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)
Monday, September 8, 2008
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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