Saturday, June 17, 2006

COMING SOON: CHANGE IN CAST

BY BISWADEEP GHOSH

(As you read this, I am completing my last working day in The Maharashtra Herald, Pune. For those of my friends who don't know already, I will be joining The Times of India, Pune, as the Editor of Pune Times from the 1st of July.
The copyright of the column rests with The Maharashtra Herald.)

As a kid, I was addicted to broadcasting on the radio. Sitting close to an antiquated radio with prehistoric speakers that gargled incessantly, I would listen to commentators describing Davis cup matches. A journey with every tennis match was a trek in trance. Shutting myself from the world, I would hear the commentator explain how Vijay Amritaj returned a Russell Simpson smash. All the while, I would visualise how Vijay must have looked while hitting the shot, having seen his pictures in the newspaper my uncle subscribed. Imagination was a vital tool of appreciation, that being an era when players did not escape from the newspapers' pages to turn into pictures that moved, spoke, played.

But, my dream of seeing my stars in action came true pretty soon. I did see Vijay play on the court, albeit a jaded Vijay who could produce very few flashes of his legendary genius. I saw Sunny Gavaskar wearing a skull cap; made sure that I watched the solitary soap Hum Log; and even checked out Krishi Darshan when I had nothing better to do. During that time, the common man's language of speech underwent a change. Out went broadcast, since not many knew that broadcast could be used to refer to transmission by television anyway. In came telecast, a popular usage signifying a package of what we saw and heard. Telecast was not just another new word in the dictionary. It epitomised how, because of the monopoly of a single channel, our lives had metamorphosed thoroughly.

It was only sometime ago that I bumped into a tech-savvy youngster. The boy held a tiny gadget, and discussed something that sounded like broadcast but was not. I soon figured out that he was talking of podcast, a new term I had never ever heard before. In this column, I have told several tiny stories through two narrators: one, Virus Locha, a VJ who always seemed to unearth a shocking reality while at work. The other was Trustosaurus, a dinosaur who couldn't acclimatise to the decadence in modern society. Because of what they experienced, Virus got upset from time to time. Much more emotional, Trust got consumed by depression, resulting in conflicts within his inner self that he handled very badly.

While hearing the kid talk about podcast, I felt as if I had a bit of both Virus and Trust in me. I knew nothing about podcast, and the fluency with which the kid used the term shocked me no end. I seemed to have lost all trust in my ability to stay in touch with most things modern. There was nothing gross about podcast, but I was really low since I had no idea of what it implied.

Why am I talking about my inability to understand podcast not long ago? Just as broadcast made way for telecast, while podcast became a popular way of life later, this space will see a different presence on this day from next week. There will be a new name, a new style, a new set of stories. Don't ask me why, since I know nothing more than the cliched fact of change being an inevitability we must accept. Call that living or, better still, life.

Friday, June 16, 2006

WHILE MY GUITAR GENTLY WEEPS

BY BISWADEEP GHOSH

Almost three decades ago, I was viewed as a musical prodigy. I could play the bongo, the tabla and, above all, sing decently enough to be able to appear for a degree examination when 14. Pompous? If so, here is a confession. I didn't dare play a stringed instrument ever. Be it the guitar or the sitar, I kept off any instrument that had metallic threads as compulsory components. I was intimidated by the thought that I would miss the right note sooner or later, resulting in cacophony I did not wish to hear. And which, I was sure, no one else did.

That is why I hate Rishi Kapoor, Mithun Chakraborty and, yes, even the great Amitabh Bachchan once in a while. All these guys appear so effortless when they play the guitar onscreen, but their moving fingers tell horror stories. If the tune were to be Somalia, the fingers indicate England, Germany, every country on the international map except Somalia. The onscreen guitaring is an unending parade of mistakes, although what we hear is oh-so perfect. Why it is so, all of us know. But I ignore it, blaming it on God's inability to be kind to me in a way I wanted Him to be.

Have you seen Mithun play a singing-dancing axeman in Disco Dancer? I have, in a small town where coins aviated towards the screen when the actor made music onscreen, which was people's way of paying tribute to their Mithunda's genius. If the actor's dance was a copy of John Travolta, the way he held the guitar suggested he was idolising Jimi Hendrix. If that was an impossible reel-life combo, one special moment was when Mithun played the guitar but a different instrumental sound emanated from the background. Since one disco song from composer Bappi Lahiri's stable was Krishna, I guess that was divine intervention.

Zeenat Aman stole millions of hearts when she played the rhythm guitar and sang Chura Liya Hai. She must have been specially blessed for the sounds to come out the way they did. But, the man who played the instrument matchlessly was Bachchan. In Sharaabi, when he sat on the floor and lip-synched to Intehaa ho gayee, the expressions were superb. Every inch of the man's face conveyed histrionic skills in a scene where he waited for the heroine, singing a lullaby with romantic lyrics. I remember him shaking his head, closing his eyes, mumbling the lyrics, at times, simply forgetting that he was supposed to do a few things with the guitar he held close to his heart. But the background music continued, one of Bollywood's countless miracles.

It was a long time ago that I first saw an actor play the guitar onscreen, making it sound like a moaning saxophone. Since then, several years have gone by. Till today, I don't understand why most filmmakers don't engage specialists to direct actors in music-driven scenes. Could be that our makers view such exercises as a waste of money, while our actors are too busy doing too much work to think of such details anyway. As long as the masses are fooled, do they need to care?

Sunday, June 04, 2006

ALIVE BUT OBSCURED

BY BISWADEEP GHOSH

Once upon a time, a long time ago, songs were heard. When the musical epics of geniuses like Naushad and Salil Chowdhury emancipated themselves from the visuals of films that could be only seen in the theatres, all that remained was the melody, the voice. If a listener were to approach a song outside the hall, therefore, he could have done so with his eyes plain shut. He got immersed in every tuneful phrase of the track, and it turned into a memory that refused to etiolate with time.

Today, such classics are hard to come by. The dominant notes of the day are those of Aashiq banaya and Jhalak Dikhlaja, and the voice (critics say, the nose) that preoccupies his countless fans is that of Himesh Reshammiya. Reshammiya's cuts that are reigning over the pop charts are like soft drinks and burgers, that is social realities brought about by a cultural change. Fast foods may be subversive, but they have a committed fan following which no amount of criticism can mitigate. Same with Aashiq Banaya, which has many more young devotees than critics in modern times. Courtesy such tracks, Bollywood's music has become more vulnerable to attack than ever before. Quality is dead, the critics can affirm. Is that true, one is entitled to ask.

Not really. Only, quality is getting eclipsed by factors such as flashy music videos of bad film songs. And of course, there are too many songs in too many films, the result being that good tracks are getting lost in a huge crowd where the number of heads is impossible to count. Songs from many small-budget multiplex films are so badly marketed that few except some lucky viewers get to hear them. In a visual-driven age, when films flop, many quality tracks disappear most abruptly. People seek them for a while but, living in times when choices are far too many, they move on to hear tracks that have a big presence simply because the film happens to have greater box-ofice appeal.

Some fine songs are heard by a lucky few like, say, a track named Guncha from the Chandan Arora flick Main, Meri Patni Aur Woh. Mohit Chauhan of the Indipop band Silk Route both composed and sang the track, relying on basic guitaring chords and hardly any arrangement. Music lovers who might have bumped into the track in the film need not have been able to access the song later, a big problem songs like Guncha face. The end result is disappearance, a sad outcome such uncomplicated but lovely melodies do not deserve.

Even big composers like A R Rahman and Ismail Darbar can suffer if a film bombs at the box-office. Kisna might have been a 2005 release, but how many remember the wonderfully buoyant title track? Yun Hi Chala from Swades can be one of the intricate compositions one has come across of late, with Rahman using the three diverse voices of Udit Narayan, Kailash Kher and Hariharan exquisitely. But the songs failed to create major ripples because the films did not work. At the end of the day, very few film songs manage an existence outside the film like Allah Key Bandey did. Kailash Kher will vouch for that.

A fine melody like Bheege Hont from Murder may not get the due it merits because most are more serious about either the song's lyrics or the film's visuals. Paheli's Dheere Jalna may have a haunting tune, but the song is condemned to confront the destiny of being heard by a select few. Even Piyu Bole, a gem from Parineeta that can be compared to the best from the past, can expect a long life only in the minds of listeners who have been mesmerised by the song's beauty and been strong enough to resist the temptation of lesser compositions.

Music composers, be it AR Rahman or MM Kreem, have to negotiate with too many obstacles unlike their counterparts from yesteryear. They must carry on despite knowing that none of their soundtracks will enjoy the life span of a Madhumati or a Guide. But let us not mistake that for mediocrity simply because a popular superstar isn't a cuckoo one might like to hear in the morning.

(The copyright of this article rests with The Maharashtra Herald)

JUST DREAM!

BY BISWADEEP GHOSH

For a few people I know, only the past matters. About the present, the less said the better. One such guy is Roger Storywala, an elderly man with enough time at his disposal since he retired a couple of years ago. A bachelor out of necessity rather than choice - every woman Storywala happened to fancy had chosen someone else - this gentleman played cricket when young. Chinaman was the delivery he essayed to master, only to deliver innocuous full tosses that his opponents at the third division level butchered with ruthless glee.

However Googly, which is what his friends call him, is a self-employed cricket commentator who does not need any incentive to take off. Lifting his spectacles, he rolls his eyes, and talks about C K Nayudu's special shots. He does that so animatedly that anyone with no cricketing sense can easily believe that Googly saw the great Nayudu bat, sitting in a privileged seat inside the pavillion. If his listener is a truly ignorant species, Googly's habit of manufacturing lies is lethal. Those who trust his tales become susceptible to embarrassment. But then, that's what he is all about: a blend of fact and fiction in which names from the past do heroic cricketing deeds.

It is because of his fiction-mongering that I hadn't been too fond of Googly for a long time. Reasonably well-informed about the game, I would trap him on the wrong foot with his stumps all exposed quite often. "You know, Amar Singh was such a great pacer that Farrokh Engineer had serious trouble trying to keep wickets to him," he once said, setting forth a toothless grin. "As a matter of fact, Singh had knocked down the great Vivian Richards with a bouncer." None of the three had played together ever, I corrected him. Shamelessly, Googly modified himself, "I mean, those would have been genuine possibilities had Engineer or Richards confronted the sublime might of Singh." I did not pursue the conversation any further. Somehow, I thought I knew why he lied so much. He had nothing better to do and nothing else to talk about, a pity indeed.

So addicted to lying is Googly that he drifts towards fiction even while watching matches. The last one-dayer between India and the West Indies was one such occasion. When Ajit Agarkar bowled an incoming beauty to get rid of the clueless West Indian batsman Sewnarine Chattergoon, he mumbled, "Not bad, but Karsan Ghavri had once bowled three such deliveries in an over." When Virender Sehwag got out for 95, he affirmed, "Aggressive as usual, but there is nothing to beat the innings of Vinoo Mankad against a rampaging Wes Hall that I saw some 60 years back." When India lost once again, he gripped a cushion and grumbled, "The present Indian team is the weakest we have had. I remember the day when Sunil Gavaskar and Vijay Merchant had gone out to open against Michael Holding and Andy Roberts. It was...." The trauma of defeat preoccupied me such that I ignored what followed.

Sometime later, I switched off the TV and looked at Googly. Fast asleep on the sofa nearby, his face showed a soft smile. In his sleep, he seemed to be imagining a spectacular Indian triumph. After the loss of Agarkar's wicket when India chased the target, Kapil Dev had walked in and attacked a Dwayne Bravo delivery. The ball sailed out of the ground and stayed hit for a few kilometres. It finally landed in Brian Lara's house, a dream finish in a dreamer's world.

(The copyright of this article rests with The Maharashtra Herald)

Saturday, June 03, 2006

THE WOMAN IN WHITE…

By Kavita Kane

Norma Jean. Marilyn Monroe. I don’t remember her as the voluptuous beauty with her swirling dress billowing behind a rapturous face, holding that tilted, sultry smile, but as that ‘woman’ who made my father’s eyes flare up passionately every time her name was mentioned. Or rather, whenever he got to glimpse her - be it tiny, black and white pix besides a yellowed newspaper clipping or a glossy blow-up off a raucous, heaving street or the beauteous lady herself - gloriously, magnificently, surely blistering the 70 mm silver screen. He watches her these days through thick glasses on a miniaturized 29” which doesn’t moderate her throbbing flamboyance - a restricting small screen cannot confine or contain her palpable sensuousness, her most dedicated devotee insists.

As a child who loved Robert Redford, Cary Grant, James Stewart and Ryan O’Neal, strictly in that order, and who later jostled comfortably with Kevin Costner, Alec Baldwin and George Clooney, I used to openly wonder why my constant companion and movie partner, Pater dear, adored the blonde bombshell so unabashedly, so unrestrainedly. I didn’t mind the Grace Kellys, the Hepburns (both Katharine and Audrey!), the Lauren Bacals or Ingrid Bergmans in his fervent cinematic experiences, but as a ten-year old, frankly doubted what he saw in “that fat woman”, as an annoyed me once angrily expostulated. Visibly fighting an inner apoplexy, he purred, breathing out a long, satiated sigh, “Grow up and you’ll find out one day!”

I did – through a fascinating journey. And every time I fell in love with her, over and over again. Be it, at her tinkling, seductive best in The Seven year Itch or deliciously devious in Niagra, or plain adorable and fun unmitigated in How To Marry a Millionaire. The Tom Ewells, Joseph Cottens didn’t distract my romantic senses – this lady did. A child-woman blossoming wondrously, a star blazing in full glory, an enigmatic legend draped in brutal mystery…

And then I hear her name again…my little girls are squealing out the twin magic Ms as they enact out a How To Marry a Millionaire in a noisy round of dumb charade, and I realize, like me once, they are growing up too, in the shadow of that everlasting enchantment called Marilyn Monroe…