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Cinema is meant not only for the eyes, the audiences have ears too. Such was the pull of sound on screen when the talkies arrived that even the blind thronged the cinema halls showing Sikander to hear the booming voices of Sohrab Modi and Prithviraj Kapoor, writes M. L. Dhawan
THE arrival of sound in cinema with Alam Ara (1931) put paid to the careers of those stars of the silent era that did not sound ear-friendly. On the other hand those stars that had a roaring and booming voice became the heartthrob of film fans. Such was the magic of voice that even the blind thronged the cinema halls showing Sikander to hear the booming voice of Sohrab Modi and Prithviraj Kapoor portraying King Puru and Alexander in the film. After the days of cue cards, it was realised that in the world of entertainment, an ear-friendly voice, changing the pitch of voice, the right pauses and body language, etc add punch to the performance. Later on actors like Moti Lal, Dilip Kumar, Balraj Sahini, etc pioneered a shift from the theatricality of Sohrab Modi and toned down the volume of Prithviraj Kapoor’s dramatics with a natural dialogue delivery uncluttered by mannerisms and flourishes. The artistes who were versatile not only in emoting but also in negotiating the textual dynamics made the best use of their grandiloquence. Balraj Sahni brought an aesthetic sensibility to his role in Do Bigha Zameen. In Jagte Raho, Raj Kapoor, a villager, comes to a city and enters a locality to quench his thirst, but the crowd throughout the night that thinks him to be a dacoit chases him. The way Raj Kapoor reacted, the audience could actually feel his seething anger and revulsion. With strong and flamboyant means of articulation which had the audience listening to him in amazement in Mughal-e-Azam, Prithiviraj Kapoor depicted the compulsions of emperor Akbar when he admonished Madhubala saying "Salim tujhe marne nahin dega aur hum, Anarkali tujhe jeene nahin deengey." Dev Anand has a slight sing-song cadence and certain sauciness in his voice that suits the characters he generally plays, but he was dramatic and subtle in Guide when he said, "Raaju, samajh ley keh karnewala koi aur hai, tu to sirf bahana hai. Kam uska naam tera." His words oozed charisma. In Ganga-Jamuna, when Dilip Kumar is shot in the last scene, he utters ‘Hey Ram’ before dying. The poignance and reverence with which ‘Hey Ram’ was uttered reminded the audience of the last moments of Mahatma Gandhi. In Naya Din Nayi Raat, Sanjeev Kumar embellished nine different roles with inflexions of his voice and the audience wondered if these nine different voices were from one individual. Jaani Raaj Kumar’s words sounded as if these had been chewed to pulp to draw spontaneous applause. His voice had an element of poesy when he says "Aap ke paaon dekhey, bahut haseen hain, inhen zameen par mat uttariyega, mailey ho jayengey," in Pakeezah. He could be low key and mellow, as he could be peppery and sarcastic as in Waqt. Till his last film, Jaani’s baritone voice remained his strongest connection with the masses and mandarins. Without his rich baritone, Amitabh Bachchan’s career graph would not have survived the downers. In Deewar in a confrontation scene with Shashi Kapoor, his harsh and grim voice seethes in fury and anguish. In Aakhri Raasta, there is a marked and sharp difference between the slow measured tones of the father as compared to the brisk voice of the son. Generally, Shahrukh Khan is a delight to watch, but not to hear, for acting and speaking like himself in almost all his films, but not in Veer-Zaara where initially his voice assumes soldier-like tone, followed by that of a lover. A careless whisper from Meena Kumari, Nutan was enough to identify them with our eyes closed. Meena Kumari’s quivering timber saying, "Doctor Sahib aap mujh se badla to nahin lengey," in Dil Ek Mandir conveyed the agony of a wife whose husband is dying of cancer. As an orphan Dalit girl in Sujata, Nutan displayed a riot of emotions saying "Agar hawa mujhey choo sakti hai to insaan kyon nahin". Madhubala oozed grace and magnanimity in her voice when she said, "Jahanpanah ki behisaab bakshishon ke badley, Anarkali Shahenshah Akbar ko apna khoon maaf karti hai," in Mughal-e-Azam. In the use of her voice, Rekha strives for perfection—in diction and pitch—and invariably, she achieves it. She knows how and which groove is right for which mood and moment. Smita Patil’s dialogue delivery could be dramatic and subtle. In romantic mode, she kept her range on a leash, but let her demons out when it came to a scene of catharasis. In Mirch Masala, she breathes fire and brimstone while refusing to dance to the tune of the lecherous Subedar. Her voice was as wounding as a whiplash. Contrast the volatile pitch of Shabana Azmi in Godmother with the tenderness of her voice in Arth when pleading with her husband not to divorce her. Her tremulous voice conveys the agony and dilemma of a wife left in the lurch for no fault of hers. Nana Patekar’s Partap in Krantiveer walked away with the audience’s applause on the strength of dialogue delivery. Naseeruddin Shah in Sparsh, Om Puri in Ardh Satya, Amrish Puri in Virasat provided lessons in vocal artistry. In these days of anything-goes movies, heroes and heroines often may not hone their accents. Cinema is meant not only for the eyes, the audiences have ears too.
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