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)

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)

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)


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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)

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)

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)

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)