Despite often 'failing' Bechdel test, women-centered duets present dance as a site for gender-informed dialogue

Watching the song ‘Pinga’ from Bajirao Mastani, instead of the infectious beat, irresistible dance, and the spectacular visuals that accompany any Sanjay Leela Bhansali film, I found myself intently listening for how the dance duet read as a conversation between two dancers. Perhaps I was influenced in part by Usha Iyer, who in Dancing Women: Choreographing Corporeal Histories of Hindi Cinema, talks of how most analysis of song-and-dance sequence has tended to treat the sequence as a combined entity (2020). Thinking through other women-centred dance duets I could remember off the top of my head (apart from the overwhelming presence of Bollywood’s favourite dancer, Madhuri Dixit), I realised most either centred around their longing for romance, or directly touched upon a man that both women had a romantic relationship with. Something about this train of thought led me to thinking of the Bechdel test, and how it could be applied to the female dance duet.

Also read: Usha Iyer on her book Dancing Women, a deep dive into the material and cultural production of dance in Hindi cinema

In 1985, Allison Bechdel in her comic strip, Dykes to Watch out For, inadvertently introduced what is now famously known as the Bechdel test, also the Bechdel-Wallace test, designed to assess the depth of role of women characters within films. The test asks three questions, the fulfilment of which is used to determine whether the film has put enough thought into the emotional and psychological complexity of its women characters. The first question is solely about representation, in that it asks if the movie even has two or more women characters. An additional criterion of the women being named is also often added. The second question asks if the two women have a conversation with one another. The third and final question asks if the conversation between them is about something other than a man. While the test is not an accurate gauge of the feminist intent of the film, and others have introduced later interpolations along race and class lines, it nevertheless remains a popular measure of the purposeful presence of women within a film, and points to the lack of significant weight accorded to female characters.

While the test of course suffers from deficits, which have been extensively discussed by many film scholars, can it be used to analyse dance duets as a form of embodied conversation? Since the test was devised in 1985, I have used popular Bollywood films from the 1990s onwards for this article to see if there has been any significant shift in the way women characters have been conceived since the emergence of the test. Can dance duets offer the possibility for women characters to express feelings that they may have been unable to address outside of the ‘dancescape’ provided? Why and how does dance offer the possibility for the emergence of conversation, which seemingly subverts the inability to ‘pass’ the test. Further, does the site of the dance, as well as the social background of the dancers alter the ‘result’ of the test?

Think Bollywood duets. The one that undoubtedly comes to mind is ‘Dola Re Dola’ from Devdas (2002). Set in the palatial aristocratic marital home of Paro (Aishwarya Rai), who invites Chandramukhi on Durga Puja, the lyrics of the song point only to the unrequited and unfulfilled love that both of them hold towards Devdas. In a verbal musical volley, which is equally seen to be transferred between the two dancing bodies, they speak of both the agony, and bittersweetness of their longing for Devdas. In a world that circumscribes female desire, and the ability to exercise the agency to exhibit desire within the binary of the tawaif (Chandramukhi) and the married woman (Paro), the duet enables a space which allows for the communication of desire, unfettered by both the supposed sanctity of the marital bond and the impiety of the brothel. While on the face of it, the duet seems to fail the Bechdel test, since Paro and Chandramukhi are speaking to each other of a man, how does it simultaneously challenge such a reading?

The first lies in the location of the dance sequence within the upper-caste mansion. In inviting and dancing with Chandramukhi in her home, Paro transgresses her expected role as dutiful wife. In doing so, she challenges long-held notions of class and caste orthodoxy while forging a feminist solidarity with her. The dancing bodies mirror each other’s movements, or flow constantly from one dancing body to another. The lover they speak of is absent, and their eyes regularly focus on each other. They repeatedly face each other and establish constant connection through touch. Chandramukhi’s dancing body, which has been continually constructed by the male perspective, now experiences not the hunger of that sexualised gaze, but instead the understanding and camaraderie offered by Paro’s. The duet then no longer remains a mere a visualisation of their conversation of a (useless!) man who happens to be a part of their lives. It is equally, in its synchronised movements, as well as chosen location, a visualisation of the strength of female friendship, a disavowal of the patriarchal and casteist structures of family.

In contrast, how does one read the dance-off between Nisha (Karishma Kapoor) and Pooja (Madhuri Dixit) in Dil Toh Pagal Hai. The instrumental is interestingly titled ‘The Dance of Envy’. While it begins with a relatively slow tempo, wherein Nisha joins a rehearsal already in progress, the beat picks up as it evolves into a dance-battle between the two female leads. For those familiar with the plotline, it is apparent why the instrumental is entitled as a dance of envy. Nisha is both envious of Pooja having replaced her as the lead in the musical, and equally of Rahul’s (Shah Rukh Khan) increasing affection for her. The duet is undoubtedly crafted as an accusation, but being wordless, it also opens the possibility for the audience to interpret what the accusation being levied is. If read only as Nisha’s anger at being thwarted as Rahul’s love interest, this dance, as a conversation, would fail the Bechdel test. But employing the ambiguity, which this wordless confrontation engenders, one can equally read this as Nisha expressing her anger at being replaced in a professional capacity. The minute Nisha points at Pooja, encircling her, Pooja takes a step back and stops dancing. Thereafter, her dancing becomes more and more hesitant, while Nisha moves with a frenetic energy. Is Nisha’s prime concern Rahul’s apparent affection towards her, or does the dance and the accusation it embodies, hint at a gendered power dynamic that pervades professional spaces? Professional spaces are markedly gendered, with traditional attractiveness and femininity often becoming the differentiating playing card to professional advancement, which even films as recent as the much-acclaimed Geeli Pucchi illustrate (and adds nuance through its foregrounding of caste). The rehearsal space, as a site of work, is where Nisha choses to place this confrontation. As she over-exerts herself immediately after recovering, Pooja’s gaze, as well as the camera’s, focuses on her injured foot. In continuing to work (or perform) even while she has not fully recovered from her injury, Nisha draws attention to the precarious livelihood of the performing artist, as well as the impossibility for ‘rest’ within a field which often operates outside of formal contracts. In this case, too, the dance duet complicates the reading of the conversation between the two lead women as being solely about a man. It points additionally to gendered power structures which percolate workspaces, as well as illustrates how dance as part of the informal economy, which dance careers operate through, are harmful for the dancer.

With ‘Pinga’, Kashibai (Priyanka Chopra) in inviting Mastani (Deepika Padukone) to her home, is the first person to recognise the ‘illegitimate’ relationship between Bajirao and Mastani. The duet allows momentarily for the love between Bajirao and Mastani to be talked of without the associated slander that it was otherwise subject to. Frequently compared to ‘Dola Re Dola’, the difference lies in how the duet, rather than flowing between the two dancers, with the use of camerawork as well as choreography, is seen to ‘cut’ between the two dancers, much more than its predecessor. In this way, it draws both on the tension between the two characters, brought in by their romantic interest in the same man. Like ‘Dola Re Dola’ however, this duet also brings to the fore a feminist solidarity which emerges between Kashibai and Mastani. It does this similarly, through the use of synchronised steps at intervals, where both leads perform how their fate is bound (‘Jo peer meri hai, so peer teri hai’) through the patriarchal structures of family, caste and religion. These structures, which entrap, circumscribe and continually limit women’s agency.

Other dance duets like ‘Choli Ke Peeche Kya Hai’, ‘Badi Mushkil’, ‘Balma’ can similarly be seen to fail the Bechdel test but may offer readings of the dance movement or site which subvert this very failure. On one hand, just as movie dialogue often fails to account for conversations between their women characters and fail the Bechdel test, dance duets too seem to overwhelmingly be about women talking of men. However, analysing the choreography and the site of dance as well as the social position of the dancers involved often throws up conversations which are happening simultaneously through the dance duet. This challenges the very conditions of the test and presents dance as a viable site for the exploration of gender-informed dialogue.