There’s only one thing we, as Indians, love more than watching our movie stars on screen, which is seeing our movie stars rave breathlessly about someone they idolise.
We saw that in the Netflix documentary The Romantics, which charted the careers of Yash Chopra and 50 years of Yash Raj Films. And it’s primarily why Namrata Rao’s Angry Young Men – a three-part documentary series on Hindi cinema’s iconic screenwriting-duo Salim/Javed – almost entirely plays like a cool breeze on a hot summer day. It’s pleasurable, comforting and fun. But it’s also limited in its perspective, and unwilling to critically examine its subjects beyond a point.
Even though it does ask some uncomfortable questions to the duo, there’s a line in the sand that Rao’s docu-series seems mindful about not crossing. Like most nostalgia-fuelled projects, even Angry Young Men feels cautious, and as a result timid, which is ironically the complete opposite of the Salim-Javed spirit.
Centred around arguably two of the finest script writers – and raconteurs – Hindi cinema has ever seen, the series begins with the pace of a Bachchan caper [like Don (1978) or The Great Gambler (1979)]. But it’s also dense given the sheer number of voices offering their analysis on the writing pair, and their astounding track record.
Out of the 24 films they wrote, at least 22 were hits as Zoya Akhtar, Javed Akhtar’s daughter, notes at some point, a truly unusual strike rate no one could understand, least of all the Hindi film industry. The duo surely knew something about the mass consciousness of the nation like no one did. What was it that made them so successful?
As Namrata Rao’s docu-series tries to uncover the secret, it always feels like it is in a hurry. Rarely taking a pause to reflect on something that’s said, the series seems afraid to lose its audience to a smartphone.
Rao’s series opens with an intriguing opening credit sequence, accompanied by Mikey McCleary’s soundtrack, which is a pastiche of ‘70s potboilers. In terms of talking heads, it has an embarrassment of riches. Apart from the iconic pair, the series has Farhan Akhtar, Zoya Akhtar, Honey Irani, Shabana Azmi, Salman Khan, Arbaaz Khan and Helen – and this is just their families. We haven’t even begun with the regular collaborators including Ramesh Sippy, Amitabh Bachchan, Dharmendra, Shatrughan Sinha, Jaya Bachchan and Hema Malini.
Add on top of this the usual suspects in such documentaries like Karan Johar, Anupama Chopra, Bharti Pradhan, Bhawana Somaya and Nasreen Munni Kabir alongside screenwriters like Anjum Rajabali, Varun Grover, Jaideep Sahni and a final stretch comprising upcoming writers and Dibakar Banerjee, which means that there’s always too much being thrown at the audience. As a result, the series never feels focused.
It does have its fair share of decent material too. Like a moment where we see a perennially stoic, wry Javed Akhtar’s lips quiver, as he talks about his days of ‘struggle’.
I was always suspicious about Salim Khan and Javed Akhtar’s struggle stories in the beginning, given that they came from relatively well-off families. I took their tales about days spent walking from Bandra to Andheri or sleeping on railway platforms with a pinch of salt.
But there comes a moment when Akhtar is describing how his mind still remembers when he went without food for two days and how, when he entered a five-star hotel and they trolleyed his breakfast in, he felt like an imposter. “Teri yeh aukaat?” (How dare you!) Akhtar asked himself, almost bitter. It’s a moment of visceral shame and pain from the past, something most Salim-Javed films would manage to distill.
Some talking heads are more frank than the others – like when Jaya Bachchan hesitates for a few seconds, and calls them ‘brats’. She’s referring to how the duo would charge one lakh rupees more than the hero of the film, which was unheard of in an industry that barely takes note of writers.
Honey Irani, Akhtar’s ex-wife, mentions how she found the duo extremely arrogant during their successful phase – enough to reasonably explain the celebrations by their peers when they gave their first ‘flop’.
The conversation around the male-centric-ness of their films is countered by Zoya Akhtar and Reema Kagti, saying that even if they didn’t have much screen time, the women in Salim-Javed films weren’t damsels, but with strength, character and agency.
Rajabali, himself a writer, counters it by saying how the professions of these women were only part of a progressive make-up, going on to ask whether their on-screen profession ever factored into the actual plot? It rarely did. Kagti and Akhtar say how it was a product of its times, which feels like an apologist’s rationale.
Javed Akhtar has some interesting insight into how the duo wasn’t good at looking after their goodwill in an industry that runs on favours. Instead, they let their arrogance and tremendous self-belief get the better of them. In a candid moment, he also admits how Dostana (1980) was a film with the least amount of substance.
For a documentary-series that keeps harping about the greatness of story and how central the writers are to making a film, Rao never quite presses on the questions of manipulating ‘hit’ films. The truth is – there are enough dishonest films, without the slightest hints of work or sincerity, that do mind-boggling numbers. Filmmaking is a craft of illusion, it’s to make the audience believe and invest in the images in front of them – how does one hypnotise the audience? The series doesn’t delve deep into it.
Rao spends the last 20 minutes of the third episode diving into how exploitative the Hindi film industry is for writers. The only reason Salim-Javed struck out was their own initiative in creating a personal brand, which they managed to imprint within the industry and the public consciousness. There is some hurried analysis on the lack of respect afforded to writers – Aamir Khan offers a half-baked explanation about how a writer’s name doesn’t draw in the audience, which is hardly grounded in logic; given that no writer has been paid a star’s fee. Dibakar Banerjee points out how mistreatment for great writers means that the system inadvertently ends up nurturing mediocre directors – given the strict hierarchy on a film set.
Rao’s series barely grapples with the plagiarism allegations against the duo – whose Sholay was based on Seven Samurai (1956) and The Magnificent Seven (1961) and the Hindi film inspired by those films, Mera Gaon Mera Desh that released in 1971. What did they do with a film that had already been made, to elevate it to an all-time blockbuster?
Majboor (1974) was a mish-mash of Zig Zag and Cold Sweat (both 1970 films). They didn’t spare Indian films either – where Don was inspired from the Shammi Kapoor-starrer Chinatown (1962).
Salim shrugs it off saying that the same material was at the disposal of other writers too. He explains how the toss of the coin in Sholay was borrowed from Once Upon A Time In The West (1968), where Gary Cooper and Richard Widmark would pick cards for critical decisions. Javed admits it was a widespread practice then, and that they did it because they knew they could get away with it.
No questions are asked about what goes into Indianising a Western plot, and what’s necessary to bear in mind while making it your own.
Angry Young Men could have been an interesting exercise for the Hindi film fraternity to introspect; instead, the series spends a large part of its time fawning over its highs, whispering about its failures and faultlines, and being evasive about structural solutions that can make it a better place for young professionals.
Being produced by Salim and Javed’s children (Zoya Akhtar’s Tiger Baby Films, Farhan Akhtar’s Excel Entertainment and Salman Khan Films are credited), maybe we shouldn’t have put the onus of a messy, emotionally raw documentary on this one. Rao’s docu-series isn’t interested in critical thinking, it would rather be starstruck.
Angry Young Men is playing on Amazon Prime.
