Ashok Chopra’s The Man Who Became Dilip Kumar presents itself as a deep, definitive portrait of one of Indian cinema’s most enduring legends. But what it delivers is something far more underwhelming: a sprawling, repetitive compilation of magazine-style entries, loosely strung together into a 500-page volume that feels like a bound anthology of Sunday features rather than a cohesive work of biographical insight.
Chopra’s premise is not without potential. The idea of tracing how a shy, young Yusuf Khan morphed into the emblematic Dilip Kumar is a fascinating one. The persona of Kumar wasn’t just an acting choice; it was a cultural invention. To dissect how that evolution occurred, and what forces shaped it, would be a valuable endeavour. But instead of offering fresh archival material, Chopra chooses the path of easy collation. The book reads like a patchwork of 800-word nostalgia columns in a newspaper: a film-by-film walk-through quoting old magazine reviews, contemporary critiques, and a smattering of personal opinion, none of which significantly elevates what is already widely known.
There’s an over-reliance on how critics reacted to Kumar’s performances at the time, but little or no effort is made to contextualise those responses, no new interviews, no access to private archives, no fresh anecdotes. Even the few that appear seem familiar.
Where one might expect insight, we get summaries. The author moves from Andaz to Devdas to Mughal-e-Azam and beyond, each time recapping the plot, rehashing how it was received, and remarking, often in broad strokes, about Kumar’s ‘understated performance’ or ‘haunting silences’. But these observations are neither revelatory nor substantiated with deeper analysis.
The language of the book does not offer any solace. There is no depth of prose that might at least make the journey an aesthetic pleasure. Chopra writes in functional, flat sentences, often slipping into cliché. Polished, yes, but emotionally or intellectually thin.
What is missing most acutely is the man himself. For a book with such an evocative title, we learn little about Kumar. What did Yusuf Khan think as he slowly gave way to the public’s construction of Dilip Kumar? What were his political opinions, his worldviews, his inner demons? Chopra hints at some of these. But always skirts around them, never digging in. The psychological portrait remains superficial. The human story, untouched.
Worse, it raises the larger question of publishing motives. Why yet another book on Kumar, and why now? Chopra, as a publishing veteran, must have known the limitations of his material. With a glut of documentation on the actor already on the shelves, one is forced to ask: what purpose does this new addition serve? Perhaps the goal was to capitalise on nostalgia, to offer a surface-level reminder of Kumar’s greatness at a time when film books still carry commercial potential.
Even at the level of design and structure, the book is uneven. Chapters often end abruptly or ramble into tangents. There is no narrative arc, no sustained argument or thesis. The structure is interesting—films grouped under themes like ‘The King of Comedy’, ‘The Crusading Hero’, ‘The Anti-hero’, etc. However, that alone does not suffice. A reader hoping for thematic explorations, say, the evolution of Kumar’s tragic persona, his shift to light-hearted roles in the 1960s, his political stint, or even his hiatus and return, will find themselves navigating a maze of disconnected write-ups. To be fair, the book does offer a competent summary of Kumar’s career.
I cannot help thinking of this as a missed opportunity, neither investigative nor evocative, neither analytical nor emotionally resonant. At 500 pages, it is overlong, overfamiliar, and ultimately unilluminating. For a man who redefined Indian cinema with restraint and emotional truth, this book offers neither.