Volver, Pedro Almodovar’s latest venture opens to action which shifts between his hometown of La Mancha and a working class neighbourhood in Madrid but in sooth the film is situated in the sort of Almodovarian world his followers have grown to love over the last two decades- where every room and street corner is saturated with bright color and there is a dash of red in every mis-en-scene alongwith vivid and discordant feelings of violence, pain and love.
With Volver, he abandons the dark terrain of his male-centric films like Live Flesh, Matador and Bad Education to revisit the woman-centered territory of his films like Women On The Verge Of A Nervous Breakdown and All About My Mother. His women are hearty, self-possesing and compassionate despite the monstrous abuses that plague their lives. They live in a world nearly free from prejudice, luminous and optimistic. He loves his women characters and watches over them like a guardian angel (sometimes literally with top shots), generously handing the film over to his actresses who shoulder its weight almost entirely and easily on their gorgeous shoulders. The film may be reminiscence of the early American Feminist ideas of sisterhood but Almodovar’s greatest source of inspiration is clearly his own childhood memories of being brought up by women in a patriarchal and gender-divided world of fascist Spain.
With the years the enfant terrible’s films have become more self assured and simpler with lesser intricate parallel plots or flashbacks and more structural niceties. Also missing is the wild overt sexuality of previous films like Tie Me Up, Tie Me Down; but the essential quirkiness that accentuates his work is intact in this film as ever.
The film deals with death in the most natural way treating it as just another human state and liberating it from the clutches of heightened tragedy. The directors violent rebellion against the church is less pronounced but puts in an appearance nonetheless as he indulges the idea of resurrection of body. One of the central characters long thought dead reappears and expresses her desire to color and style her hair before she can elucidate the more mstical reasons for her return.
The plot is full of twists and turns, secrets and mysteries- embroiling cancer, incest, ghosts, murder and the ills of tv. It is often improbable but that is of little concern given that it is merely a tool for the director to get to the heart of his matter- the soul and spirit of women.
And in laying bare their soul, he lays bare the soul of Spain through History. In a blink and miss shot there are turbines that dot the skyline. Clearly much has changed in La Mancha from the times of Quixote’s windmills but the essence of the small town- its superstitions and madness are preserved as if from the times of Cervantes.
Volver means coming back and true to its name the film marks the coming back of this unsurpassable Spanish master to his home town, his comedic roots, to Carmen Maura who he casts for the first time after a fallout 16 yrs ago but most importantly to the world of women he has created with his previous films- a world where they survive boisterously balancing reality and romance- The only of its kind where it is always great to be a woman.
(The article originally appeared in Mumbai Mirror)
Monday, September 8, 2008
An Inconvinient Truth- The beginning of tomorrow
Davis Guggenheim’s documentary on global warming takes us through a power-point lecture-demonstration that Al-Gore, (America’s ex-presidential candidate), has been presenting world over. This is interspersed with stark, arresting images of the effects of the phenomenon worldwide and occasionally a glimpse from Gore’s personal journey. With the lec-dem taking the lion’s share of the 96 minutes, the film comes across more as an educational tool than a cinema-verite feature. But it is this no-nonsense realism that makes the film an ideal vehicle for its very pressing issues.
Contrary to misconception the film is not about Al-Gore. Although it is as enriched as compromised by his association. He is the known face of the film and perhaps its main draw. But it cannot be overlooked that some very urgent facts stand to be dismissed as politically motivated simply because he is presenting them.
However, Gore comes prepared for the potential attack. He presents his arguments without being patronizing, boring or dry.
Gore never cosily assumes that we’re with him in accepting the theory, and instead lays out the evidence piece by comprehensible piece to build to a conclusion that is hard to dispute.
He has all the graphs and charts and time-lapsed photographs and peer-reviewed scientific studies he needs to underscore his message about where the planet is heading. He debunks the theory that these changes are “cyclical” and confronts head-on the “doubts” skeptics may have about the issue.
In the course of Gore’s lecture tour comes the unsurprising news that Bush aide Philip Cooney routinely red-penciled the conclusions of impartial government scientists; when exposed, he resigned and took a job with ExxonMobil. But despite his clear agenda, Gore is careful not to turn this film into a party-political broadcast for Al Gore or the US Democratic party. He presents saving the planet as a moral, cross-party, worldwide issue rather than casting stones at the current US administration (despite the fact that he has good reason to). Facts and observations that could point a direct finger are few, far-between and presented objectively. The closest he gets to political commentary is to rhetorically ask, “Is it possible we should prepare for any threats other than terrorism?”
That’s not to say that the film is flawless. It is conveniently soft on its examination of the Clinton-Gore administration’s less than glowing record on the environment. And it does put Gore on a pedestal, with interludes about his personal history that feel less than relevant and carefully designed to elicit sympathy for the man. That said, his spiritual journey is indeed transparent and compelling in its own right.
The film is by no means all you need to know about global warming, but like all good pedagogy, whets the appetite for further study, which is a very desirable achievement in this case.
Besides, is ultimately hard to fault a film that for all its dismal urgency does not leave you devastated by its implications. Gore ends the film with a series of practical solutions for the problem, convincing you that you can do something about it.
It is surprisingly absorbing for its format and even entertaining in bits, no less thanks to Gore’s disarming sprinklings of humour. He introduces himself saying, “I used to be the next president of the USofA.” One can only hope he gets the vote on this one.
(The article originally appeared in Mumbai Mirror)
Contrary to misconception the film is not about Al-Gore. Although it is as enriched as compromised by his association. He is the known face of the film and perhaps its main draw. But it cannot be overlooked that some very urgent facts stand to be dismissed as politically motivated simply because he is presenting them.
However, Gore comes prepared for the potential attack. He presents his arguments without being patronizing, boring or dry.
Gore never cosily assumes that we’re with him in accepting the theory, and instead lays out the evidence piece by comprehensible piece to build to a conclusion that is hard to dispute.
He has all the graphs and charts and time-lapsed photographs and peer-reviewed scientific studies he needs to underscore his message about where the planet is heading. He debunks the theory that these changes are “cyclical” and confronts head-on the “doubts” skeptics may have about the issue.
In the course of Gore’s lecture tour comes the unsurprising news that Bush aide Philip Cooney routinely red-penciled the conclusions of impartial government scientists; when exposed, he resigned and took a job with ExxonMobil. But despite his clear agenda, Gore is careful not to turn this film into a party-political broadcast for Al Gore or the US Democratic party. He presents saving the planet as a moral, cross-party, worldwide issue rather than casting stones at the current US administration (despite the fact that he has good reason to). Facts and observations that could point a direct finger are few, far-between and presented objectively. The closest he gets to political commentary is to rhetorically ask, “Is it possible we should prepare for any threats other than terrorism?”
That’s not to say that the film is flawless. It is conveniently soft on its examination of the Clinton-Gore administration’s less than glowing record on the environment. And it does put Gore on a pedestal, with interludes about his personal history that feel less than relevant and carefully designed to elicit sympathy for the man. That said, his spiritual journey is indeed transparent and compelling in its own right.
The film is by no means all you need to know about global warming, but like all good pedagogy, whets the appetite for further study, which is a very desirable achievement in this case.
Besides, is ultimately hard to fault a film that for all its dismal urgency does not leave you devastated by its implications. Gore ends the film with a series of practical solutions for the problem, convincing you that you can do something about it.
It is surprisingly absorbing for its format and even entertaining in bits, no less thanks to Gore’s disarming sprinklings of humour. He introduces himself saying, “I used to be the next president of the USofA.” One can only hope he gets the vote on this one.
(The article originally appeared in Mumbai Mirror)
Tendulkar Ani Hinsa- deconstructing Vijay
Atul Pethe’s documentary explores the overt and covert expressions of violence in Tendulkar’s plays like Ghashiram Kotwal, Gidhade, Sakharam Binder and Shantata by piecing together interviews of the man himself and his famous contemporaries like Vijaya Mehta, Dr. Lagoo, Nilu Phule, G.P.Deshpande, Ram Bapat and Satyadev Dubey.
The presentation and format of the film is elementary but the investigation aims to be thorough. The idea is to understand the influences and process of thought, philosophy and creation in a man who is nothing short of a legend of our times.
His contemporaries mostly discuss their understanding of his works from a close vantage point. The real fodder for thought is in their more critical bytes, largely because those are the only quarters from which criticism against Tendulkar will be tolerated in the literary circles. His supporters have gradually turned as vehement as his detractors used to be when he emerged as a radical provocateur of social conscience in the 50’s. Bapat and Mehta in particular do not mince words in expressing their opinion on his reluctance to take more active ideological stands on issues.
Tendulkar himself speaks with practiced candour on his writing. He is not afraid of being questioned or judged but the interviewer Makrand Sathe, for all his research stops short of digging for more than enthusiasts already know.
Tendulkar was foremost, a journalist. This is reflected in the absence of absurdity, cynicism and even a pointed stand in some of his works. Not all his plays were masterpieces. Even those that were may have lost some sheen to sentimentality and time. But they remain important as works that reflect the history, psychology and morality of a society and its art through the most important years in the birth of our nation.
The real meat is in some rare archival footage of his plays and the moments when we can look over a writer we know to see a man who inspires with what he reveals and conceals. The real ‘greatness’ of Tendulkar lies in being a middle class man who dared to question and did not let the stature of his legend overshadow his quest to make sense out of our times. There is a strong case to be made in favour of imbibing that spirit irrespective of what talent one may have or lack. He believed that the important thing was to observe- anyone could write.
In the film, he is still growing, assimilating, thinking and angry- as alive as most people can only aspire to be. That is why watching this film a month or so after his demise might pinch. Death rarely takes away so much.
(The article originally appeared in Mumbai Mirror)
The presentation and format of the film is elementary but the investigation aims to be thorough. The idea is to understand the influences and process of thought, philosophy and creation in a man who is nothing short of a legend of our times.
His contemporaries mostly discuss their understanding of his works from a close vantage point. The real fodder for thought is in their more critical bytes, largely because those are the only quarters from which criticism against Tendulkar will be tolerated in the literary circles. His supporters have gradually turned as vehement as his detractors used to be when he emerged as a radical provocateur of social conscience in the 50’s. Bapat and Mehta in particular do not mince words in expressing their opinion on his reluctance to take more active ideological stands on issues.
Tendulkar himself speaks with practiced candour on his writing. He is not afraid of being questioned or judged but the interviewer Makrand Sathe, for all his research stops short of digging for more than enthusiasts already know.
Tendulkar was foremost, a journalist. This is reflected in the absence of absurdity, cynicism and even a pointed stand in some of his works. Not all his plays were masterpieces. Even those that were may have lost some sheen to sentimentality and time. But they remain important as works that reflect the history, psychology and morality of a society and its art through the most important years in the birth of our nation.
The real meat is in some rare archival footage of his plays and the moments when we can look over a writer we know to see a man who inspires with what he reveals and conceals. The real ‘greatness’ of Tendulkar lies in being a middle class man who dared to question and did not let the stature of his legend overshadow his quest to make sense out of our times. There is a strong case to be made in favour of imbibing that spirit irrespective of what talent one may have or lack. He believed that the important thing was to observe- anyone could write.
In the film, he is still growing, assimilating, thinking and angry- as alive as most people can only aspire to be. That is why watching this film a month or so after his demise might pinch. Death rarely takes away so much.
(The article originally appeared in Mumbai Mirror)
John And Jane- Twisted Tongues
At some point in Ashim Ahluwalia’s many award winner, John and Jane, a call centre trainer recounts the core ‘values’ of the average American - privacy, progress, sense of achievement, patriotism, pursuit of happiness and individualism. The rest of the film echoes the hollowness of these very words in the context of call centre employees in Mumbai catering to clients half the world away in an alien accent with alien names.
The film observes the lives of 6 young Mumbaikars who are negotiating with the humiliations and perks of a call centre job and hoping to ride on it to a place far away from their murky existences.
Now much has been said about the disquieting colonialisation by the American dream and the terrifying loss of cultural identity and pride in a country eager to immerse itself in the globalization and growth agenda vis-à-vis the BPO situation. If this film stands out it is because its form is engaging, impressionistic and immaculately controlled. It lays out its characters precisely and gently, trying as best as art can, not to judge, sympathize or appear voyeuristic. Lovingly framed images create a dreamlike edgy world, ready to host the strange lives of a generation caught between itself and pre-packaged well-being.
Naturally the film was well received abroad by critics and audiences tantalizingly intrigued and satisfactorily moved by the discovery that their annoying telemarketers have a name, face and disturbing lives in cramped decaying apartments to go with it. But if you live in Mumbai this Powai-Malad reality is about as shocking as the leper that hammers at your car window for a buck at traffic signals. The odd shifts, assumed names and accents cannot keep it from flowing into the mouth of the mainstream Bombay story. The American dream is indistinguishable from its Indian version today and Ahluwalia’s protagonists are aspiring for and struggling with the same things that afflict most of the city’s youth irrespective of where and who they are working for. Bombay has distorted politically and culturally the identity of its inhabitants as it has infused with possibilities the idea of India. It promises what it does on its own terms and leaves you scampering for an inner anchor. There are two ways to deal with its extremes - smoke pot and abuse like Glen does or dream with naïve denial about the promise of a better tomorrow like Irani does.
Either way, the film’s characters are going to mirror more the lives of you and your friends than a unique disposition created by the economic exchange between India and America. And unless it moves someone enough to take on the forces of globalization or abandon it all and move to the mountains, its greatest use will be to provide you with the comfort of knowing that in this city lonely as you might be, you’re never alone in your soup.
(The article originally apppeared in Mumbai Mirror)
The film observes the lives of 6 young Mumbaikars who are negotiating with the humiliations and perks of a call centre job and hoping to ride on it to a place far away from their murky existences.
Now much has been said about the disquieting colonialisation by the American dream and the terrifying loss of cultural identity and pride in a country eager to immerse itself in the globalization and growth agenda vis-à-vis the BPO situation. If this film stands out it is because its form is engaging, impressionistic and immaculately controlled. It lays out its characters precisely and gently, trying as best as art can, not to judge, sympathize or appear voyeuristic. Lovingly framed images create a dreamlike edgy world, ready to host the strange lives of a generation caught between itself and pre-packaged well-being.
Naturally the film was well received abroad by critics and audiences tantalizingly intrigued and satisfactorily moved by the discovery that their annoying telemarketers have a name, face and disturbing lives in cramped decaying apartments to go with it. But if you live in Mumbai this Powai-Malad reality is about as shocking as the leper that hammers at your car window for a buck at traffic signals. The odd shifts, assumed names and accents cannot keep it from flowing into the mouth of the mainstream Bombay story. The American dream is indistinguishable from its Indian version today and Ahluwalia’s protagonists are aspiring for and struggling with the same things that afflict most of the city’s youth irrespective of where and who they are working for. Bombay has distorted politically and culturally the identity of its inhabitants as it has infused with possibilities the idea of India. It promises what it does on its own terms and leaves you scampering for an inner anchor. There are two ways to deal with its extremes - smoke pot and abuse like Glen does or dream with naïve denial about the promise of a better tomorrow like Irani does.
Either way, the film’s characters are going to mirror more the lives of you and your friends than a unique disposition created by the economic exchange between India and America. And unless it moves someone enough to take on the forces of globalization or abandon it all and move to the mountains, its greatest use will be to provide you with the comfort of knowing that in this city lonely as you might be, you’re never alone in your soup.
(The article originally apppeared in Mumbai Mirror)
HRIDAYATTEIEYKKU ORU MADAKAYATHRA - Father Land
Hridayatteieykku Oru Madakayathra (directed by Abhinand Kumar) is a simple story of conflict between a father and son on a personal level, and tradition and progress and civilizations on the other. A young man defies his father’s wish to see him don the colours of Kathakali and takes a journey to the west in search of a ‘better’ life.
As the title suggests the film traces his path back home. Given the constraints of time, there is but a couple of lines from his letters that convey the disenchantment that precedes his return. The reasons are predictable and personal- a broken relationship and such, at least on the surface. The lack of incisive detailing is partly compensated for by leaving room for the imagination to take in a range of emotions.
The screenplay of the film is pleasantly clever in places. A journalist is used as a device for the father to deliver a touching monologue on his dying art and the camera pans over various stages of his applying dramatic makeup to create engrossing visuals for the voiceover of the son’s letters home. The brevity of expression of the last shot is emphatic and skilful.
But for all the ways in which the film milks the short film genre, there is a feeling of incompleteness that lingers. The audience is witness to a journey but not a participant in it. It is a relief that the film does not subscribe to the commonplace twist in the tale formula ever so popular in the genre, but perhaps falters in choosing a subject that envisages a not just a great depth but also a formidable width of human issues.
(The article originally appeared in Mumbai Mirror)
As the title suggests the film traces his path back home. Given the constraints of time, there is but a couple of lines from his letters that convey the disenchantment that precedes his return. The reasons are predictable and personal- a broken relationship and such, at least on the surface. The lack of incisive detailing is partly compensated for by leaving room for the imagination to take in a range of emotions.
The screenplay of the film is pleasantly clever in places. A journalist is used as a device for the father to deliver a touching monologue on his dying art and the camera pans over various stages of his applying dramatic makeup to create engrossing visuals for the voiceover of the son’s letters home. The brevity of expression of the last shot is emphatic and skilful.
But for all the ways in which the film milks the short film genre, there is a feeling of incompleteness that lingers. The audience is witness to a journey but not a participant in it. It is a relief that the film does not subscribe to the commonplace twist in the tale formula ever so popular in the genre, but perhaps falters in choosing a subject that envisages a not just a great depth but also a formidable width of human issues.
(The article originally appeared in Mumbai Mirror)
Jashne Azadi- The Apple That Fell Out Of Menon's Basket
Last week police officials seized copies of Jashn-e-azadi minutes before its screening for a handful of cineastes. Their accusation- the film is controversial and sensitive. But how can a film on Kashmir be otherwise?
Kak’s film begins with asking what India’s independence means to the people of Kashmir. Clearly not much given that the streets during flag hoisting are completely deserted. The journey from this point explores some of the probable reasons for this boycott. The camera takes in the beauty of the valley that mocks at the ruins of the city and the broken spirits of those left to mourn the ever increasing tribe of the dead. The harsh testimonies of grave diggers, PTSD patients and civil rights activists are punctuated by poetry from the land. These voices hoarse with pain, underpin the essential lament of the film. Why should there be any Indian worth his claim on Kashmir then who will grudge this film its portrayal of plight?
Many argue that the film ignores the massacre and consequential exodus of Kashmiri pandits from the valley after a token mention. But a filmmaker is free to choose his focus. The validity of his representation of those who are left in the valley should not be conditional to the representation of anything else.
However, the arguments in favour of the film’s objectivity are compromised perhaps by its commentary. The infinite layers of social, historical, human and political debate which the frames reveal are oversimplified by a narration which does not attempt political correctness. “Domination is not victory”, the narrator reiterates. In this context, speeches by JKLF leaders and other such radicals acquire a tinge of support even though there is some attempt to bring out the rehabilitation work the army claims to be involved in. The questions about the dignity of a people made to prove their identities in their own land are most perturbing. But within the ambit of this subject perhaps falls the role of Pakistan in fuelling the unrest and the balancing act of an underpaid army constantly at war with an unseen enemy. By denying space to these, the film risks taking an unqualified pro separatist stand without empathizing with the quandary of a nation who could be faced with 28 such very bloody demands in the future.
But political debates cannot outweigh the humanitarian and artistic concerns of a film which highlights the pathos of people living in the shadow of guns, vanquished and hopeless. Freedom of expression is a right qualified by public safety and security by law. But in this case there is hardly a security issue. The intellectual level at which this film speaks can only incite public debate which is the need of the hour.
A letter from a senior inspector of police asks the filmmaker to obtain a censor certificate before screening the film anywhere. The law is dead letter and for years it has been interpreted to suppress human rights. The area between public screenings (which require censor clearance) and private ones is grey, and therein lay the scope to interpret the law in favor of liberalism for once. But the verdict in this case has been announced without a trial. The censor board will be another battle for the filmmaker against democratorship.
(This article originally appeared in Mumbai Mirror)
Kak’s film begins with asking what India’s independence means to the people of Kashmir. Clearly not much given that the streets during flag hoisting are completely deserted. The journey from this point explores some of the probable reasons for this boycott. The camera takes in the beauty of the valley that mocks at the ruins of the city and the broken spirits of those left to mourn the ever increasing tribe of the dead. The harsh testimonies of grave diggers, PTSD patients and civil rights activists are punctuated by poetry from the land. These voices hoarse with pain, underpin the essential lament of the film. Why should there be any Indian worth his claim on Kashmir then who will grudge this film its portrayal of plight?
Many argue that the film ignores the massacre and consequential exodus of Kashmiri pandits from the valley after a token mention. But a filmmaker is free to choose his focus. The validity of his representation of those who are left in the valley should not be conditional to the representation of anything else.
However, the arguments in favour of the film’s objectivity are compromised perhaps by its commentary. The infinite layers of social, historical, human and political debate which the frames reveal are oversimplified by a narration which does not attempt political correctness. “Domination is not victory”, the narrator reiterates. In this context, speeches by JKLF leaders and other such radicals acquire a tinge of support even though there is some attempt to bring out the rehabilitation work the army claims to be involved in. The questions about the dignity of a people made to prove their identities in their own land are most perturbing. But within the ambit of this subject perhaps falls the role of Pakistan in fuelling the unrest and the balancing act of an underpaid army constantly at war with an unseen enemy. By denying space to these, the film risks taking an unqualified pro separatist stand without empathizing with the quandary of a nation who could be faced with 28 such very bloody demands in the future.
But political debates cannot outweigh the humanitarian and artistic concerns of a film which highlights the pathos of people living in the shadow of guns, vanquished and hopeless. Freedom of expression is a right qualified by public safety and security by law. But in this case there is hardly a security issue. The intellectual level at which this film speaks can only incite public debate which is the need of the hour.
A letter from a senior inspector of police asks the filmmaker to obtain a censor certificate before screening the film anywhere. The law is dead letter and for years it has been interpreted to suppress human rights. The area between public screenings (which require censor clearance) and private ones is grey, and therein lay the scope to interpret the law in favor of liberalism for once. But the verdict in this case has been announced without a trial. The censor board will be another battle for the filmmaker against democratorship.
(This article originally appeared in Mumbai Mirror)
I Am The Very Beautiful- Scars Ablaze
“International” bar singer Ranu is the plot of Shyamal Karmakar’s film I am the very beautiful. She ‘survives’ the impoverished life of a refugee as a child in Kolkata, an abduction as a teenager, early pregnancy, suicide attempts and a series of broken relationships to emerge as the ‘triumphant’ subject of the film. Her ‘victory’ is elusive even as she struggles to define it in terms of the flat she has procured in Mumbai after ‘hard work’ or the new found ‘respect’ she has among her relatives who once disowned and despised her footloose ways. Yet Ranu is not a tragic character. Somewhere in her subconscious she must know, as her audience will understand, that her real victory lies in her having made her journey.
Karmakar has filmed his subject over six years and edited the material to create a documentary which questions its traditions. Right from the start the filmmaker establishes his intimacy and involvement. He is not a scholar dissecting his subject comprehensively with objectivity and equanimity but a character in the film who makes us a part of his quandary about this woman. He objectifies her, checks her out voyeuristically, gazes at her burnt body compassionately, disbelieves her, attempts to understand her, never letting his audience think he is in a better position than they are. He is determined not to be her saviour in any way and labours to point out that he is as much an exploitative man as any other in Ranu’s life. His relationship with her is less organic and more what he had decided it should be perhaps. But it is important in the scheme of this film, which means well and is conscious of that. It is self assured. As a result it does not attempt to justify, emancipate or patronize Ranu or her like. It does not worry about political correctness either. It is not afraid to barge into Ranu’s world as it is.
Ranu tells the stories of her life, etching out her longing, loss, pride, pathos and abandon. The filmmaker and the audience can never be sure if she is telling the truth and more than once she gives them reason to doubt her (her conversation about age or her education in IIT for instance). But there is no attempt to probe further, for facts and figures are not the point of this film. It is a portrait of Ranu, her unforgettable smile, her inimitable ways; and as the camera gets closer it begins to blur the social and economic boundaries that differentiate her from any other Indian woman. The taboo of what Ranu does for a living cannot hold her story apart for long. Not every Indian woman may have had to prostitute herself but she has fought the double edged sword of dependence, moral dilemmas, ancient traditions, religious sanctions, vulnerability and at times even her own desires to make a small place where she can house her own individual identity. She knows Ranu and will find it easy to join in her celebration.
(The article originally appeared in Mumbai Mirror)
Karmakar has filmed his subject over six years and edited the material to create a documentary which questions its traditions. Right from the start the filmmaker establishes his intimacy and involvement. He is not a scholar dissecting his subject comprehensively with objectivity and equanimity but a character in the film who makes us a part of his quandary about this woman. He objectifies her, checks her out voyeuristically, gazes at her burnt body compassionately, disbelieves her, attempts to understand her, never letting his audience think he is in a better position than they are. He is determined not to be her saviour in any way and labours to point out that he is as much an exploitative man as any other in Ranu’s life. His relationship with her is less organic and more what he had decided it should be perhaps. But it is important in the scheme of this film, which means well and is conscious of that. It is self assured. As a result it does not attempt to justify, emancipate or patronize Ranu or her like. It does not worry about political correctness either. It is not afraid to barge into Ranu’s world as it is.
Ranu tells the stories of her life, etching out her longing, loss, pride, pathos and abandon. The filmmaker and the audience can never be sure if she is telling the truth and more than once she gives them reason to doubt her (her conversation about age or her education in IIT for instance). But there is no attempt to probe further, for facts and figures are not the point of this film. It is a portrait of Ranu, her unforgettable smile, her inimitable ways; and as the camera gets closer it begins to blur the social and economic boundaries that differentiate her from any other Indian woman. The taboo of what Ranu does for a living cannot hold her story apart for long. Not every Indian woman may have had to prostitute herself but she has fought the double edged sword of dependence, moral dilemmas, ancient traditions, religious sanctions, vulnerability and at times even her own desires to make a small place where she can house her own individual identity. She knows Ranu and will find it easy to join in her celebration.
(The article originally appeared in Mumbai Mirror)
City Of Photos- The Map Of Memory
Nishtha Jain in City Of Photos takes a journey with her viewers to photo studios in Calcutta and Ahmedabad to understand what people seek in their pictures and what the age old tradition of being photographed signifies. Ordinary people in pictures that she explores begin to seem like artists projecting themselves as an idea, experiencing with sensuality the world of their desires which exists ahead of their ability to fully comprehend it. The edgy existence of unmade mental images with crisp memories translates into portraits that become a strong edifice of the cities, and their social history. They are also symbols of the dignity and pathos that harmoniously co exist in the human life, so boundlessly capable of imaginings and so hopelessly bound by shortcomings. The photographs in this film are not high art but when looked into they bear testimony that a good photograph is about depth of feeling, not field. These photographs transcend their reality but do not deny it. They are the one opportunity to outlive even death but might just as well bear witness to how much is lost. In the sudden joy of a lover united with his beloved by photoshop lurks the shadow of a doomed romance. These documents accurately record age, fashion and expression against backdrops which fictionalize the cityscape and ameliorate its harsh realities. Their invaluable role in marriages, travel, evidence and death is duly acknowledged but they achieve their full potential in providing a world, delicious with desirable “sin” for women who indulge in their hobby of being photographed as their only escape from preordained mundane destinies. Jain’s tribute to these still images in motion picture, an irony she consciously emphasizes, is enhanced by humour, nostalgia and surrealism. The film is approached emotionally but does not lack intellectual fervor or study. The psychological and social aspects of photography and the ability of its history to become a commentary on the way we are, surface strongly but quietly.
It is in its ambiguity and subtlety that the film triumphs. The mood captures the romance and morbidity of the subject under consideration and the narrative and soundtrack sift the layers gently. Someone once said, “Every picture has at least two people in it, the subject and the photographer”. The filmmaker is similarly palpable in this documentary. Instead of dishing out a presumptuous treatise on photography, Jain simply captures what fascinates her personally and presents it such that we might be able to see bits of our own selves in it. She respects the ambivalence of the concept at hand and does not bother with sharpness which Henri Cartier-Bresson once called a “bourgeois concept”. Strong tensions between the pleasurable and disturbing pervade the film as they do our lives and aesthetic orders and by allowing them their space and expression, the filmmaker celebrates all three.
(This article originally appeared in Mumbai Mirror)
It is in its ambiguity and subtlety that the film triumphs. The mood captures the romance and morbidity of the subject under consideration and the narrative and soundtrack sift the layers gently. Someone once said, “Every picture has at least two people in it, the subject and the photographer”. The filmmaker is similarly palpable in this documentary. Instead of dishing out a presumptuous treatise on photography, Jain simply captures what fascinates her personally and presents it such that we might be able to see bits of our own selves in it. She respects the ambivalence of the concept at hand and does not bother with sharpness which Henri Cartier-Bresson once called a “bourgeois concept”. Strong tensions between the pleasurable and disturbing pervade the film as they do our lives and aesthetic orders and by allowing them their space and expression, the filmmaker celebrates all three.
(This article originally appeared in Mumbai Mirror)
6 Yards To Democracy- unruffling questions
On the 12th of april 2004 senior BJP leader Lalji Tandon’s friends decided to celebrate his birthday by distributing 12000 saris to poor women from in and around Lucknow. Hundreds of women lined up early that morning for the booty. Allegedly at some point, perhaps impatient with the never ending queue, the organizers started flinging saris at the crowd. A stampede ensued killing 21 women and an infant and injuring several others. Filmmaker Nishtha Jain visited the area with a camera and her crew curios about what really happened that morning and why. Her journey and its findings are documented in her film 6 yards to democracy. Starting from testimonies by women who survived the incident and relatives of those who did not, Jain widens the angle to look at the state of women in the concerned area in general- perhaps seeking to understand why they might have risked their lives for the gift of a single sari.
Jain’s film is not a well thought out argument, but a journey of discovery that she invites you to take with her. It is neither comprehensive, nor cohesive and while looking into housing and employment problems when the filmmaker’s gaze gets transfixed at the lack of sanitation and latrines for women, you are stuck there with her engaging in her quiet outrage against the abominable indignation of their daily lives. Clearly the conditions that so stump her might offer no new insight to those in the know but the sincerity of her reaction should move them afresh. Jain’s vision is permeated by a lyrical humanity that is often missing in documentaries of this nature, whose agenda tends to become clinical and impersonal. The women she speaks with are not merely witnesses in favor of her argument but characters she gives space and time to. Tender shots of them marveling awkwardly at the grandeur of a five star hotel, applying make-up or singing a bittersweet folk song layer their testimonies. But the journey into their personal spaces is at the cost of certain facts that do not find their place in the film. And it is precisely those facts that amplify its relevance.
Attempting to ‘buy’ votes violates the election commission’s code of conduct. Even though news channels gave a lot of attention to the event it was mostly in the form of political cross fire between personalities. As with election coverage in general, the real issues of the people concerned were lost in airing campaign trails and opinion polls. The official death toll was debated to be half of the real number. Lalji Tandon was given a clean chit and the others accused got out on bail by manipulating legal technicalities. The educated television viewer was too busy deciding the fate of film stars to protest. The accused issued a statement claiming the stampede was a result of the hysterical stupidity of the victims. Maybe they have a point. If our poorer classes still believe democracy has something to offer them, even a free sari, they must be stupid.
(the article originally appeared in Mumbai Mirror)
Jain’s film is not a well thought out argument, but a journey of discovery that she invites you to take with her. It is neither comprehensive, nor cohesive and while looking into housing and employment problems when the filmmaker’s gaze gets transfixed at the lack of sanitation and latrines for women, you are stuck there with her engaging in her quiet outrage against the abominable indignation of their daily lives. Clearly the conditions that so stump her might offer no new insight to those in the know but the sincerity of her reaction should move them afresh. Jain’s vision is permeated by a lyrical humanity that is often missing in documentaries of this nature, whose agenda tends to become clinical and impersonal. The women she speaks with are not merely witnesses in favor of her argument but characters she gives space and time to. Tender shots of them marveling awkwardly at the grandeur of a five star hotel, applying make-up or singing a bittersweet folk song layer their testimonies. But the journey into their personal spaces is at the cost of certain facts that do not find their place in the film. And it is precisely those facts that amplify its relevance.
Attempting to ‘buy’ votes violates the election commission’s code of conduct. Even though news channels gave a lot of attention to the event it was mostly in the form of political cross fire between personalities. As with election coverage in general, the real issues of the people concerned were lost in airing campaign trails and opinion polls. The official death toll was debated to be half of the real number. Lalji Tandon was given a clean chit and the others accused got out on bail by manipulating legal technicalities. The educated television viewer was too busy deciding the fate of film stars to protest. The accused issued a statement claiming the stampede was a result of the hysterical stupidity of the victims. Maybe they have a point. If our poorer classes still believe democracy has something to offer them, even a free sari, they must be stupid.
(the article originally appeared in Mumbai Mirror)
Salata Baladi- Nadia Kamel's journey to the heart of strife
When her young nephew hears a sermon in Cairo encouraging religious war, filmmaker Nadia Kamel takes it upon herself to acquaint him with the life of his maternal grandmother Maria and the family's hundred-year history of mixed marriages. Her effort takes the shape of a film called Salata Baladi or House Salad.
In her stories Maria reveals bits of her identity as a part Jewish, part Christian, part Muslim, Italian and Arab woman who has been an ardent communist and feminist. But much as Nadia loves these stories, their self-indulgence begins to irk her and she decides to encourage her family to travel across borders with her mother to discover, acknowledge and consolidate who they are with who they have been living as. The footage from their subsequent travels to Italy, Palestine and Israel, interspersed with their conversations and daily routine at home in Egypt is captured spontaneously and has a ‘live news feed’ feel to it. But where it can, the film makes space for the characters to make intimate acquaintance with the audience with the help of lingering images that capture them at crucial personal moments. Through the journey confusion clouds over Maria’s introspection and a volley of questions surface. Why did the World War force them to convert to Christianity? Can she reveal to her family in Egypt that she has relatives in Israel and expect them to understand her need to disregard the boycott and travel to the country? Is it right for her to? Can her half-Palestinian grandson who has no nationality get an Italian citizenship? Should he? Are the personal decisions she is about to make going to threaten her political stands? To reclaim one identity must she mar another?
The beauty of the film lies in its refraining from over-emphasizing dilemmas as it does in its courage to look for honest answers irrespective of the probability of disappointment.
Even as one watched the film, news streamed in of a massive political rally in the city with an agenda to celebrate the identity of a linguistic group. The assertion sadly was at the cost of running down other identities. A section of ‘migrants’ were thrashed and told that there is no room for them in this state if they continue to behave as ‘outsiders’. Masses of people forced to constantly realign their identities on lines of religion, caste and language at the behest of politicians spurred by vote-banks, must indeed wonder if the pre-independence dream of one nation made any sense. Their fate bears resonance in the stories of migrations told in this film that reveal identities mutilated by political discords.
Fortunately the truth about our civilization lies neither in political rhetoric nor historical texts. It nestles safely within homes where identities have merged to form families. We have only to take a long hard and true look at ourselves to disband the notions of ‘separatism’ as propagated by the politics of power.
(The article originally appeared in Mumbai Mirror)
m
In her stories Maria reveals bits of her identity as a part Jewish, part Christian, part Muslim, Italian and Arab woman who has been an ardent communist and feminist. But much as Nadia loves these stories, their self-indulgence begins to irk her and she decides to encourage her family to travel across borders with her mother to discover, acknowledge and consolidate who they are with who they have been living as. The footage from their subsequent travels to Italy, Palestine and Israel, interspersed with their conversations and daily routine at home in Egypt is captured spontaneously and has a ‘live news feed’ feel to it. But where it can, the film makes space for the characters to make intimate acquaintance with the audience with the help of lingering images that capture them at crucial personal moments. Through the journey confusion clouds over Maria’s introspection and a volley of questions surface. Why did the World War force them to convert to Christianity? Can she reveal to her family in Egypt that she has relatives in Israel and expect them to understand her need to disregard the boycott and travel to the country? Is it right for her to? Can her half-Palestinian grandson who has no nationality get an Italian citizenship? Should he? Are the personal decisions she is about to make going to threaten her political stands? To reclaim one identity must she mar another?
The beauty of the film lies in its refraining from over-emphasizing dilemmas as it does in its courage to look for honest answers irrespective of the probability of disappointment.
Even as one watched the film, news streamed in of a massive political rally in the city with an agenda to celebrate the identity of a linguistic group. The assertion sadly was at the cost of running down other identities. A section of ‘migrants’ were thrashed and told that there is no room for them in this state if they continue to behave as ‘outsiders’. Masses of people forced to constantly realign their identities on lines of religion, caste and language at the behest of politicians spurred by vote-banks, must indeed wonder if the pre-independence dream of one nation made any sense. Their fate bears resonance in the stories of migrations told in this film that reveal identities mutilated by political discords.
Fortunately the truth about our civilization lies neither in political rhetoric nor historical texts. It nestles safely within homes where identities have merged to form families. We have only to take a long hard and true look at ourselves to disband the notions of ‘separatism’ as propagated by the politics of power.
(The article originally appeared in Mumbai Mirror)
m
Jahaji Music- Playing out exile
Winds put out small fires and fuel the larger ones. The same could be said of distances and passions. Indian expatriates have struggled to hold on to a piece of their country and the struggle has often expressed itself through distinct musical sub-cultures from Birmingham to Jamaica. Surabhi Sharma’s documentary Jahaji Music follows singer Remo Fernandes as he travels into the Caribbean islands to discover the music of a culture where it has often been the means and the end of survival.
The film is mounted as an impressionistic collage of fragmented narratives, which do not always link up . The camera sets the pace for the journey with lingering long and mid shots, which soak up the city and culture scape, turning curious and intrusive when the rhythm picks up.
We drive into the heart of Trenchtown with Bob Marley’s teacher and Rastafarian philosopher Mortimo as he pays tribute to the land that nurtures the greatest of artists while remaining decrepit with poverty, violence and political neglect. The trance like beats of the steel pan (a musical instrument that “came from nothing’ when the colonial government imposed a ban on the African drum) set the mood for volatile protest songs against the system, the police and even the queen of England. There is a more uplifting chat with a visual artist in the Savannahs and dancehall queen Stacey. Denise Belafon takes us through the performance of her new song “I want an Indian man” in her characteristic saucy style and talks of the protests that followed from the Indian community as she stripped off her sari mid song.
Indians were shipped into the islands in nineteenth century and they landed with little except seeds and songs to work their way into an alien culture and country. Generations later it is hard to tell them from the majority of the population except for the pictures of Indian deities that adorn their walls and the strains of Karan Johar’s ‘Mahi Ve’ which waft around as they go about their daily chores. Popular musicians from the community have worked hard at being accepted into the local music scene and are mindful of not sounding like ‘foreigners’ when they sing. Soca and Calypso have shaped their identity and they are acutely aware of that as is evident when Rikki Jai croons “hold de Lata Mangeshkar, give me Soca” but then he follows it up promptly with Bindiya Chamkegi revamped to fit into Soca Rhythms. Clearly they are not up to abandoning their Indian cultural heritage either. Most of them do not speak or understand Indian languages but they must assimilate their popular folk and film rhythms into their music to complete their expression. Lyrics are written and translated for them by their mothers or grandfathers often. And strange as it may sound to hear “sanwariya hum hu chalab tore saath” in a distinct Caribbean accent it packs the same emotional punch as it would in non descript north Indian village.
The documentary is an emotional and musical journey worth taking. And deep in its folds lies an uncomplicated answer to the raging debate of who is the ‘real Indian’. A real Indian is someone you can take out of India but you cannot take India out of.
(The article originally appeared in Mumbai Mirror)
The film is mounted as an impressionistic collage of fragmented narratives, which do not always link up . The camera sets the pace for the journey with lingering long and mid shots, which soak up the city and culture scape, turning curious and intrusive when the rhythm picks up.
We drive into the heart of Trenchtown with Bob Marley’s teacher and Rastafarian philosopher Mortimo as he pays tribute to the land that nurtures the greatest of artists while remaining decrepit with poverty, violence and political neglect. The trance like beats of the steel pan (a musical instrument that “came from nothing’ when the colonial government imposed a ban on the African drum) set the mood for volatile protest songs against the system, the police and even the queen of England. There is a more uplifting chat with a visual artist in the Savannahs and dancehall queen Stacey. Denise Belafon takes us through the performance of her new song “I want an Indian man” in her characteristic saucy style and talks of the protests that followed from the Indian community as she stripped off her sari mid song.
Indians were shipped into the islands in nineteenth century and they landed with little except seeds and songs to work their way into an alien culture and country. Generations later it is hard to tell them from the majority of the population except for the pictures of Indian deities that adorn their walls and the strains of Karan Johar’s ‘Mahi Ve’ which waft around as they go about their daily chores. Popular musicians from the community have worked hard at being accepted into the local music scene and are mindful of not sounding like ‘foreigners’ when they sing. Soca and Calypso have shaped their identity and they are acutely aware of that as is evident when Rikki Jai croons “hold de Lata Mangeshkar, give me Soca” but then he follows it up promptly with Bindiya Chamkegi revamped to fit into Soca Rhythms. Clearly they are not up to abandoning their Indian cultural heritage either. Most of them do not speak or understand Indian languages but they must assimilate their popular folk and film rhythms into their music to complete their expression. Lyrics are written and translated for them by their mothers or grandfathers often. And strange as it may sound to hear “sanwariya hum hu chalab tore saath” in a distinct Caribbean accent it packs the same emotional punch as it would in non descript north Indian village.
The documentary is an emotional and musical journey worth taking. And deep in its folds lies an uncomplicated answer to the raging debate of who is the ‘real Indian’. A real Indian is someone you can take out of India but you cannot take India out of.
(The article originally appeared in Mumbai Mirror)
India Untouched- Stalin K charts the forbidden route
Stalin K spent 4 years traveling through this poised country of ours gathering footage to prove that the caste system propounded by scriptures nearly 4000 years ago still exists in India. Given the obviousness of the proposition, it could not have been a very tough job but what makes India Untouched a piece de resistance is the staggering range of evidence he has managed to strew together.
He covers villages and towns from southern, northern and western states and even the larger metros. There is a comprehensive account of the various forms that discrimination can take, beginning with symbolism like not being allowed to enter tea stalls and temples and having to take their shoes off in upper caste areas through issues of marriage and education, right up to the brutality of forced occupations like scavenging and violence and rape used to “show them their place”.
There are Rajput farmers and Brahmin scholars on record talking about how dalits “have no rights” and quotes from the Manusmriti which lay down these rules of segregation. Not content with exposing the rot beneath the surface of the world’s oldest religion, Stalin goes on to show that Islam, Christianity and Sikhism as they are practiced in India, are just as wrought with casteism. He follows the trail of bias into an urban hospital and the JNU. But perhaps his strongest point is made as children from various classes reiterate these values without really knowing where they come from.
Cinematically the presentation is basic with only an occasional split screen device to break the monotony. The film maintains an emotional distance from stories for most part even though there is an obvious attempt to exclude any sort of counterpoint to the thesis.
The impact is chilling but there is little in terms of insight. The film is aimed at anti affirmative action with a clear pro reservation stand but it does little to explain its merits or politics or the impact of Mandal recommendations on the issue. Besides, there might be a danger in advocating economic empowerment as the supreme solution to the problems at hand. Caste bias is a psychological issue, woven into our rituals, faith, tradition and even our names. The Brahmins and Rajputs who have lost their privy purses and economic monopoly are more now likely to tout their ‘superiority’ to rescue a floppy ego. The documentary itself shows how abusive forms of discrimination morph into “hi-tech” forms among the educated classes. Even after the reservation argument is won, you wonder, what about those who will not migrate to cities to attend college, as surely there should be some? And even those who do stand merely to be in a better position to ignore oppressors. What about their quota of dignity, pride and peace? The token hope this film offers in the end is purely romantic. There is a long way left to go and this is a good place to start for the uninitiated. But even for those who have read treatises on the issue watching the perpetration will be an experience apart- such is the power of good cinema.
(The article originally appeared in Mumbai Mirror)
He covers villages and towns from southern, northern and western states and even the larger metros. There is a comprehensive account of the various forms that discrimination can take, beginning with symbolism like not being allowed to enter tea stalls and temples and having to take their shoes off in upper caste areas through issues of marriage and education, right up to the brutality of forced occupations like scavenging and violence and rape used to “show them their place”.
There are Rajput farmers and Brahmin scholars on record talking about how dalits “have no rights” and quotes from the Manusmriti which lay down these rules of segregation. Not content with exposing the rot beneath the surface of the world’s oldest religion, Stalin goes on to show that Islam, Christianity and Sikhism as they are practiced in India, are just as wrought with casteism. He follows the trail of bias into an urban hospital and the JNU. But perhaps his strongest point is made as children from various classes reiterate these values without really knowing where they come from.
Cinematically the presentation is basic with only an occasional split screen device to break the monotony. The film maintains an emotional distance from stories for most part even though there is an obvious attempt to exclude any sort of counterpoint to the thesis.
The impact is chilling but there is little in terms of insight. The film is aimed at anti affirmative action with a clear pro reservation stand but it does little to explain its merits or politics or the impact of Mandal recommendations on the issue. Besides, there might be a danger in advocating economic empowerment as the supreme solution to the problems at hand. Caste bias is a psychological issue, woven into our rituals, faith, tradition and even our names. The Brahmins and Rajputs who have lost their privy purses and economic monopoly are more now likely to tout their ‘superiority’ to rescue a floppy ego. The documentary itself shows how abusive forms of discrimination morph into “hi-tech” forms among the educated classes. Even after the reservation argument is won, you wonder, what about those who will not migrate to cities to attend college, as surely there should be some? And even those who do stand merely to be in a better position to ignore oppressors. What about their quota of dignity, pride and peace? The token hope this film offers in the end is purely romantic. There is a long way left to go and this is a good place to start for the uninitiated. But even for those who have read treatises on the issue watching the perpetration will be an experience apart- such is the power of good cinema.
(The article originally appeared in Mumbai Mirror)
Grass- Ron Mann's Lost Leaf
Ron Mann has tried grass. He is also a much toasted documentary filmmaker in the festival and critical circles around the globe. Grass, the definitive movie on the history of marijuana laws in the USA is his baby. But there is more to this than fits in easily.
This compilation documentary pieced together from over 400 hours of footage on the most controversial drug of the 20th century is a stunning effort in historical archiving. From outtakes, campaigns and press meets of the likes of Aslinger, Carter, Nixon, La Guardia, Reagan and other powers that shaped the policies of the world’s most powerful democracy, to clips from anti-marijuana propaganda films and ‘public service’ messages that planted a taboo that cannot be weeded out, Mann has procured it all.
Breaking away from the ‘news’ format documentaries, Mann uses hardly any interviews, editing his material to precision with cheeky graphic art by former underground comic artist Paul Mavrides and a killer selection of songs on pot that propel the narrative.
In an earlier interview where Mann admitted to smoking the weed himself, he added he hardly knows anyone who doesn’t, quickly qualifying that with a joke about ‘”the kind of people he hangs out with’”. This defines his approach to the film. It is backed by some rock solid research that makes a stern case for ‘the issue’, but isn’t propagandist in a Micheal Moore sort of way. Its bias is revealed in a couple of hilarious blooper pot shots at the authorities, but for that it does not scream its decriminalization stand in your ears. It is friendly, unobtrusive and happy, quite like a pot smoker itself. The voice of the film, popularly known as Mr. Hemp for his years of activism on the subject, Woody Harrelson contributes by making sure sarcasm doesn’t bubble over his laid back know-it-all narrative.
There is as much design as philosophy in this approach though. Mann clearly wanted to make a film that gets seen and not just talked about and for that he had to make sure it does not come across positively as pro-pot and risk censorship (it is another matter that for all his precautions, people still found objectionable clips to clamp it down in a couple of places).
His wisdom is appreciated because this film is not just for dope lovers. Mann traces the history of the war against marijuana to the institutionalized racism against Mexicans who first brought in the weed. Gradually it went on to become an excuse to round up anyone who dared to think differently, from hippies to communists. It is really about unsubstantiated propaganda against the voice of reason and civil liberties that is used for political and personal gains thereby creating prejudices that destroy precious lives. Prejudices right up to the ‘war on terror’ called on grounds as dubious and familiar as the ‘war on marijuana, just as expensive and just as much more harmful than the malady it hopes to cure.
The film is naturally as valid in our country except that it would be impossible to make it here. We hardly have any public debate on the topic that could be archived. As one writes, the authorities in Mumbai have taken it upon themselves to decide what we should not be watching and banned cheerleading for cricket. It might be a while before we can protest against debatable moral and cultural policing. Until then, it will suffice to consider that history is in the outtakes; the rest of it is a bedtime story.
(The article originally appeared in Mumbai Mirror)
This compilation documentary pieced together from over 400 hours of footage on the most controversial drug of the 20th century is a stunning effort in historical archiving. From outtakes, campaigns and press meets of the likes of Aslinger, Carter, Nixon, La Guardia, Reagan and other powers that shaped the policies of the world’s most powerful democracy, to clips from anti-marijuana propaganda films and ‘public service’ messages that planted a taboo that cannot be weeded out, Mann has procured it all.
Breaking away from the ‘news’ format documentaries, Mann uses hardly any interviews, editing his material to precision with cheeky graphic art by former underground comic artist Paul Mavrides and a killer selection of songs on pot that propel the narrative.
In an earlier interview where Mann admitted to smoking the weed himself, he added he hardly knows anyone who doesn’t, quickly qualifying that with a joke about ‘”the kind of people he hangs out with’”. This defines his approach to the film. It is backed by some rock solid research that makes a stern case for ‘the issue’, but isn’t propagandist in a Micheal Moore sort of way. Its bias is revealed in a couple of hilarious blooper pot shots at the authorities, but for that it does not scream its decriminalization stand in your ears. It is friendly, unobtrusive and happy, quite like a pot smoker itself. The voice of the film, popularly known as Mr. Hemp for his years of activism on the subject, Woody Harrelson contributes by making sure sarcasm doesn’t bubble over his laid back know-it-all narrative.
There is as much design as philosophy in this approach though. Mann clearly wanted to make a film that gets seen and not just talked about and for that he had to make sure it does not come across positively as pro-pot and risk censorship (it is another matter that for all his precautions, people still found objectionable clips to clamp it down in a couple of places).
His wisdom is appreciated because this film is not just for dope lovers. Mann traces the history of the war against marijuana to the institutionalized racism against Mexicans who first brought in the weed. Gradually it went on to become an excuse to round up anyone who dared to think differently, from hippies to communists. It is really about unsubstantiated propaganda against the voice of reason and civil liberties that is used for political and personal gains thereby creating prejudices that destroy precious lives. Prejudices right up to the ‘war on terror’ called on grounds as dubious and familiar as the ‘war on marijuana, just as expensive and just as much more harmful than the malady it hopes to cure.
The film is naturally as valid in our country except that it would be impossible to make it here. We hardly have any public debate on the topic that could be archived. As one writes, the authorities in Mumbai have taken it upon themselves to decide what we should not be watching and banned cheerleading for cricket. It might be a while before we can protest against debatable moral and cultural policing. Until then, it will suffice to consider that history is in the outtakes; the rest of it is a bedtime story.
(The article originally appeared in Mumbai Mirror)
68 PAGES-Viral Dogma
68 Pages (directed by Sridhar Rangayan) is a mid length feature about the lives of 5 HIV+ people from various social backgrounds as seen through the eyes of a counselor.
For all its good intentions, it reeks of a low budget amateur film with uneasy close-ups of characters with bad makeup, stilted dialogue and a tacky background score. Given that form is the vehicle of content, it might just have helped to take the film an extra mile to those who are not eagerly awaiting word on social ‘issues’.
That regret aside, the content itself is substantial and researched. There are a number of important points being made about social and moral discrimination that marginalizes certain practices and choices, forcing them to exist in dark corners where the risk of disease looms large. The side effect of skimming over innumerable issues like the closure of dance bars, middle class hypocrisy, plight of sex workers, stigma associated with disease and personal betrayal and loss, is that the film is left with no time to get to the heart of any one matter. Eventually it settles down in an uncomfortable place between a personal story about human frailties and triumphs and a ‘message-cum-information’ film succeeding only partially as both.
There is no denying that AIDS awareness is still largely an unaccomplished project in India but curiously most efforts in this direction stop at the cursory ‘wear condoms, avoid drugs and do not discriminate’ message. At a distance from the truth, it continues to be seen as a gay/prostitute/druggie illness. If one was to get tested, they would realize how even the best of doctors end up providing sketchy and even contradictory information about testing methods, results, risks etc.
The film is being showcased as part of the gay pride month across the country. Arguably HIV is marginally a bigger concern for the gay community and the illness adds to the greater stigma associated with different sexual orientation. But while no one is debating against a life of dignity for all, ‘pride’ has a slightly different shade of meaning. It entails taking a step further than fighting for fundamental rights- a step in the direction of celebrating who one is. The community has its task cut out in struggling against dated social and legal mores for the rest of the year. Maybe this one month, they should damn it all and revel in the thrill and discovery of the unique perspective and being they are gifted with-irrespective of who is approving and who not.
(The article originally appeared in Mumbai Mirror)
For all its good intentions, it reeks of a low budget amateur film with uneasy close-ups of characters with bad makeup, stilted dialogue and a tacky background score. Given that form is the vehicle of content, it might just have helped to take the film an extra mile to those who are not eagerly awaiting word on social ‘issues’.
That regret aside, the content itself is substantial and researched. There are a number of important points being made about social and moral discrimination that marginalizes certain practices and choices, forcing them to exist in dark corners where the risk of disease looms large. The side effect of skimming over innumerable issues like the closure of dance bars, middle class hypocrisy, plight of sex workers, stigma associated with disease and personal betrayal and loss, is that the film is left with no time to get to the heart of any one matter. Eventually it settles down in an uncomfortable place between a personal story about human frailties and triumphs and a ‘message-cum-information’ film succeeding only partially as both.
There is no denying that AIDS awareness is still largely an unaccomplished project in India but curiously most efforts in this direction stop at the cursory ‘wear condoms, avoid drugs and do not discriminate’ message. At a distance from the truth, it continues to be seen as a gay/prostitute/druggie illness. If one was to get tested, they would realize how even the best of doctors end up providing sketchy and even contradictory information about testing methods, results, risks etc.
The film is being showcased as part of the gay pride month across the country. Arguably HIV is marginally a bigger concern for the gay community and the illness adds to the greater stigma associated with different sexual orientation. But while no one is debating against a life of dignity for all, ‘pride’ has a slightly different shade of meaning. It entails taking a step further than fighting for fundamental rights- a step in the direction of celebrating who one is. The community has its task cut out in struggling against dated social and legal mores for the rest of the year. Maybe this one month, they should damn it all and revel in the thrill and discovery of the unique perspective and being they are gifted with-irrespective of who is approving and who not.
(The article originally appeared in Mumbai Mirror)
OSCARS 2008
There was only one better place to be than on the Oscar red carpet this 24th of February, and that was inside the minds of the Academy voters. The nominations were announced in January amidst great speculation and a greater frenzy characteristically surrounded the final awards. Adding to the nail-biting suspense this year was the Hollywood writers’ strike, threatening to plague the ceremony with actors and directors refusing to attend to show solidarity. But after that great cloud dispersed mid February, nothing stood between cineastes and the Oscar celebrations, which usually includes viewings and re-viewings of nominated films over passionate debates. So what has the Academy got us talking about this time? Well, clearly plenty, because even after the results are out, the thrill of the race lingers on; particularly this year, for it was truly wide open. The most lavish post-award party might have been called off to express concern over the screenwriters’ struggle over the past months, but there is nothing to stop us from raising a toast to the contenders who made a great show.
Comedies are apparently not very popular with the jury and the last in the genre to get the big prize was Shakespeare In Love. But Annie Hall is a more direct precursor of the film Juno (a wisecracker about a pregnant teen’s journey to motherhood), which swept up nominations, perhaps in support of the burgeoning popularity of the indie-film movement, (stepping in the shoes of last year’s Little Miss Sunshine). Whether the Academy is setting a trend it intends to follow is anyone’s guess, but there is no doubting the merits of the film itself. It takes the coming of age genre and spins it for a sparkling human twist that gives a new lease of life to clichés. While the nominations included the more prestigious best picture and director categories, the real aces of the film are up the sleeves of Ellen Page and Diablo Cody, nominated in the Best Actress and Best Original Screenplay categories. In Juno, Cody creates a singular distinct character whose depth, wisdom and individuality shine through her rebellious attitude. Page plays it with a perfection that has made her the darling of critics this year. But it was Cody who took the big prize for both of them.
The question at the heart of Michael Clayton (some other first and last name success stories at the Oscars include Annie Hall, Tom Jones and Forrest Gump), is where the professional responsibility of a lawyer to defend his client gives way to a larger societal interest in question. The biggest nomination from this corporate killer thriller was that of George Clooney in the Best Actor category for his turn as the titular character, an attorney who can fix everything but his own life. Clooney who has previously been nominated in the Best Supporting Actor and Writer/ Director categories for Syriana and Good Night, Good Luck respectively, scores a well deserved nomination for the big one this year. He etches his character with a heady mix of star quality and acting talent, his world-weary eyes revealing, intriguing and captivating all at once. Tony Gilroy’s original screenplay and direction also win recommendations. The screenplay does pay its tribute to Hollywood with neatly fitting pieces towards the end, but largely floats above expectations with the sleekness and intelligence of its design. But the big win of the film went to Tilda Swinton nominated in the Best Supporting Actress category. She is driven as a ruthless hard-hitting attorney but the response to her performance was largely underplayed through the year and so the nomination came as a bit of a surprise and the award even more so.
Atonement, the British love and loss drama matched Micheal Clayton’s score with its 7 nominations, including nods for the Best Adapted Screenplay, Film and Best Supporting Actress. In an intimate story about three people lies bare the boundless landscape of human frailties, truth, love and betrayal- grotesque and splendid. The scenes are crafted with precision and the film glides between its epic proportions and personal perspective effortlessly. But Atonement, perhaps a victim of early hype, made more headlines for what it lost when the nominees were announced. Surprisingly off the list were the very well appreciated lead pair Keira Knightley and James Mcevoy and director Joe Wright. But the nomination of 13 year old Saoirse Ronan in the Best Supporting Actress category made up the excitement alright. The first timer stood on one end of a spectrum of nominees which included octogenarians like Ruby Dee- nominated in the Best Supporting Actress category for her bit in American Gangster as Denzel Washington’s on-screen mother. That nod though was more for her lifetime in the movies than her indistinct part in the film itself - a trend in line with the Academy’s choice of Scorcese as the Best Director last year for his out-of-form film The Departed. Atonement was but one of the many in the nominations list that has been adapted from a novel, pointing to the fact that the real scorers of this show are novelists from outside the industry. It did not win in any of the major categories sadly, but remains one of the must-watch movies of the year irrespectively.
The highest number of nominations this year were reserved for No Country For Old Men and There Will Be Blood. The Academy clearly never gets enough of grim violent dramas with large body counts. The former marks the return to form of the Coen Brothers - for fans who swore it will never get better than Fargo, this year it finally did. No Country is more than a thriller - it is a study in characters, the most unforgettable of who is Chigurh, a blood-curdling killer who joins the chase for a man absconding with drug money he chanced upon. Spanish actor Javier Bardem deserved more than a nomination for his portrayal of the unforgettable bloodhound and got it. There are many movies that mirror No Country’s concern for a soulless America’s crazed lust for an easy fix, but hardly any as literate and cinematically brilliant. The performances, dialogues and just about everything else is of such top order that the wait for genius to strike again has been well worth it. The cherry on the cake was the award sweep for the brothers who went home with the best director, film and adapted screenplay trophies.
Paul Thomas Anderson’s There Will Be Blood (from the Bible quote “there will be blood in Egypt”) unravels in a series of perfectly structured narratives, as a strange historical epic at the centre of which is the satanic Plainview, an oilman who will stop at nothing to succeed. Daniel Day Lewis’s depiction is such a tour de force that there was little debate about his chances on the big night. And the Academy did not disappoint him. The other important statuette it clinched was for best cinematography. Anderson may have lost the gold to the Coens but he has topped his career so far with this film, which is more than a comment on the excesses of capitalism - a cinematic journey that drills deep within your conscience.
Cate Blanchett joined the rank of none other than Al Pacino (who was nominated for two of the Godfather series) with nominations for both Elizabeth movies, the second this year in the Best Actress category. The film may have been one of the biggest disappointments of the year but her turn survived the debacle and rode straight into the list of top honors. But clearly more favoured in the category was veteran Julie Christie in Away From Her, as a victim of Alzheimer’s who having forgotten most of her earlier life with her husband forms a deep attachment with a fellow patient in the care home. Christie’s performance is so layered with lucidity and strength that it transforms the film from a piteous portrait to an inspired work of exploration. The award to the surprise of many however went to Marion Cotillard for her portrayal of singer Edith Piaf in La Vie En Rose, an otherwise conventional and even a tad confusing biopic about yet another tortured musical genius. Cotillard plays Piaf from a very young age to the later years of her life with a kind of power that rescues the film from its inconsistencies.
The greater dissapointment however was Blanchett’s losing to Swinton in the Best Supporting Actress category where she was pitched for her portrayal of Bob Dylan in the imaginative biopic I Am Not There. On the brighter side, her double nomination in the Best Actress and Supporting Actress categories is an award in itself. The Oscar notwithstanding, she is the toast of filmdom this year with talent unusually honed and perfected in times of ‘naturalism’.
While India’s official entry to the Oscars Eklavya failed to make it to the final five (The Counterfeiters from Austria won the best foreign language film Oscar), India was duly represented by Shekhar Kapur’s Elizabeth sequel, which scored a nomination in the best actress category and won an Oscar for the best costume design. Incidentally Julie Christie was born in India as well, but that would be going a bit too far to make our Oscar connections.
What is interesting is that almost all the biggies this year went to films that didn’t quite shimmy at the box office (with the exception perhaps of Bourne Ultimatum that picked up some leftovers like achievement in editing). While commercial success has often clearly been important to the academy this year the focus was purely on cinema- as they see it ofcourse.
At the centre of all the Oscar talk is a single thought - It is hard to tell what makes the cut with the Academy. The absence of names like Brad Pitt, Angelina Jolie, Sean Penn, Russel Crowe and Tim Burton in the nominations list might have disappointed many but there were an equal number of surprise inclusions. While speculations about how the personal lives, public behaviour, networking skills and box office status of contenders affects their chances, there is one thing for sure- the night dazzled and bewitched with its traditional glamour. Maybe its all for the best then for who knows, if we did know what goes on inside the minds of those at the helm of things, we might never have enjoyed the show as we did.
(This article originally appeared in Beautiful People)
Comedies are apparently not very popular with the jury and the last in the genre to get the big prize was Shakespeare In Love. But Annie Hall is a more direct precursor of the film Juno (a wisecracker about a pregnant teen’s journey to motherhood), which swept up nominations, perhaps in support of the burgeoning popularity of the indie-film movement, (stepping in the shoes of last year’s Little Miss Sunshine). Whether the Academy is setting a trend it intends to follow is anyone’s guess, but there is no doubting the merits of the film itself. It takes the coming of age genre and spins it for a sparkling human twist that gives a new lease of life to clichés. While the nominations included the more prestigious best picture and director categories, the real aces of the film are up the sleeves of Ellen Page and Diablo Cody, nominated in the Best Actress and Best Original Screenplay categories. In Juno, Cody creates a singular distinct character whose depth, wisdom and individuality shine through her rebellious attitude. Page plays it with a perfection that has made her the darling of critics this year. But it was Cody who took the big prize for both of them.
The question at the heart of Michael Clayton (some other first and last name success stories at the Oscars include Annie Hall, Tom Jones and Forrest Gump), is where the professional responsibility of a lawyer to defend his client gives way to a larger societal interest in question. The biggest nomination from this corporate killer thriller was that of George Clooney in the Best Actor category for his turn as the titular character, an attorney who can fix everything but his own life. Clooney who has previously been nominated in the Best Supporting Actor and Writer/ Director categories for Syriana and Good Night, Good Luck respectively, scores a well deserved nomination for the big one this year. He etches his character with a heady mix of star quality and acting talent, his world-weary eyes revealing, intriguing and captivating all at once. Tony Gilroy’s original screenplay and direction also win recommendations. The screenplay does pay its tribute to Hollywood with neatly fitting pieces towards the end, but largely floats above expectations with the sleekness and intelligence of its design. But the big win of the film went to Tilda Swinton nominated in the Best Supporting Actress category. She is driven as a ruthless hard-hitting attorney but the response to her performance was largely underplayed through the year and so the nomination came as a bit of a surprise and the award even more so.
Atonement, the British love and loss drama matched Micheal Clayton’s score with its 7 nominations, including nods for the Best Adapted Screenplay, Film and Best Supporting Actress. In an intimate story about three people lies bare the boundless landscape of human frailties, truth, love and betrayal- grotesque and splendid. The scenes are crafted with precision and the film glides between its epic proportions and personal perspective effortlessly. But Atonement, perhaps a victim of early hype, made more headlines for what it lost when the nominees were announced. Surprisingly off the list were the very well appreciated lead pair Keira Knightley and James Mcevoy and director Joe Wright. But the nomination of 13 year old Saoirse Ronan in the Best Supporting Actress category made up the excitement alright. The first timer stood on one end of a spectrum of nominees which included octogenarians like Ruby Dee- nominated in the Best Supporting Actress category for her bit in American Gangster as Denzel Washington’s on-screen mother. That nod though was more for her lifetime in the movies than her indistinct part in the film itself - a trend in line with the Academy’s choice of Scorcese as the Best Director last year for his out-of-form film The Departed. Atonement was but one of the many in the nominations list that has been adapted from a novel, pointing to the fact that the real scorers of this show are novelists from outside the industry. It did not win in any of the major categories sadly, but remains one of the must-watch movies of the year irrespectively.
The highest number of nominations this year were reserved for No Country For Old Men and There Will Be Blood. The Academy clearly never gets enough of grim violent dramas with large body counts. The former marks the return to form of the Coen Brothers - for fans who swore it will never get better than Fargo, this year it finally did. No Country is more than a thriller - it is a study in characters, the most unforgettable of who is Chigurh, a blood-curdling killer who joins the chase for a man absconding with drug money he chanced upon. Spanish actor Javier Bardem deserved more than a nomination for his portrayal of the unforgettable bloodhound and got it. There are many movies that mirror No Country’s concern for a soulless America’s crazed lust for an easy fix, but hardly any as literate and cinematically brilliant. The performances, dialogues and just about everything else is of such top order that the wait for genius to strike again has been well worth it. The cherry on the cake was the award sweep for the brothers who went home with the best director, film and adapted screenplay trophies.
Paul Thomas Anderson’s There Will Be Blood (from the Bible quote “there will be blood in Egypt”) unravels in a series of perfectly structured narratives, as a strange historical epic at the centre of which is the satanic Plainview, an oilman who will stop at nothing to succeed. Daniel Day Lewis’s depiction is such a tour de force that there was little debate about his chances on the big night. And the Academy did not disappoint him. The other important statuette it clinched was for best cinematography. Anderson may have lost the gold to the Coens but he has topped his career so far with this film, which is more than a comment on the excesses of capitalism - a cinematic journey that drills deep within your conscience.
Cate Blanchett joined the rank of none other than Al Pacino (who was nominated for two of the Godfather series) with nominations for both Elizabeth movies, the second this year in the Best Actress category. The film may have been one of the biggest disappointments of the year but her turn survived the debacle and rode straight into the list of top honors. But clearly more favoured in the category was veteran Julie Christie in Away From Her, as a victim of Alzheimer’s who having forgotten most of her earlier life with her husband forms a deep attachment with a fellow patient in the care home. Christie’s performance is so layered with lucidity and strength that it transforms the film from a piteous portrait to an inspired work of exploration. The award to the surprise of many however went to Marion Cotillard for her portrayal of singer Edith Piaf in La Vie En Rose, an otherwise conventional and even a tad confusing biopic about yet another tortured musical genius. Cotillard plays Piaf from a very young age to the later years of her life with a kind of power that rescues the film from its inconsistencies.
The greater dissapointment however was Blanchett’s losing to Swinton in the Best Supporting Actress category where she was pitched for her portrayal of Bob Dylan in the imaginative biopic I Am Not There. On the brighter side, her double nomination in the Best Actress and Supporting Actress categories is an award in itself. The Oscar notwithstanding, she is the toast of filmdom this year with talent unusually honed and perfected in times of ‘naturalism’.
While India’s official entry to the Oscars Eklavya failed to make it to the final five (The Counterfeiters from Austria won the best foreign language film Oscar), India was duly represented by Shekhar Kapur’s Elizabeth sequel, which scored a nomination in the best actress category and won an Oscar for the best costume design. Incidentally Julie Christie was born in India as well, but that would be going a bit too far to make our Oscar connections.
What is interesting is that almost all the biggies this year went to films that didn’t quite shimmy at the box office (with the exception perhaps of Bourne Ultimatum that picked up some leftovers like achievement in editing). While commercial success has often clearly been important to the academy this year the focus was purely on cinema- as they see it ofcourse.
At the centre of all the Oscar talk is a single thought - It is hard to tell what makes the cut with the Academy. The absence of names like Brad Pitt, Angelina Jolie, Sean Penn, Russel Crowe and Tim Burton in the nominations list might have disappointed many but there were an equal number of surprise inclusions. While speculations about how the personal lives, public behaviour, networking skills and box office status of contenders affects their chances, there is one thing for sure- the night dazzled and bewitched with its traditional glamour. Maybe its all for the best then for who knows, if we did know what goes on inside the minds of those at the helm of things, we might never have enjoyed the show as we did.
(This article originally appeared in Beautiful People)
My Country My Life- Advani Launches His Memoir
The stage was set on the 25th afternoon to receive L. K. Advani at a city bookstore for the launch of his autobiography. Social butterflies on thaw flitted around giddily excited at the importance of the occasion. There was ample talk about who is or not invited to the dinner later, what the publisher has got right or otherwise, how the Oberoi would have been a far better venue etc. but what united the self-proclaimed elite crowd was a much flaunted disregard for the majority at the book launch- clubbed under a broad suspect group called the media. The latter for its part, did what they could - exploit their ‘scheduled caste’ status to the hilt, push, shove and get their job done.
Amidst the near hilarious chaos the man of the moment walked in and took his seat. As all attention effortlessly shifted to him, over the next hour he spoke about why he wrote the book, what he sees for India ahead in time and some related anecdotes therein.
A lot is being said about how rare it is in India for an active politician to publish his memoirs. And Advani is not just active - he is the leader of the opposition and the prime ministerial candidate of the NDA in what is being widely perceived as a possible election year. Aside from inviting controversies galore, the book is bound to influence his chances for the big post. But then, Advani is synonymous with dynamism, individualistic acts of faith (no pun intended) and some well-calculated gambles beneath it all.
Only, it was hard to spot the seasoned politician in the man who sat on the dais. He was warm, witty and brief. What he spoke came from his conviction. His belief and pride in his country could move a cynic. Clearly he is one of the last remaining leaders in India who has at least partly been spurred by ideology, its merits aside. His persona as a happy man not confused by the current anarchy of vote -bank politics; as a thinking man’s politician still sensitive to ideas, was towering. As a precious legacy of this nation and as an insightful participant in its history he made an endearing impression.
Then came the final question of the day from an “admirer”- the one about Gujarat. Advani said that Modi’s ‘raj’ is ‘su-raj, the correct successor of ‘swaraj’ and that good governance had won the latter another election. He brazenly refrained from commenting on the massacre sections of this country are struggling to forget and the conference was called to an end. If you wanted to believe he could not possibly have condoned it, you would have to look elsewhere.
Earlier in the afternoon he had spoken of the essential conflict between happiness and meaning in life. Happiness lies in living in the moment; for meaning one must re-inhabit the past and contextualize the future. Happiness that afternoon lay in inheriting our past from a very grand old man without wondering how it might have been different.
Amidst the near hilarious chaos the man of the moment walked in and took his seat. As all attention effortlessly shifted to him, over the next hour he spoke about why he wrote the book, what he sees for India ahead in time and some related anecdotes therein.
A lot is being said about how rare it is in India for an active politician to publish his memoirs. And Advani is not just active - he is the leader of the opposition and the prime ministerial candidate of the NDA in what is being widely perceived as a possible election year. Aside from inviting controversies galore, the book is bound to influence his chances for the big post. But then, Advani is synonymous with dynamism, individualistic acts of faith (no pun intended) and some well-calculated gambles beneath it all.
Only, it was hard to spot the seasoned politician in the man who sat on the dais. He was warm, witty and brief. What he spoke came from his conviction. His belief and pride in his country could move a cynic. Clearly he is one of the last remaining leaders in India who has at least partly been spurred by ideology, its merits aside. His persona as a happy man not confused by the current anarchy of vote -bank politics; as a thinking man’s politician still sensitive to ideas, was towering. As a precious legacy of this nation and as an insightful participant in its history he made an endearing impression.
Then came the final question of the day from an “admirer”- the one about Gujarat. Advani said that Modi’s ‘raj’ is ‘su-raj, the correct successor of ‘swaraj’ and that good governance had won the latter another election. He brazenly refrained from commenting on the massacre sections of this country are struggling to forget and the conference was called to an end. If you wanted to believe he could not possibly have condoned it, you would have to look elsewhere.
Earlier in the afternoon he had spoken of the essential conflict between happiness and meaning in life. Happiness lies in living in the moment; for meaning one must re-inhabit the past and contextualize the future. Happiness that afternoon lay in inheriting our past from a very grand old man without wondering how it might have been different.
PONDICHERRY- Comment Francais Est Cela
Pondicherry is part of the holy trinity of Indian tourism with Goa and Rajasthan. A former French colony, its relatively recent French past is trumpeted through glossy brochures that promise you a glimpse of the capital of food, film, fashion and ultimate European snobbery for an overall price less that the airport tax at Paris.
As you negotiate with the merciless Chennai traffic, street names you cannot pronounce or remember, and taxi drivers who are religiously rude, you clutch on to that Pondhicherry Guide for dear life and dream of the exotic French names that fill its pages. Names as difficult to pronounce as those in Chennai but infinitely more inviting to minds steeped in the charms of Godard, Voltaire, Flaubert and Proust (in fact one of the most prominent streets on the map is named after noted dramatist, author and Nobel winner Romain Rolland).
But after over three hours on the road when you finally read the sign ‘Welcome To Pondicherry’, the landscape doesn’t magically transform into a Parisian suburb or French countryside. Jayalalitha and Karunanidhi are still struggling to outsmile each other from lifesize hoardings and the street is clogged with ramshackle stores selling every conceivable coconut product. We had entered the city through its Tamil quarter, the wasteland of locals that once surrounded the island of French revelry within.
Fighting a surge of disappointment and doom, we made our way to the French quarter and were relieved to see a dramatic shift of cityscape. The filth gone, the streets neatly cobbled and rows of candy-coloured homes with white fences and romantic verandahs greeted our dreamy eyes and we began to ask our way to Hotel De L’Orient on Rue Romain Rolland in our best faux French accents.
Over the next couple of days we were to discover that not a single person you will encounter anywhere (except the odd French tourist wondering if all this is French what is he) can comprehend let alone pronounce the fancy French names unless they are broken into a catchword and heavily Tamil-ised.
Anyway, now settled in the breathtakingly restored and uniquely designed French property all that was left to do was seek the ghost of the foreign culture. Since the most foreign film running in the halls packed with gaudy Tamil capers was Jodhaa Akbar and the most fashionable item on sale a second-hand Marks and Spencer dress discarded by a broke Brit, our best way in was going to be food. Everywhere we were assured that the finest French cuisine is available around the corner at Rendezvous, the tourist Mecca in town. With visions of Champs-Elysees cafes and Van Gogh’s café at night floating in the mind we climbed the stairs to what turned out to be a Goa-beach-shack in Pondicherry. Plastic chairs, a blackboard scribbled with ‘specials’, tubelights and innumerable un-bathed foreigners- this was a repast to hippie-land, not French elegance. The most French dishes on the vegetarian menu were stuffed pancakes and a cucumber and tomoato salad with ‘french’ dressing (it is also amusingly their highest selling dish), so we settled for mash, fries and vegetarian gratin (of dubious ‘continental food genre’). The place is owned by the very affable Vincent Mathias from Mumbai who has managed to retain a chef or two from the French times to stir up the couple of French dishes, like baked oysters and fresh duck liver pate, that dot the meat/seafood menu. But even their flavour is greatly compromised by the paucity of authentic ingredients. The affordable pricing of the menu makes it impossible for him to source expensive ingredients from abroad. Satsanga and Le Club, the other two most populous haunts of the quarter are similarly done up shacks. While the former has a mammoth menu with a number of dishes sounding promisingly French, they are almost never available. Instead you’re served pasta, steak and garlic bread, edible only for their grease. Le Club used to be run by the Allaince Francais but the current management serves a multi-cuisine fare with Chinese, Indian and continental prepared apparently with interchangeable spices.
We figured we might have to turn to the posh hotels for a true experience and made our way to Le Dupleix. Chef Kumar at their restaurant admitted that authentic French food was hardly to be found anywhere in the city now. Influences from Europe, Vietnam and India had seeped into their dishes too and bearing testimony to his admission was the alarming curry leaf and lentil tarka on our custard fish. Next in line was the Promenade, a modern airy sea-front property, where we skipped the regular coffee-shop buffet and looked for the fare advertised as chef Lionel Wincent’s specialty. The menu again was multi-cuisine and the French dishes had been adapted to local tastes. The advertised chef was nowhere to be seen and had apparently left two years ago. The local chefs who claimed to have designed the menu were not sure how to define what they were serving.
Expectedly tired we gave up our pursuit and settled for a meal at our own hotel on the final evening. The co-chairman Francis Wacziarg, of the Neemrana group that owns the place being French we mildly hoped to be less disappointed. But that was settled as soon as our cheese platter arrived with a bottle of Indian wine from a very sparse wine menu (so much for French!). Even the cheeses were not from France and dominating the palette was a disgusting bland cheddar generously studded with roasted cumin seeds. The main course had a large section of ‘Creole’ food. Creole is a term generally associated with a kind of cuisine that is popular in Louisiana but the Puducherry-ites have appropriated it to describe anything they make with south Indian spices, which is not too rich and hot. Their claim to the term is derived from a group of people (of mixed Asian and European blood) called Creoles who were settlers in the French colony.
Sitting on the concrete seafront later that evening at the tourism department run La Café (snacking on croissants that tasted like egg-stuffed gujiyas) and watching children climbing a gigantic Gandhi statue, we talked of how much one could enjoy this very unique town if they were not burdened with expectations of French exotica. There was another thought that brought a smile- the idea of India might be elusive but one thing is for sure, wherever we go and whatever comes to us, we will steep in our colours till it is undistinguishable. We know no subtler love.
As you negotiate with the merciless Chennai traffic, street names you cannot pronounce or remember, and taxi drivers who are religiously rude, you clutch on to that Pondhicherry Guide for dear life and dream of the exotic French names that fill its pages. Names as difficult to pronounce as those in Chennai but infinitely more inviting to minds steeped in the charms of Godard, Voltaire, Flaubert and Proust (in fact one of the most prominent streets on the map is named after noted dramatist, author and Nobel winner Romain Rolland).
But after over three hours on the road when you finally read the sign ‘Welcome To Pondicherry’, the landscape doesn’t magically transform into a Parisian suburb or French countryside. Jayalalitha and Karunanidhi are still struggling to outsmile each other from lifesize hoardings and the street is clogged with ramshackle stores selling every conceivable coconut product. We had entered the city through its Tamil quarter, the wasteland of locals that once surrounded the island of French revelry within.
Fighting a surge of disappointment and doom, we made our way to the French quarter and were relieved to see a dramatic shift of cityscape. The filth gone, the streets neatly cobbled and rows of candy-coloured homes with white fences and romantic verandahs greeted our dreamy eyes and we began to ask our way to Hotel De L’Orient on Rue Romain Rolland in our best faux French accents.
Over the next couple of days we were to discover that not a single person you will encounter anywhere (except the odd French tourist wondering if all this is French what is he) can comprehend let alone pronounce the fancy French names unless they are broken into a catchword and heavily Tamil-ised.
Anyway, now settled in the breathtakingly restored and uniquely designed French property all that was left to do was seek the ghost of the foreign culture. Since the most foreign film running in the halls packed with gaudy Tamil capers was Jodhaa Akbar and the most fashionable item on sale a second-hand Marks and Spencer dress discarded by a broke Brit, our best way in was going to be food. Everywhere we were assured that the finest French cuisine is available around the corner at Rendezvous, the tourist Mecca in town. With visions of Champs-Elysees cafes and Van Gogh’s café at night floating in the mind we climbed the stairs to what turned out to be a Goa-beach-shack in Pondicherry. Plastic chairs, a blackboard scribbled with ‘specials’, tubelights and innumerable un-bathed foreigners- this was a repast to hippie-land, not French elegance. The most French dishes on the vegetarian menu were stuffed pancakes and a cucumber and tomoato salad with ‘french’ dressing (it is also amusingly their highest selling dish), so we settled for mash, fries and vegetarian gratin (of dubious ‘continental food genre’). The place is owned by the very affable Vincent Mathias from Mumbai who has managed to retain a chef or two from the French times to stir up the couple of French dishes, like baked oysters and fresh duck liver pate, that dot the meat/seafood menu. But even their flavour is greatly compromised by the paucity of authentic ingredients. The affordable pricing of the menu makes it impossible for him to source expensive ingredients from abroad. Satsanga and Le Club, the other two most populous haunts of the quarter are similarly done up shacks. While the former has a mammoth menu with a number of dishes sounding promisingly French, they are almost never available. Instead you’re served pasta, steak and garlic bread, edible only for their grease. Le Club used to be run by the Allaince Francais but the current management serves a multi-cuisine fare with Chinese, Indian and continental prepared apparently with interchangeable spices.
We figured we might have to turn to the posh hotels for a true experience and made our way to Le Dupleix. Chef Kumar at their restaurant admitted that authentic French food was hardly to be found anywhere in the city now. Influences from Europe, Vietnam and India had seeped into their dishes too and bearing testimony to his admission was the alarming curry leaf and lentil tarka on our custard fish. Next in line was the Promenade, a modern airy sea-front property, where we skipped the regular coffee-shop buffet and looked for the fare advertised as chef Lionel Wincent’s specialty. The menu again was multi-cuisine and the French dishes had been adapted to local tastes. The advertised chef was nowhere to be seen and had apparently left two years ago. The local chefs who claimed to have designed the menu were not sure how to define what they were serving.
Expectedly tired we gave up our pursuit and settled for a meal at our own hotel on the final evening. The co-chairman Francis Wacziarg, of the Neemrana group that owns the place being French we mildly hoped to be less disappointed. But that was settled as soon as our cheese platter arrived with a bottle of Indian wine from a very sparse wine menu (so much for French!). Even the cheeses were not from France and dominating the palette was a disgusting bland cheddar generously studded with roasted cumin seeds. The main course had a large section of ‘Creole’ food. Creole is a term generally associated with a kind of cuisine that is popular in Louisiana but the Puducherry-ites have appropriated it to describe anything they make with south Indian spices, which is not too rich and hot. Their claim to the term is derived from a group of people (of mixed Asian and European blood) called Creoles who were settlers in the French colony.
Sitting on the concrete seafront later that evening at the tourism department run La Café (snacking on croissants that tasted like egg-stuffed gujiyas) and watching children climbing a gigantic Gandhi statue, we talked of how much one could enjoy this very unique town if they were not burdened with expectations of French exotica. There was another thought that brought a smile- the idea of India might be elusive but one thing is for sure, wherever we go and whatever comes to us, we will steep in our colours till it is undistinguishable. We know no subtler love.
Friday, September 5, 2008
A MARRIAGE OF CULTURES
One of those best of Madan Mohan collections has him speaking about his craft. With a characteristic understated passion he recounted what it took to craft a melody. The result was work that was sophisticated and accomplished, popular at the time and classic ever since. Why is it that today’s Indian finds it so hard to create what might be popular and artistically/intellectually gratifying? Why has the gulf between sensible critical acclaim and mass appeal widened beyond comprehension when it comes to art in general and cinema in particular?
We are negotiating with a very important curb in our history where economic growth, dominance and discrepancy are the preoccupation in all quarters. Are we making any classics along the way though? In these times of the pettiest of bloody politics and a surging feel-good factor despite of it, what is happening to our art?
Bed and Board is a classic as nearly all films directed by Francois Truffaut are thought to be. It is a deceptively simple tale of a marriage and its graph principally. Antoine is married to a violinist and lives out his days in a quaint neighborhood dyeing flowers for a living. Their blissfully ordinary existence is threatened when Antoine embarks on a nearly inexplicable affair with a Japanese woman. Drawn apart (after a dramatic scene in which his wife on discovery of his infidelity greets him in a horrific madame butterfly getup), they are nonetheless unable to settle down without one another and come back together soon enough. This ‘end’ however is happy in only a skeptical sort of way as they are shown not to live ‘happily ever after’ but slip into a life of stable bickering indifference.
Truffaut’s classic brings to mind our cinematic middle class spokesperson Aziz Mirza’s Chalte Chalte or atleast the second half of it.
After reliving his Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge role in a less flamboyant, more vulnerable avatar, Shahrukh Khan(Raj again) who only ever plays a superstar, settles down in a middle class neighbourhood in Mumbai with his much different wife, Priya.
The ordinariness of their life is shown among familiar character sketches of ‘regular people’ reminiscent of the ‘Nukkad’ life. The wife cooks, cleans, shops for veggies while anda-walas and dhobis walk in and out of her tiny apartment. The husband does his job, hangs with his buddies, comes back home to bicker with wife or woo her with his boyish charm. The break here is not an extra marital affair but Raj’s brash, complexed mindset. He is jealous, loud and feels inferior at the drop of a hat. In both films the ‘fault’ comes from the husband but it was too much to expect a hindi film hero to cross the sacred line of sexual commitment up until Karan Johar’s rebellious but misguided Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna. Nonetheless Raj is grey and real. He broods dramatically and displays only melancholic shades of anger, depression and longing after the wife leaves. Naturally Truffaut is not given to such show of undiluted emotion. Antoine’s journey is highly personal and internal - his attachment to his wife is palpable but never obvious. Equally stark is the wife’s ‘forgiveness’ of her husband in the end in contrast to Chalte Chalte’s traditional teary climax (replete with sukhwinder singh’s heart rendering high pitch). The end is happier here despite bickering thrown in for good measure, but then anything would be happy after that melodramatic climax at the airport, no less.
It would be easy to see, Mirza made Bed and Board within the Bollywood formula (not implying he copied it. It is a theme often visited by writers/filmmakers and common enough not to attract insinuations of plagiarism). But beneath the obvious conclusion is another story - that of our cultural psychology and philosophy. Evidence is simply in the names of the films. Bed and Board, is as stoic as the film- a demystification on the institution of marriage. It intends to reveal the shallow waters of a much-touted social more and strengthens its case with a strong disillusioning end. Chalte Chalte is more poetic (borrowed from one hindi film song or another), conveying a sense of journey, its mystery and even a hint of fatalism, linking up with its own end brimming with ras. The significance of rasas infact is an Indian cultural obsession from time immemorial. Its unpopularity in the west can be gauged by considering there is no equivalent word in the language for it. the closest one can come is a literal ‘syrupy’ which has derogatory intonations. Bed and Board perhaps unintentionally addresses France’s, rather Europe’s fascination with existentialism. In the end it all means little. Chalte Chalte is rooted deeply in india’s unshakeable romanticism that springs from the abundant faith in our DNA. We are the children of God (and literally too, there are castes a dozen claiming descent from one or the other avatar of the holy trinity) and religion is our single-minded passion. Marriage like all else is tied up with it and therefore sacrosanct (to be fair there is little India that is not sacrosanct in some way or the other, even rats). In the final moments of the climax Raj gives away his Allah charm to his wife. This moves her sufficiently to return home and say, “my place in life is with you”. Religion, fatalism and an pursuit of emotional intelligence underpin the formula to audience appreciation. We go to the cinema “leaving our brains at home” (a popular phrase coined by Indian critics to deride/describe most Indian masala movies), but we take our hearts along and how. You can titillate us all you want but you’re not a bumper hit unless you move us, shake us. The difference in Chalte Chalte and Bed and Board is of bad and good cinema, undoubtedly. But the concept of good and bad cinema is derived intellectually in India from the west. But marriages were made in India. Like heaven was.
We are negotiating with a very important curb in our history where economic growth, dominance and discrepancy are the preoccupation in all quarters. Are we making any classics along the way though? In these times of the pettiest of bloody politics and a surging feel-good factor despite of it, what is happening to our art?
Bed and Board is a classic as nearly all films directed by Francois Truffaut are thought to be. It is a deceptively simple tale of a marriage and its graph principally. Antoine is married to a violinist and lives out his days in a quaint neighborhood dyeing flowers for a living. Their blissfully ordinary existence is threatened when Antoine embarks on a nearly inexplicable affair with a Japanese woman. Drawn apart (after a dramatic scene in which his wife on discovery of his infidelity greets him in a horrific madame butterfly getup), they are nonetheless unable to settle down without one another and come back together soon enough. This ‘end’ however is happy in only a skeptical sort of way as they are shown not to live ‘happily ever after’ but slip into a life of stable bickering indifference.
Truffaut’s classic brings to mind our cinematic middle class spokesperson Aziz Mirza’s Chalte Chalte or atleast the second half of it.
After reliving his Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge role in a less flamboyant, more vulnerable avatar, Shahrukh Khan(Raj again) who only ever plays a superstar, settles down in a middle class neighbourhood in Mumbai with his much different wife, Priya.
The ordinariness of their life is shown among familiar character sketches of ‘regular people’ reminiscent of the ‘Nukkad’ life. The wife cooks, cleans, shops for veggies while anda-walas and dhobis walk in and out of her tiny apartment. The husband does his job, hangs with his buddies, comes back home to bicker with wife or woo her with his boyish charm. The break here is not an extra marital affair but Raj’s brash, complexed mindset. He is jealous, loud and feels inferior at the drop of a hat. In both films the ‘fault’ comes from the husband but it was too much to expect a hindi film hero to cross the sacred line of sexual commitment up until Karan Johar’s rebellious but misguided Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna. Nonetheless Raj is grey and real. He broods dramatically and displays only melancholic shades of anger, depression and longing after the wife leaves. Naturally Truffaut is not given to such show of undiluted emotion. Antoine’s journey is highly personal and internal - his attachment to his wife is palpable but never obvious. Equally stark is the wife’s ‘forgiveness’ of her husband in the end in contrast to Chalte Chalte’s traditional teary climax (replete with sukhwinder singh’s heart rendering high pitch). The end is happier here despite bickering thrown in for good measure, but then anything would be happy after that melodramatic climax at the airport, no less.
It would be easy to see, Mirza made Bed and Board within the Bollywood formula (not implying he copied it. It is a theme often visited by writers/filmmakers and common enough not to attract insinuations of plagiarism). But beneath the obvious conclusion is another story - that of our cultural psychology and philosophy. Evidence is simply in the names of the films. Bed and Board, is as stoic as the film- a demystification on the institution of marriage. It intends to reveal the shallow waters of a much-touted social more and strengthens its case with a strong disillusioning end. Chalte Chalte is more poetic (borrowed from one hindi film song or another), conveying a sense of journey, its mystery and even a hint of fatalism, linking up with its own end brimming with ras. The significance of rasas infact is an Indian cultural obsession from time immemorial. Its unpopularity in the west can be gauged by considering there is no equivalent word in the language for it. the closest one can come is a literal ‘syrupy’ which has derogatory intonations. Bed and Board perhaps unintentionally addresses France’s, rather Europe’s fascination with existentialism. In the end it all means little. Chalte Chalte is rooted deeply in india’s unshakeable romanticism that springs from the abundant faith in our DNA. We are the children of God (and literally too, there are castes a dozen claiming descent from one or the other avatar of the holy trinity) and religion is our single-minded passion. Marriage like all else is tied up with it and therefore sacrosanct (to be fair there is little India that is not sacrosanct in some way or the other, even rats). In the final moments of the climax Raj gives away his Allah charm to his wife. This moves her sufficiently to return home and say, “my place in life is with you”. Religion, fatalism and an pursuit of emotional intelligence underpin the formula to audience appreciation. We go to the cinema “leaving our brains at home” (a popular phrase coined by Indian critics to deride/describe most Indian masala movies), but we take our hearts along and how. You can titillate us all you want but you’re not a bumper hit unless you move us, shake us. The difference in Chalte Chalte and Bed and Board is of bad and good cinema, undoubtedly. But the concept of good and bad cinema is derived intellectually in India from the west. But marriages were made in India. Like heaven was.
(This article originally appears on www.passionforcinema.com)
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