An important fallout of the migration of Bengali technicians and filmmakers to Bombay in the 1950s was the adaptation of a number of Bengali film classics into Hindi. Of course this was a process extant from the heyday of New Theatres when the legendary studio made its films in both Bengali and Hindi. However, these were more bilinguals, often shot simultaneously – Meera / Rajrani Meera (1934), Devdas (1935), Bhagyachakra / Dhoop Chhaon (1935) and Manzil / Grihadaha (1935), among others – than remakes.

From the 1950s onwards, the Bombay film industry time and again dipped into the treasures that its Calcutta counterpart had to offer. With Uttam Kumar dominating the cinematic landscape of Bengal over the next two decades, it isn’t surprising that a number of these were films starring the mahanayak in the original.

The legend may not have succeeded in his endeavour to become a pan-India star, but these remakes only serve to highlight how his influence transcended the boundaries of Bengal. The process continued well into the 1980s and 1990s with films like Ijaazat (1987), loosely inspired by Jatugriha (1964); and Yugpurush (1998) – starring Jackie Shroff, Nana Patekar and Manisha Koirala – a remake of the Uttam Kumar-Soumitra Chatterjee-Aparna Sen-starrer Aparachita (1969), which was itself an adaptation of Fyodor Dostoevsky’s The Idiot.

Though these adaptations are too many in number to cover in detail in one feature, here are six of the best remakes, starring top-line Hindi film stars filling in for Uttam Kumar.

Kala Pani with Dev Anand (1958) / Sabar Uparey (1954)

The opening credits for Raj Khosla’s Kala Pani attribute its story idea to one Anand Pal, blithely ignoring its debt to Uttam Kumar’s 1955 film Sabar Uparey, which itself was adapted from A.J. Cronin’s Beyond This Place. (Cronin it appears was a Navketan favourite with Vijay Anand’s Tere Mere Sapne, also adapted from his novel, The Citadel.)

As far as the lead performances are concerned, little separates the two versions. Though Dev Anand won an award for best actor for Kala Pani, watching it today one cannot fail to see how laboured and underwhelming an act it was.

Unfortunately, Uttam Kumar himself wasn’t yet the actor he was to become. This was among his early hits — Saare Chuattar and Agni Pariksha had released only about a year ago — and there is a distinct theatricality and artifice to both his and Suchitra Sen’s performances (Madhubala scores in this respect, though it is quite a stretch to imagine her as a chief reporter, particularly when that involves a climactic song in ‘disguise’ to get a vital piece of evidence from the villain).

In fact, among the actors across the two films, it is Nalini Jaywant who walks away with the honours in a superbly etched performance. Both versions boast an impressive line-up of great character actors. Sabar Uparey has actors like Kamal Mitra, Pahari Sanyal, Kali Banerjee, Tulsi Chakraborty (in a memorable cameo) and Chhabi Biswas, who chews up the scenery in the film’s dramatic closing moments. Kala Pani does not lag behind, with Nazir Hussain, Kishore Sahu, DK Sapru and Rashid Khan.

It is in the narrative that Sabar Uparey emerges as the better film despite its longer runtime. Kala Pani often loses the plot with its digressions into the comic track involving Mukri, Jankidas and Agha, and a climax that has the leads singing and dancing in disguise. Sabar Uparey builds up to a good climactic courtroom drama that makes for a more satisfying finale than Kala Pani’s.

Of course, Kala Pani has endured in public memory more for its songs, the one aspect in which it far surpasses the Bengali original. The couple of songs in Sabar Uparey aren’t a patch on evergreen numbers like Hum bekhudi, Achha ji main, Nazar lagi raja and Jab naam-e-mohabbat, which isn’t surprising given that it’s a Dev Anand and Navketan film.

Dev Anand and Uttam Kumar have a few more films in common where the music has ensured the Hindi film’s place in posterity. Tere Ghar Ke Samne (1963) was loosely based on the plot point of Ora Thake Odhare (1953), Uttarayan (1963) took off from Hum Dono (1961) while Man Pasand (1980) and Ogo Bodhu Sundari (1981) were adaptations of Pygmalion/My Fair Lady. All three Hindi films have a music score that has outlived the ones in the Bengali.

Lal Patthar with Raaj Kumar (1971) / Lal Pathor (1964)

On paper, given Raaj Kumar’s famed ‘jaani’ avatar (though to be fair, he acquired this image much later), the character of the aristocratic zamindar given to hunting and carrying just that streak of madness in his genes was right up his alley. That Uttam Kumar scores over the Hindi star speaks volumes of how far he had travelled from his Sabar Uparey days. In the last decade of his career, Uttam Kumar played quite a few characters with psychological overtones (Stree, Sanyasi Raja and Bon Palashir Padabali for instance) and had mastered the art of the understatement.

With the Hindi remake almost a scene-for-scene adaptation of the Bengali, very little separates the two versions – both directed by the sadly underrated and largely forgotten Sushil Majumdar. The basic story being so melodramatic at its core, it isn’t surprising that the Hindi holds up well vis-à-vis the original.

So you have the high-pitched extended sequence involving Raja Bahadur’s (Raaj Kumar) ancestors (cameos by Ajit and Sapru) and his own childhood experience, which is absent in the Bengali version where Uttam Kumar articulates his woes in a well-done drunken scene in front of his ancestors’ portraits. Or Raaj Kumar’s introduction scene with a dog straining at the leash.

Uttam Kumar does not need these crutches to underline the nuances of the character. At the same time, one fine difference between the two is that Uttam’s portrayal has a greater streak of meanness, while Raaj Kumar, despite being the jerk that the character is, does arouse some sympathy because of the way he is played by Madhuri (Hema Malini).

Which brings me to the one aspect in which the two films differ dramatically – the character of Madhuri. Lal Patthar more or less makes a villain of Madhuri, and indeed the film has gone down as one of Hema Malini’s best performances. In the original, the character is played by Supriya Devi, and it is a more nuanced and less shrill act than that of Hema Malini (of course, the Bengali film does not have Madhuri being subjected to abuse by her family before Raja Bahadur rescues her). It is in this respect that the Hindi film becomes more of a vehicle for its leading lady (you have the memorable shot of Hema Malini standing next to the stuffed tiger), taking the limelight away from the flawed ‘hero’.

The Bengali version is an out-and-out Uttam Kumar film with Supriya Devi, Nirmal Kumar and Srabani Basu filling in the gaps. Rakhee, in her maiden film appearance, does a much better job of Sumita (the young girl Raja Bahadur marries, leading to the tragic climax) in the Hindi.

There’s little separating the two as far as the songs are concerned. Kishore Kumar’s life-affirming Geet gata hoon main might score over what we have in the Bengali – Tagore’s Alo amar alo, and its German rendition. However there’s little to choose between the other songs. If the Hindi adaptation has Sooni sooni saans ki sitar and Re mann sur me ga, the Bengali has the resplendent Deko na more, Ja ja banshi jaare and a Gulzar ghazal that became more well-known in later years as part of Mausam: Ruke ruke se qadam.

Amar Prem with Rajesh Khanna (1972) / Nishi Padma (1970)

Based on Bibhutibhushan’s short story Hinger Kochuri, Nishi Padma, directed by Aravinda Mukherjee, is often cited as the definitive Uttam Kumar performance after Satyajit Ray’s Nayak. The film is also noteworthy for Sabitri Chatterjee, who acted in a number of films opposite Uttam, matching the legend step for step, and for its evergreen Manna Dey songs Na na aaj ratey aar jatra dekhte jabo na and Ja khushi ora boley boluk, which won the film one of its two National Awards (for best male playback singer).

Directed by Shakti Samanta, Amar Prem remains one of Rajesh Khanna’s, and indeed Hindi cinema’s, most celebrated performances as he does full justice to the character of Anand Babu, a businessman trapped in a bad marriage who finds love in the company of Pushpa (Sharmila Tagore) who sings at a brothel. It is by all means a good remake and a classic of Hindi cinema. Just that Uttam Kumar and Sabitri Chatterjee set the benchmark too high for even the best of Rajesh Khanna and Sharmila Tagore to measure up to. Rajesh Khanna had no qualms in admitting that he was not a patch on Uttam Kumar in Nishi Padma, in particular the way Uttam calls out to his ‘Pushpa’.

If there’s one aspect in which Amar Prem not only rivals but also surpasses Nishi Padma, it is the music, one of Hindi cinema’s greatest soundtracks. Anand Bakshi has seldom been better, and R.D. Burman’s score, highlighted by three pristine Kishore Kumar gems, remains his greatest ever.

Rajesh Khanna went on to act in other remakes of Uttam Kumar films, but none of these — Anurodh (1977) / Deya Neya (1963); Prem Bandhan (1979) / Harano Sur (1957) — measured up to the originals. Anurodh still offered the comfort of being a terrific album with four great Kishore Kumar numbers (rivalling Deya Neya’s classic score), but Prem Bandhan was a hilariously shoddy remake of what remains one of Bengali cinema’s crowning glories.

Chupke Chupke with Dharmendra (1975) / Chhadmabeshi (1971)

It is with the last three films on my list that I enter potential ‘troll’ territory as my views run contrary to that of almost all Bengali cinema and Uttam Kumar fans. Make no mistake, Uttam Kumar is in top form in Chhadmabeshi. And his exchanges with Bikash Ray are a hoot. It is a moot point whether he is better than Dharmendra in Chupke Chupke.

But overall, the film is nothing compared to Hrishikesh Mukherjee’s laugh riot. Chupke Chupke scores over Chhadmabeshi primarily thanks to its writing. The source material is the same – Upendranath Ganguly’s story. However, it is Gulzar’s feel for dialogues that makes Chupke Chupke a winner. Also, missing from the original is that opening sequence at the hill station (who can forget Dharmendra in a monkey cap) which introduces the character as a practical-joke-loving professor. As also Sulekha (Sharmila Tagore) constantly praising her ‘jijaji’ (Om Prakash), exasperating her fiance. These form the basis of Parimal Tripathi’s (Dharmendra) elaborate ruse.

In the Bengali version, Uttam Kumar suddenly decides to pose as the driver and somehow that falls flat. Chhadmabeshi gets going only in the latter portions as Uttam Kumar drives Bikash Ray up the wall and Subhendu enters the picture. In the early parts, there is a distinct lack of the comic (consider that first meeting between Bikash Ray and Uttam Kumar and compare that with the one between Om Prakash and Dharmendra), which is sought to be compensated for by a background score that is supposed to be ‘funny’.

Even in the later portions, as Chhadmabeshi finds its groove, Chupke Chupke runs away with it with two memorable comic acts by Amitabh Bachchan and Jaya Bhaduri. Subhendu Chatterjee is a game performer but Amitabh Bachchan’s corolla/karela act beats him hollow (sample that ‘Main Vasudha ko padhane jaata hoon’ bit as he ties himself up in knots with his ‘tum/main’ monologue trying to explain his predicament to Dharmendra and Asrani. As does Jaya Bhaduri’s Vasudha (‘Wo mera naam hai na, Vee-Aa-esS, wo S’, which is leagues ahead of what her Bengali counterpart has to offer.

Then there are two class cameos in the Hindi version which puts the debate beyond argument: Keshto Mukherjee’s as James D’Costa, the ‘poet’ driver at a loss for rhyming kafiyas (though Jahar Ray is never unfunny, he simply does not have an ‘Aaj baagh mein khilenga’ moment) and David, that all-season conductor of the best of Hrishikesh Mukherjee plots.

The one aspect in which Chhadmabeshi pips Chupke Chupke to the post is in its music. Though the latter boasts two delectable Lata Mangeshkar solos and a Mohammad Rafi-Kishore Kumar duet for the ages, offering a sequence that Chhadmabeshi cannot rival), the four solos by Asha Bhosle and Manna Dey give Chhadmabeshi the edge, if only just.

Bemisaal with Amitabh Bachchan (1982) / Ami Se O Sakha (1975)

Well, whatever the Uttam Kumar fan brigade says (and it will have a lot to say), Amitabh Bachchan runs away with the crown here. I have watched both films closely and a number of times, given the Bengali brigade’s anticipated response. And I stand by my first instinctive reaction, over thirty years ago.

All things equal (and they are not equal, with Bemisaal scoring over the original on a number of parameters), Bachchan’s performance alone takes Bemisaal first past the post. For the sheer range of emotions on display between the two characters (Sudhir and Adhir) he essays, he is leagues ahead of what Uttam Kumar manages. The lover, the flirtatious charmer (just watch Bachchan enchant the character played by Aruna Irani when they first meet), the angry young man with an almost childlike petulance, Adhir’s anguish in a brilliant scene in the asylum, the way Sudhir keeps you guessing about his motives, and above all his intonation of ‘Sakhi’ to Uttam Kumar’s rather staid ‘Madam’ (there is something infinitely more endearing about sakhi than madam) – Bachchan simply towers over Uttam Kumar.

Just watch the one sequence involving the character’s response to a young man’s hands having to be amputated. Bachchan lends that scene a chilling casualness that Uttam Kumar cannot. There’s a dark side to the character, an edginess that Bachchan brings out and that makes Bemisaal riveting. Then you have a first-rate Rakhee performance, which outshines Kaberi Bose, and R.D. Burman’s memorable score with two superlative Kishore Kumar numbers and a scintillating Lata Mangeshkar solo. Ami Se O Sakha has nothing that even begins to rival Bemisaal’s music. Rahi Masoom Raza’s dialogues and Sachin Bhowmik’s screenplay are the two other components that enable Bemisaal to emerge as the more layered, more engaging film.

Angoor with Sanjeev Kumar (1982) / Bhranti Bilas (1963)

Like Chupke Chupke and Bemisaal, it is the writing that makes Angoor the hands-down winner. Bhranti Bilas, based on Vidyasagar’s story derived from Shakespeare’s The Comedy of Errors, is great fun, with a scintillating Sabitri Chatterjee turn that puts to the shade Moushumi Chatterjee’s (who is very good too) in Angoor. However, in Angoor it is Gulzar who is the star, making a madcap adventure of Shakespeare’s tale of mistaken identities that the original can simply not keep pace with.

There is not a moment in the Bengali version that can hold a candle to Gulzar’s play with words and feel for the comic. Even a minor character like Chhedilal (C.S. Dubey), who owns the jewellery shop that plays an important role in the film, and Mansoor Miyan (Yunus Parvez), a worker at the shop, get laugh-out-loud moments.

In a classic sequence, the harried Mansoor Miyan tries to convince one of the Ashoks that he had indeed delivered the necklace, ending with this classic exchange, a triumph of comic writing:

Mansoor:…aur maine haar aapki zaano pe rakkha…

Ashok: Kahan? Kahan rakkha tha?

Mansoor: Zaano pe … mera matlab ghutno par…

Ashok: Jo aadmi ghutno ko zaano kah sakta hai, woh Ashok Kumar ko Kishore Kumar bhi kah sakta hai…

Mansoor: Askok sahab, Urdu mein ghutno ko zaano hi kahte hai.

Ashok: Achha, toh phir, Urdu mein Ashok ko kya kehte hain?

Mansoor, stumped, mumbles to himself while his employer Chhedilal (C.S. Dubey) eggs him on: Batao batao, jawab do…

Mansoor (by now totally flummoxed): Lekin haar se Ashok ka kya taalluq?

Ashok: Lijiye, ab haar se hamara koi talluq hi nahin!

Chhedilal: Mansoor miyan, tumhe kya ho gaya hai? Haar ka talluq Ashok babu se nahin toh kis se hai?

Mansoor: Lahoul bila quwat! Main kya bol raha hoon!

Bhranti Bilas has nothing to offer that comes even close to this. Not to mention Deven Verma in, arguably, the most memorable double role in Hindi films ever (the one instance when even a comic genius like Bhanu Bandopadhyay is relegated to second place). If there’s one facet that puts Angoor miles ahead of its Bengali original, it is Deven Verma, who even gets a full song to himself and floors you with his comic timing even in that.

(Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri is a film and music buff, editor, publisher, film critic and writer)