There are some movies that have been so thoroughly analysed — in books, academic literature and mainstream media — that you feel almost silly writing about them. What more can a cineaste of my generation possibly say about Sholay, for example? As the cliché has it, any true movie-lover has seen it at least 30 times. Most fans know every line by heart. (One of the first audio-cassettes I owned was the two-tape set of the dialogues.) We’ve deified the film and in some cases, as our cinematic horizons have broadened, we’ve deconstructed and undervalued it. Responses run across a continuum ranging from blind adoration to “Huh! Seven Samurai was better.”
Like every other Sholay fan, I had convinced myself that the film couldn’t possibly hold any further surprises for me. But recently I realised that all these years there was a crucial link missing in my viewing experience: I had no memory of most of the opening-credits sequence, where the Thakur’s manservant Ramlal leads a policeman — on horseback — from the railway station to the Thakur’s haveli.
The back-story is that throughout my childhood, my Sholay-watching was dependent on a cassette gifted to me by a Lagos-based uncle. The opening five minutes had been snipped to fit the film into the tape’s 180 minutes: the first few credits (accompanied by R D Burman’s lilting music and the shots of a sunbaked landscape) were intact, but after the names of the six principal actors appeared, there was an abrupt cut to the Thakur speaking with his visitor.
Whoever edited the sequence out must have figured that opening credits are superfluous — as they indeed were in most Hindi films of the time. But watching this scene through fresh eyes on DVD, I realised that the visual power of Sholay — its economy of storytelling, its assured shot composition and framing — begins right here.
As Ramlal and the policeman make their long ride, we are taken through the entire setting where the film’s action will later occur. First they go past the talaab, where villagers and dacoits alike presumably get their water from (this is also where Gabbar’s men will accost Basanti late in the film). As the two riders reach the village, the camera draws back to give us an aerial view of the houses as well as the temple and the mosque that will later be important locations. Thus, long before the narrative brings Veeru and Jai to Ramgarh, we become acquainted with this self-contained little community. We see the villagers go about their daily routines, shopkeepers plying their wares, a goatherd driving his animals down a rough path.
This is followed by a journey across a bridge and finally, as the music reaches its crescendo and the title “Directed by Ramesh Sippy” appears on the screen, there is a pan shot to the haveli — symbolically cut off from the rest of the village — where the Thakur and his widowed daughter-in-law lead solitary, colourless lives. The giant boulder in the background adds to the beauty of the shot. (We may also notice at this point — before we know about the Thakur’s tragedy — that the size of the haveli is incongruous with the number of people who currently stay in it. Surely a whole family should be living here.)
Viewers of mainstream Hindi cinema are often excessively concerned with plot, and the filmmakers themselves kowtow to this — which means that old Hindi movies tend to leap straight into the narrative without spending much time on creating a mood. Sholay is an exception. The dialogue-less credit sequence isn't usually included among the film's many classic setpieces, but it's one of the best establishing scenes you'll see.
Jai Arjun Singh is a Delhi-based writer
