Two images from my early teens still stand in memory. Watching Khubsoorat at age 11 in an evening show and walking back home with my parents, sleepy, but utterly charmed by the experience, in love with Manju. Two years later it was Umrao Jaan, and the return home that evening irritable with sleep, wanting to kick my parents in the heels for putting us through the experience. In hindsight, 13 is not quite the age to ‘appreciate’ a film like Umrao Jaan. As the film gained a reputation over the years, I went back to it for repeat viewings on television. However, every time I couldn’t help wondering: what’s the fuss about? And now, watching it in its pristine restored print in 2025, the question persists: what’s the fuss about? I am still unable to ‘appreciate’ what makes people herald Umrao Jaan as one of the greats.
Muzaffar Ali’s Umrao Jaan has long been heralded as a classic of Indian cinema, praised for its opulent costume design, Rekha’s supposedly career-defining performance, and a soundtrack that continues to be romanticised. Yet, strip away the silk and satin, and what remains is a meandering narrative anchored by an emotionally inert lead performance and an undercooked directorial vision.
The film, an adaptation of Mirza Hadi Ruswa’s 19th-century Urdu novel Umrao Jaan Ada, tells the story of a courtesan in Lucknow, tracing her fall from innocence to her eventual cynicism. Yet Ali’s interpretation seems less concerned with psychological depth or socio-political context than with ornamental beauty.
Rekha: A Performance of Posture, Not Passion
Much of the film’s enduring legacy hinges on Rekha’s portrayal of Umrao Jaan, a performance that has garnered widespread acclaim, even earning her the National Award. Yet, every time I have watched the film, I have been unable to get over the feeling that this is a ‘performance’. She has been a legend but she is much better in films like Do Anjaane, Khubsoorat, Kalyug and Alaap, even in smaller roles in Mr Natwarlal and Vijeta. As a courtesan, she is a standout in Muqaddar Ka Sikandar.
In these films, she is a natural. Her performance in Umrao Jaan, in contrast, feels mannered. Rekha plays Umrao as a tragic figure swathed in silk but never penetrates her interior world. Her expressions are restrained to the point of passivity; her line deliveries are often flat, as if reciting rather than feeling. For all the talk of ‘haunting elegance’, one could argue Rekha is simply relying on the heavy lifting done by her costumes, music and makeup.
It’s a performance of posture, not passion. Contrast this with Smita Patil or Shabana Azmi in similar period dramas, where emotional complexity bursts through the constraints of costume. Rekha, by contrast, remains sealed off – her Umrao is a doll, beautiful and breakable, but ultimately empty.
Songs as Crutches
Of course, no review of Umrao Jaan can omit Khayyam’s justly celebrated soundtrack, featuring Asha Bhosle’s velvety ghazals. Songs like ‘Dil Cheez Kya Hai’, ‘Justuju Jiski Thi’, ‘In Aankhon Ki Masti’ and ‘Zindagi Jab Bhi’, the last sung by Talat Aziz, have become iconic, often cited as embodiments of poetic longing. But even here, a contrarian must ask: to what end? The songs, however exquisite as standalone pieces, operate largely in a vacuum. They do little to complicate or advance character arcs; instead, they are decorative interludes. Contrast this with another brilliant Khayyam score in Bazaar (1982), nowhere as feted as Umrao Jaan, yet serving greater narrative purpose.
Legacy or Mirage?
It’s not difficult to understand why Umrao Jaan has attained its cult status. It caters to a nostalgia for an imagined Indo-Islamic past, a world of ghazals, adab, and forbidden love. It flatters viewers with its sophistication, presenting sorrow not as a lived experience but as a mood board. In many ways, the film’s enduring popularity reflects the desires of an audience seeking aesthetic escape rather than emotional confrontation.
One must question the cost of such romanticisation. In elevating style over substance, the film reduces a rich literary character to a passive icon. And in elevating Rekha’s performance as a pinnacle of screen acting, it overlooks the emotional opacity and performative detachment that define her turn as Umrao.
In rewatching Umrao Jaan, what one sees is a missed opportunity. It may continue to adorn lists of India’s most beautiful films, but beauty alone does not make for great cinema. And then there’s the ultimate ignominy – that Rekha won the National Award for best actress for this, over Jennifer Kendal on 36 Chowringhee Lane.
(Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri is a film and music buff, editor, publisher, film critic and writer)