The Goldie Standard

“If anyone, anywhere has understood me, it's Goldie.” –UG

The Indian Quarterly

By Nasreen Munni Kabir

The Anand Brothers—Chetan, Dev and Vijay—were a class act. From the late 1940s, they made Navketan (their production company) into one of the most distinctive banners of its time. Not only were their productions popular, they also nurtured new talent and took risks in their choice of film subjects.

Vijay Anand (known by all as Goldie) was the youngest brother. A student of English literature, he was a formidable screenplay writer, actor, producer and film editor, but it is his work as a director that has made a special place for him in Hindi cinema history. His first film, Nau Do Gyarah (1957), bears all the touches of a delightful storyteller.

His masterly grip over content and form led to a long and varied career. Working with a great team of cinematographers, composers, lyricists and choreographers, Vijay Anand brought out the best in his actors. Few could rival his abilities when it came to writing natural and easy-flowing dialogue or picturising songs. Unlike the enjoyment of most songs that is often divorced from the film for which they have been composed, his music is closely linked to the filmic experience. He knew songs are the glue that bind audiences to Hindi films. Close your eyes and you can see Shammi Kapoor with a scarf around his neck, singing “Deewana Mujhsa Nahin” on a colourful hilltop, or instantly recall the smiling faces of Dev Anand and Nutan as they sing “Dil Ka Bhanwar Kare Pukaar” on the inner stairway of the Qutab Minar.

I met this gifted director in the early 2000s and asked if he would agree to work on a book of conversations about his life and films. He gave me the nod and soon after that we recorded two long interviews in 2001 (a part of which is reproduced here). When he was appointed the chairman of the Censor Board in late 2001, he felt he would not have had the time right then for a book, and so, to my deep regret, it never got completed. Vijay Anand was 70 when he passed away on 23 February 2004.

What is the role of dance in Indian cinema? Do you think it has always been an important element?

There used to be many more songs in the early films and hardly any dancing. Songs had a bit of dancing: the heroine moved her hands around a little, but the actresses as such were not required to be dancers.

The arrival of the choreographers Hiralal and Sohanlal brought about a very big change, and by the 1960s they had become firmly established. They were extremely good dancers themselves, because they were trained in classical dancing. Most directors depended on them to picturise the songs and dances. They did not tolerate a bad director, so some directors would not even be on the set when the song was picturised.

What is the essential difference between composing a stage dance or a film dance?

Cinema choreography is very different. You cannot compose a dance in a film as you would for the stage. Choreographers like Sachin Shankar, who came from the stage, could not succeed in films unless they worked with a very good director who brought a strong cinematic sense and could translate the dance into cinematic language.

I think Sachin Shankar was very good when he choreographed “a performance within a performance”—I am thinking of “Gore Gore O Banke Chhore” (Samadhi, 1950). It takes place on a stage-like setting with the heroines dancing and the other characters, including the hero, looking on.

Yes, but that song was for the stage, even if that stage featured in a film.

In Johny Mera Naam I worked with Sachin Shankar. When he composed the dance, he showed it to me. He had the performers on one side and the audience on the other. We made changes together because finally it is the camera that is the audience and the camera angles must change in every shot. So you cannot have a strict division between performance and audience. Unlike a stage dance, the film director has to divide the dance into shots.

If you compose for the stage, you are also confined to a small space. The dance movements are restricted . . . usually within 20 x 20 feet. And cinema does not want to confine itself to space. It can go anywhere.

How did you work with a choreographer?

If the director is good, he uses the other artists [cameraman, composer, art director, choreographer, etc] as tools. He appreciates their talents and finds out whether they have ideas that can enhance his own vision. If this can happen, the entire team gives themselves into your hands. They flow with your work. But if they find the director has no idea what he wants and just wants an entertaining dance, then the choreographer will compose, film and edit the song.

Some choreographers have a limited understanding of editing. They want too many cuts and do not allow the shot to be held long enough … Nowadays, film editors are in love with the rhythm. They don't allow you to see the faces of the heroine or hero.

You mean nowadays the rhythm determines the cut, not the narrative of the lyrics?

That's right. Not the narrative. If the choreographers have understood the filmic situation, they do better work than if they were left alone to conceive a dance. Otherwise they usually come up with a repertoire of moves they have learned from their guru that may be good, but do not necessarily work for the scene.

The story comes first for good directors. When I worked with Hiralal, he knew the song had been written for a certain situation and context in the movie. The choreographer was not really in a position to guide me, because he had to fit his dance moves into my existing concept and narrative.

Sometimes a dance number has no lyrics. Take the snake dance in Guide. There were no words like naina [eyes] or sawariya [beloved]. So what guides the choreographer? The director guides him. In the snake dance I wanted the heroine to express her troubled life. You must explain the emotions that the song or dance is meant to convey.

Can you tell me about the very first song you directed?

It was in Nau Do Gyarah. I did not have a choreographer. I did not need one. I [only] needed a choreographer for Helen's and Shashikala's dance—even there the choreographer, Surya Kumar, had to choreograph the dance in a multi-dimensional way. He knew the dance could not be seen from a static viewpoint, as the camera was moving in many directions.

I spent my childhood with people like Zohra Sehgal, Kameshwar Sehgal, Mohan Sehgal and Guru Dutt. They were almost living in our house. So were Balraj and Damayanti Sahni. My brother Chetan brought them to Bombay, and until they found their own places to live in, they stayed with us. Zohra and Kameshwar came from Uday Shankar's dance academy and started a dance school in our Pali Hill home. A lot of students, including Premnath, used to come to learn dancing. Prithvi Theatre people used to come too. So I imbibed a lot by observing them. I knew what choreography was.

I am wondering if Uday Shankar indirectly inspired the film dances in the 1950s. Like Guru Dutt had Zohra Sehgal choreograph Baazi.

Yes, they were both [Guru Dutt and Zohra Sehgal] from Uday Shankar's dance academy and so they clicked together.

Left to myself I would not have used theatre choreographers. They were too stagey. As I said, in earlier times there wasn't much emphasis on film dancing. Dancing was required as a romantic element in a song, but it did not jump out of the story to show itself. “Look at me. I am part of the story yet not part of the story. I am an entity in myself.”

Coming back to Nau Do Gyarah, which was the first song you shot?

“Hum hain raahi pyaar ke hum se kuchh na boliye.” Then “Kali ke roop mein chali ho dhoop mein kahaan”. I shot those songs outdoors.

At that time I used to think a choreographer ruined songs. They interfered with the characterisation. I felt they imposed their own personalities through their dance steps and didn’t allow the artists to express themselves in the way they should.

I am happy to hear you say this, because I have always thought when your characters sing they somehow stay in character. I am thinking of Dev Anand and Nutan in Tere Ghar Ke Samne. Many of the tunes and dance movements in your films match the personality of your characters.

If the director understands his subject, story and characters well, he will not compromise in any aspect. If he is working on a film like Devdas then he has to have songs for Devdas, not for Shammi Kapoor.

The Teesri Manzil songs were not for Dev Anand or Waheeda Rehman, they were for Shammi Kapoor and Asha Parekh. When I was working on Jewel Thief, we discussed this with the composer. I would tell SD Burman: “Dada, this song is for Vyjayanthimala. I am going to use her talents as a dancer.”

Waheeda Rehman always underplays her scenes, so she needs a different kind of song. If you have a song for Dev Anand, you have to bear in mind that he can't dance. He has grace but not rhythm. You can't make him dance.

With Shammi Kapoor, if you don't make him dance he will make a fool of himself. You cannot tell him: “Shammi, don't move. Just sit still and sing.” He won't photograph well if the camera is fixed on him. But he has rhythm—an inborn rhythm that is superior to any movement a choreographer may compose for him.

I have always told my choreographers not to make the hero dance, but to imbibe his character into the choreography.

Imbibe the character or the personality of the star?

The character of the character. When you cast someone like Govinda, for example, you have many choices. When you cast Shammi Kapoor, you have choices, but not too many. Cast Shammi and you want a little bit of the character and more of Shammi Kapoor. You want to use the glamour and inborn talent that he has…

Shammi did not regard himself as a dancer, nor had he ever learnt dancing. But you played a song to him and told him: “Go wild!” He would, because he had such a tremendous sense of rhythm. He just got into the music and every fibre of his body would dance. The only thing you had to make sure was that he did not overdo it. OK, the character is fooling about—this much is allowed, but not beyond that. All the expressions are in the song words: “Dekhiye… naazneen…” It’s all there, so you don’t have to do much more.

What can the actor do beyond portraying the words of the song that has been composed, written and recorded for him? These elements define the limitations. An actor cannot go beyond the camera framing either. If Shammi Kapoor jumped up and down, he would find himself out of the frame… I used to tell him to bring the song alive through his eyes. A little nod was enough.

PL Raj is credited as the choreographer for Teesri Manzil. Tell me more about him.

PL Raj was Hiralal's assistant. Once Hiralal and Sohanlal had worked with me, they thought of me as a director not to be interfered with. That was the same with all their assistants, including Saroj Khan, who was Sohanlal's assistant. She would always ask me: “Goldie saab, what do you want?”

I used to sit with the choreographer when they were composing. Sometimes they would get nervous and ask me to come back the next day when they were ready to show me a few moves. Sometimes I would tell them they were going off track. This is not the character. I did not want any artificiality. My characters should not become artificial when they sing. The characters are not supposed to be dancers in the film. They are merely expressing an emotion through a song. Take Govinda, he can do difficult movements. If we have Shammi Kapoor, then keep the moves flexible.

What about Dev Anand?

Dev saab's biggest problem was that he never rehearsed. He'd say: “Nahin yaar, don’t make me dance.” And you shouldn't make him dance because he doesn’t know how. But he had a great presence and audiences used to see the film for his songs. He had style and other actors have copied him. Some of the songs may look ridiculous today, but at that time they were his plus points.

In the Kala Bazar song “Khoya Khoya Chand”, Dev sings as he runs down the hill. He is madly in love and believes his dream is coming true. So let him move his hands— white hands against dark clothes—[as] he makes his way down the hill. It suited the scene, so once in a while you let him go.

[In the same movie] there is a scene in a train compartment. Dev Anand is sitting on the lower berth and Waheeda Rehman is lying on the upper berth. The girl's parents are also in the compartment. Dev saab sings the song: “Apni to har aah ek toofaan hai/ Kya karen woh jaan kar anjaan hai/ Uparwala jaan kar anjaan hai.” Waheeda Rehman is listening to him but she cannot move much because she's lying on the upper berth. There is a double meaning behind the whole situation, which is beyond choreography.

You mean the double meaning is in the line “Uparwala jaan kar anjaan hai”. The song is directed at Waheeda, while her parents think it's a reference to God. Very clever. Tell me about that other wonderful song “Dil Ka Bhanwar”.

In Tere Ghar Ke Samne, Dev Anand and Nutan sing the song on the steps of the inner stairway of the Qutab Minar. The sense that they have reached the peak of emotions is in the location, because you cannot get higher than the Qutab Minar.

Were these conscious decisions?

Yes, certainly. Forty years have passed since I made the film. I cannot really analyse how I came to make all these decisions. But I did feel that love was like climbing the Qutab Minar—it's an effort. When you let yourself go, there is no effort any more.

The film is set and shot in Delhi just after the India-China war . . . so the story of Tere Ghar Ke Samne is about two neighbours who fight with one another. When you use the city of Delhi as a setting, you have to have the Qutab Minar as well.

In “Dil Ka Bhanwar” you make an appearance as an extra. How did that come about?

The space was restricted and we could not get anyone else up there besides the actors, a small crew and myself. We needed government permission to shoot inside the Qutab Minar and we were told to have a small unit and not to use many lights. I needed two or three characters passing them on the stairs and could not find anyone who could give the proper expression, so I thought let me do it.

It sounds like you were a very confident director from the start.

I was arrogantly confident, you know. I didn't want to be a film director. I just took the chance. I thought if I succeeded or failed, what the hell! I didn’t care about success or failure. I was doing my Master's, and thought I'd make Nau Do Gyarah and then go back to studying English literature. Unfortunately, I could not go back to studying. I still dream I will someday.

I never cared much for a profession. Even now I don't. I was not aware of international cinema. I respected my seniors for their contribution to Indian cinema. But somehow I couldn't be what they were. I did not want actors to perform in a theatrical manner, nor did I care much for larger-than-life stories.

How old were you when you made Nau Do Gyarah?

I was 22. I made it just for the heck of it. I had written a script called Taxi Driver and my brothers made it into a film and it did well. Of course there was more of Chetan saab in it. He didn't respect the script that much, but he stuck to the theme and characters and kept some of the dialogue. That gave me a lot of confidence.

I used to write one-act plays in college and wrote scripts for the heck of it. So I wrote Nau Do Gyarah and sold it to Shahid Lateef. He liked it very much, but he couldn't make the film. There was another producer called Nyaya Sharma and when he heard the story, he bought it. But he could not produce it. He was the man who later made Kinare Kinare.

At that time, Navketan needed to produce a film. Raj Khosla, who was working at Navketan, was making Kala Pani and could not make up his mind about what he wanted to do next. In those days people were on the payroll and Navketan wasn't making the kind of profit that you could wait around for a year before making a film. So they needed a script and needed to produce a film. Our manager, Mr Prashar, told Dev saab: “Goldie has got a very beautiful script. Shahid Lateef bought it and he is no fool. He was going to make it, but couldn't. So the script is just lying about. Why don't you listen to the story?”

Dev saab said I could narrate it to him. But I was too young and arrogant, and said I would not give it to anyone else to direct and I would direct it myself. My brother was working with all the leading directors of the time and was shocked, and thought I was too young to direct. Dev saab said: “He hasn't assisted any director and hasn't learnt the craft. He may have written a few college plays and the script for Taxi Driver, but Chetan saab was there to direct it. How can Goldie direct? Tell him not to be foolish.” But I refused to budge and Dev saab refused to budge …

Finally, when Dev saab heard the script and the way I had written all the details, he took a chance and said let's do it.

I had not learnt filmmaking from anyone. In my script I had imagined situations no one had conceived before. I wanted my characters to exchange musical lines and not dialogue in some scenes. Luckily for me, I had such a fantastic composer in SD Burman. He loved me so much that he encouraged me, and instead of saying “You are very young. Don't make a foolish mistake”, he said, “Let's try.”

We had a song that worked like a question-and-answer scene: “Aankhon mein kya ji/ Roopehla baadal/ Baadal mein kya ji/ Kisi ka aanchal/ Aanchal mein kya ji/ Ajab si hulchul.” If these words were spoken in dialogue, it would sound very prosaic. But if it is done musically, it becomes very interesting. No one had done this kind of thing before.

Majrooh Sultanpuri wrote the lyrics. He was great at writing in this style. I was too young and will not say I contributed to the song itself. It was Burman saab who made Majrooh saab write these lines. And I, like a child, sat there very excited. They must have felt this boy has something; let’s listen to him. “Aankhon mein kya ji/ Sunehra baadal.” I said: “Majrooh saab, it's a moonlit night. You can't say sunehra. Let’s try roopehla.” Majrooh saab said: “Roopehla is a very sweet word. Shabaash! Goldie, tum achhe director banogey. [Goldie, you'll make a very good director.] I don't usually listen to anyone, but that's a good word.”

A lot of people encouraged me when I was young.

You inspired people to think differently.

I was a catalyst. I wouldn't say I inspired them, but my demands were unlike the usual demands. Plus I would say no if I didn't like something. I was very young and very proud.

Tell me something about your parents.

My mother died when I was six years old. I don't remember her very much. All I remember was that she was always ill. I was born in Gurdaspur . . . My father was a lawyer. It was he who loved music and invited musicians home whenever they visited Gurdaspur.

My father passed away in 1970 when I was making Johny Mera Naam. He didn't adjust to Bombay and did not want to live here.

Who raised you?

I was raised by my two sisters and later by my sister-in-law, Chetan saab's wife, Uma. She didn't want me to join films and said: “Chetan has a giant intellect. I suffer when I see how he has to compromise in filmmaking. Since Neecha Nagar, all he has had to do is compromise.” She thought I should become a writer or a playwright.

When I started writing in college, Uma came to watch the plays I wrote. Sometimes Chetan saab accompanied her. Dev never came. She told me to write a script and said she would guide me. That is when I wrote Taxi Driver.

Did you ever consider making a film without songs?

No. I love songs. I never dreamt of making films without them. They asked me to make a film in English, and I said I didn't want to. I will not do anything beyond my capability. If they like my work, they will accept it as it is. I am not going to become artificial in order to please anyone.

[Nasreen Munni Kabir began her research on Hindi cinema in 1978. Since then she has made over 80 documentaries and written 16 books.]

~~

The Indian Express, January 22, 2021

By Shaikh Ayaz

Vijay Anand's son Vaibhav: Dad retired from Bollywood out of frustration

Few directors have enjoyed the kind of staying power Vijay Anand has — films like Kala Bazar, Tere Ghar Ke Samne, Guide, Jewel Thief and Johny Mera Naam continue to hold us in their lyrical sway. With their outwardly youthful and urbane aesthetic, breezy style of storytelling and a fierce commitment to feel-goodness, Anand's movies are still watched and referenced today. Perhaps the most remarked-upon aspect about him is the unusual ways in which he exploited the potential for music and song. “Dil ka bhanwar kare pukar” (Tere Ghar Ke Samne), “Aaj phir jeene ki” (Guide), “Hoton pe aisi baat” (Jewel Thief) and “Pal pal dil ka paas” (Blackmail) are just a handful of the popular numbers that suggest Anand's unique command over song picturisation and placement. Aamir Khan, Sanjay Leela Bhansali, Naseeruddin Shah and Farah Khan count themselves among his admirers. Director Sriram Raghavan is the most diehard and vocal of these Vijay Anand wonks. For the Andhadhun maker, Anand is simply ‘the boss’ who he can't get enough of.

Born in 1934, Anand was influenced by his elder siblings, Chetan and Dev Anand, to pursue filmmaking. It would have been easy for Vijay Anand to languish under their gigantic shadow at Navketan (Films), but he preferred to forge his own path. From the 1950s until the '70s, the Anand brothers were Bollywood royalty. Their role in building modern Hindi cinema has been recognised in the last few decades. Fondly called Goldie by those close to him, Anand's films weren't typical Bollywood fluff. They had imaginative songs and sometimes maudlin plot, but there was always a rich texture to the story and layered characterisation, particularly progressive female heroines, at a time when overwrought melodrama was the order of the day. How original these films were, however, is up for debate.

Goldie's son Vaibhav Anand — himself an actor and filmmaker who most recently starred in Alt Balaji's The Verdict: State vs Nanavati as Dev Anand — says his father and famous “Dev uncle” were drawn to Hollywood, especially the movies of Hitchcock, Frank Capra, and even Godard and Federico Fellini. “Dad's cinema was an amalgamation of modern camera work and Indian aesthetics and he stuck to that,” says Vaibhav, presiding over at Ketnav (Theatre) in Mumbai. The family home-cum-studio is a shadow of its former self, but Vaibhav hopes to restore it to its halcyon-day glory by year-end, alongside reviving his family (Vijay Anand Pictures) banner. We caught up with him on the eve of his father's 87th birth anniversary. “It's just me, mom (Sushma Anand) and my aunts. So when the birthday comes it's just like any other day,” Vaibhav says, explaining why after Anand's death in 2004 (he was 70), “it was very difficult to get over the loss.”

Excerpts from our conversation:

Let's begin right at the beginning. Did Vijay Anand get interested in movies because of Chetan and Dev Anand who had obviously established themselves before him?

Chetan Anand was the eldest, so everyone called him bhaiji or bauji. He was the father figure to both Dev uncle and dad. When Chetan uncle moved to Bombay, he lived in a rented apartment at 41, Pali Hill. This is where greats like Balraj Sahni, Kaifi Azmi saab, S. D. Burman, Kamleshwar, Raj Khosla, Sahir Ludhianvi used to come. There was a continuous bustling of creativity going on. A new picture of cinema was being painted, and my father was learning dialogue from scripts in this environment. He was good at Hindi in Podar School, and later he learnt theatre while at St Xavier's College. The biggest influence for him was definitely Chetan uncle who first gave him a platform. Uncle's wife Uma didi and dad would do script reading. Dad used to get involved as a prop. All this instigated his writing skills.

At home, the mahaul (environment) was already there. Uma didi insisted that Chetan uncle take Godie into scripting. Chetan uncle first introduced him as an actor in Agra Road (1957). (Laughs) But for some reason, the actor in the family was Dev uncle. Everybody moved behind the camera because Dev uncle took centerstage. But for all three, the first love was always acting. Even Chetan uncle acted. He was the lawyer in Kala Bazar and some more films. I'd meet Chetan uncle with dad more often as a young boy because I was his pet. When I'd go to their shack in Juhu, both the brothers would be sitting and discussing movies. For me, Goldie Anand was more of a father and less of a filmmaker. It was only after watching his films that I understood how his knowledge of cinema came mainly from his love of Hollywood movies, the Gregory Peck-Cary Grant kind. In fact, Dev uncle was called India's Gregory Peck. He even met him in Europe.

You said you discovered your dad through his movies. How would you describe his style?

His cinema was an amalgamation of modern camera work and Indian aesthetics. His movies have an Indian theme with a modern outlook. Look at Jewel Thief (1967). There's a father-daughter theme in there. Teesri Manzil (1966) is the story of a woman who has lost her sister and coincidentally falls in love with the same man. But then again, it's a story about discovering how the sister died. So that emotional context is always there in his films.

Chetan Anand’s cinema wasn't that Western, when compared to Vijay and Dev Anand.

Chetan uncle was trained in Sanskrit at Gurukul Kangri University. Even though he studied in England, he had an Indian base and preferred applying Indian themes. Even his instruments and poetic dialects were Indian. Neecha Nagar has music by Ravi Shankar.

Chetan uncle was taught to be here. He's the elder son who came back and took family responsibility. That's not the case with Dev uncle and dad. They would go to watch English movies at Excelsior and Regal Theatres. When they started earning well, they flew abroad to see more Hollywood films. Back home in Gurdaspur, their father was a stern man who was fluent in seven languages. But he had an Indian mindset and promoted only Indian things. When their mother was ill, Dev uncle nursed her and took care of her. The mother had an international outlook. After she passed away, Dev uncle, dad and the two sisters packed their bags and came to Bombay.

What's your favourite Vijay Anand film?

Tere Mere Sapne (1971). It was also my father's personal favourite, always close to his heart. Because he was very fond of the book The Citadel by A. J. Cronin on which it is based. The reason is he had once gone through a bad time while shooting in a coal mine for one of his films after which he developed kidney stones. Actor Raaj Kumar knew a famous doctor who took dad on, but they operated on the wrong kidney. Raaj Kumar created a fuss, but my father was bedridden for 11 months. And then the person who nursed him was Amarjeet. That's why he promised him a movie. That movie was Hum Dono. Amarjeet has the director's credit in Hum Dono while everyone knows who directed it. Anyway, the doctors apparently were fighting over him on the surgery table. That's why they goofed up. He made Tere Mere Sapne out of this personal experience of the things that go on in the medical profession. In the film, the doctor (both Dev and Vijay Anand play doctors) becomes materialistic. He doesn't care for the village patients. I've watched it many times.

I still can't get over the song “Maine kasam lee”. That's my favourite song. Dev Anand and Mumtaz stop midway, they go off into the mustard fields, and then they get back on the cycle. Superb song.

Would you like to share any other favourite soundtrack or any anecdote behind the making of his more popular songs?

That song “Tere mere sapne” from Guide (1965) is made up of just four shots. They wanted to shoot it before twilight, so they woke up early in the morning. It was finished just before sunrise. They had a small window for it. Tere Ghar Ke Samne (1963) was the first film permitted to shoot near Qutub Minar. Parts of the song “Dil ka bhanwar kare pukar” were shot in Mehboob Studios. Not many people realise that it is the set that's revolving while the camera is steady. Dev uncle and Nutanji are climbing the stairs. They go up and down, up and down. That's it.

Talking about Guide, Vijay Anand replaced Chetan Anand as director at the nth hour. Goldie wasn't even in the reckoning.

Yes, Chetan uncle was initially involved in Guide. And I have the script which was written by him. My father wanted to make an Indian version for Indian audiences which would then go international unlike the English version of Guide. Waheeda Rehmanji said I will do this film if Goldie does it. The first scenes showing Raju Guide being released from jail were in fact shot by Chetan uncle. But when permissions for Haqeeqat, which was his pet project, came through, Chetan uncle ran. Imagine both the brothers went their ways and made masterpieces, Haqeeqat and Guide.

Dev Anand's act is a winner. Everyone knows him as a self-indulgent demigod. But here, he invests his performance with a philosophical intensity not expected from him. Generally speaking, Goldie was one of the few directors to tame his brother’s manic energy and extract good performances out of him. Can you recall what was Goldie's relationship with Dev Anand like and what made their partnership so successful and long-lasting?

As brothers, I think they were thick as thieves, if you can say that. Always there for each other. Professionally, my father was the boss on the set. And what he wanted Dev uncle to do, he did. Dev uncle couldn't say no because he knew his drawbacks, which he never wanted to publicly admit. Dad knew which camera angles were right for him. Dev uncle used to consult my father a lot in his later films. And dad was like, ‘Bhapa nu bol ke thak gaya ki yeh picture bana hi kyun raha hai.’ (Elder brother is not tired of saying why this picture is being made.) After that Dev uncle stopped consulting. His ego was hurt. He was like, ‘Main bana, raha hun.’ (I'm making, am going.) Dad's advice was, ‘Keep a pivotal role for yourself but take an outside director.’

In the early years, Dev uncle used to tell people, ‘Goldie ke paas ek script hai, sun le.’ (He has a script, listen.) Goldie was the younger one, so it was easy to tell him, ‘Tennu ki anda hai.’ (You're the egg.) But my father had proved his worth by writing Taxi Driver (1954) with Uma Anand. Dev uncle knew that this boy had the knack as far as cinema was concerned and number two, he knew how to handle him. Both were well-read and English majors. You sit with them and they have a mastery over the language, storytelling, music and rhythm. They both knew what tune they wanted. That's why Navketan music flourished. Individually also their music did well. My father worked with Dharamji in Blackmail (1973). The song “Pal pal dil ke paas” was shot before the music was even made. You can't say Dev uncle and dad didn't have their share of tu tu main main. On the set, the ego was there, but they both knew their jobs.

Do you have any memories of the TV show Tehkeekat, in which your dad played a detective?

I remember going to a Juhu bungalow when Ashok Kumar was on the episode. Dad and Dev uncle both looked up to Dadamoni who had helped Dev uncle in his first film. In Jewel Thief, Dadamoni got top billing. Dev uncle loved the limelight and to be always on top, but this time, he didn't object. That's the respect they had for Ashok Kumar.

What about his years as Censor Board chief? Did he enjoy his time there?

He was the first Censor Board chief in forty years who visited all the Censor Board offices in India. He travelled to Assam, Bengal and Hyderabad to understand how to inculcate modernism into censorship. You need money, infrastructure, manpower but most importantly, you need willpower. The final thing you need is a modern and international outlook which he had. He was the first person to say that Hindi cinema is an industry and should be designated so as it generates revenue, workforce, taxes and income.

Lastly, how do you think he would have reacted to the rise of OTT? With his liberal outlook, one assumes he'd have been an easy fit in today's time.

He would have loved the diversity of OTT space. Things have become a little more straightforward today. Everyone's talking about nepotism, but Navketan gave a break to some of the finest young talents of their time. The brothers always stood for unity. They never discriminated on the basis of religion or caste. Dad's battle was always with censorship — from the time of Kala Bazar which ran into censor trouble. The Censor Board said it's not enough for the black marketer to be reformed. He must be punished. So a new ending was made. When he was part of the Censor Board, the government didn't want to see ahead of their time. He kept saying censorship should be free. He was unhappy with that, as well as very disgruntled with the mendacity that was seeping in at that time in filmmaking. That phase lasted a long time. He had a zest for life and used to say that I'd rather die making films. Unfortunately, a huge talent like him had to retire out of frustration.

The Times of India, January 23, 2022

By Farhana Farook

Interview

That Vijay Anand was a techno wiz was a given. But with his mechanical virtuoso came his poetic insights that lyricised the prose of life on screen. The youngest brother of the famed Chetan Anand and Dev Anand, Vijay Anand was the phenomenon and pride of Navketan Films. Unconstrained by genres as a filmmaker, unencumbered by stereotypes as a person… Vijay Anand was larger than his films. Unwilling to be sequestered by a glitzy world, he remained an eternal seeker… That explains his accepting the ebb and even his imminent farewell with the nonchalance of someone who'd given as much to life as he’d taken…

Son and actor Vaibhav Anand, who has studied acting and filmmaking at Lee Strasberg University in New York, will soon make his debut as an actor with Aarti Bagdi's film ‘Chalti Rahe Zindagi’. In an candid conversation with ETimes, he remembers his father and friend in an emotional interview:

An early memory of your father, which suggests that he was a special man…

There are so many such memories. But the most predominant one is of the times I visited Chetan (Anand) uncle's shack in Juhu. I was dad's pet and tagged along with him. I recall Dev (Anand) uncle, Kaifi (Azmi) saab, Raj Kumarji… and dad discussing song picturisations, scripts, films... I must have been around 10-12. At that point, I understood that these people were way beyond being just ‘uncles’. They were involved in something special. Also, for me, it was normal to see actors drop in at home or see them come and go in the studio. I was never enamoured by them.

What influenced Vijay Anand's cinematic abilities?

Dad grew up around the immensely talented Ravi Shankar, Annapurna Devi, Ustad Ali Akbar Khan, Guru Dutt, Geeta Bali… artistes, who visited the Anand home at 41 Pali Hill. Doing theatre in St Xavier's College honed his skills further. He was a student of Hindi and English literature and an avid reader. He learnt scriptwriting from Chetan uncle. Uma aunty, Chetan uncle's wife, encouraged him to write as well (Goldie co-wrote the script of Navketan's ‘Taxi Driver’ in 1954 with Uma Anand).

After ‘Hum Dono’ (1961), he went abroad and binged on Hollywood cinema. He read books by their screenwriters and filmmakers. From them, he grasped the concept of adaptation, which helped him make ‘Guide’ (1965) based on RK Narayan’s ‘The Guide’, ‘Tere Mere Sapne’ (1971) based on AJ Cronin's novel ‘The Citadel’ and ‘Bullet’ (1976) inspired by James Hadley Chase's thriller ‘Just Another Sucker’.

‘Guide’, a masterpiece, compelled author RK Narayan to acknowledge that the film was more beautiful than his book…

‘Guide’ happened to dad at the right time. His knowledge of cinema was at its peak then. His life experiences merged with his skills and flowed into words and emotions. His passion for song picturisation, his command over writing, his spiritual slant along with his knowledge of the Bhagvad Gita, the Vedas, the Upanishads, the Mahabharata… all reflected in his work.

The beginning scene of ‘Guide’, where Raju (Dev Anand) is released from jail, was directed by Chetan uncle. He then moved on to make his pet project ‘Haqeeqat’ (1964). Dad said he'd direct ‘Guide’ on one condition – he'd change the script. He found certain things in the book – like protagonist Rosie's ease in getting into bed with the guide a bit vulgar. He believed Indian audiences wouldn't accept that. So, he added layers to Rosie’s character.

Guide was a female-centric subject, which Dev uncle had objection to. Also, he was angry that all the songs were picturised on Waheedaji. So after the film was 80 percent complete, lyricist Shailendra and composer SD Burman along with dad, created the songs Din dhal jaaye and Kya se kya hogaya as a continuation of Mo se chhal kiye jaaye to satisfy Dev uncle.

Vijay Anand presented his heroines both with glamour and grace…

Dad respected his heroines. Nutan (‘Tere Ghar Ke Saame’ 1963), Waheeda Rehman (‘Guide’), Vyjayanthimala (‘Jewel Thief’ 1967), Hema Malini (‘Johny Mera Naam’ 1970) and Mumtaz (‘Tere Mere Sapne’)… he was aware of their versatility. He never worked with anyone mediocre. That's why perhaps he had a problem working later on. Waheedaji shared a comfort level with the Anands having done the maximum films with Dev uncle. Even Helen was presented so well in ‘Teesri Manzil’ (1966). On one hand you’re spellbound by her beauty and on the other, her character is woven in the script, someone who takes the bullet for the hero.

On the set of Navketan, every heroine was well looked after. The Anand brothers were well-read, refined and decent. The industry was also a cleaner place then. When Dev uncle walked out of ‘Teesri Manzil’, Shammiji (Kapoor) asked him if he could step in. There was camaraderie and courtesy between the actors. Yes, there was rivalry – but a healthy one. No backbiting, no taane baazi!

Something about Vijay Anand's legendary song picturisations…

Dad had a sense of melody, given the influences of Guru Dutt, Raj Khosla, SD Burman, Ravi Shankar... He enjoyed Hollywood songs too. His song picturisations were about emotions and expressions. They took the story further. They were not inserted as a ‘break’. Dad didn't believe in unnecessary cuts. So, the song Tere mere sapne (‘Guide’) was completed in just four shots, capturing the pre-dawn light. There was a vigour in Hothon pe aisi baat (‘Jewel Thief’). To keep up the momentum of the mood, he incorporated very few cuts. Four cameras and a trolley camera were put up to capture the dance. The ‘Teesri Manzil’ songs O mere sona, Aaja Aaja… are remembered for their energy. Just as Helen was phenomenal in the Baithe hai kya uske paas song in ‘Jewel Thief’.

‘Tere Mere Sapne’, though not a commercial success, was Vijay Anand's favourite film…

The film was inspired by the novel ‘Citadel’, gifted to him by composer Amit Khanna. Mumtaz, who was at her glamorous peak, was given a simple look. But she's never appeared more gorgeous. Generally, directors cashed in on her sexiness. But here, her essence as a woman was brought out. Dad had first met Jaya Bhaduri for the role. But it didn't go through as she looked too young and there was a huge age gap between Dev uncle and her.

The bicycle scenes involving the lead pair are adapted from Hollywood films. The film spotlighted the flipside of the medical profession. Incidentally, dad's kidney operation during the shoot of ‘Hum Dono’ had gone wrong. He was treated for the wrong kidney and was bedridden for a year. His friend Amarjeet nursed him devotedly. As a gesture of gratitude, dad gave him ‘Hum Dono’ to direct. But he goofed up. So, dad directed the film, but gave Amarjeet the credit. He believed in honouring his promise.

It's said that Dev Anand didn't take lightly to Goldie’s criticism of his films…

Yes, Dev saab didn't like dad's frank opinions. In fact, he didn't like anybody's opinion. Initially, Dev uncle could accept Chetan uncle's viewpoints as he was way older to him – by 10 years. But when Dev uncle became a star, ego crept in. He couldn't take too many lessons. So, they went their professional ways amicably.

There was a time when Dev uncle would ask dad, who was 10 years younger to him, for inputs. But after ‘Hare Rama Hare Krishna’ (1971) he stopped seeking them. On seeing Dev uncle's later films dad would remark, ‘What have you made?’ Dev uncle couldn't take criticism. Even during his last film, ‘Jaana Na Dil Se Door’ (2001), dad exercised tremendous control over it. Because he knew his job. And Dev saab respected that. But ego would crop up sometimes and they had to balance things. Having said that, personally, the brothers remained extremely close. There were no two ways about it. They made it a point to meet each other once or twice a week.

You assisted your father during ‘Jaana Na Dil Se Door’. What did you learn from him?

Frankly, I didn't learn anything. It took a long time to complete the film. It had newcomers along with Dev uncle. But the times demanded a young star to sell the film. So, dad found it hard to release it. He went through a lot of pain and financial problems.

Moreover, dad didn't want me to follow him ever. Once I was watching ‘Jewel Thief’ when dad said, ‘Don't watch my films! Or subconsciously, you will imitate me and become someone who's not you. Find your own path. Cinema is in your blood and you will manifest it at the right time. If you grow under someone's shadow, you won't grow at all.’ Dad's films have made a huge mark. As an actor and director, I have yet to start as an actor with Aarti Bagdi's film ‘Chalti Rahe Zindagi’. My experiences are of today, his belonged to ‘yesterday’. So, there can be no similarities.

It's said the changing scenario left him frustrated as a filmmaker.

During the later years, dad went off track. He had a love for acting, right from the time he did Chetan Anand's ‘Agra Road’ (1957). So, in his later years, he began focusing on himself as an actor and less as a director. That clearly didn't work. He was not happy with the roles he got. So, he started making films for himself, which didn't work either. When he got back to direction with ‘Ram Balram’ (1980) and ‘Rajput’ (1982), the long hours of shooting, the excessive gap between shoots, frustrated him. They were colossal projects. He was still the star director but the star system, the waiting, made him impatient. He once remarked, ‘I've achieved as much as I could possibly achieve. What more can I do?’

His liberal views on sex in Indian cinema brought his stint as Censor Board chief to an abrupt end…

The then Information and Broadcasting Minister, Sushma Swarajji was a tough and remarkable lady, a forward thinking one. She agreed with dad on many issues but the then Government didn't. His argument was, ‘Why are we afraid of sex? Nudity is not a crime. See the aesthetics of Khajuraho.’ Dad was way ahead of his times.

Something on his spiritual trysts with Osho Rajneesh and later UG Krishnamurthy…

Dad was always inclined towards spirituality. Even after he achieved fame, there was always the question – what have I actually accomplished by all this? Initially, dad was fascinated by Rajneesh. Something about Rajneesh resonated in him. Dad was going through issues with his family. He wanted to marry my mom (Vijay Anand married Sushma in 1978). Rajneesh said ‘go ahead’ and brought some stability in his personal life.

But gradually, dad realised there was something amiss about Rajneesh. He didn't seem to be Bhagwan. Dad had certain questions for which Rajneesh had no answers. He got further disappointed with Rajneesh when he asked dad to make a film on him. Dad said, ‘Goodbye, thank you and f*** off!’ He realised the man was no longer spiritual. He'd turned materialistic. He wrote a letter to him saying this was not what he'd come to him for and left the ashram the next day.

Later, he came in touch with UG Krishnamurthy and stuck with him till the end. UG was not a guru. He was more like a friend and a philosopher. He was a man, who dad believed was enlightened. UG was like a migratory bird. He'd live with us in Mumbai during the winters between November-January. Between February-April, he'd stay in Bangalore. Later, he'd fly to Gstaad in Switzerland. Dad would accompany him there. I'd also go along.

How would you define your relationship with your father?

My father was not my hero. I was attached to him as a friend, whom I could confide in. He was liberal and allowed me to be me. That's a rare thing between a father and son. He never imposed anything on me. He knew only if he gave me the leeway would I evolve. He didn't tighten the grip. He was the youngest of the 12 siblings but they all trusted him. Whether they followed it or not but he always had the right advice.

Apparently, he was a sad man during the last days of his life…

Yes, he was a sad man towards the end. There were several emotions stirring within him. About the past, about not being able to manage his production house, about having perhaps retired at the wrong time, the age gap between us son and father… He had knowledge about astrology. So, somewhere he knew it was time to go. Also, UG Krishnamurthy had told some friends, ‘It won't be very long for Goldie’. This was in December 2003. Dad passed away on 23 February, 2004.

Nevertheless, dad saw something in me. He was satisfied and believed ‘the boy will be able to look after himself’. When I was growing up, we had some differences. But when he visited me in New York, where I was studying acting and filmmaking, we bonded. From father-son, ours became a man-to-man relationship. The father became a friend. It was unfortunate that we hardly got time together after that. When I needed him the most… he went away.