Vinay Lal On 50 Years Of Deewaar: Masculinity, Morality, And The Making Of A Masterpiece

IIT Delhi to host a seminar on Deewaar’s 50-year legacy, with Prof. Vinay Lal analysing the ‘Angry Young Man’ era and its relevance to today’s city, class, and cinematic narratives.

A seminar at IIT Delhi with Prof Vinay Lal, commemorated 50 years of "Deewaar," analyzing its impact on Indian cinema.

Source : imdb.com

—By Mimansha Mahajan

IIT Delhi recently hosted a seminar to commemorate 50 years of Deewaar, the 1975 classic that transformed Bollywood's depiction of urban struggle and moral dilemmas. Titled 50 Years of Deewaar: The City and the Angry Young Man—Then and Now, the event brought together acclaimed historian and cultural critic Professor Vinay Lal and writer Eshan Sharma. Drawing from his book Deewaar: The Footpath, the City and the Angry Young Man, Lal unpacked the layered symbolism, class conflicts, and cultural impact of the Amitabh Bachchan-starrer. The discussion traced the film's journey from the turbulent socio-political backdrop of 1970s Bombay to its enduring place in Indian cinema, offering audiences a chance to reflect on how the “Angry Young Man” archetype continues to resonate today.

Lal's analysis focused on the film's careful interplay of cinematic form, social commentary, and moral complexity. He sees Deewaar as deeply rooted in the political and economic anxieties of its era—especially the tensions between the working class and an unresponsive system—but expressed through personal drama rather than overt political messaging. “In Deewaar, there is machoism, of course, but it's very different from the kind of films that have come out recently,” he noted. “I think the question of masculinity is important, but it's understated in many ways… There are moments where [Vijay] clearly displays a lot of vulnerability. One would have to understand the relationship of that vulnerability through this question of masculinity.”

For Lal, Deewaar channels the mood of the 1970s through fraternal conflict, moral uncertainty, and the grind of urban survival. Its influence ripples far beyond its time, surfacing in films as diverse as Slumdog Millionaire and Loins of Punjab. The Bombay skyline, constantly shifting in the film's frames, becomes more than just a backdrop—it mirrors ambition, alienation, and a city remaking itself. Lal also draws connections to the Mahabharata, where questions of loyalty, justice, and rebellion have been staged for centuries, framing the brothers' story as part of a much older tradition of epic moral struggles. He further points to the symbolic use of urban spaces—the footpath, the dockyards, the city skyline—as metaphors for aspiration, alienation, and social mobility.

In Lal's reading, the film's central tension is embodied in its two brothers. Ravi, the police officer, is firmly bound by the codes of law and order. As Lal puts it, this rigidity makes him predictable, even “boring,” because his path is determined by the very institution he serves. Vijay, by contrast, is a risk-taker who refuses to play by society's rules, driven by personal survival and ambition rather than allegiance to the system. This difference reaches its emotional peak in the iconic “Mere paas maa hai” scene, where Ravi speaks for the state and moral high ground, while Vijay stands for the individual willing to gamble everything to claim his place in the world. Yet Lal is careful to distinguish this from simple anti-state sentiment. Vijay is not an anarchist but a product of a system that forces survival through defiance. His power and identity emerge from navigating — and ultimately controlling — the same informal networks that oppress others. For Lal, this duality is what gives the character depth: he resists the system while simultaneously functioning outside it, embodying a complex negotiation between morality and necessity.

Lal also highlights what he calls a “sartorial exchange” between the brothers—a visual detail loaded with meaning. “It is Vijay who first actually wears a uniform of a person working as a coolie on the docks, and once he has gone up to the skyscrapers you never see that again,” he observes. “Ravi begins with ordinary clothes and the sartorial exchange happens and he takes up the uniform—police ki vardi.” For Lal, this exchange is more than costume; “it's an omen of things to come.” Ravi, schooled into “obedience,” has experienced “neither the skyscraper nor the footpath,” while Vijay has lived both extremes of the informal economy—“because those at the top are smugglers and it's all black money.” Vijay's rise, he notes, is “as sharp and precipitous” as his eventual fall back to the footpath.

Lal also touched on the film's timeless appeal, linking it to what he calls its “mythic material.” Beyond its specific political and economic context, Deewaar taps into enduring story patterns — fraternal conflict, betrayal, loyalty, and sacrifice — that audiences instinctively connect with. “That mythic material doesn't change,” he explained, which is why even viewers far removed from the 1970s still find the story compelling.

The discussion also explored how these tensions — between state and individual, loyalty and survival — ripple through the film's structure. From the opening scenes on the footpath to the rise of Vijay's power in the city's underworld, the absence of formal justice shapes every choice he makes. Lal noted that Deewaar's genius lies in showing this without heavy-handed political speeches; instead, it lets the city, the economy, and the characters' lived realities speak for themselves.

Ultimately, Lal sees Deewaar as a cinematic masterpiece because it blends strong storytelling with deliberate, economical filmmaking. Its lasting fame, in his view, comes not just from big performances or famous dialogues, but from how every scene feels necessary and meaningful. It speaks to audiences without overexplaining, using silences, looks, and settings to carry as much weight as the words. The story is rich enough to reward multiple viewings, each revealing something new. And while it captures the mood of 1970s Bombay, its honesty and refusal to offer easy answers make it feel as urgent and relevant now as it did fifty years ago.