into bankruptcy but are stealing from the firm, and whose toupees ludicrously evoke a certain Bollywood superstar:


Dev and Shalu meet cute, and Dev begins to be consumed by thoughts hitherto alien to him.


(That's Dev's fantasy Shalu in the silver lamé--the real Shalu favors jeans and t-shirts. One of the fun things about DHT is how many of the songs--this still is from "Chayya Hai Jo Dil"--become vehicles for fantasies, often of multiple characters.)

Shalu comes to return his feelings, but Nimmi also falls for Dev. And this is where the film takes a turn and starts to rework its formula in interesting ways. Warning: spoilers follow.

In the number "Mohabbat Dil Ka Sakoon" ("Love") Shalu, Nimmi, Dev and Sameer sing and dance of love; each thinks their love is being reciprocated, but both women are thinking about Dev, while both men are thinking about Shalu. (The love-song-with-mismatched-objects was also used effectively the following year in Kal Ho Naa Ho (2003), coincidentally starring Preity.) The gap between Sameer's perception and the reality of Shalu's feelings becomes painfully clear in the next song, "Dil Hai Tumhaara." While Sameer sings "My heart is yours" to his fantasy Shalu (fetchingly dressed once again in silver lamé),


the real Shalu is singing the same words to Dev. (This song also features an amazing, 2-minute continuous take as the camera follows Dev and Shalu around the factory offices.)

The misunderstandings multiply when Dev sends a huge floral arrangement to Shalu's home, and Nimmi thinks it's for her. As Nimmi twirls in ecstasy, the camera focuses on Shalu's misery:


Shalu decides to give up Dev for her sister's happiness. Meanwhile, Sarita goes to Mr. Khanna to arrange Nimmi's marriage to Dev. Khanna-ji--who is fully aware of Dev and Shalu's growing love--is a bit surprised when he hears which daughter Sarita is speaking for:


But as she's leaving the Khanna's house, Sarita overhears Shalu and Dev in intimate conversation. She realizes that there's something between them, and later at home furiously spits out the truth of Shalu's parentage and her own undiminished bitterness. Sarita also angrily accuses Shalu of trying to seduce Dev away from Nimmi. (Rekha is amazing throughout this scene.) Once again, it's Nimmi who comforts Shalu:


Both Nimmi and Shalu are devastated by the evening's revelations. Later, alone in their bedroom, Nimmi asks Shalu if she's in love with Dev. Shalu, unable to bear hurting her sister, claims instead to be in love with Sameer. The next day, Sameer comes by the house with his ever-present puppet Rangeela, and Nimmi congratulates him on his good luck:


Sameer instantly makes plans to propose to Shalu. Meanwhile, Shalu has gone to Dev to urge him, for her sake (!), to marry Nimmi. She then visits Sameer and asks him to participate in the deception:


The situation is now so perverse that it's meta-perverse. Out of love for Nimmi, Shalu is sacrificing her love for Dev; and out of love for her, both Dev and Sameer agree to go along with her plan. Dev will pretend not to love Shalu so that he can pretend to love Nimmi, and Sameer will pretend not to love her so that he can pretend to love her. Sheer genius. The song that immediately follows, "O Sahiba" ("Oh my beloved") encapsulates the situation perfectly: Sameer, Shalu, and Dev sing the title phrase with anguish, while the heedless Nimmi sings it joyously.

Even Dev's father comes to understand what's happening: when he asks Shalu point-blank if she has ever loved Dev, she denies it. He isn't fooled for an instant:


and neither is the eavesdropping Sarita.

Everything comes to a head at the engagement of Dev and Nimmi in the song "Dil Laga Liya" ("I've given you my heart"), spectacularly choreographed (by Jojo and Raju Khan) and filmed (by director Kundan Shah). Throughout the movie, Sameer's puppet Rangeela--like all fools and clowns--has spoken the uncomfortable truth; now Shalu dances in the role of a puppet controlled by Sameer, and in the guise of performing a love song for the engaged couple sings achingly of the truth of her love for Dev. Of course Sameer, Dev, Mr. Khanna, and Sarita all understand the true import of her words; and Nimmi, noticing their reactions, begins to feel a bit uneasy...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6qBdQzPnw4E

"Dil Laga Liya" (music by Nadeem-Shravan; lyrics by Sameer; sung by Alka Yagnik and Udit Narayan) is an instant classic, ranking in my estimation with some of the greatest picturizations I've seen. (Note how Shalu-the-puppet magically "comes to life" when she emerges from the center of the Rajasthani dancers like a blossoming flower.) And in fact in last half of DHT, every element of the film--the script, the performances, the songs, the choreography, and Kundan Shah's fluid direction--builds inexorably towards that meaning-packed final song. Wah!

A final word in praise of Preity Zinta. Although she's gorgeous, she's not just another pretty face: she's a skillful, affecting, and adventurous actress who throughout her career has sought out unusual roles. In this film, she's the willful and rebellious (but good-hearted) illegitimate daughter Shalu. In Kya Kehna (1998/2000), also directed by Kundan Shah, and Salaam Namaste (2005), she plays women who become pregnant out of wedlock. In Kal Ho Naa Ho (2003), she plays the daughter of a suicide, and in Kabhi Alvida Naa Kehna (2006), a divorcée. Her latest role is that of an immigrant bride who becomes a victim of domestic violence in the fourth film in Deepa Mehta's ground-breaking Elements tetralogy, Videsh: Heaven on Earth (2008). I think she's been underestimated as an actress; her powerful performance is certainly the main reason to watch Dil Hai Tumhaara.

Update 5 May 2016: Thanks to Shemaroo Films, Dil Hai Tumhaara can be watched for free on YouTube; after clicking on the link, click on the CC button for English subtitles.

Update 10 June 2018: Shemaroo Films has apparently taken Dil Hai Tumhaara down, at least in the United States. Because, after all, why would you want millions of viewers?

Update 8 October 2024: I'm not sure when this happened, but Dil Hai Tumhaara is once again viewable on YouTube with English subtitles at the link given above. Thanks to Shemaroo Films for making it available once more; as of this date it's been seen nearly 60 million times.

Bachna Ae Haseeno

Bachna Ae Haseeno (Beware, Beauties; 2008) is an enjoyable time-pass, as they say, but it could have been more. The premise--a man seeking out past girlfriends in order to apologize for his caddish behavior--seems promising. Alas, somewhere between Aditya Chopra's story and the realization of the film, something goes amiss.

(As an aside, the title of the film is taken from an R. D. Burman song for the film Hum Kisi Se Kum Nahin (1977), which starred Rishi Kapoor--father of Ranbir Kapoor, the male lead in Bachna Ae Haseeno. Ah, Bollywood...)

Warning: some spoilers follow.

We see Raj (Ranbir Kapoor in a far more assured and enjoyable performance than in his debut Sawaariya (2007)) romancing three women at different stages of his life. First there's the naïve Mahi (convincingly played by Minissha Lamba), whom he meets during a pre-college Eurail tour. The parallels to Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge (1995)--coincidentally written and directed by Aditya Chopra--are underlined explicitly (not to say relentlessly). Like DDLJ's Simran (Kajol), Mahi dreams of being swept off her feet by an irresistible romance, but in reality will be returning to India for an arranged marriage. Unlike DDLJ's Raj (Shah Rukh Khan), though, Raj doesn't follow her. Instead he brags to his buddies about how far he's gotten with Mahi during the 24 hours they spent together after missing the train. Mahi overhears his boasting, and her dreams of romance are shattered.

Six years later, Raj is in his mid-twenties and is living in Mumbai with aspiring model Radikha (Bipasha Basu; I've never been Bipasha's biggest fan, but she does a creditable job here). When Raj and his game-design partner Sachin (Hiten Paintal) win a coveted posting to Sydney, Radhika plans for a wedding on the eve of what she assumes will be her departure with Raj. But Raj, panicking at the thought of commitment, lies to her about when he's leaving. Radhika is left waiting at the altar as Raj and Sachin jet off to Sydney.

Six years after that, Raj--now the thirtyish head of a highly successful game-design team--has obviously been enjoying the hedonistic nightlife of Sydney to the hilt. But then a late-night encounter with gorgeous taxi driver/convenience-store clerk/MBA student Gayatri (the stunning Deepika Padukone) has Raj suddenly rethinking his aversion to commitment. Gayatri, though, is a smart and determinedly independent woman who isn't ready for marriage and refuses to be kept by Raj. It's refreshing to see a female character in a Bollywood film for whom marriage isn't the supreme goal, and who can go to bed with a man she's attracted to without getting punished by the screenwriters.

Instead, it's Raj who is hurt when he unwisely decides to push the marriage issue, and gets a bitter taste of his own medicine. He then decides that he has to make amends to Mahi and Radhika for his past cruelties. He's in for some surprises, though...

On the plus side, the actors are all appealing, the locations (Switzerland, Bombay/Mumbai, Sydney, Italy, Thailand and Amritsar) are beautifully shot by director Siddharth Anand, and Vishal-Shekar's music (apart from the wretched English-language rock soundtrack that crops up repeatedly in Sydney) is catchy, especially Raj and Gayatri's "Khuda Jaane" (sung by Krishna Kumar Kunnath and Shilpa Rao):

But the Curse of the Second Half strikes Bachna Ae Haseeno in a major way. Disbelief has to be suspended past the breaking point, odd compressions and expansions of time occur (when Raj returns to India to find Mahi and Radhika, reference is made to a "4 days/3 nights" package; it turns out later that he's been gone a full year!), and there are multiple undermotivated reversals.

Despite the increasingly unconvincing script in the second half, Bachna Ae Haseeno is worth watching for the performances, especially those of Deepika, Minissha and Ranbir, and for the eye-candy. Beyond that, keep your expectations in check.

Chashme Buddoor

Thanks to Memsaab's rave review we watched Chashme Buddoor (1981) the other night, and it's every bit as delightful as she makes it seem.

Chashme Buddoor (a loose translation might be "Knock on Wood") is a bit like a comic La Bohème. It's the story of three roommates and their attempts to woo the girl next door, Neha (the terrific Deepti Naval). There's the poet Omi (Rakesh Bedi), the would-be actor Jai (Ravi Baswani), and Siddharth (Farooq Shaikh), a bookish economics graduate student. They share a cramped flat, and are constantly in hock to the local paan-walla, cigarette and soda vendor Lalan Mian (Saeed Jaffrey). Both Omi and Jai go to Neha's house to try to impress her; both fail miserably, but return to their buddies with elaborate stories about how successful they were. Finally, Siddharth is home one afternoon when Neha comes to his door--she's doing laundry-detergent demonstrations, and only needs to do one more to fill her quota. Over the suds, they begin a shy courtship, which eventually blossoms into love.

Chashme Buddoor is full of moments that gently mock filmi conventions. When Siddharth and Neha are sitting together in the park, she points out that they should be doing a song-and-dance number. Then, glancing around at all the couples and families that surround them, she wonders how it is that in movies when the hero and heroine dance in the park it's completely empty. Yes, Siddarth muses--and where do they hide the 40-piece orchestra? In another scene, the couple is sitting in their favorite cafe, and ask the waiter for another round (Tutti Frutti ice cream for her, coffee for him)--but, Siddharth tells him as they linger together, please take your time. Fine, the waiter replies--I'll bring it after the interval (which then arrives on cue).

The humor mainly depends on the observation of telling details rather than slapstick, and there's a hilarious montage of great movie love songs restaged as Jai's fantasy date with Neha. One key factor in the film's success is that all of the actors are perfectly matched to their roles. The boys aren't chiseled gym bunnies, and Neha, though lovely, isn't a Miss World contestant inexplicably parachuted into a typical Dehli neighborhood. I'm curious now in particular about Deepti Naval and Farooq Shaikh--I'll have to explore a bit more of their filmographies.

The course of true love never runs smooth, and for their own selfish reasons Omi and Jai decide that they have to break up the couple. There are some lapses in narrative logic, and in the last 20 minutes the director/writer Sai Paranjape abandons his her filmi satire and stages an almost conventional masala climax. But by then Chashme Buddoor has built up so much good will that it's easy to forgive this minor lapse (and don't stop watching before the credits roll.)

You don't have to take my word for how enjoyable this movie is, though. If you haven't seen it I urge you to read the reviews of Memsaab and Beth (which I discovered as I was writing this), and then run out to rent the movie. You'll be utterly charmed.

Zubeidaa

Based on the story of writer Khalid Mohamed's own mother, Zubeidaa (2001) tells of her unhappy life and untimely death in the early years of India's independence. Zubeidaa's story is framed by the attempts of her adult son Riyaz (Rajit Kapoor) to investigate decades later the life of the mother he barely knew.

Warning: spoilers follow.

Zubeidaa (Karisma Kapoor in an excellent performance) is buffeted by forces she doesn't understand and can't control. First her traditionalist Muslim father (Amrish Puri), himself a filmmaker, forces her to give up her aspirations to be a movie actress and marries her off unwillingly to the son of a family friend. The marriage scene, where a grimly silent Zubeidaa refuses to give her assent and her father speaks for her, shows that even the possibility of defiance is denied to her.

A year later, Zubeidaa's husband is convinced to divorce her and return to Pakistan with his father (the authority of fathers can't be contested even by their sons, it seems). Zubeidaa is left with a baby boy and the stigma of being a divorced mother. But to her parents' dismay, she isn't content to spend the rest of her life sequestered at home. At a polo match she meets Maharaja Vijayendra "Victor" Singh (Manoj Bajpai), who after the proverbial whirlwind courtship takes her to Fatehpur to be his second wife. Zubeidaa's short-lived joy is dashed, though, when her father insists on keeping her son, despite Victor's assurances that Riyaz can be raised as a Muslim.

Zubeidaa's romantic fantasies soon collide with the realities of Victor's relationship to his first wife, the Maharani Mandira Devi (Rehka), who is Hindu and the mother of his sons. Zubeidaa chafes under the precedence Mandira must be given and the time that Victor must spend with her. And when Victor decides to contest the provincial elections, he tours the villages with his Hindu consort, and not his Muslim wife.

The film touches on many issues: women's lack of freedom, the wounds of Partition, the second-class status of Muslims in a Hindu-dominated society, the attempt by the post-Partition Indian government to disempower the hereditary ruling classes, the conflict between the traditional and the new. The treatment of these issues by Mohamed and director Shyam Benegal is unusually subtle; there are no heroes, villains, or melodrama, only ordinary people acting out of comprehensible, if sometimes hypocritical or cruel, motives.

Much credit is due to Mohamed, Benegal and the actors for the many telling moments in the film. When Zubeidaa and the Maharani first meet, Mandira criticizes Zubeidaa's sleeveless choli; it's clear to us and to Zubeidaa that although Mandira reluctantly accepts Zubeidaa's presence, she's jealous of her place in Victor's affections. Yet, the next time we see Zubeidaa she has silently changed into a more demure style--her begrudging concession to Mandira's authority within the household. Later, when an angry Zubeidaa creates a scene at the airport by insisting on being taken on what turns out to be a fatal plane flight in place of the Maharani, Mandira's shame and humiliation are expressed in a single lowered glance at those gathered to see them off. The nuanced acting and directing are matched by A. R. Rahman's typically superb score.

The problem with Zubeidaa is its heroine. While her unwillingness to be limited to her traditional roles gains our full sympathy, that sympathy is slowly eroded by her displays of willfulness, childishness and petulance throughout the film. Her rebellion remains little more than simmering resentment that occasionally explodes into fits of pique. In fact, it's suggested that she may have deliberately caused the plane crash that took her life and that of her husband, a suspicion only partly dispelled in the film's final moments. We wait in vain for Zubeidaa to recognize that anything other than getting her own way might be at stake--to grow up, to put it bluntly. She is ultimately a victim not only of a patriarchal society, but of her own self-centeredness.

And so despite the many pleasures that this intelligent and well-acted film offers, Zubeidaa's limitations make Zubeidaa ultimately somewhat unsatisfying. Still, it is very much worth seeing, and makes me curious about the two other semi-autobiographical films on which Mohamed and Benegal collaborated, Mammo (1994) and Sardari Begum (1996).