I am an old man. I am 160 years old, and I live on the moon. It’s been more than 300 years since my ancestors shifted to the satellite after population explosion threatened to destroy earth. In a city known as New Delhi, they applied for voluntary citizenship of the moon. Keen to tame the overpopulation, the United States of the World government happily agreed. Our ancestors were made to undergo a series of what was known as compatibility surgical procedures. Then they left for the moon, which is where I live today.
Think of it. Four hundred years since my relatives came to the moon for the first time. Two hundred odd years since they built a majestic moonsion here. We, the luno sapiens, have built an independent human society in which people eat what is grown on the moon; are well-adjusted to temperature fluctuations of around 300 degrees every day; and even stay in touch with our counterparts on earth. Ours is a peace-loving society, the last war we had being the one for the possession of CME (Central Moon Economy) some 100 years ago. Seventy hundred people died on both sides, a huge loss since some of them were 60-year-old youngsters.
Today’s moon has a great system of education that has taken 500 years to develop. Our science and technology has developed so much that I am able to write an article for a newspaper that is printed from the city of my ancestors. It is the best way of reaching out to my kind of people I guess. Everything out here is too good, too perfect. People live for a long time, mainly since diet options are limited and we do not drink alcohol which damages earthlings but isn’t available in our satellite. Some crooks tried to smuggle it, but the centralised government acted fast and murdered their devious ambitions. Good for us, since we are fitter than our counterparts on earth.
Since everything is so perfect here, do I have a problem? Yes, I do. I want to go back to earth, at least for a while, and experience what all is happening out there. I am told that the earth has become one big world with a huge number of friendly states that try to help one another. They worship the same God, eat the same food, dress similarly, and work for the betterment of the planet. I want to experience the harmony in complexity, and bring some of my knowledge back here. But I can’t do that. You know why? I won’t survive there. My body has changed. I am as different from a homo sapien as Pluto is from Jupiter. So, I must live till I die. On the moon. Nice knowing you.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
CALL ME KAMINA BUT...
Fearless filmmaking isn’t an Indian trait. Correction, not a Bollywood trait at least. So, when Vishal Bharadwaj thinks out of the box and makes Kaminey, we sit up and say, “What the f***! This is great stuff.” In what seems like a herd-of-sheep syndrome, more and more stars are being given away to the film nationwide. Four – meaning excellent – is the average score. Better-than-excellent scores are also being handed out with magnanimity. What the f***!
Look, what I am ‘not’ trying to say is Kaminey is the typical balls-is-beautiful sort of Mallika Sherawat film. Nor am I suggesting that Vishal, in his quest for experimentation, has come up with a ‘chutnified’ Kabhi Alvida…’s parallel in a different genre. For, Vishal can do better than that at his worst. And, he does so…once more. Imagination and sincerity are two of the keywords driving Kaminey’s presentation: some loosely structured scenes that pop up from time to time, smart cinematography, decent enough music, fine plotting and performances being the hallmark of this not-too-long essay on the big screen.
Kaminey exposes the average Indian viewer to a certain kind of avant garde filmmaking he/she has never seen before. But, the problem: if you have seen a fair number of films which have tried to conduct similar experiments worldwide, you are left thinking: ‘The film is more than decent. But great? Ah, not very sure.’ I mean, I am supposed to love the overwhelmingly common perspective that this film is an answer to Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels. Honestly, I hate it! No matter what, in other words, Kaminey isn’t a patch on Lock, Stock….Vishal is very good, no doubt, but Guy Ritchie is something else. Period.
In Kaminey, the biggest strength is the plot. There are smart twists and turns, and the narrative moves ahead restlessly. Vishal has been known to be a big fan of Quentin Tarantino. So, there you are. Critics are telling us his latest reminds us of Tarantino as well. Sorry to say this, but really, when does Kaminey acquire the sort of power that Tarantino achieves almost effortlessly in Pulp Fiction and Reservoir Dogs? Vishal makes very good music, but does he come anywhere near the way Tarantino uses music in Reservoir Dogs in particular? What about those innumerable gems in Kill Bill which only a man who has mastered his style can come up with? Nobody is asking that. Understandable. In times of hype, such things seldom matter.
The stylistic format that Vishal has opted for makes for good viewing. But, it is unfair to ignore that fact that many filmmakers have journeyed a lot more – and given much better – results while exploring the same cinematic zone. You know what? There is this guy named Johnnie To from Hong Kong. His name isn’t cropping up, the obvious reason being To isn’t Tarantino in terms of sheer popularity and reach. Having said that, he makes fine movies. And, it will be great if some admirers of Kaminey sit back and watch what To has been able to achieve in some films in which he has To-ed a similar line. Indeed, there are quite a few of them out there who have been there, done that. So, while it is important that we applaud Vishal’s sincerity, there is no reason for us to assert that Kaminey is Tarantino at its best. Or, Marilyn Monroe at her most divine. Both make no sense.
Look, what I am ‘not’ trying to say is Kaminey is the typical balls-is-beautiful sort of Mallika Sherawat film. Nor am I suggesting that Vishal, in his quest for experimentation, has come up with a ‘chutnified’ Kabhi Alvida…’s parallel in a different genre. For, Vishal can do better than that at his worst. And, he does so…once more. Imagination and sincerity are two of the keywords driving Kaminey’s presentation: some loosely structured scenes that pop up from time to time, smart cinematography, decent enough music, fine plotting and performances being the hallmark of this not-too-long essay on the big screen.
Kaminey exposes the average Indian viewer to a certain kind of avant garde filmmaking he/she has never seen before. But, the problem: if you have seen a fair number of films which have tried to conduct similar experiments worldwide, you are left thinking: ‘The film is more than decent. But great? Ah, not very sure.’ I mean, I am supposed to love the overwhelmingly common perspective that this film is an answer to Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels. Honestly, I hate it! No matter what, in other words, Kaminey isn’t a patch on Lock, Stock….Vishal is very good, no doubt, but Guy Ritchie is something else. Period.
In Kaminey, the biggest strength is the plot. There are smart twists and turns, and the narrative moves ahead restlessly. Vishal has been known to be a big fan of Quentin Tarantino. So, there you are. Critics are telling us his latest reminds us of Tarantino as well. Sorry to say this, but really, when does Kaminey acquire the sort of power that Tarantino achieves almost effortlessly in Pulp Fiction and Reservoir Dogs? Vishal makes very good music, but does he come anywhere near the way Tarantino uses music in Reservoir Dogs in particular? What about those innumerable gems in Kill Bill which only a man who has mastered his style can come up with? Nobody is asking that. Understandable. In times of hype, such things seldom matter.
The stylistic format that Vishal has opted for makes for good viewing. But, it is unfair to ignore that fact that many filmmakers have journeyed a lot more – and given much better – results while exploring the same cinematic zone. You know what? There is this guy named Johnnie To from Hong Kong. His name isn’t cropping up, the obvious reason being To isn’t Tarantino in terms of sheer popularity and reach. Having said that, he makes fine movies. And, it will be great if some admirers of Kaminey sit back and watch what To has been able to achieve in some films in which he has To-ed a similar line. Indeed, there are quite a few of them out there who have been there, done that. So, while it is important that we applaud Vishal’s sincerity, there is no reason for us to assert that Kaminey is Tarantino at its best. Or, Marilyn Monroe at her most divine. Both make no sense.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
CHEAP AND BEST!
Classics, be it musical, literary or cinematic, turn me into a marionette. Whenever I saunter into a shop, invisible strings get unleashed within seconds. They wrap themselves around my feet, and manipulate their movement. I find myself gravitating towards works that not only epitomise creative immortality, but also make me hopeful about the future of art in general. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. I do the puppet walk. By the time I do my buying and leave the store, I ensure that my debit card is a lot poorer. Reactions to my purchases vary. Some find me affluent which I am not. Some others find me extravagant which could well be the case.
Yet, one thing saddens me always. When I pick up a contemporary novel and look at the price tag, I realise that I will have to shell out Rs 500. How good is the writer? In most cases, if that fellow's book had been released yesterday, it would have been forgotten by today. But when it is Charles Dickens or Jane Austen, editions meant for the common reader can be all yours for as little as Rs 100. Till today, I have not been able to figure out why the works of all-time great writers should be treated with so much indignity.
As it is, there is this detestable cross-section of buyers that picks up books to embellish shelves at home. Dickens, Austen, Thackeray, Hardy, Wordsworth, Maupassant, Wilde: I have seen one disgusting shelf in New Delhi which held around 1000 classics, most of them unread that the complacent owner acknowledged blissfully. One reason why such a collection was built was since the price of the books was obscenely cheap. So, by marketing masterpieces at such rates, aren't the store owners actually guilty of creating decorative collections at a time when reading habit is clearly on the decline? More importantly, if someone wants a Dickens, let him/her pay for a Dickens. Pray, why should David Copperfield come for a hundred rupees less than some nonsensical Harold Robbins novel?
Not that cheap pricing does not help. During my days as a child in Patna, there was no library that stocked Russian literature. About 25 years ago, my budget for books sanctioned by my family used to be a princely 200 bucks. But I did manage to finish that off by the middle of the month. Once that happened, I persuaded my grandmother to take me to a store that was a repository of Russian books. "They are so cheap," I simpered. With a benign grin, she surrendered to my request and took me there. It was because of my journeys there that I discovered Fyodor Dostoyevsky (two hardbound volumes of The Idiot cost me eight rupees), Alexander Pushkin (a five-rupee Pushkin volume acquainted me with another Don Juan) and Maxim Gorky (ten hardbound volumes of his entire works cost me Rs 110).
But, why those books were sold for so cheap was because of a deliberate policy that they needed to reach out to everybody. And, in that store, there was no Jack Higgins whose thin paperback was priced at 20 bucks. The sad thing today, and it really hurts, is that a VCD of Salaam Namaste comes for Rs 149. Then, one moves on and picks up six Laurel and Hardy films from the same store for Rs 300. Does one need to add that the makers also give a free VCD case along with the Laurel and Hardy films? Not only that, I also happen to be the proud owner of 20 odd Chaplin films that must have cost me around Rs 1000. For five Alfred Hitchcock flicks, I have shelled out Rs 400.
Classics being classics will always have fewer buyers. That's a known fact of life. If that were not the case, everyone would have views on why Raag Bhimpalasi need not be less interesting than Raag Poorvi , or why Beethoven's best magic isn't as captivating as Mozart's worst. Despite cheap tags, alluring offers and so on, the fact remains that Mallika Sherawat's assets in forgettable films will continue to generate more discussions everywhere. So, if the makers think that selling classics for cheap can create more interest in them, they are awfully wrong.
How I wish could walk into any store that gave classics the honour they deserve. How I hope that A Tale of Two Cities will be sold for Rs 500, about 300 more than a Scott Turow book. That will not happen soon for sure. If at all that will ever happen seems slightly less unlikely.
Yet, one thing saddens me always. When I pick up a contemporary novel and look at the price tag, I realise that I will have to shell out Rs 500. How good is the writer? In most cases, if that fellow's book had been released yesterday, it would have been forgotten by today. But when it is Charles Dickens or Jane Austen, editions meant for the common reader can be all yours for as little as Rs 100. Till today, I have not been able to figure out why the works of all-time great writers should be treated with so much indignity.
As it is, there is this detestable cross-section of buyers that picks up books to embellish shelves at home. Dickens, Austen, Thackeray, Hardy, Wordsworth, Maupassant, Wilde: I have seen one disgusting shelf in New Delhi which held around 1000 classics, most of them unread that the complacent owner acknowledged blissfully. One reason why such a collection was built was since the price of the books was obscenely cheap. So, by marketing masterpieces at such rates, aren't the store owners actually guilty of creating decorative collections at a time when reading habit is clearly on the decline? More importantly, if someone wants a Dickens, let him/her pay for a Dickens. Pray, why should David Copperfield come for a hundred rupees less than some nonsensical Harold Robbins novel?
Not that cheap pricing does not help. During my days as a child in Patna, there was no library that stocked Russian literature. About 25 years ago, my budget for books sanctioned by my family used to be a princely 200 bucks. But I did manage to finish that off by the middle of the month. Once that happened, I persuaded my grandmother to take me to a store that was a repository of Russian books. "They are so cheap," I simpered. With a benign grin, she surrendered to my request and took me there. It was because of my journeys there that I discovered Fyodor Dostoyevsky (two hardbound volumes of The Idiot cost me eight rupees), Alexander Pushkin (a five-rupee Pushkin volume acquainted me with another Don Juan) and Maxim Gorky (ten hardbound volumes of his entire works cost me Rs 110).
But, why those books were sold for so cheap was because of a deliberate policy that they needed to reach out to everybody. And, in that store, there was no Jack Higgins whose thin paperback was priced at 20 bucks. The sad thing today, and it really hurts, is that a VCD of Salaam Namaste comes for Rs 149. Then, one moves on and picks up six Laurel and Hardy films from the same store for Rs 300. Does one need to add that the makers also give a free VCD case along with the Laurel and Hardy films? Not only that, I also happen to be the proud owner of 20 odd Chaplin films that must have cost me around Rs 1000. For five Alfred Hitchcock flicks, I have shelled out Rs 400.
Classics being classics will always have fewer buyers. That's a known fact of life. If that were not the case, everyone would have views on why Raag Bhimpalasi need not be less interesting than Raag Poorvi , or why Beethoven's best magic isn't as captivating as Mozart's worst. Despite cheap tags, alluring offers and so on, the fact remains that Mallika Sherawat's assets in forgettable films will continue to generate more discussions everywhere. So, if the makers think that selling classics for cheap can create more interest in them, they are awfully wrong.
How I wish could walk into any store that gave classics the honour they deserve. How I hope that A Tale of Two Cities will be sold for Rs 500, about 300 more than a Scott Turow book. That will not happen soon for sure. If at all that will ever happen seems slightly less unlikely.
MAN IN A WOMAN'S WORLD
There was, indeed, a time when I wasn't aware of my own existence. Unlike someone else. My mother. When I had grown into a vague presence inside her body, she had experienced a happy unease that, slowly, surely, turned into the nine-pound baby that I was. Years have flown. Have added another nine pounds to become a man of the 'fragile: handle with care' variety. Whenever the first lady in my life looks at me even today, I can feel a sense of triumph in her eyes. Those eyes, large ones, speak an eloquent language of affection-laden silence. They tell me what a woman can do, but no man can. Mom gave birth to me, like countless other ladies since the beginning of time. Can any of us guys, the male guys I mean, replicate that miracle ever? If not, how the hell did that phrase 'man's world' come into being?
As I get stuck in a mental quagmire, seeking the unanswerable, several images of the other ladies in my life come to mind. Like all men, including those cursed by the inability to be grateful, I adore my mother. Then, there is grandma, the great dictator who has exercised unbelievable power over everyone else in a large family. If mom is simply lovable, grandma is incomparably scary.
When the old lady had played Emma Wodehouse and ventured towards matchmaking, she had ended up voting for the wrong guy who ruined a woman's life. When she used to serve tea with salt to my grandpa years ago, he would look at her with a weak smile and drink half of it before grandma realised her fault while sipping hers. When a relative of mine had wanted to marry a girl he loved, grandma had vetoed so emphatically that the fellow didn't utter her name in front of her ever after.
So what if grandma had made a devastating blunder while endeavouring to choose the right guy for someone? That women seldom erred but men always did was her life's operational mantra. It still is, and one must add that her analysis isn't particularly wrong either. Whenever we try to communicate our thoughts about life, we are dependent on our experiences with fellow human beings, if not guided by a hypocritical motivation to sound like someone else. The latter, a conscience killer, has spawned a few moments when I have hated myself. But, all I can say is that I have tried hard to be honest, which is not saying much, yet which is why 'man's world' is a silly chauvinistic thought I can never ever comprehend.
After all, what about the divine gift of motherhood that no man 'should' have been born with? What about my grandma, whose acceptable version leads to each and every woman, who guides the course of men's lives ever so subtly? What about many lady colleagues I have come across, whose ability to strike a balance between personal and professional lives is as natural as it is amazing? What about my former girlfriend of many years ago, who had dumped me because of my chaotic lifestyle? What about my could-have-been girlfriend of a few years later, who remained just that and no more for the same reason? What about all those ladies who have taught me so much without being ostentatiously didactic, a crippling foible which many men simply love to show off, making an ass of themselves? Inhabiting a woman's world, the biggest failure of most guys is that they don't know how powerless they actually are. That's funny but not surprising, considering most men still don't know the difference between having sex and making love.
(This column had appeared in Femina)
As I get stuck in a mental quagmire, seeking the unanswerable, several images of the other ladies in my life come to mind. Like all men, including those cursed by the inability to be grateful, I adore my mother. Then, there is grandma, the great dictator who has exercised unbelievable power over everyone else in a large family. If mom is simply lovable, grandma is incomparably scary.
When the old lady had played Emma Wodehouse and ventured towards matchmaking, she had ended up voting for the wrong guy who ruined a woman's life. When she used to serve tea with salt to my grandpa years ago, he would look at her with a weak smile and drink half of it before grandma realised her fault while sipping hers. When a relative of mine had wanted to marry a girl he loved, grandma had vetoed so emphatically that the fellow didn't utter her name in front of her ever after.
So what if grandma had made a devastating blunder while endeavouring to choose the right guy for someone? That women seldom erred but men always did was her life's operational mantra. It still is, and one must add that her analysis isn't particularly wrong either. Whenever we try to communicate our thoughts about life, we are dependent on our experiences with fellow human beings, if not guided by a hypocritical motivation to sound like someone else. The latter, a conscience killer, has spawned a few moments when I have hated myself. But, all I can say is that I have tried hard to be honest, which is not saying much, yet which is why 'man's world' is a silly chauvinistic thought I can never ever comprehend.
After all, what about the divine gift of motherhood that no man 'should' have been born with? What about my grandma, whose acceptable version leads to each and every woman, who guides the course of men's lives ever so subtly? What about many lady colleagues I have come across, whose ability to strike a balance between personal and professional lives is as natural as it is amazing? What about my former girlfriend of many years ago, who had dumped me because of my chaotic lifestyle? What about my could-have-been girlfriend of a few years later, who remained just that and no more for the same reason? What about all those ladies who have taught me so much without being ostentatiously didactic, a crippling foible which many men simply love to show off, making an ass of themselves? Inhabiting a woman's world, the biggest failure of most guys is that they don't know how powerless they actually are. That's funny but not surprising, considering most men still don't know the difference between having sex and making love.
(This column had appeared in Femina)
Monday, March 09, 2009
A BAD SATIRE (excavated from archives)
How old would he be? Don’t know. Doesn’t matter. Could be 45, 48, 51…forget it. Since he is a journo who will make his debut behind the camera soon, how does his age matter? He doesn’t need to look glamorous.
And, what about the girl in front of him? Eighteen, 19,20…she, a lass with a pretty face and a fine figure, should figure somewhere in that bracket I suppose. The girl is a wannabe starlet, a modern-day Miss Quested from Jhumritilaiya lusting after five seconds of fame in Bollywood.
When she walks into the cabin of this man, his neck is buried in a huge file of what seems like newspaper clippings. “Yes, sit,” he looks at her through his rimless spectacles for less than a quarter of a second and goes back to reading his clippings again. Doesn’t seem to be interested in the female presence it seems. Correction. If at all he is interested, it doesn’t show.
“Sir,” the girl mumbles after a patient ten-minute pause, “I had called you up last week. I need a break, of any kind, in the Hindi film industry but I don’t have contacts. No godfather, you see. So I thought that perhaps you could help me…”
“Hmm, I couldn’t have met you last week because I was travelling abroad on a junket funded by Josh Distilleries, the makers of Beer Zara," the scribe looks at the girl and continues, “See, we need to go out with film units when the movies are being made so that we can file special reports. Besides, the filmmakers also need to keep the journalists happy so that the media does not trash their movies.”
“But Sir, what is it that you mean by junk it?” the girl asks, her Tilaiyaisms clearly audible for once.
“Oh, not junk it but junket lady,” the man sets forth a smile demonstrating his nicotine-tinged teeth, “Junket means a trip that costs nothing to us, and helps media-savvy producers get kind reviews for the rubbish they make. Some of us, the senior scribes, constitute an important power centre you know.”
“So you mean Beer…is really bad? But it has got Big S, Big R, Big P and even Big B in a small role, so many big stars,” the girl stammers at the very thought that a bad film with so many huge actors is actually possible.
“The film is unadulterated gibberish if that is what you want to hear,” the journo neighs emphatically, “But we will ensure that it becomes a huge hit.” Then, the guy stops for a while and adds, "Journalism is all about ethics you know. So, if someone has spent lakhs on a junket, we need to make some sort of a contribution to make his film a success.”
“But Sir, you blasted Shudder and it became a huge hit,” the wannabe starlet’s eyes light up because she has a point.
“Shu...Shudder? True, we had murdered Shudder because not only was it a bad film but it was made on such a small budget that the producer could not organise a junket to Pondicherry of all places,” the journo nods his head in mock-disbelief, “But I guess Girlika’s fans don’t care for criticism just as she doesn’t care for clothes.”
“Sir, a question. A small question,” Miss Wannabe leaves her seat, saunters lazily, and sits on the table right next to the newspaper clippings the man had been reading. Then, she whispers into his ears, “Sir, you are going to make a film. You are going to be yet another journo who will make a film. Can I have a small role in your film? A leeteel role Sir?”
“You will have to, you will…”now, the journo-man is stammering, “you will have to give a screen test.”
“Here Sir?” The girl seems keen to turn into a Buffalo girl and do an item number then and there.
“No, no, not here. This is office, not office, this is office,” the journo has lost it, completely.
“Cut.” In walks Virus Locha, the VJ-turned-compere who has now done his first episode of investigative journalism. The journo’s face turns white as he sees the deadly Virus with the camera crew, while the girl gets up from the table to shake his limp hand, “Sir, this is a sting operation. You have been caught on camera in a confessional mode for which we must thank you.”
The short and plump scribe is trying to dodge the camera most desperately. He actually looks like a cookie that has crumbled on an office sofa. Now, the garrulous Virus takes over. “Journalism, we all know, is about ethics as our esteemed catch for tonight said a little while ago. Just in case you are wondering why we did a sting operation on Song TV, well, that is because we wanted to give a special twist to an episode on our month’s special guest, the rock star Sting.”
And, what about the girl in front of him? Eighteen, 19,20…she, a lass with a pretty face and a fine figure, should figure somewhere in that bracket I suppose. The girl is a wannabe starlet, a modern-day Miss Quested from Jhumritilaiya lusting after five seconds of fame in Bollywood.
When she walks into the cabin of this man, his neck is buried in a huge file of what seems like newspaper clippings. “Yes, sit,” he looks at her through his rimless spectacles for less than a quarter of a second and goes back to reading his clippings again. Doesn’t seem to be interested in the female presence it seems. Correction. If at all he is interested, it doesn’t show.
“Sir,” the girl mumbles after a patient ten-minute pause, “I had called you up last week. I need a break, of any kind, in the Hindi film industry but I don’t have contacts. No godfather, you see. So I thought that perhaps you could help me…”
“Hmm, I couldn’t have met you last week because I was travelling abroad on a junket funded by Josh Distilleries, the makers of Beer Zara," the scribe looks at the girl and continues, “See, we need to go out with film units when the movies are being made so that we can file special reports. Besides, the filmmakers also need to keep the journalists happy so that the media does not trash their movies.”
“But Sir, what is it that you mean by junk it?” the girl asks, her Tilaiyaisms clearly audible for once.
“Oh, not junk it but junket lady,” the man sets forth a smile demonstrating his nicotine-tinged teeth, “Junket means a trip that costs nothing to us, and helps media-savvy producers get kind reviews for the rubbish they make. Some of us, the senior scribes, constitute an important power centre you know.”
“So you mean Beer…is really bad? But it has got Big S, Big R, Big P and even Big B in a small role, so many big stars,” the girl stammers at the very thought that a bad film with so many huge actors is actually possible.
“The film is unadulterated gibberish if that is what you want to hear,” the journo neighs emphatically, “But we will ensure that it becomes a huge hit.” Then, the guy stops for a while and adds, "Journalism is all about ethics you know. So, if someone has spent lakhs on a junket, we need to make some sort of a contribution to make his film a success.”
“But Sir, you blasted Shudder and it became a huge hit,” the wannabe starlet’s eyes light up because she has a point.
“Shu...Shudder? True, we had murdered Shudder because not only was it a bad film but it was made on such a small budget that the producer could not organise a junket to Pondicherry of all places,” the journo nods his head in mock-disbelief, “But I guess Girlika’s fans don’t care for criticism just as she doesn’t care for clothes.”
“Sir, a question. A small question,” Miss Wannabe leaves her seat, saunters lazily, and sits on the table right next to the newspaper clippings the man had been reading. Then, she whispers into his ears, “Sir, you are going to make a film. You are going to be yet another journo who will make a film. Can I have a small role in your film? A leeteel role Sir?”
“You will have to, you will…”now, the journo-man is stammering, “you will have to give a screen test.”
“Here Sir?” The girl seems keen to turn into a Buffalo girl and do an item number then and there.
“No, no, not here. This is office, not office, this is office,” the journo has lost it, completely.
“Cut.” In walks Virus Locha, the VJ-turned-compere who has now done his first episode of investigative journalism. The journo’s face turns white as he sees the deadly Virus with the camera crew, while the girl gets up from the table to shake his limp hand, “Sir, this is a sting operation. You have been caught on camera in a confessional mode for which we must thank you.”
The short and plump scribe is trying to dodge the camera most desperately. He actually looks like a cookie that has crumbled on an office sofa. Now, the garrulous Virus takes over. “Journalism, we all know, is about ethics as our esteemed catch for tonight said a little while ago. Just in case you are wondering why we did a sting operation on Song TV, well, that is because we wanted to give a special twist to an episode on our month’s special guest, the rock star Sting.”
Saturday, February 28, 2009
LOST IN CHANDNI CHOWK
There is a boy who comes from America. An NRI, you know. There is a girl who lives in Chandni Chowk, Delhi. An IRI (Indian Residing in India), that is. There is a Kala Bandar – or, black monkey – who monkeys around, spawning destructive consequences. And oh, yes. There is an assortment of characters, each of them seeking to represent a part of life in Chandni Chowk. Delhi 6 either aspires to be a romance or a sociological portrait of life's simple charms – or both – in an area where people lead simple lives. But what we carry in our minds as the most dominant memory is Kala Bandar, whose existence isn't explained in the film's initial phase. By the time the story tells us what the Bandar is all about, we fail to comprehend why the film needed to be situated where it is. The reason: there is evil in all of us, whether or not we have lived or even been to Chandni Chowk.
Nobility of intentions is an essential quality of any form of creativity: or, for that matter, any constructive human activity. On that count, few would dare question the maker Rakeysh Omprakash Mehra. For, the film does show the social character of a place which has a new shade to offer in every nook and cranny of its crowded lanes and by-lanes. We come across complacent individuals who believe that what they can do, no one else can. So, there is Pawan Malhotra's character who is busy trying to repair an antiquated radio while being thoroughly convinced about his skills as an electrician. There is a corrupt cop (Vijay Raaz at his best) who not only accepts bribes but has a quasi-fascist streak in his personality. It can be argued that characters such as the cop's exist in every part of India. But somehow, it seems to fit in Mehra's scheme of things pretty well.
We have a pretty girl (Sonam Kapoor, who acts well but is underused) who wants to be the winner of Indian Idol instead of marrying just about any man in keeping with the norms of conventional arranged alliances. There is a patriarchal man (Om Puri), a shrewd lalaji (Prem Chopra), a dadi who wants to die in her family home (Waheeda Rehman), an elderly Begsaab (Rishi Kapoor) and even that omnipresent jalebi seller (Deepak Dobriyal). When rickshaws crawl through Chandni Chowk, this writer's mind revisited the visual feel of a place which he had experienced quite a few times till a decade ago.
So far, it sounds pretty good. Isn't it? Definitely yes, till we, for once, abandon the portrait with its paints and try to look at the soul of the film. What, after all, is Delhi 6 seeking to tell us? What we know for sure is that Abhishek Bachchan's character (the NRI) comes down to Chandni Chowk along with his dadi. Bachchan's character is close to that of Nagesh Kukunoor in the Hyderabad Blues. Although the former carries no memories of 'his India' unlike the latter, both the protagonists fall in love with the nation to which they actually belong. The Small B's character Roshan loses its way in the beginning. But, gradually, he begins to understand the nature of life in Chandni Chowk. Not only does he learn to accept the place, but he also gets attracted to Bittu (Sonam), a girl who wants to break the shackles of traditional ties and make an individualistic statement to the world beyond Chandni Chowk.
The problem – big problem – of the film is Kala Bandar. As Mehra uses Ramayana, the Ram Lila to be precise, as a symbolic representation all through the movie, the Kala Bandar is gradually explained as a metaphor for the evil in all of us. In Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights, who can forget that moment when Catherine explains her love for Heathcliff with that immortal line "I am Heathcliff"? One way of viewing that outburst is that there is a bit of Heathcliff – simply put, the negative traits in a human being – in everybody that can manifest itself in some way or the other in our lives. Mehra's symbol of evil is the black monkey, which is said to have blinking lights on its chest and looks like a gorilla of course! This is where the film loses its plot. The love story of Roshan and Bittu, which could have been shown most beautifully, gets buried by too much monkey business.
The ensemble cast perform wonderfully – most notably, Divya Dutta as an untouchable and Raaz – but their performances become secondary to the Bandar's metaphor which pops up time and again. Such is Mehra's preoccupation with telling a story on two parallel tracks that Rahman's exquisitely crafted music gets heard on the most inappropriate of occasions. The plot turns into one with confusion, confusion and more confusion, and what is left in the end is neither a well-developed romance nor a warm portrait of an endearing society. Sad, because even if the story did not seek to show a romance, it could have easily been a well-knit portrait of Chandni Chowk without any monkey at all.
Actually, Delhi 6 is a lot like the lanes of Chandni Chowk itself. There is too much overcrowding, because of which structural neatness gets lost in oblivion
Nobility of intentions is an essential quality of any form of creativity: or, for that matter, any constructive human activity. On that count, few would dare question the maker Rakeysh Omprakash Mehra. For, the film does show the social character of a place which has a new shade to offer in every nook and cranny of its crowded lanes and by-lanes. We come across complacent individuals who believe that what they can do, no one else can. So, there is Pawan Malhotra's character who is busy trying to repair an antiquated radio while being thoroughly convinced about his skills as an electrician. There is a corrupt cop (Vijay Raaz at his best) who not only accepts bribes but has a quasi-fascist streak in his personality. It can be argued that characters such as the cop's exist in every part of India. But somehow, it seems to fit in Mehra's scheme of things pretty well.
We have a pretty girl (Sonam Kapoor, who acts well but is underused) who wants to be the winner of Indian Idol instead of marrying just about any man in keeping with the norms of conventional arranged alliances. There is a patriarchal man (Om Puri), a shrewd lalaji (Prem Chopra), a dadi who wants to die in her family home (Waheeda Rehman), an elderly Begsaab (Rishi Kapoor) and even that omnipresent jalebi seller (Deepak Dobriyal). When rickshaws crawl through Chandni Chowk, this writer's mind revisited the visual feel of a place which he had experienced quite a few times till a decade ago.
So far, it sounds pretty good. Isn't it? Definitely yes, till we, for once, abandon the portrait with its paints and try to look at the soul of the film. What, after all, is Delhi 6 seeking to tell us? What we know for sure is that Abhishek Bachchan's character (the NRI) comes down to Chandni Chowk along with his dadi. Bachchan's character is close to that of Nagesh Kukunoor in the Hyderabad Blues. Although the former carries no memories of 'his India' unlike the latter, both the protagonists fall in love with the nation to which they actually belong. The Small B's character Roshan loses its way in the beginning. But, gradually, he begins to understand the nature of life in Chandni Chowk. Not only does he learn to accept the place, but he also gets attracted to Bittu (Sonam), a girl who wants to break the shackles of traditional ties and make an individualistic statement to the world beyond Chandni Chowk.
The problem – big problem – of the film is Kala Bandar. As Mehra uses Ramayana, the Ram Lila to be precise, as a symbolic representation all through the movie, the Kala Bandar is gradually explained as a metaphor for the evil in all of us. In Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights, who can forget that moment when Catherine explains her love for Heathcliff with that immortal line "I am Heathcliff"? One way of viewing that outburst is that there is a bit of Heathcliff – simply put, the negative traits in a human being – in everybody that can manifest itself in some way or the other in our lives. Mehra's symbol of evil is the black monkey, which is said to have blinking lights on its chest and looks like a gorilla of course! This is where the film loses its plot. The love story of Roshan and Bittu, which could have been shown most beautifully, gets buried by too much monkey business.
The ensemble cast perform wonderfully – most notably, Divya Dutta as an untouchable and Raaz – but their performances become secondary to the Bandar's metaphor which pops up time and again. Such is Mehra's preoccupation with telling a story on two parallel tracks that Rahman's exquisitely crafted music gets heard on the most inappropriate of occasions. The plot turns into one with confusion, confusion and more confusion, and what is left in the end is neither a well-developed romance nor a warm portrait of an endearing society. Sad, because even if the story did not seek to show a romance, it could have easily been a well-knit portrait of Chandni Chowk without any monkey at all.
Actually, Delhi 6 is a lot like the lanes of Chandni Chowk itself. There is too much overcrowding, because of which structural neatness gets lost in oblivion
Friday, January 23, 2009
POOR BOY, POOR MOVIE
In the not-yet-metro city of Pune, no film - English film - has 20 percent foreigners in a single show. But on the first day of one-of-the-many shows of Danny Boyle’s Slumdog Millionaire, the theatre seems to hold a special attraction for viewers from abroad. Most of them are carrying water bottles. Some have dressed up in ethnic wear which we, the Indians, opt for during festive occasions. Like most visitors to foreign lands, their deportment seems to suggest that they can think of Boyle’s slums as the ‘real Indeeah’ very easily. How one wishes one could tell them if that were to be true, every street in London has the Big Ben!
Since that would sound rude, one abstains. Cut to the reel thing inside the theatre where Boyle unfolds a supposedly grand film that has won four Golden Globes and ten Oscar nominations. The director is said to have made a viewer-friendly popular classic. What is great being seldom popular – and vice versa – one wants to see SM. From start to finish. Without stepping out of the hall during the interval. Getting a ticket on the first day seems like an achievement straight out of fantasyland. Such is the power of Mr B and his SM.
God is kind. Or, is He?
No. For, Boyle has made a film that has a weak body and no soul. Given his passion for indulging in all things filthy, let us say that SM is prose in loose motion. The narrative wobbles back and forth, pausing at several phases in the past to show the tragic life of an uneducated boy who finds himself on the hot seat of the game show Who Wants To Be a Millionaire?. The youngster Jamal is a chaiwallah towards whom the game show host Prem (a superstar) shows visible contempt: much like the director’s attitude towards his portrayal of India in general.
If Boyle has an understanding of life in the Indian slums, one surely doesn’t see it. Why he chooses to stay away from the flip side of slums is beyond comprehension: more so, because a few shots of Mumbai’s upper class life would have explained Prem’s scorn and the young man’s life below the poverty line even better. How the Golden Globe-winning writer Simon Beaufoy discovered just one abuse in Hindi that Indians use in the film cannot be understood likewise. The scene showing the Indian superstar (Amitabh Bachchan – a double of course) who signs his photograph for the young boy bathed in shit is the substance of nauseating, vomit-inducing imagination.
As in Vikas Swarup’s utterly simplistic novel on which the film is based, the beginning of the film conveys its climax. Seated on a money-making pedestal, the fortunes of a poor little poor boy have to change overnight. In short, the underdog has to win. Tragedies promise to turn into memories eclipsed by the wealth that transforms his life all of a sudden. So what if he is uneducated? He will find answers to the questions that offer more and more money as he goes along. He will irritate Prem because the latter’s mind is trapped in the vanity of class-consciousness. He will find his childhood love who has gone on to become the mistress of a don.
A tale of pain with a fairytale ending: that is what we expect and get, with the only surprise being the way in which Boyle treats the story. It seems as if he is directing the film for the Western audiences in a manner that is far too premeditated and shallow. If not, he is clearly influenced by the Bollywood of the 70s, which is when some of the worst Hindi films got made. In 2008, Boyle’s film joined the list of the era, making the average Indian wonder why the maker did not check the time for so long.
Lost in a lost world. That is the essence of SM. Unable to ruffle us emotionally, it shows, with appalling indifference, that sad moment in which the young boy’s mother loses her life during communal riots. Although the boy’s life takes a turn for the worse after this episode, the mother's death is shown with such surgical precision that we forget it before five minutes go by. Once the boy wins the entire prize money, we hardly get a glimpse of his ecstasy and disbelief. Instead, there is an abrupt cut, because of which the viewer gets very little idea of the boy’s state of mind. Sorry, My Boyle. But isn’t the plot supposed to be high on emotional quotient?
It is not that SM doesn’t tug at our heartstrings. It does, but for all the wrong reasons. When one walks out of the hall, it is with the feeling that Boyle made the mess of an opportunity to make a good film. As a viewer, everyone is prepared to accept unreality when one goes to see a film. But what could have, but doesn’t, happen in SM's case is that the narrative fails to grip the viewer with its revelations of understanding and sensitivity. Slums appear but as views captured by a stoical camera. When the young boy who has been packed off for police interrogation is subjected to shocks, his suffering is buried by the sight of a fat cop whose presence gives rise to humour. The host feels that Jamal is a cheat, but there is no well-written scene which shows how the latter tries to convince the former. Since a film needs to take liberties with a novel’s structure, shouldn’t Boyle have conveyed the boy’s helplessness as also his inability to understand how happenstance is blessing him time and again?
Dev Patel who plays the adult Jamal is wooden in the initial stages of the film. He picks up later, but has nothing much to do simply since the script has nothing better to offer. As the proud host whose arrogance gets switched on the moments the lights are off, Anil Kapoor does a fine job. Frieda Pinto in the role of Jamal’s lover is a bad choice, but Irrfan Khan comes up with a good show as the inspector interrogating the man. Saurabh Shukla as the plump cop is good, but it is impossible to figure out whether or not his character is supposed to generate humour or seriousness. Among the film’s strengths is the cinematography, and AR Rahman’s background score which tries to elevate the scenes to a much higher level.
If there are so many minuses, how has SM managed to garner so much critical acclaim? The answer is a bit like the mystery behind Boyle’s treatment of the film. It is impossible to understand.
Since that would sound rude, one abstains. Cut to the reel thing inside the theatre where Boyle unfolds a supposedly grand film that has won four Golden Globes and ten Oscar nominations. The director is said to have made a viewer-friendly popular classic. What is great being seldom popular – and vice versa – one wants to see SM. From start to finish. Without stepping out of the hall during the interval. Getting a ticket on the first day seems like an achievement straight out of fantasyland. Such is the power of Mr B and his SM.
God is kind. Or, is He?
No. For, Boyle has made a film that has a weak body and no soul. Given his passion for indulging in all things filthy, let us say that SM is prose in loose motion. The narrative wobbles back and forth, pausing at several phases in the past to show the tragic life of an uneducated boy who finds himself on the hot seat of the game show Who Wants To Be a Millionaire?. The youngster Jamal is a chaiwallah towards whom the game show host Prem (a superstar) shows visible contempt: much like the director’s attitude towards his portrayal of India in general.
If Boyle has an understanding of life in the Indian slums, one surely doesn’t see it. Why he chooses to stay away from the flip side of slums is beyond comprehension: more so, because a few shots of Mumbai’s upper class life would have explained Prem’s scorn and the young man’s life below the poverty line even better. How the Golden Globe-winning writer Simon Beaufoy discovered just one abuse in Hindi that Indians use in the film cannot be understood likewise. The scene showing the Indian superstar (Amitabh Bachchan – a double of course) who signs his photograph for the young boy bathed in shit is the substance of nauseating, vomit-inducing imagination.
As in Vikas Swarup’s utterly simplistic novel on which the film is based, the beginning of the film conveys its climax. Seated on a money-making pedestal, the fortunes of a poor little poor boy have to change overnight. In short, the underdog has to win. Tragedies promise to turn into memories eclipsed by the wealth that transforms his life all of a sudden. So what if he is uneducated? He will find answers to the questions that offer more and more money as he goes along. He will irritate Prem because the latter’s mind is trapped in the vanity of class-consciousness. He will find his childhood love who has gone on to become the mistress of a don.
A tale of pain with a fairytale ending: that is what we expect and get, with the only surprise being the way in which Boyle treats the story. It seems as if he is directing the film for the Western audiences in a manner that is far too premeditated and shallow. If not, he is clearly influenced by the Bollywood of the 70s, which is when some of the worst Hindi films got made. In 2008, Boyle’s film joined the list of the era, making the average Indian wonder why the maker did not check the time for so long.
Lost in a lost world. That is the essence of SM. Unable to ruffle us emotionally, it shows, with appalling indifference, that sad moment in which the young boy’s mother loses her life during communal riots. Although the boy’s life takes a turn for the worse after this episode, the mother's death is shown with such surgical precision that we forget it before five minutes go by. Once the boy wins the entire prize money, we hardly get a glimpse of his ecstasy and disbelief. Instead, there is an abrupt cut, because of which the viewer gets very little idea of the boy’s state of mind. Sorry, My Boyle. But isn’t the plot supposed to be high on emotional quotient?
It is not that SM doesn’t tug at our heartstrings. It does, but for all the wrong reasons. When one walks out of the hall, it is with the feeling that Boyle made the mess of an opportunity to make a good film. As a viewer, everyone is prepared to accept unreality when one goes to see a film. But what could have, but doesn’t, happen in SM's case is that the narrative fails to grip the viewer with its revelations of understanding and sensitivity. Slums appear but as views captured by a stoical camera. When the young boy who has been packed off for police interrogation is subjected to shocks, his suffering is buried by the sight of a fat cop whose presence gives rise to humour. The host feels that Jamal is a cheat, but there is no well-written scene which shows how the latter tries to convince the former. Since a film needs to take liberties with a novel’s structure, shouldn’t Boyle have conveyed the boy’s helplessness as also his inability to understand how happenstance is blessing him time and again?
Dev Patel who plays the adult Jamal is wooden in the initial stages of the film. He picks up later, but has nothing much to do simply since the script has nothing better to offer. As the proud host whose arrogance gets switched on the moments the lights are off, Anil Kapoor does a fine job. Frieda Pinto in the role of Jamal’s lover is a bad choice, but Irrfan Khan comes up with a good show as the inspector interrogating the man. Saurabh Shukla as the plump cop is good, but it is impossible to figure out whether or not his character is supposed to generate humour or seriousness. Among the film’s strengths is the cinematography, and AR Rahman’s background score which tries to elevate the scenes to a much higher level.
If there are so many minuses, how has SM managed to garner so much critical acclaim? The answer is a bit like the mystery behind Boyle’s treatment of the film. It is impossible to understand.
Friday, January 16, 2009
SRK: THE INCOMPLETE BIOGRAPHY
Of all the Hall of Fame unauthorized biographies I wrote a few years ago, the one on Shah Rukh Khan did the best. Although it feels good to have written books on stars which did not rely on their personal inputs – if one follows that route, honesty can get diluted from time to time – what I would genuinely like to do is write the SRK book all over again. That is not because I want to get many more good, bad and mixed reviews, or hit the bookstores with another one which will fly off the racks for sure. On the contrary, after watching SRK evolve as an actor in the last few years, I have started believing that some of his best characters have hit the big screen in the recent past.
This is not to say that SRK did not come up with some noteworthy performances in the first half of his career. He did, with his 'K-k-k-k-kiran' act in Darr that triggered off his ascent towards invincible superstardom; his endearing performance in Kabhi Haan Kabhi Naa; and, of course, when he turned into Raj in DDLJ that made him the lover boy millions fell in love with.
Even those who hated the star – that number being less than a few – could not help confessing that his spontaneity imparted a special appeal to his characters. All his popular performances need not have been great, but they surely struck a chord with the masses who wanted to see more and more of the guy. He may not have looked as good as Aamir or Salman, the two Khans he competed with. But, he was ahead in terms of his popularity for the most part of his career.
He was the leader. No doubt about it. And, he continues to retain the number one throne despite Aamir's diversity and quest for perfectionism, Salman's glittering charisma and Akshay Kumar's emphatic emergence. There have been times when there have been talks about his slipping away – think Hrithik Roshan of a few years ago, and you have the answer – but he has kept the spot with himself on the whole. To say that is difficult would be the understatement of the century. That, to start with, is why I miss some more pages in the book.
But the main reason, as stated earlier, is the performance factor. Although Swades did not rock the box-office and received highly unfair reviews on occasions, few would question that SRK as Mohan Bhargava is as believable as he could have been. When he is at NASA as a scientist, we like him. But, we enjoy even more when he returns to India and starts working for the welfare of the downtrodden.
The character has a sense of purpose, and his philanthropic mindset makes us think twice about the lives we were leading. So good is SRK's performance that we actually forget the man himself when we see Bhargava. Considering his stature as a star, pulling off an act like that couldn't have been easy. After the performance, SRK made many rethink about his prowess as actor, which had often been obscured by the sheer weight of his superstardom. As Mohan Bhargava, he is Mohan Bhargava. That is all.
However, the two characters with which SRK seems to have conquered newer pastures are those of Kabir Khan in Chak De! India and Surinder Sahni in Rab Ne…. As the hockey coach of the Indian women's team whose reputation had been sullied in the past, SRK's Kabir is awesome. The character's frustration shows, and so does his willpower to make something happen when he gets the coach's assignment. Kabir's desire to prove a point and his methods as a coach makes him a very interesting and intriguing personality. When I think of it today, nobody apart from SRK would have been able to pull off the act with so much conviction.
At the risk of getting a lot of flak, and mainly because Rab Ne… does not have a great script like Chak De!..., I would rate SRK's Surinder Sahni in the former as highly as any other character he has essayed so far. Why I think so is since Surinder is one more regular guy whose personality becomes credible only if SRK's superstardom is forgotten completely. A diffident man with a good soul, Surinder in his bespectacled avatar is light years away from the six-packed guy that SRK actually is. It is a beautifully written character – unlike the entire film which has its loopholes – and the superstar simply makes sure that people walk out of the hall, thinking about Surinder instead of the guy who played the role.
As a writer of a book on SRK, I miss an exclusive chapter on these characters today. They have influenced the way in which I think of SRK as an actor, but there isn't anything I can do since the book was published a few years ago. But then, there could come a time when I will write another one on the star. Or may be, I will get a chance to edit the book and make it new.
This is not to say that SRK did not come up with some noteworthy performances in the first half of his career. He did, with his 'K-k-k-k-kiran' act in Darr that triggered off his ascent towards invincible superstardom; his endearing performance in Kabhi Haan Kabhi Naa; and, of course, when he turned into Raj in DDLJ that made him the lover boy millions fell in love with.
Even those who hated the star – that number being less than a few – could not help confessing that his spontaneity imparted a special appeal to his characters. All his popular performances need not have been great, but they surely struck a chord with the masses who wanted to see more and more of the guy. He may not have looked as good as Aamir or Salman, the two Khans he competed with. But, he was ahead in terms of his popularity for the most part of his career.
He was the leader. No doubt about it. And, he continues to retain the number one throne despite Aamir's diversity and quest for perfectionism, Salman's glittering charisma and Akshay Kumar's emphatic emergence. There have been times when there have been talks about his slipping away – think Hrithik Roshan of a few years ago, and you have the answer – but he has kept the spot with himself on the whole. To say that is difficult would be the understatement of the century. That, to start with, is why I miss some more pages in the book.
But the main reason, as stated earlier, is the performance factor. Although Swades did not rock the box-office and received highly unfair reviews on occasions, few would question that SRK as Mohan Bhargava is as believable as he could have been. When he is at NASA as a scientist, we like him. But, we enjoy even more when he returns to India and starts working for the welfare of the downtrodden.
The character has a sense of purpose, and his philanthropic mindset makes us think twice about the lives we were leading. So good is SRK's performance that we actually forget the man himself when we see Bhargava. Considering his stature as a star, pulling off an act like that couldn't have been easy. After the performance, SRK made many rethink about his prowess as actor, which had often been obscured by the sheer weight of his superstardom. As Mohan Bhargava, he is Mohan Bhargava. That is all.
However, the two characters with which SRK seems to have conquered newer pastures are those of Kabir Khan in Chak De! India and Surinder Sahni in Rab Ne…. As the hockey coach of the Indian women's team whose reputation had been sullied in the past, SRK's Kabir is awesome. The character's frustration shows, and so does his willpower to make something happen when he gets the coach's assignment. Kabir's desire to prove a point and his methods as a coach makes him a very interesting and intriguing personality. When I think of it today, nobody apart from SRK would have been able to pull off the act with so much conviction.
At the risk of getting a lot of flak, and mainly because Rab Ne… does not have a great script like Chak De!..., I would rate SRK's Surinder Sahni in the former as highly as any other character he has essayed so far. Why I think so is since Surinder is one more regular guy whose personality becomes credible only if SRK's superstardom is forgotten completely. A diffident man with a good soul, Surinder in his bespectacled avatar is light years away from the six-packed guy that SRK actually is. It is a beautifully written character – unlike the entire film which has its loopholes – and the superstar simply makes sure that people walk out of the hall, thinking about Surinder instead of the guy who played the role.
As a writer of a book on SRK, I miss an exclusive chapter on these characters today. They have influenced the way in which I think of SRK as an actor, but there isn't anything I can do since the book was published a few years ago. But then, there could come a time when I will write another one on the star. Or may be, I will get a chance to edit the book and make it new.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
HOW BUTCH CASSIDY...CHANGED MY LIFE
When I was a child, I loved Westerns. Clint Eastwood, Steve McQueen, Yul Brynner…I would love to make a list of stars who I admired in that cowboy hat, carrying a gun which made the ultimate statement of masculinity. As a kid, I never looked for logic in any of the stories. Naturally, since I never even realized that films were driven by some kind of coherence in the narrative. Being young has its advantages, you know.
Then came a time when my voyage of discovery took me to diverse cinematic worlds. I had grown older and, suddenly, the average Western seemed to be riddled with loopholes. To start with, the Good versus Evil angle was too clearly defined. The grey streaks in a 'good' guy's character justified themselves most automatically. More often than not, a bad guy was simply bad who was meant to be killed. Women occupied the ambiguous fringes, so much so that one was made to wonder what they were doing in the film anyway. The narrative was generally like the ambience of the plot: there was absolute lawlessness without any creative explanation whatsoever.
Like many young film lovers who had started to watch films that looked around the stereotype, my disillusionment tormented me a lot. I wanted to see a more evolved Django, but that was difficult to find. I wanted to hear background music that sounded completely different. This was the time when raindrops kept falling on my head all of a sudden. I loved the feeling since they made me believe how and why Westerns could go well beyond the kill-and-end and got-the-treasure formulas. I enjoyed the way Butch thought. I loved the way the Sundance Kid did his shooting act. The climax made my low just as the twosome's famous jump from the cliff made me smile.
Two decades after I saw the film for the first time, I continue to return to Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid over and over again. And, I am sure I am not the only one who turns into a part of the gang that Butch heads before his life takes a turn for the different. Be it George Roy Hill's direction or William Goldman's script – and of course, the chemistry between Paul 'Butch' Newman and Robert 'Sundance' Redford – the film has so many strengths that the ultimate product goes to a different level altogether.
As far as I am concerned, the film's real hero is the script. The two main characters - both mavericks in their own ways, and out to make a fortune - are a study in contrast. Butch is a man of ideas, and miles away from the stereotyped Western hero therefore. When he returns to his gang with Sundance and finds a character (Ted Cassidy) waiting to take over, for instance, he challenges the guy and makes him hit the ground with a kick!
That is a hilarious moment, as is the occasion when both Sundance and Butch need to swim to escape: but, the former makes a sudden confession that he doesn't know how to do it. While Butch is taken aback, we, as the viewers, cannot keep our laughter in check. Again, when Butch rides the bike – with the lovely Katherine Ross who plays Sundance's girlfriend for company – the song 'Raindrops keep falling on my head' makes us think: hey, is this a Western, or something completely different?
Why the chemistry between Butch and Sundance works is because the latter is very close to the mainstream Western hero. Hats off to Goldman, who thought of an idea in which opposites could combine and create so much of an impact, and also because he introduced humour so subtly that we were made to rewind the DVD and watch the scenes time and again. The climax was brilliantly written, the sadness in the twosome's deaths shown with a visual that made an unforgettable impact.
If this film hadn't won so many Academy Award nominations – and picked up four eventually – it would have been shocking. And, I am sure there are others like me who started believing how Westerns could deliver so much more just because they saw this one. Brokeback Mountain or even Dead Man: there have been many films whose background is typically Western but whose content inhabits some other world altogether. Don't know how many of them were inspired by Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.
Then came a time when my voyage of discovery took me to diverse cinematic worlds. I had grown older and, suddenly, the average Western seemed to be riddled with loopholes. To start with, the Good versus Evil angle was too clearly defined. The grey streaks in a 'good' guy's character justified themselves most automatically. More often than not, a bad guy was simply bad who was meant to be killed. Women occupied the ambiguous fringes, so much so that one was made to wonder what they were doing in the film anyway. The narrative was generally like the ambience of the plot: there was absolute lawlessness without any creative explanation whatsoever.
Like many young film lovers who had started to watch films that looked around the stereotype, my disillusionment tormented me a lot. I wanted to see a more evolved Django, but that was difficult to find. I wanted to hear background music that sounded completely different. This was the time when raindrops kept falling on my head all of a sudden. I loved the feeling since they made me believe how and why Westerns could go well beyond the kill-and-end and got-the-treasure formulas. I enjoyed the way Butch thought. I loved the way the Sundance Kid did his shooting act. The climax made my low just as the twosome's famous jump from the cliff made me smile.
Two decades after I saw the film for the first time, I continue to return to Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid over and over again. And, I am sure I am not the only one who turns into a part of the gang that Butch heads before his life takes a turn for the different. Be it George Roy Hill's direction or William Goldman's script – and of course, the chemistry between Paul 'Butch' Newman and Robert 'Sundance' Redford – the film has so many strengths that the ultimate product goes to a different level altogether.
As far as I am concerned, the film's real hero is the script. The two main characters - both mavericks in their own ways, and out to make a fortune - are a study in contrast. Butch is a man of ideas, and miles away from the stereotyped Western hero therefore. When he returns to his gang with Sundance and finds a character (Ted Cassidy) waiting to take over, for instance, he challenges the guy and makes him hit the ground with a kick!
That is a hilarious moment, as is the occasion when both Sundance and Butch need to swim to escape: but, the former makes a sudden confession that he doesn't know how to do it. While Butch is taken aback, we, as the viewers, cannot keep our laughter in check. Again, when Butch rides the bike – with the lovely Katherine Ross who plays Sundance's girlfriend for company – the song 'Raindrops keep falling on my head' makes us think: hey, is this a Western, or something completely different?
Why the chemistry between Butch and Sundance works is because the latter is very close to the mainstream Western hero. Hats off to Goldman, who thought of an idea in which opposites could combine and create so much of an impact, and also because he introduced humour so subtly that we were made to rewind the DVD and watch the scenes time and again. The climax was brilliantly written, the sadness in the twosome's deaths shown with a visual that made an unforgettable impact.
If this film hadn't won so many Academy Award nominations – and picked up four eventually – it would have been shocking. And, I am sure there are others like me who started believing how Westerns could deliver so much more just because they saw this one. Brokeback Mountain or even Dead Man: there have been many films whose background is typically Western but whose content inhabits some other world altogether. Don't know how many of them were inspired by Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.
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