YESTERDAY ONCE MORE

The Beatles disintegrated around the time I was born. In that sense, I ‘happened’ well after The Beatles did. Having grown up with the sound of pop acts like Boney M and Abba – they compelled me to wipe the dust off dog-eared LPs to hear stuff like Pat Boone’s Baby Elephant Walk – I was awe-struck after the discovery of a sleeve-less EP with the words Roll ‘n’ Roll Music. The endearing restlessness in the song held me captive. The singer’s guttural voice rose above the strains of instrumentation time and again. The sharp edge in his vocals made statements of passion, the ‘why’ of which I couldn’t have known. It was like reading Gulliver’s Travels during childhood, and thinking of it as Little Tommy Tucker in prose. Lovely book that indeed was. But I hadn't understood the satire then.

When I saw Across The Universe last week, I did not know who the director Julie Taymor was. Not that I know much about her seven days later, but for the fact that she is a genius. After all, how else can you describe a person who had the vision to direct a film that weaves songs from The Beatles to tell a love story in the backdrop of 60s America, England and Vietnam of course? How else do you – sorry, can you – assess a story whose protagonists are Jude (from the track Hey Jude) and Lucy whose name owes itself to John Lennon’s acid-driven Lucy in The Sky With… you-know-what?

What can say about an insight which believes that the counter-revolutionary should be named Max, which expands to Maxwell, from the track Maxwell’s Silver Hammer whose lyrics seem to suggest that something has gone wrong? Max detests the establishment represented by obvious metaphors like the Ivy League institution he attends and also by the members of his family. But his attitude from the very first shot shows that something is coming, a something that will aim at hurting the system which it tries not to belong to. Impracticality and unbridled energy drive the guy. The result is Vietnam.

Then, there are the songs. When Jude leaves for America, he sings All My Loving to make a statement of commitment to his lover (not Lucy, please. That would have screwed the story completely). You could say that one is predictable, and indeed it is. But, Lennon, McCartney and co. surely knew how to hypnotise with effortless simplicity, and the song makes a similar impact when we hear ‘I will pretend I am kissing/The lips I am missing.’ Oh yes, it does.

The best interpretation (among the many brilliant ones, if I may add) is that of Let It Be, one of the most touching cuts ever sung by anybody. Set against the backdrop of the Detroit riots, the eyes moisten when we see a little black boy, reminding of a ball of inflammable cotton lying neglected behind a damaged car, who sings the lines with fear in his heart and tears in his eyes. When we see the boy’s funeral as also the death of a white soldier in distant Vietnam, the message of the twin inevitability hits us hard, really hard. Come Together depicts the energy in New York’s life, while the fun and the frolic in a bowling alley find a musical ally in I’ve Just Seen A Face.

The film has more. Bono does a fun cameo as a Ken Kesey-like guru; Salma Hayek is just a nurse; a guitarist reminds of Jimi Hendrix; Sadie’s character is a take on Janis Joplin; and, all this when the core is essentially a love story. While being visually stunning – the film could have been a sequence of meticulously planned stills – the ambience defines the spirit of the 60s. Of an era, which startled us with its dope and politics and several small and big revolutions and the never-say-die spirit of some who made sure that those years did not leave us even after becoming a phase from long, long ago.

If one may quote thinker Erich Fromm, it makes us think about the difference between the ‘being’ and ‘having’ modes of existence. Living in times that can be best described as appallingly confused, it makes us pray for yesterday once more.

CRITIC RAJ

BY BISWADEEP GHOSH

RGV has turned into a critics’ critic in his blog. Does he have any business to massacre those whose job is to dissect a film thoroughly? What gives him the right to say that our critics don’t know their job, or that they write pompously worded sentences which convey nothing at all? Why is he getting personal with some of our critics, who may or may not made films but have acquired some sort of recognition as an analyst of the audio-visual medium?

Without taking the RGV route – don’t think am good enough to make a film, so cannot –let me say that the one problem Indian criticism suffers from is that of inconsistency. Indeed, inconsistency is like a chronic disease which few have been able to get rid of, resulting in wrong films getting the sort of treatment (five stars, stuff like that) which they simply do not deserve.

If Ram Gopal Varma Ki Aag was a colossal tragedy – even RGV agrees – it is wrong to brutalise Sarkar Raj in the same tone. For, Sarkar Raj deals with a tricky subject, and the director steers its plot very well. There are some weaknesses, no doubt about it, but then no film can be completely flawless. Besides, what we perceive as a shortcoming is a subjective view. What one thinks is a pothole can be Taj Mahal in the eyes of someone else. That is the essence of all criticisms of art, whether or not we want to accept it.

Having said that, Sarkar Raj would have been a watchable film even if the plot had been really vague. The reason: the Big B’s extraordinary performance. A couple of decades later, many critics might actually term this one as Bachchan’s greatest performance ever. Talking about cricket, the Indian batting maestro Sunil Gavaskar had once said that the toughest cricketing shot is the one that you don’t play. As an actor, similarly, the most difficult moments are those in which you don’t talk, in fact, do nothing at all except look, listen and react. It is in such moments that the Big B takes the film to a different level. Being a music lover, I heard the Sounds of Silence. And, rest assured, I wasn’t the only one.

That Sarkar Raj has a convincing story, a fairly decent performance by the Small B and the presence of some interesting minor characters makes it a very good watch. It also has some highly imaginative lighting, good camerawork, smart editing…what else can one ask for? May be, Aishwarya needed a meaty role. Perhaps, there should have been much less emphasis on Govinda, Govinda, Govinda…. Some of the minor characters were irritatingly theatrical. However, even if many critics hated the film just as many film viewers like yours truly loved it, is it fair to say that this is one merit-less film that should not have been made?

It is high time we took a compassionate and genuine stand on films coming out of Bollywood. Let us not forget that the maker spends more time in making a film than we do while running it down.

GIVING ACTORS THEIR DUE? YOU MUST BE KIDDING!

BISWADEEP GHOSH

In a website poll on underrated actors in India, I came across a lot of names. There was Pankaj Kapoor who I think is extraordinary; Irrfan Khan who can be brilliant when he is not repeating itself in the trying-hard-to-make-you-laugh roles; and Ranvir Sheorey who promises to grow into an even better actor with time.

Seldom do I post my views in such polls, one reason being that several faceless intruders who have just one thing to do – nothing – write absolute gibberish whose dominant presence eclipses the odd strand of serious thought. But, this time round, I did, choosing to talk about just one actor who could have done so much if the affluent fiefdoms of the industry hadn’t overlooked his presence. When he played the wicked and impulsive elder brother in Sarkar, he actually matched the Big B’s magisterial presence in every single frame. In Honeymoon Travels, he was a parochial Bengali guy married to a freedom-loving girl; in Black Friday, the cop Rakesh Maria who had investigated the roots of the 1993 Mumbai blasts; and in Life in a…Metro, a selfish husband in a selfish extra-marital affair. Kay Kay Menon. You know he is the guy I am talking about.

Yes, you know Kay Kay. That’s why he and other guys like him should consider themselves lucky. In a superstars-and-megabucks-driven industry such as ours, these actors cannot get any more attention even if they deserve it. It doesn’t matter if a Pankaj Kapoor can pull off an Al Pacino act as the protagonist. That Kay Kay can step into the shoes of a character played by someone like Russell Crowe – or Kurt Russell – in a big-budget film is of no significance at all. For, such actors will never ever get the opportunity to bat ahead of big stars and score more runs than the latter can. A few such success stories can demolish fiefdoms, create new equations in which power will be decentralised, and even decant the so-called big stars into the zone of no return. Secure in their systems, loaded with cash, blessed with the loyalty of big stars, which big producer wants a change in which rules can be rewritten beyond recognition?

Not that the story ends there. Such is our industry that actors who aren’t stars are caught in an image trap. They are termed ‘character actors’ – which possibly implies that the stars play themselves while the others don’t! But, seriously speaking, the label of a ‘character actor’ is a curse whose power no spell on earth can diminish. What it essentially implies is that the victims of the branding do all the hard work to make a film work in its totality. But, the person who hijacks the promos, sings all the songs, get most solo frames, and the maximum amount of money is the star. He is the one who makes the film work. At the end of the day, the character actors are minor support systems who help the star because the latter is infinitely more talented and works the hardest of course!

Many viewers who have matured considerably are keen to see a systemic change. They will be happy to see many films in which the so-called character actors step into central roles. As of now, however, no one can see it happening. I am in that list.

What about you?

EXTRA, AND NOTHING

BISWADEEP GHOSH

A friend’s friend asked me the other day, “Wow! So you have written a book on SRK? How big are you?” I stared at the window in front of me, looked at my reflection, and replied, “I am not big. SRK is.” While I had stated a fact, what is also true is that I had enjoyed some adulation for a while when I had written the Hall of Fame book on Shah Rukh. People who knew me told me, often excitedly, that the mere act of keying in my name could lead to more than 1,000 references on any search engine. Acutely aware that I had nothing to deserve so many links, I used to keep shut. I still do, most uneasily.

SRK’s stardom – or, for that matter, that of Salman and Hrithik and Aishwarya, my other subjects – gave me the opportunity to write four biographies. But the most revealing episode, one that summarised the story of actual Bollywood, took place when I had gone to meet Manoj Bajpai. After speaking to Manoj, who was fresh from his exploits in Satya and Shool, I stepped out of the trailer van.

Suddenly, a tall and well-built man stopped me and said, “Hello, why don’t you publish my interview as well?"

Although I was familiar with all the famous and not-so-famous faces of Bollywood, here was a guy I couldn’t recognise. Inwardly cursing my own self for not knowing who he was, I asked, “Can you tell me about your latest film?”

“What? You haven’t seen me ever, is it?” he asked in a tone of dismay.

“No,” I stammered. By that time, I had realised that the fellow was wearing a wig and had several false teeth. From a distance, he had looked like a 35-year-old guy. But actually, he couldn’t have been less than 50.

“I have acted in more than 200 films. You will also see me in Dil Pe Mat Le Yaar in which Manojji is acting,” he said, adding, “I am there in one scene.”

“One scene?”

“Yes,” he said, adding in an accusatory manner, “That is since journalists don’t write about me. When you see the scene, you will realise that I am a fine actor.”

Unable to react, I sat down. He stood next to me and spoke to me for an hour, telling me all kinds of stories about the opportunities he had missed, the odd film which never got released. Several such stories, one after the other. “But, I am sure I will get a fine role some day. Don’t you think so?” he said.

I got up, murmured a diffident ‘yes’, patted his shoulder and walked off. I had taken down notes that I did not use. Being a professional journalist, I knew that few will be interested in reading his story in an entertainment magazine. So, here I am, talking about a guy who has acted in 200 films. I must have seen him in a few films ever since I had conducted a false interview with him. But, how could I have identified him, lost as he would have been in a big, big crowd of extras?

SHAKESPEARE UNDER SIEGE

BISWADEEP GHOSH

I am not someone who loves quoting others for the heck of it; simply because I believe that we shouldn’t say what we cannot because of someone else. Such an indulgence is not a great thing, is it? But, as a writer who has been struggling to transcend prosaic mediocrity for a while – occasionally succeeding, but mostly not – there are times when the thought of a great writer needs to be borrowed. Hence, a quote becomes necessary. Can the situation be evaded? Certainly yes, if one were to plagiarise the essence of the thought, rephrase it with badly used words, and make it sound like one’s own. Does that happen? It does, which is why the average muggle googles away, searching for extraordinary phrases of extraordinary mortals.

Lately, however, a couple of aspiring writers have touched new lows. (You want names? That’s easy. Read everything published everywhere every day). They have been whacking lines – from one of the countless quotable quote sites – and using them in their articles shamelessly, stupidly. The obvious assumption is that they are addressing millions of morons who don’t own a single book with broken spines. So, Chesterton enters the article; Bernard Shaw intrudes after a few more; and suddenly, out of nowhere, a phrase from Freud leaps towards the unsuspecting reader, says a quick ‘hello’ and pretends to be a part of the article a second thereafter. Not a single word is changed and the sentence sparkles, sticking out as an oddity. For some inexplicable reason, such guys seem secure in the knowledge that no one will catch them. Besides, as long as they are lifting from writers who are no longer alive, the act doesn’t bother them. After all, dead people do not sue.

The situation is reminiscent of the era when a book reviews page was mandatory in every newspaper. People used to read then. Today, they watch the TV. That is why. However, some small regional newspapers sought to emulate their bigger counterparts by keeping non-specialist books editors for handling books pages. The result: the pages got manhandled. Just about anyone wrote reviews, and murder the writers without understanding a word of what the latter said.

With writers who cut and paste because they are incapable of piloting an article with their own phrases and thoughts, things are very, very similar. How one wishes someone told them not to look like fools on a regular basis? On second thoughts, even if someone actually did, will they understand and change? Unlikely. Only, they might stop whacking from Shakespeare because of whom they might have been caught, and lift from Ogden Nash instead. Which writer they maul doesn’t matter, as long they live to see another day, and write another article!

DO WE NEED A WOMAN’S DAY?

BISWADEEP GHOSH

Hello, weak and powerless women, it is time to declare from the rooftops what you don’t have but deserve. That sounds so utterly, gutterly stupid. But, who listens, who bothers, who cares? As the world comes together to celebrate womanhood today, what we choose to ignore is that, in modern times, most urban women do get what they want. They have good jobs, social standing, equality with men in the domestic sphere and so on. So, is there a genuine need for a Woman’s Day in urban societies that supposedly reminds women of their power, their privileges, their status in the society? When we celebrate the day, don’t we, in certain unstated ways, affirm that the society is divided into two classes: that of the Fair Sex and the Unfair Sex?

Someone who wishes to view the situation in a lighter vein may exclaim: ‘Men of the world unite. You have nothing to lose but your gender.’ But seriously, what the celebrations suggest isn’t funny. For one, we choose to honour genuine women achievers not because of what they have achieved but since they ‘are’ women who have ‘managed’ to script success stories. What we forget is that such success stories have been, and will be, there. There is no need to under-rate them with the eulogies in a limiting day-and-gender-specific context.

The implication, however, is not that women’s rights don’t need to be articulated. In uncivil societies where a woman’s birthrights are denial and oppression, voices need to be raised against man’s sexist dictatorship both within the house and outside. Without indulging in armchair theorising to discuss the Susani Faludis of the world, it is important to check out the state of affairs and contribute in one’s small way. Strangely enough, this is where most surrender without a fight.

Such individuals are convinced that if one attempts to change the society, the society changes him/her. But they go on and on about Woman’s Day on Woman’s Day as if there is nothing more important, nothing more meaningful. Their approach is so utterly credible since few twitch their eyebrows in discomfort because of two obvious reasons. For many men who believe that the society must not change, the day epitomizes all the dubious connotations of the tired cliché ‘man’s world’. For others, and that includes women too, the day is all about taking the shortest escape route to make a pompous statement of gender equality. A few are genuine. But then, they would always be that way, with or without a Woman’s Day.

Woman’s Day ought to disappear from our list of annual celebrations. In fact, it must. However, the desire is nothing more than demential optimism, guided as we all are by Mesozoic social norms. The celebration of ‘triumphs against adversities’ – whether or not they exist in all those cases – does nothing beyond reminding of the power of the man. But, who gives a damn anyway?

HURRY, OUR WORRY

BISWADEEP GHOSH

“Hello, can you please…?”
“Yes, definitely. Right now, oh, please hold on for a sec…hello?”

If the question makes no sense, the reply doesn’t either. All I can hear on the other side are incomplete sentences as I try to speak and get some information from a girl in a hurry. At least ten others like me are talking to her at one time; she needs to keep each of us posted on each and everything; and, well, that explains why some sentences convey less, and others even lesser. Her cooperation means a lot of us; only, I don’t know what she means once in a while. But, I understand.

Have I experienced so much traffic at work? Living in an era of speeding up of time –whose repercussions I had dealt with in my previous article – I definitely have. Sometime or the other, and usually when the day ought to end, one of our phones rings ominously. Someone we know, we know, is at the other end, and about to unleash a spell that will decide the course of our night. The menu for dinner promises to have one recipe: WORK!

“Hello, how are you doing?” A familiar voice starts a familiar prelude whose subsequent chapters are unknown to us. “You know, since we intend to create a mountain out of a molehill, we would like you to find about one million living moles in the next one hour,” the voice continues, “All you have to do is assemble the moles in a lunchbox and courier them by email.”

How can one courier by email? How the hell does one find one million moles? How will they fit into one lunchbox if we do? Questions torment the weary mind which knows that impossible things can be achieved, but not what is more than impossible. But then, failures being the pillars of success as they say, we motivate ourselves to make a pillar during the next hour. Once that is achieved, we take some flak back home, waiting for the next night. A job badly done, a battle that wasn’t won: life can be so distressingly simple that we hope and pray for easier complications that rarely come our way.

During my birthday last week, I received a lot of lectures on why I should be getting married. Guys, here is some news. I intend to do that very soon, by paying a fat dowry and getting a wife who will view me the way she will look at SRK or Brad Pitt: a cute laptop.

WAS AT HOME DAY AFTER TOMORROW...

BISWADEEP GHOSH

Shocked by the headline? Was, and day after? Sounds comically nonsensical, isn’t it? It does, till one fine day you wake up and confront life with its gift-wrapped bag of tragedies that assails you just any about anytime, anywhere. Time shrinks such that a day ends in a minute, a yesterday turning into a today with the guarantee of becoming a tomorrow very soon.

Sitting in a contemplative mode, my mind returns to that phase of my life when the clock’s palms used to turn with maniacal glee. About four years ago, I remember sitting inside my office in Mumbai, oscillating between writing and editing, editing and writing, writing and editing, editing and writing…God!

A book was being published with another waiting to be written; an 8000-word magazine article needed to be trimmed to an end product with 7,000 less words; another article needed to be written by yours sincerely, a short one of about 2,500 words: such a life was a creation of my choice as always. Did I meet all my deadlines? Mostly, yes. Sometimes, no. Did all those who knew me know what I was up to? They did not since they couldn’t have. Madness can be identified but not understood, you see.

I had lost sight of tense. Obsessed with the thought of seeing another book on print seemed so alluring – and, seriously, I don’t know why – that I went on and on like a typewriter high on dope. When I stopped to breathe, I checked how many words needed rewriting. When I relaxed, I rewrote chunks of what I had already written.

Everything must end. And, so did the books, one after the other. What was it that stopped me from writing one more, and another, when I was a lucky rarity who had scope on a platter? More than the fact of being stressed out, I guess I had realised that writing just about any book wasn’t a great idea. Some of these books did enjoy commercial success, but they were incapable of satisfying anyone who could stretch a little bit more to deliver a little bit better. Writing star biographies wasn't fulfilling when one realised that the stars continued to shine well after the books on them had lost their glitter. At least, the average one surely did.

Does that mean I will deliver a classic some day? Definitely not. But I thank God for giving me the courage to leave that life. For, if I hadn’t, life might have left me for good.

As I say that, today is today right now.

The BLOG IS BACK IN ACTION, THANKS TO SRK!

HI WHY BICEPS?

BISWADEEP GHOSH

Everyone is talking about SRK, including SRK himself.

Whether or not Aamir Khan likes it, people are talking about him because of, yes, SRK.

Even Salman Khan has an opinion about SRK, and not on his movies!

The last time I saw SRK was quite sometime ago: we were flying back to Mumbai, the city where I worked. Shah Rukh had grown his ponytail because his “hairdresser had taken leave” (that is what he had told me in a typically funny mode). Being the sort of writer who has always believed that stars are celluloid cut-outs who walk out of a screen, and melt inside it, I chatted with him for about half an hour while knowing what he was. The time being merely few months after my book on him had been published, my concern (naturally!) was that he hadn’t liked a few things that had been said about him. It was an unauthorised biography – the sort of book one must write if one wishes to call a spade, a spade – but SRK spoke about it quite positively. Very positively, as a matter of fact, which was good.

Although time has flown, I distinctly remember how SRK looked then. And, today, while being in Pune, I can see the way he does. The moment he makes an appearance, with his new set of rippling muscles, he makes me think of Hrithik Roshan, Salman Khan…you know, guys whose physiques have propelled them to fame. Even though SRK’s Build Himself initiative might have convinced many guys his age that they, too, can do the same, the new SRK does not look what he ought to. The biceps have changed the focus of concentration and, since that has happened, he suddenly seems to have become someone else. He is simply not the guy whose smile and wit piloted him to the top. Even when he had grown his ponytail, his USP – that of being that extraordinary regular guy – hadn’t abandoned him. (One television channel has been going on and on about how he has copied Amitabh Bachchan’s look in Cheeni Kum. What rubbish! SRK had that look well before Balki had started the film).

But, the new look. As someone who has followed his career very closely, I sincerely believe that this look will not work even if Om Shanti Om does, and will. The attention will shift from his natural charisma and, the moment the masses watch a film in which SRK isn’t SRK at all, chances are they will end up watching the movie without liking the guy. OSO has to work – and I said that before – but how the new look can appeal is a riddle no SRK fan would wish to solve. For, the only answer isn’t a great one. And, who wants to think of it?

Will SRK manage to come out of a low if the masses don’t take to his new look? You bet he will. He has done it a million times before, and with unimaginable success. While saying this, I sincerely hope he is back to being Raj Malhotra. And, I hope, so do others.

YOUR QUESTION, MY ANSWER

Many of you have asked me what the book was supposed to be all about. Had it been completed, it would have told the story of Hitler's relationship with Eva Braun.
Of course, it was meant for those who do not know about it:)

UNFINISHED BOOK, CHAPTER TWO

During the days when Nazism was at its peak, the world shuddered at the very thought of the German dictator. Hitler: the name evoked fear in the hearts of millions who waited to hear what the man did next in his ambitious, actually insane, desire to change the way the world looked. Those who followed his ideological vendetta with apprehension had every right to think that he was completely preoccupied with his objective of being the monarch of all he surveyed. Not surprising, since he simply did not come across as someone who had an eye – and more importantly, a heart – for anything else.

Yet, since he did have more relationships than he might have remembered, did he simply go ahead with his women as if they were meant to be used, thrown or simply neglected? Interpretations are many. Most of them suggest that Hitler, while having a charm of his own, did not do justice to a single woman in his life. He could not have, since he seldom felt the need to be loyal and respectful towards the woman who was his object of attention at any given time.

One of his many lovers was Geli Raubal with whom he shared a turbulent relationship till it came to a close. Born in Austria on 4th June 1908, Geli was the eldest daughter of Angela Raubal, who was Hitler's half sister. It is said that she called him Uncle Alf, and that the only piece of jewellery she opted to wear was a gold swastika, a gift from the man.

As Hitler became politically powerful, rising like a meteor to become the leader of the Nazi party, he kept his niece under observation, a situation made possible because her mother was functioning as the housekeeper in his residence. So possessive was he that she was not allowed to mix with her friends. But, Geli was not somebody who could be controlled no matter how powerful the source of restraint might have been. She dressed simply, a matter of personal choice, and managed to let her individualistic spirit loose despite the watchful eyes of Hitler and his trusted ones. Geli even succeeded in having an affair with Emil Maurice, who had served as Hitler's chaffeur once and was also a founding member of the SS.

It was in 1931 that Geli passed away. She was just 23, that age in which people start living. Her body was discovered in Hitler's Munich apartment. A gunshot had pierced her heart, and her death was officially termed as suicide. Among the stories doing the rounds was that Hitler had killed her for being unfaithful. A second story was that she had killed herself because she was expecting Hitler's child, and yet another that she had been murdered by his right hand man Heinrich Himmler because she had intentions of blackmailing him. Speculations on how and why she had died continue to interest researchers even today, explaining the charisma of the man, if nothing else. But, nobody has been able to find a specific answer to end all the controversies surrounding her untimely death.

It is widely believed that Hitler was so passionately in love with Geli that he began to wither away after she died. Buried in Vienna's Central Cemetery, the most popular belief is that Geli shot herself because she could not handle the fact of knowing that Hitler was having an affair with a teenager. That girl was Eva with whom Hitler used out for drives in his Mercedes, a fact Geli resented.

Both of them used to have serious quarrels before the former died, and the reason could well be connected to her uncomfortable questions grounded in reality for which he had no answer. After her death, many were compelled to ask themselves: if he loved Geli the way he did, why is it that he fell for Eva whom he did not only marry but also die with? Hitler's affection for Geli is also explained by the story that he wanted to kill himself after she died, and that he turned into a vegetarian since the sight of meat reminded him of her corpse.

While such situations complicate the confusion manifold, what is beyond doubt is that Hitler was not a one woman man. For, another woman to have happened in Hitler's life was Renate Muller who lived for a few years more than Geli. Born in Munich on 26 th April 1906, Muller was an awesome beauty who entered the world of films in Berlin in the late 1920s. She made an instant impact and, along with the legendary Marlene Dietrich, was seen as someone who epitomised everything that could have made it to Page 3 in Berlin had the journalistic concept highlighting the rich and the famous been in existence at that time.

Muller who featured in around 20 films happened to come across Hitler in the mid 1930s. The meeting took place near the Danish coast where she was shooting for a film, resulting in movie roles that glorified Nazi principles. While the exact nature of their equation remains unclear, it is widely said that problems arose when her relationships with the Nazi leaders worsened because she expressed her unwillingness to star in propaganda flicks. She was also pressurised to let go of her Jewish lover. Muller turned into a morphine addict as she lived in fear, dying in 1937 sometime after a few Gestapo officers entered a hotel she was living in. She either jumped out of the window, or the officers threw her out of it, leading to a horrible death. The official proclamation was that epilepsy had taken her life.

Hitler was even at the centre of a scandal because of one Maria Reiter, a 16-year-old who perpetrated suicide as well. But he did not stop at merely three or four women. There were more. One attractive person who came into his life was Johanna Maria Magdalena Goebbels, who went on to act as the First Lady of the Third Reich. When the Red Army descended upon Berlin in May 1945, Goebbels is said to have murdered her six children, the most-talked about act of her life.

Although married to Joseph Goebbels, Hitler's Propaganda Minister, it seems that she and her husband, at some point of time in their lives, had agreed upon an open marriage. Both of them had their share of affairs, with she having a relationship with her husband's deputy Karl Hanke as well. After the Red Army invaded Berlin, she and her husband committed suicide. But, well before that happened, Johanna had admitted to the fact that she had agreed to a marriage with Goebbels only because she could be close to Hitler, the man who had decided against marriage since Germany, and not a woman, was the only thing he loved. How charismatic Hitler was can be understood if one realises that here was an intelligent woman who affirmed that she could give her life because of the man.

None of these relationships made the sort of news that his relationship with Eva did, and obviously since the twosome were together for the maximum time. Johanna committed suicide since left without a choice. But the others killed themselves – or appeared to have done so - in the youth of age when life might have offered so many other possibilities. As a matter of fact, Eva had tried to kill herself twice earlier, once by shooting herself in the neck, and again by taking an overdose of sleeping pills. It is said that Hitler became more protective towards her after her second attempt, and that he set his eyes on very few women thereafter.

Hitler once said that "a highly intelligent man should take a primitive and stupid woman," and certainly not somebody who dabbles in "politics." Through such a statement, his dictatorial mindset came to the fore most clearly. It also showed why those like Geli and Muller might have driven themselves to death, having realised that life will never be worthy of living again.

Torment. Uncertainty. Loss of peace. Humiliation. All that ended when Eva, like all others, paid the price for her passion with her life. That Hitler killed himself too might have made her less unhappy.

UNFINISHED BOOK CHAPTER ONE

BEFORE THE BEGINNING…

That it happened we know. Why it did can result in a brief history of mystery. Adolf Hitler, the man to have unleashed a spell of terror that had benumbed the entire universe. Eva Anna Paula Braun, the daughter of a teacher from a Bavarian family. Born in Munich, Germany, on 6th February 1912, Eva led what one would call a 'regular' life, studying in a lyceum, followed by a convent where she was an ordinary perfomer with an inclination towards athletics.

The year was 1929. While working as an office and lab assistant to Hitler's photographer Heinrich Hoffman when she was around 17 years of age, Eva is said to have met the man who was to be her lover not much thereafter. Hitler walked in, and noticed her legs which were in view because she had climbed a ladder. Interaction followed, and the twosome got attracted to each other, one story being Eva too found Hitler so charismatic that she managed to slip a love letter into his pocket at their very first meeting.

The inevitable was to occur not much later. She decided to follow Hitler, her decision evoking reactions ranging from outrage to disgust. But the girl of yesteryear had grown into a young lady who knew her mind. For 16 years that ensued, she was Hitler's mistress, forming one of the two angles of an unlikely romance.

Shrouded in ambiguity, dissected by diverse historical interpretations, the Hitler-Eva Braun relationship has played the temptress to both academics and laymen the world over. Why it has been so can be easily explained. Because of what he might have achieved, Hitler continues to be among the most intensely scrutinised individuals on earth even today. That Braun happened in his life, and not a lesser someone else's, is a good enough reason for one investigation after the other.

When the World War II was its peak, Braun was tucked away in a cosy world in which she could read romantic novels and watch the television. She was very fond of sunbathing, a passion that annoyed him no end. In April 1945, when the sun was setting on Hitler's turbulent life, she went down to Munich from Berlin to be with the man she loved. Times were getting from bad to worse and, after a small ceremony in which he married her (the date being April 29), the two of them committed suicide. The marriage lasted for a day, with he shooting himself while she swallowed cyanide.

When Braun ended her life, she was merely 33. For the overwhelming majority, her death assumed significance only because her lover had also killed himself. Since that happened, decades have gone by. With the passage of time, the commoner's interest in the Hitler-Braun romance has enhanced. While that had to happen once Hitler's political life had been understood in the best way possible, why do you think that the man who terrorised the world fell for Eva, and she for him?

There is no satisfying answer, one would intervene while you think. Some things just happen.

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.

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?

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)

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…

FEMINIST FRIEND

BY BISWADEEP GHOSH

Jonathan considered himself unique. He was the only male writer he knew who wrote one feminist article every week. What's more, he, unlike many other scribes around him, actually believed in what he said. So convinced was Jonathan about his ideological positioning that some called him the chairman of SCUM, a term coined by a writer whose name he remembered no longer. Since SCUM stood for the Society for Cutting Up Men, who else but Jonathan deserved to head it, considering he took men to the cleaners once every seven days in some newspaper or the other?

For this protagonist of ours, the last two days had been pathetic. He had been lying on the bed with a high fever all alone. Most of his time had been spent hoping that someone would bunk his or her work, and chat with him for a while. As he flipped through the pages of a glossy, a familar voice made him look up. "Hi Johnny," Betty yelled as she walked in, her face barely visible behind a huge pile of books. From the corner of his eyes, Jonathan saw two familiar surnames on the books' spines. Faludi, Steinem: Betty, who was as militant a feminist as he was, had come equipped for some stimulating discussion.

But, he had got it all wrong, since this is what Betty did. She kept the books on the top of an almirah, and murmured, "Today, I want to see There's Something About Mary."

"Betty, I am down with fever," he replied, "Besides, why do you want to see such a stupid comedy?"

"Once in a while, I find stupidity most acceptable," she grinned, "I will keep my brain outside before walking in. Also, I think you should also see a fun film without taxing yourself too much."

To show just how disgusted he was, Jonathan reached out for the thermometer. After shaking it a few times, he put it inside his mouth. Exactly one minute later, he brought out the thermometer and looked at it. "Oh God," he mumbled, as if to show that his temperature was one thousand degrees above normal.

"I am sure you don't have very high temperature now," Betty chirped, "Can you dress up quickly please?"

"You seem to be obsessed with the film, " Jonathan groaned, "Don't you know that I have a serious problem with any movie that commodifies women?" He paused awhile and added, "I thought you shared my feelings, but it seems I am wrong."

"Why do you need to intellectualise on anything and everything?" Betty sounded irritated, and that she was. "What is wrong with enjoying mindless stuff occasionally may I know?"

"There is nothing wrong with it. Nothing at all, " Jonathan stared at her metamorphosed avatar, "The only problem, apart from my fever, is that today is the first day and we won't get the tickets."

"Chill, man, "Betty seemed to have a solution for everything, "I got the tickets while coming here, knowing I will convince you to come along. I stood in the ladies queue, and got the tickets very easily."

"You stood in the ladies queue?"

"Yes," she said, adding conspiratorially, "Don't worry. None of our like-thinking buddies saw me. Now, shall we...?"

Leaving his bed, Jonathan stood up slowly. Then, he reached out for a shirt lying close by. A few feet away, his friend sat, eyeing the tickets she had bought. There was something about Betty, he thought to himself, and may be since she was a special feminist who knew when to make the most of a ladies queue.

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

GARIB UNPLUGGED!

BY BISWADEEP GHOSH

If Virus Locha had been a cricketing scoreboard, it would have read 32 all out. Indeed, such was the VJ's mental state that he had found himself grinning when he had woken up that day. After around ten immomentous TV shows in which he had spoken to big stars pretending to be good actors, he was thrilled at the prospect of interviewing Garib Shaan, India's solitary method actor.

In the studio sometime later, Virus stood daydreaming with his eyes half shut. But, the spell was interrupted by the brouhaha outside. "Uff, look at Garib...God, Garib...wow, there comes Garib...he still looks like a bachcha...." The VJ opened his eyes, and saw nothing. He heard a voice, "Hi Virus, I hope I am not late." Knowing how often he imagined inanities, he chose to ignore the voice, only to hear someone growl, "Virus...." The firm voice of his short lady producer stirred him into action, and he instinctively looked down. There was Garib, standing right next to the woman, smiling away. Virus squeaked a garbled apology, and ushered them in.

Inside, the crew was ready. Without wasting a second, Virus began his well-rehearsed speech. "Today, we have with us, the one and only Garib Shaan, the common man's favourite actor who played Bungle Pandey and, yes, even a Disc Jockey recently." Then, he turned around, looked at the actor, and said, "Can you tell us how you managed to play a student-Disc Jockey at 40 so brilliantly?"

"Tough," the actor replied, "Bungle Pandey, my character in my previous film, lived in 1857. To feel and act like he might have, I used to have a bath in a river at six in the morning every day. To make my character believable, I even visited a kotha to know how courtesans live." "A kotha?" "Yes," Garib affirmed, adding, "To impart authenticity, one has to apply one's self as well as one can."

"Turning into a Disc Jockey immediately thereafter must have been tough," Virus murmured, reminding Garib of the original question.

"You bet it was," Garib replied, sipping on Joke, his favourite drink. "I was living off wafers and soft drinks to get my attitude spot on. My wife and I had rows daily, but I managed to explain why that was necessary. You won't believe what I did later. I actually borrowed a toy gun, visited a radio station, and made sure that the jockey aired my songs."

"But your films have some great songs..."

"Huh, who is talking about my movies? I sang as many as six songs, and none of them was Mere liye thhanda la, my big ummusical hit. People must have been cursing the radio station," Garib laughed loudly, eyeing the bottle of Joke.

"What have you done for Fun Ah, your latest?"

"Sad ah, but I can't talk till you watch the film and frame questions. Can you act in a film without reading the script? Method, my friend, is what is important." Garib rolled his eyes, rose slightly from his seat, and shook Virus's hand abruptly.

Time to leave. That was the signal. Virus looked at the camera and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, that was Garib Shaan, the actor whose never-ending search for perfection makes him perfect."

When Garib was getting inside his swanky car, he heard someone whisper, "Did Virus even realise that you did method acting for the first time in your life a little while ago?" Shaken up by what he had heard, the VJ looked in the direction of the voice and saw nobody. I must have imagined a voice, he thought to himself as he walked inside to see the recording of his most honest interviewee ever.

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