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By:

Shoumojit Banerjee

27 August 2024 at 9:57:52 am

Sands of Empire: Revisiting Khartoum

If you thought Lawrence of Arabia (1962) was the only great desert classic, think again. Overshadowed for decades by David Lean’s masterpiece, Khartoum (1966) remains one of the great neglected historical epics. Directed by Basil Dearden and anchored by commanding performances from Charlton Heston and Laurence Olivier, it deserves a place alongside the decade’s finest large-scale historical dramas. While it falls short of the towering achievement of Lawrence of Arabia, it remains a worthy...

Sands of Empire: Revisiting Khartoum

If you thought Lawrence of Arabia (1962) was the only great desert classic, think again. Overshadowed for decades by David Lean’s masterpiece, Khartoum (1966) remains one of the great neglected historical epics. Directed by Basil Dearden and anchored by commanding performances from Charlton Heston and Laurence Olivier, it deserves a place alongside the decade’s finest large-scale historical dramas. While it falls short of the towering achievement of Lawrence of Arabia, it remains a worthy epic unjustly overshadowed by Lean’s film. More importantly, it belongs to a now-vanished tradition of historical filmmaking that believed audiences could appreciate history, ideas and spectacle in equal measure. Set in 19th century Sudan and Egypt, Khartoum sees the flamboyant General Charles ‘Chinese’ Gordon, played with tremendous conviction by Heston, square off against Muhammad Ahmad, the self-proclaimed ‘Mahdi’ or the ‘Expected One,’ portrayed by Olivier. Amid tangled imperial geopolitics, the British government dispatches Gen. Gordon to oversee the evacuation of Sudan, where the Mahdi has ignited a rebellion against Egyptian and British authority. The Mahdi was a nineteenth-century Osama bin Laden-like prototype – a ruthlessly charismatic religious figure capable of rallying thousands through a potent mix of faith, prophecy and political revolt. The duel between Gordon and the Mahdi is alone worth the price of admission. Heston, relishing the opportunity to play something far more nuanced than his usual larger-than-life heroes, delivers what may well be the finest performance of his career. Sporting a British accent, Heston’s Gordon is a vain man (with a monumental ego) driven equally by courage and conviction. Heston creates a character far more interesting than his celebrated household roles of Judah Ben-Hur or Moses. Indeed, Heston personally regarded Khartoum as one of his favourite films as the role allowed him to move beyond heroic certainty and explore the contradictions of a deeply complex historical figure. Olivier’s performance has long attracted controversy because of his use of blackface. Yet as an acting performance, it remains extraordinarily compelling. His Mahdi is intelligent and magnetic; a man whose seething fanaticism and certainty of purpose makes him a lethal opponent. The conflict between Gordon and the Mahdi is not simply military but philosophical. Each sees himself as the instrument of a higher cause and recognises something admirable in the other. Their exchanges possess an intellectual weight seldom encountered in contemporary blockbusters. That quality owes much to the literate screenplay by playwright Robert Ardrey who has his characters debate faith, empire and political expediency in scintillating dialogues. The supporting cast is equally distinguished. Sir Ralph Richardson is magnificent as the British Prime Minister, William Ewart Gladstone who embodies British pragmatism and Machiavellian statecraft in equal measure. He admires Gordon while recognising that empires cannot be run according to the impulses of heroic individuals. Richardson captures the tension between moral rhetoric and political calculation with a finesse that only a legend of his stature could. One should perhaps be thankful that such a film got made at all. Never mind today’s audiences, the tangled skein of late 19th century British imperial politics was hardly an easy sell for audiences in the 1960s as well. Americans, in particular, would likely have had little clue about Sudan, Khartoum, Gordon or the Mahdist revolt. Yet Khartoum succeeds brilliantly in bringing this forgotten era to life. The political intrigues of Whitehall and the desperate military situation on the Nile acquire genuine dramatic force. It belongs to a period when filmmakers trusted audiences to listen and follow ideas rather than watch mindless action. The 1960s were the golden age of the literate historical epic. Films such as Spartacus, El Cid, The Fall of the Roman Empire and The Charge of the Light Brigade combined spectacle with serious engagement with history. Khartoum stands proudly within that tradition. Gordon and the Mahdi have long gone. The British Empire has vanished. But Sudan remains trapped in seemingly perpetual cycles of conflict. Coups, civil wars, military strongmen, competing centres of authority and devastating violence have haunted the country for decades. The headlines change; the instability persists. That is what makes Khartoum feel unexpectedly contemporary. Beneath its grand costumes and imperial pageantry lies a story about a state struggling to define itself, about rival claims to legitimacy, and about the dangerous collision between political power and religious conviction. 60 years after its release, Khartoum remains not merely a superb film but a haunting reminder that history, especially in Sudan, has a habit of repeating itself.

The Soul of Bharat on the Big Screen

Mumbai: April 4, 2025, my heart feels heavier than it ever has. The news hit me like a monsoon storm—Manoj Kumar, the towering legend of Bollywood, the man who painted patriotism across our screens, is no more. At 87, he slipped away at Mumbai’s Kokilaben Dhirubhai Ambani Hospital, leaving behind a reel of memories that flicker in my mind like a projector that won’t stop spinning. As a movie fan who grew up with his films, I’m not just mourning an actor—I’m grieving the loss of a piece of my soul, a piece of India itself. They called him "Bharat Kumar," and oh, how he earned that name.


I remember the first time I saw ‘Upkar’ (1967). I was a kid, sprawled on the living room floor, eyes glued to our old TV. Manoj ji played Bharat, the farmer who gave everything—his dreams, his love—for his country’s soil. That song, “Mere Desh Ki Dharti,” wasn’t just a tune; it was a heartbeat, pulsing with pride and sacrifice. I’d hum it walking to school, feeling like I, too, could be that noble, that selfless. He won a National Film Award for that one, and rightly so—it wasn’t acting; it was living.

Then there was ‘Shaheed’ (1965), where he brought Bhagat Singh back to life. I’d sit there, popcorn forgotten, as he roared defiance against the British, his eyes blazing with a fire that could’ve lit up the darkest colonial night. It wasn’t just a film—it was a revolution on celluloid, a call to remember the blood that bought our freedom. Manoj ji didn’t just play the martyr; he became him, and every time I watch it, I feel that lump in my throat, that sting in my eyes. It’s no wonder it snagged three National Awards—his passion was a gift to us all.


Oh, and ‘Purab Aur Paschim’ (1970)—how do I even begin? He directed and starred as Bharat again, this time wrestling with the clash of East and West, showing us the beauty of our roots while the world tried to pull us away. I’d laugh at Saira Banu’s antics, then choke up when Manoj ji stood tall, singing “Hai Preet Jahan Ki Reet Sada.” It was a blockbuster, sure, but it was more—it was a love letter to India, penned in his signature hand-over-face style. That move, mocked by some, was his shield, his quiet strength, and I adored it.

And who could forget ‘Roti Kapda Aur Makaan’ (1974)? He directed and starred as Bharat—again, because who else could?—tackling poverty, injustice, and the gut-wrenching struggle for the basics of life. I’d watch, fists clenched, as he fought for the everyman, his voice cracking with raw emotion. It wasn’t just a movie; it was a mirror to our society, a cry for change. Seven Filmfare Awards across his career, they say, but this one felt like it carried them all—his heart bled through every frame.


Then there’s ‘Kranti’ (1981), the epic that had me on the edge of my seat. Manoj ji as the freedom fighter, leading Dilip Kumar and Hema Malini through a storm of rebellion—it was grand, it was gritty, it was everything Bollywood could be. “Zindagi Ki Na Toote Ladi” still echoes in my ears, a reminder of the battles he fought on screen, battles that felt so real I’d dream of joining the fight. He didn’t just direct that film; he sculpted a monument to resilience, and I’d cheer like a fool every time he outsmarted the British.


As I sit here, flipping through these memories, I can’t help but feel cheated. Manoj Kumar wasn’t just an actor or director—he was family. Born Harikrishan Goswami in 1937, he carried the Partition’s scars from Abbottabad to Delhi, turning pain into purpose. He gave us over 50 films in a career spanning four decades, snagging the Padma Shri in 1992 and the Dadasaheb Phalke Award in 2015—honors that felt too small for a man who gave India its cinematic soul. His last role in ‘Jai Hind’ (1999) might’ve flopped, but it didn’t dim his light in my eyes.


I’d read how he met Bhagat Singh’s mother before ‘Shaheed’, seeking her blessing—can you imagine the weight of that? Or how PM Lal Bahadur Shastri urged him to make ‘Upkar’ after the 1965 war, handing him “Jai Jawan Jai Kisan” like a sacred torch? That’s who he was—a man who didn’t just entertain but carried a nation’s dreams.


Manoj ji, you weren’t just “Bharat Kumar” to me—you were the uncle who taught me pride, the friend who shared my anger, the poet who sang my hopes. Your films weren’t movies; they were my childhood, my rebellion, my tears. I’ll miss you like I miss the India you dreamed of—flawed, fierce, and forever ours. Rest in peace, sir. Om Shanti.

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