Comment on Pyaasa Review

Pyaasa was a film of retribution and the reiteration of one’s self-definition. The reviewer notes this, but I would not say that they gave enough attention to this feature of the film. Vijay is a creature of melancholia, one who lives within the effortless flow of his life, never taking control or leading himself further along the tracks of his desires with much aplomb. Disregarding the final portion of the film, Vijay makes little effort to accomplish the goals that he seems to want to accomplish. All of his actions throughout the film are performed with a sort of half-hearted-ness, it is not until the finality that any sort of true assertion takes place.

In the preceding scenes, he whines about his, or rather of his poetry’s, lack of recognition, but as the reviewer did state it is not until he there are situations in which it he is forced into recital that this poetry commands its presence. It is not until his poetry leaves the page that it takes this command, as those powerful words seem to have little force until they preclude out of the constricting presence of the page and into the hearts and minds of the rest of the world. For the rest of the film Vijay seems to have little interest in going about his goals, choosing instead to dream about them have never done so. There is the much-referred to Western phrase “It is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all,” and the film does a great job of demonstrating the veracity of this statement, in that Vijay never puts true effort into his self-proposed goals, and until the end of the movie, never seems to accomplish them. When he meets with Mr Ghosh he is enthusiastic about getting his poems published, but discovers that this was not the intention of the meeting, then makes little to no effort trying to convince Ghosh of his poetic prowess, choosing rather to be forlorn and listless. All of his actions in the film follow this general sense of melancholia, that Vijay is incapable of asserting himself.

I was interested in the reviewer’s interpretation of the Dutt’s use of visual constriction. True, Dutt seems to often use the idea of over the shoulder shots and feature framing to encapsulate Vijay, which I would say continues to contribute to the general sense of self-entrapment that the film conveys. The framing does well attribute itself to the concept of mental concentration, as well. Causing the eye to concentrate specifically on the given main character by constricting the surrounding environment, we as the viewer tend to internalize the same struggle that is felt by the main character in his self-perusal. Vijay’s internal struggle, one which ends up being that of self-worth and recognition, is indeed set free with the end of the film, with the first larger-scale shot of the film, in which we see the entirety of a room and the mental liberation that this broadness offers. As Vijay leaves this final room, it is as though a tremendous mental weight it finally lifted and the viewer can finally breath somewhat more comfortably.

The review of the film’s story continues to follow this trend of lugubrious character development. All the features of Vijay’s life sum with some sort of sorrow or lack of accomplishment due his lack of effort. His love for his mother is perished by her death, wherein he had promised her that he would take her away from his two money-mongering brothers, but she dies later in the film, marking further his list of failures. He seems to be unable to keep a job beyond the lowly coolie position that he can fall back on. He never loved Meena though he could have in his college years, and wrote of his love for her in his poems, but that lost love is not and cannot be reclaimed. Even his suicide is a failure, reinforcing the idea that the world is defeating and that a person will never get to accomplish the things that they wish to do, though this episode is pivotal in empowering Vijay.

It is only by chance and sorrow that Vijay’s goals are accomplished, as the end of the film well portrays. Vijay’s supposed death is a catalyst for the great fame of his poetry, though it seems that in reflection of this recognition Vijay would rather not have felt this accomplishment that he strove for and instead live out the fantastical and, ah yes, poetic sonority of a prospective future with Gulabo. This is the great ringing bell of the film, the dichotomous dispatch that belays the individual; should one pursue the selfish, perfect pride found in love between two souls, or disperse one’s love to the world and be adored by all but never touched?

Review Commentary: Vijay's Responsibility and Prostitution in Pyaasa

The review definitely acknowledges Guru Dutt’s attention to mise-en-scene (literally “placing on stage”)-- particularly his symbolic use of blocking, his conscious use of song, frame, and character expression. Before the review I had not considered Vijay’s potential responsibility for his own misfortune, the director’s intentions of portraying him as a victimized struggling artist were apparent to me. However, since the point has been raised, I am uncertain as to why Vijay is so, well, unfortunate. How he became homeless is a loss to me. In a flashback we see him attending classes, owning books, riding bikes with his college sweetheart, Meena. We later see the brothers discussing how much they spent on his education. Why was he not capable of finding a job and being a poet? I’m not sure being a poet is exactly a full-time job. Vijay’s present tense rejection from his family seems to be a result of his ‘disgraceful’ dependance on others, a result of his social status. We do see him try to make some money, working as a coolie for roughly thirty seconds. But generally I agree with the reviewer, we don’t see him making many strides to changing his current state. For Vijay being likened to Krishna, a God of erotic love, it’s surprising to see him so impotent in the face of his struggles. However, perhaps I am reading this wrong. He is impotent in the face of societal corruption, but is forever fruitful in his poetry-- and apparently in his wooing of women.

Speaking of the ladies, I felt their roles could have been further acknowledged in the review. Meena and Gulabo function as foils for one another. Both women are weak in the knees for Vijay, and both are in their respective ways prostitutes. Gulabo is a prostitute for a living, which we see as she attempts to seduce Vijay into her apartment until she realizes he’s broke. Meena’s ‘prostitution’, on the other hand, is less literal. Meena is a societal prostitute, who has sacrificed love for wealth and comfort. We see Vijay accuse her of this. Gulabo, however, ends up on the moral pedestal and arguably wins the viewers’ hearts because she sacrifices the little money she has to have Vijay’s poems published. Instead of asking for money in return for Vijay’s poems, she gives Mr. Ghosh all her possessions to simply secure their release. Gulabo embodies real love and we see her as a natural counterpart for Vijay-- both are manipulated by society in the name of wealth. In terms of Christian imagery, Gulabo is Vijay’s Mary Magdalene. Vijay saves her and they become companions, leading a message of love together.

Pyaasa is a story of desire, the title literally means “thirst”. We see characters battle with their desires- we see Vijay thirst for water and hunger for food, we see less honorable characters desire for wealth, but mostly we see characters thirst for love. And Vijay’s case, Vijay thirsts for love but also thirsts for a better society.This is the desire that is arguably harder to quench, which is perhaps why the closing scene of Gulabo and Vijay walking off together appears to be an infinite span of a flattened globe, with continents’ shapes and water laid at their feet. Perhaps they will be walking quite a while.

Review of Pyaasa Review

I appreciated this review of Pyaasa for reaffirming certain thoughts that I had about the film, as well as for opening my eyes to some new ones. The symbolism involved in the use of constricted spaces is definitely something I noticed while watching. I also completely agree with the appropriateness of the ending, and Dutt “not taking the easy route out,” as the reviewer puts it (though I do feel that the option of the two endings described may be an over-simplification). While I, personally, would not be as hard on Johnny Walker's character, it is understandable how he can be seen as a diversion at some crucial points in the film. Perhaps all of these observations about the film are made even more interesting in the context of Guru Dutt's actual life, and the production of this film. Such insights are provided through the readings on eLC.

Vijay is certainly limited. His character feels constricted, both by developments within the plot as well as with camera angles and the use of space, as mentioned in the review. I like the reviewer's observation that Vijay does not make any of his own choices (until the end). The choices seem to be made for him, or he is the victim of misfortune. I had not thought of this while watching. On this front, it is very interesting to draw parallels between Vijay's character and Dutt's personal life. The film was shot and edited three or four times before the final version. Originally, there was even a different ending in which Vijay simply leaves without Gulab. This ending was received poorly by the film's distributors. Vijay's character, and everything about the way his world is filmed, could be interpreted to be Dutt's artistic expression of himself. In my opinion, this background makes Vijay, and the restricting symbolism, all the more poignant.

The appropriatness of the ending is described well in this review. I felt that the observation that “people are unable to recognize goodness or beauty if it comes humbly, but only if it comes wrapped in wealth and fame already” was a great reading of the film, and I would have been devastated if Vijay had embraced the wealth and fame. Like the reviewer said, “The only way to escape the bounds of the material world, in Pyaasa, is to disdain wealth and fame entirely.” That being said, I do not think that there were only the two possible endings described in the review. I was actually pretty worried about what was going to happen at the end, because it could have been much more depressing. Once again looking at the film from a production standpoint, Guru's brother says that the ending of Pyaasa was changed. Vijay originally finished talking to Meena and just walked away alone. That means without Gulabo! I cannot imagine this. Gulabo seems to be the perfect embodiment of the rejection of the wealth and fame, and she seems necessary to portray this rejection. If Vijay had just walked away, I feel that it would have been a more lost and apathetic Vijay, rather than a man consciously rejecting the fame and wealth. I make this point to highlight the importance of Gulabo's presence. She puts meaning behind Vijay's renunciation of the fame and fortune.

The reviewer's critique of Sattar's character is definitely understandable. He does often seem out of place and silly. If I were to defend him, it would only be because I enjoyed his presence so much because he is so funny! Johnny Walker, the comedian who played Sattar, was actually originally recruited for the role of Vijay's false friend, who is willing to take payment to pretend he does not know Vijay. Director Dutt had to change this, literally because he thought that audiences would not respond well to their favorite comedian in such a negative role. This would definitely explain why Sattar sometimes felt so unnecessary.

This was an enjoyable and insightful review of an excellent film. For me, it is pretty fascinating to draw parallels between the film and everything that went into creating it. Yet, I also feel the need to note the limitations of doing so. It would be unfair to analyze Vijay's every move and attribute it to something about Guru Dutt. Still, further reading on the man's life certainly makes the story resonate.

Review of Pyaasa

When a director casts himself in a film as a brilliant artist whose talent is unrecognized by the brutish world, and then associates that artist repeatedly throughout the film with Christ imagery, we might accuse him of vanity. I will try to see the character of Vijay in Pyaasa in a more sympathetic light than this.

Naturally, all the actors give solidly good performances. Vijay has a tortured melancholy about him that is well-fitted to the character, and Meena's own quiet longing is powerfully conveyed. I suspect that Johnny Walker plays a stock comic character, but I lack the knowledge to say for certain, and even if he is stock he still provides comic relief very well, a necessity for a movie that spreads the melancholy on thick. I also noticed, in particular, how much of the acting was focused on the eyes. While in other films I noted physical acting – emotions conveyed through powerful and interesting poses, or through movement – in Pyaasa, the great deal of emotional expression was in eyes and – particularly – eyebrows.

While each character does not display a great variety of facial emotions, the expressions become stylized enough to become iconic for each character. It is easy to quickly call to mind Vijay's brooding furrowed brow, Sattar's comedic anxiety, Meena's looks of quiet distress or longing, and Gulabo's coyness that changes quickly to sentiment. Each character is defined, to some degree, by a single, well-designed emotional expression. This enhances the melodrama in the film. The characters' melancholy is not some passing emotional state among a variety of possible emotions: it is a real and omnipresent thing, kept in place by the troublesome material world that engendered it. It is not just something momentarily with them, but something fundamentally a part of them.

The first, and perhaps most powerfully, notable aspect of the film is the choice of camera shots. Pyaasa is almost entirely claustrophobic, constricted. Almost all scenes are shot either in tight, enclosed indoor spaces, or – if narrative requires they be shot out in the open – through doorways and windows and gates and arches, or constricted by pillars and columns, to give the sense of tightness and smallness in the shot. Vijay is often seen through doorways, or in an otherwise narrowly circumscribed bit of screen. He is only allowed open spaces when he is reciting poetry or when he is in some fantasy sequence – as many of the songs are. Towards the end, when Vijay has decided not to accept the fame and glory that his poetry has begun to earn him, this begins to change. Now, Vijay is shot in front of open doorways, instead of through them, and on the other side are unlimited open spaces. Fittingly, in the end he and Gulabo walk through one of these doorways, entering an open space that so far they have only occupied in fantasies.

The symbolic use of these choices is fairly obvious. Vijay is portrayed as a man constantly constricted, not a free and willing actor. Until the end, Vijay makes none of his own choices, even those that lead to his misfortunes – indeed, his misfortunes are never products of his own actions. He is kicked out of his home and made a vagabond by his brothers; he does not seek a job with Mr Ghosh, but is told at his class reunion to come and take the job; even the certainty that he might choose suicide was averted when, at the critical moment, he found himself helping another man caught on the tracks. Vijay is not a victim of his choices but of pure misfortune. He seems to make no choices at all. The moments against this trend are those in which, suddenly, he begins to recite poetry; when this happens, his poetry becomes the catalyst for changes in his life. But he does not seem to choose a moment to recite – only finds himself reciting unexpectedly. His first real moment of choice is, of course, toward the end, when he announces that he is not Vijay the writer of poetry, and runs away.

Pyaasa had two possible endings. The first is the one we see, in which Vijay rejects the adulation of the world and his now-vast audiences, to run away wit Gulabo and make what they will of their lives. The second was either more cynical or more naïve – your mileage may vary. In this other, alternate ending, Vijay accepts fame and glory from the public that once disdained him; presumably, he manages somehow to continue to romance Meena, despite her marriage to Ghosh. Mostly, this ending would play into the standard fantasy of many unsuccessful artists, and – indeed – a few petulant six-year-olds (“When I'm dead you'll all be sorry and realize how much you loved me.”). Pyaasa does not take this easy route out, and give a great emotional catharsis as Vijay – who we have sympathized with in his attempt to become known as a great poet – finally gains success. It is not such easy melodrama. Vijay cannot choose success for the same reason that he should not choose Meena: Meena disdained him despite his talent because he was not wealthy; Gulabo, on the other hand, could find his poetry in a heap of wastepaper and recognize its worth. Gulabo – perhaps because she is a prostitute – is not fooled by the world's ideas of the marks of success and value.

This all adds depth to the film. The superficial reading is that the material world is fickle, and cruel, and has no respect for art. The second reading gives a more nuanced sense to the problems of the material world. It is claustrophobic place, in which people are constantly trapped in the pursuit of wealth and fame – to such a degree that people are unable to recognize goodness or beauty if it comes humbly, but only if it comes wrapped in wealth and fame already. Vijay's previous desire to be published, to see his poems in print, is swept away as he realizes the falseness of the world he lives in. All the things of the world are tainted as part of a deeply flawed totality. The only way to escape the bounds of the material world, in Pyaasa, is to disdain wealth and fame entirely.

It is difficult not to contrast the use of songs in Pyaasa with their use in films such as Amar Akbar Anthony that we have watched already. In Amar Akbar Anthony the songs tend to break the fourth wall, speaking directly to the audience or playing with strict cinematic realism. Like in a musical, a street scene of people who do not know each other at all might suddenly coalesce into a well-choreographed song-and-dance number. Pyaasa uses songs differently. The more elaborate songs, the ones that threaten the film's realism, appear to mostly be fantasy sequences – an expression of what is happening to the characters emotionally, but not something that is happening in the film's “real” sequence of events. The other songs are contextualized as poetry readings, or Sattar's head massage song, advertising for customers. This vocabulary of realism maintains some of the drama of the film. If characters routinely burst into public song, and were even joined in song by strangers, spectacle would become the norm. It would be expected in the form of the film. For Vijay's poetry recitals at his class reunion, at Mr Ghosh's party, and at the great memorial service held in his honor to be dramatic, they must show themselves to be outside the norm for the film. If the film establishes as its norm that characters will regularly burst into public song, then these moments in which Vijay bursts into song and poetry would lose their power. They are strengthened largely by their uniqueness. This may be necessary because Pyaasa is, so much, a film about the poetry and the poet. If the subject was not the poetry and songs themselves, then they could be used casually. But because poetry is the film's subject, if it becomes part of the filmmaker's standard set of tools then it is as significant in the emotional content of the film as the costumes or the set is – important, yes, but not crucial.

If I am to quibble with this film – other than in looking at the unfortunate vanity of a director casting himself as a Christ figure – I would take issue with what often feels like a disjointed or incomplete plot. Sattar's romance, his flirting with the woman in the park, while entertaining, just seems to have so very little to do with anything else that is going on in the film. It feels like a diversion right at a moment when the main plot is extraordinarily interesting. Indeed, Sattar is a difficult character to deal with altogether. While the comic relief works, and is probably necessary to deal with the overwhelming unhappiness of the movie, often it is jarring, and when Sattar's comedy is a crucial plot point (as when he distracts the guard at the mental hospital so that Vijay can slip through the gate and escape) it feels rather dishonest – a convenient plot device that hurts the tone of the film, in which most plot- significant events are far more serious in their nature.

Pyaasa is certainly a nuanced film. It is rare to see a film that takes the trope of an unsuccessful artist and handles it well. The film's disdain for the material world and material success is strongly communicated; the use of claustrophobic cinematography makes a rather convincing emotional case for the idea. It is certainly enjoyable, and worth thinking on further.