Back when the Bollywood Fugly blog was more active, those of us who contributed to it often got accused of being mean-spririted, watching films just to laugh at their foibles or indulging too often in "so bad it's good." I think those of you reading this know me well enough to understand that was never a deliberate intention, but I can't deny that I sometimes take great pleasure in the, er, inventions of wardrobe departments across the subcontinent. I don't go looking for horrible costumes, but if they have made their way into a released film and I stumble across them, and they in some way delight or amuse or amaze me, then by Helen I am going to enjoy them. They are (or should be) as much a part of the context of what's happening in a film as set design, props, and blocking of the extras.
They have visual impact. They testify to great creativity. They demonstrate the ability of professionals to take an idea, often formed from or in conjunction with other elements of the film like lyrics, set, choreography, or plot, and running with it to glorious distances. At other times, they warn of the dangers of letting the lunatics run the asylum. But no matter what, the costumes that catch my eye are evidence of earnest attempts to hold up one of filmidom's cardinal rules: NEVER BE BORING!!!!! I admire and respect that, I really do.
ANYWAY. Costumes. Terrific or terrifying, bring 'em on.
I saw this one from Cocktail just today.
From Konchem Ishtam Konchem Kashtam, the most glorious array of polo shirts I ever did see.
|My notes on this film indicate I saw at least 46 different shirts.|
This must be on purpose. It must be about something, reflect something, tell us something? But what? It is a great mystery that I take no end of pleasure in mulling over. (And yes, I also assume it's probably product placement, but if so why so many of the same damn shirt? Why not also a hoodie here and there? A watch? A t-shirt, even?)
So that's the bad, the puzzling, and now the wonderful: from Elaan (1971).
These cleanse my palate because anything getting me down is replaced with sheer envy and a soupçon of lust and "Why am I not as fabulous as vintage Rekha? Why? WHYYYYY?" And then I get over that unanswerable mystery and just revel in how nice it is that these ever existed and were captured on film for the delight of all. Thank you, movies. Thank you!