The road less travelled...'Highway'

I had a profoundly cathartic experience while watching 'Highway'. It was when Veera and Mahabir are in the mountains, and they reach a house and she says, "Yeh tau mera ghar hai, mujhe hamesha se hi aisa ghar chahiye tha (This is my home, one I had been looking for)". It is a dusty, bare house, very different from her plush lifestyle in Delhi where "tameez" is taught and learned by buying silences.

Without getting into details and diverting attention from the film, let me just say that the home, a cavernous retreat, that she swept clean and put food in front of became mine. Next day, sudden gunshots hit Mahabir, and as his eyes meet the sky that seems flanked by trees, there is another purging. An acceptance of things being short-lived.

'Highway' has been called a road movie, but the journey pierces internally. Old maps are brought out, some lines erased, new ones formed.

Veera Tripathi, on the eve of her wedding, asks her fiancé, "Why can't we just run away and go to the mountains?" This is how she is. She wants to breathe free, take risks. For her the fancy wheels are just a means to getting away. She wants to go far, just go on and on...and when they take a U-turn, they are confronted by a group of criminals on the run who had no intention of such a 'meeting'. It is a chance encounter. Her kidnapping begins on an unreal note, and stays that way.

The gang leader, in fact, is angry with Mahabir Bhatti for taking her hostage. This is a criminal niche where they have not ventured. "Tu kutte ki maut marega (You will die like a dog)," he tells Mahabir. The latter's reply is stunning in its simplicity: "Jo kutte ki jindagi ji raha hai usko kutte ki maut hi milegi (one who leads a dog's life will obviously get a dog's death)."

While it is not emphasised, there is a strain of a political class struggle. At one point, not sure about what to do with her, he tells his mate that they should sell her to a brothel. He is not dismissive about it. He gives a reason. As a Gujjar, he vents his anger over how easily the rich abuse the women of the poor, even demanding their wives for pleasure. He wonders at the hypocrisy of gangsters too being concerned about the clout of the rich father of Veera. Yet, he does not abuse his power. He does not sell her. This needs to be seen in the context of her innocence being bought by one she was supposed to trust. Is that why she becomes comfortable in his presence?

Her story does not merge with Mahabir's, but runs parallel. They are not made for each other; they are like raw material that cannot be moulded. Therefore, she laughs in the midst of tears, she asks herself incredulously, "Why am I talking so much?" And she hides when the cops check the truck. She had a chance to find freedom from the criminals. Why did she not? Even Mahabir wants to know.

This is most certainly not about the Stockholm Syndrome. If that were the case, then Mahabir is the one suffering from it. He becomes vulnerable. But this is not about any such syndrome. It is not about being awe-struck or falling in love with your captor. Veera wanted to run away right at the beginning. Her escapism is a thirst to experience, to break free, and also due to insecurities. This is the captivity.

That time when she comes out with "when I was nine" and how her uncle sexually exploited her is not an episode. The retelling is not planned, which is why it is so effective. There are no gory details — the fear, helplessness, anger are all in her face and voice. And his stillness. She is the water, he the rock. The terrain has many of these water-rock scenes as they traverse through six states. Water rising, a spray, a jet, droplets in her palm, moving in circles around the rocks.

Mahabir has two moments of denouement. One when he hums the song his mother sang to him as a child and the other when he peeps into that dusty mountain house and sees Veera transforming it. "Promise me you will go and see your mother after all this is over" she tells him in the first incident. She holds him weeping close to her bosom, like mother to child. In the new home, she snuggles up to him, almost over his chest, like daughter to father.

They are together, but not joined. There is no adhesive. As he tells her on an earlier occasion after she rushes back when he leaves her near the police station, "What will you do with me - marry me, produce babies?" Later, waiting for a bus, she says, "I am not planning to marry or make babies. I just want to go a little further for some more time, knowing that you will take care."

We trust the elements as we climb hills, go into the sea, battle inclement weather. We trust almost everything we grow up with. Here the growth is on the way, a constant movement. In Veera's words, "I don't want to return where I came from. I don't want to reach anywhere. I just want that this road should never end."

Mahabir's death does not end her journey. She not only faces, but confronts the demons. She spits out words in their customised faces. And leaves for the mountains. To work. To live. To be. When she remembers Mahabir, it is of both of them as kids. They had never met then. What she is recalling is the innocence of their relationship, its purity. Like the clear air.

This is not about being a captive. When we feel good or seek out something, somebody. it is essentially the true love we feel about wanting to reclaim ourselves.

© Farzana Versey

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Snapshots

• Alia Bhatt as Veera behaves as nature does. Fire, earth, water by turns.
• Randeep Hooda as Mahabir smiles only once, weeps twice, yet he carries so many emotions in the hardened face.
• Imtiaz Ali has broken all genre rules. His direction is most unobtrusive.
• Anil Mehta's cinematography goes from craggy dark cranies, flithy lanes, godowns, to long stretches of undulating ghats, valleys, deserts, mountains. And he shows silence.
• A.R.Rahman. Quiet music is rare. Still music rarer.

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Terrorism and the Indian Muslim: 'Shahid' as Apologia

Soon after the first shot was fired in the first scene, I felt uncomfortable. Anything to do with the riots of 1993 produces a pit-of-the-stomach reaction. I have no control over it. However, barely a few minutes into the film and my discomfort was transferred to the manner in which Shahid subtly works the mainstream.

The problem with the ordinary man as hero, or someone who does extraordinary things, is that everything else begins to be seen as a prop to bolster his story.

Those who have witnessed the 1993 Bombay riots up-close might be able to comprehend the issues I have with the film, based on the real life story of slain lawyer Shahid Azmi, whose portfolio comprised mostly of cases of wrongly-convicted or imprisoned men on charges of terrorism.

Except for that one torture scene, the dilemmas are portrayed in a touch-and-go manner. Not only does the film consolidate stereotypes, it comes across as an apologist for the government. Throughout there is an assertion of how wonderful the judiciary is. As the end credits roll, it is mentioned that in his seven-year career Shahid procured 17 acquittals.

While this is factually correct, there are numerous cases that go unheard, forget about getting justice.

The details, as shown in the film: A teenager from a lower middle-class family watches the riots of 1993. He is deeply affected and leaves for Kashmir. Here he gets some sort of training in handling arms. He escapes from there after a few months. Is arrested on charges of being a terrorist. In the seven years of imprisonment, he studies. Once out, he pursues a law degree, joins a firm, quits to start his own practice, starts fighting cases of 'suspects' who are rounded up without a shred of evidence.

And then one day he is shot dead in his office. The end is the beginning.

The premise was open to raise pointed questions, even as it maintained a narrative structure. Instead, there is no sense of commitment, except for mouthing of clichés.

It pained me when I watched it, and it pains me now as I write it, because this film is being hailed for taking a risk. Some have even said how wonderful it is that such a film was made at all.

What kind of a society are we that what needs to be stated as a matter of course is considered an achievement? It is infuriating that we have to accept these crumbs. Azmi's life was in some ways remarkable, but the biopic is not.

It works on the formula of good Muslim. Had this not been a "gritty" film, one would be tempted to recall Karan Johar's celluloid families. Shahid and his brothers are shown as too perfect. They are educated, clean-shaven, and the bearded men they associate with speak gently. I know loudmouths who are not militant. And much as education needs to be encouraged, should we assume that those who do not have access to it are all suspect?

Why does Shahid escape after the riots and that too for training in jihad? This is a horrible indictment, and assumes that those who are affected by such scenes will as a natural course choose to become terrorists.

We do not know what he is disillusioned about. It would have been an important message to understand that such jihad is not a panacea. But the director desultorily goes through the motions of showing a few men wearing skull caps, holding rifles, saying "Allah-hu-Akbar", and preparing for some grand plan that might come their way.

Upon his return to Mumbai, he goes home. He is later arrested because they think he is a terrorist. Resigned to a life in prison, a Kashmiri militant befriends him over games of chess. Yes, the good Muslim Shahid is pitted against the bad one who will use him as a pawn. This is borne out later when a good Kashmiri (the film is ridden with such good-bad ideas, although it does so quietly) warns him about Umar and how these guys just want to prove their superiority and lord over others. He also tells Shahid about how justice takes time, but it prevails. The fact that they are all unjustly in jail seems to be lost on him.

The good Kashmiri is friends with Professor Saxena. (You cannot possibly have a Prof. Gilani or Raza, can you?) They encourage Shahid to continue with his studies, and the professor pitches in with some tokenism about Sher Shah Suri.

Seven years later, the family has moved to a better residence. There is no evidence of anyone having dissociated with his family. This is not the story of many people, as Shahid himself suggests. Then why was this family spared? Because they are not 'typical'?

Shahid joins the firm of a Muslim lawyer. The avarice puts him off, and he starts on his own. I would like to emphasise here that all this conveys that for a young Muslim to be taken seriously, not only does he have to be clean-shaven and educated, he also has to be squeaky clean.

Maryam, one of his clients, is possibly a spark in many ways. Shahid falls in love with her and proposes. That is when she asks him, "You know I am a divorcee, don't you?" There you go. A Muslim woman who probably had 'talaq' said to her three times, and is now bringing up her son on her own. They marry quietly. Why?

When he later takes her to meet his mother he brings a burqa, something she has never worn. He requests her to do so just this once. I fail to understand this. His mother is not shown wearing one, and if he has married without consent, then does he need this? What exactly does the director want us to know? That all said and done, a Muslim woman will at some point in her life have to wear a veil?

The scenes in the court are slightly better, but again the judge is seen pulling up the public prosecutor more than the defense. This sounds rather utopian. At one point Shahid loses it and asks, "Are you trying to say I am a terrorist?" That is the one true moment. For the most part, he does not even use the word Muslim. He says "minority". If this is not a copout, then what could possibly be?

He fights the case of Faheem Ansari, arrested following the Mumbai attacks of 2008 because his laptop had some maps. Shahid starts getting threatening calls. There is no explanation. The silence is a tacit understanding of not taking sides.

One night, Shahid is called to his office and shot dead. His colleague appears for Faheem in his place. It takes a Ramalingam to justify the work of a Shahid Azmi. This is what the film tells us. This is what people tell us. This is how stereotypes work. This is how Indian Muslims get branded. Patronised.

Fine. I am glad this film was made. It just shows us how celebrity parallel filmmakers play the formula and consolidate the stance that the state is always right.

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Update

I have been fairly surprised by how the 'populism' of such serious cinema works. To the certified Muslim organisation that has sent this email:

"Go watch SHAHID before it is too late. If you dont have time atleast buy tickets and gift it to some who has. If people are so disinterested, filmmakers wont want to make such brilliant movies again"

I can only say that rather than gifting tickets, acquire the skills and have the gumption to make a movie that tells your story your way, instead of waiting for majoritarian prerogative to speak up for you.

You want to accept magnanimity, and that is the whole darned problem. And you in your elitist hole, there are people who do not need to watch movies to know what they experience.

If on an everyday basis one is taunted as being a jihadi and asked to go to Pakistan, I can only imagine how it is for the people who are rounded up without even the courtesy of a snigger.

I did not need this film to get me thinking. I have done so publicly since 'Bombay', then 'Fizaa' and later the execrable 'Black Friday'. My analysis of the last one is here.

It is no surprise that quite a few 'secular' people, even among Muslims, would want to applaud the film. It is their choice. Just do not expect me to fall for any and every gesture of some 'pathbreaking maverick'. I can turn around and say that I have posed queries that are not in the domain of either popular or even much of offbeat ideas. How does such hat-tipping matter when you are being handed over little bites of predigested bitterness?

What I write is to challenge the reader as much as I am challenged, though not by this film because it plays too safe. But do not tell me that the questions a film/art/book/thinker asks are the final questions and the ones I ought to ask too.

© Farzana Versey

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The performances were uniformly above-average. But I cannot bring myself to see it as just a film. Here is the official trailer; what I have written will not come through here:

Realism vs. Affectation: The problem with Madras Cafe

If you like your cappuccino flat, then head to 'Madras Cafe'. No one is looking for a typical Bollywood film — and thanks, but I have been exposed to and do have the aesthetic sensibility to appreciate good independent films from anywhere in the world, so cut out the lecture about 'intelligent' cinema.

To begin with, the film does not have a spine. Again, you can go against linearity only when there is a strong starting point from where you take off and return to, and not this jumble of an excuse that tries to pass as realism.

The backdrop is the Sri Lankan civil war and the plot to assassinate Rajiv Gandhi. The main characters are not named, which is fine, but this is most certainly not the film that will stand out as one to trace contemporary history. The purported 'espionage thriller' would fit into a couple of sequences in any mainstream film. With digitisation, it isn't too difficult to get the war scenes right. And we have seen the decoys, the smuggling of arms in jetties, the sneaky meetings with contacts in foreign countries in several films.

That 'Madras Cafe' is being touted as a pathbreaker is more a matter of prestige, where a few critics who are forced to review masala try and reclaim their intellectual space by 'understanding nuances'. Fact is, this film lacks a text, forget a subtext.

It opens with a self-conscious protagonist, Major Vikram Singh, who is drunk and morose. He lands up at a church where the helpful priest listens to his Confession, which turns out to be the film. This is a most tacky device for a flashback. It takes us to what could easily be stock images from award-winning war photography, all shot in black and white to ostensibly project the historical moorings. That this was the 90s makes it just planned stark imagery. It does not convey the immensity of loss.

At the offices of the Research and Analysis Wing (RAW), a few men in suits and the token woman have a farcical conversation about trying to conduct a peaceful election, with the LTF (obviously based on the LTTE), the main organisation representing the minority Tamils.

The LTTE did have a turbulent relationship with New Delhi, which had sent a peace-keeping force. The BJP and other Tamil organisations want the film banned because the LTF and other leaders have been referred to as terrorists. In fact, when the makers — that is, actor-producer John Abraham and director Shoojit Sircar — have been at pains to say they are not taking sides. They aren't, except for the cheesy insistence on referring to "our ex-PM" constantly, like some mantra. The controversy certainly has grabbed attention.

Director Sircar said in an interview, "I didn’t want to make glitzy thriller like Ek Tha Tiger or Agent Vinod, which seem inspired by the James Bond template. I want to show that intelligence officers are ordinary people who live amongst us. It is only that they have to solve issues where national security is at stake.”

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Has it really gone away from the mainstream?

The reasons mentioned:

• The characters don't sing songs.

So? Army men and rebels do sing in real life. The music of revolution is a separate genre. Besides, there are background songs, probably one of the two saving graces of the film, the other being cinematography.

• The main characters are like ordinary people.

We have a hero who is some sort of Superman, who flies in and out of cities, even taking on a bunch of dreaded fighters alone. At the RAW meetings they ask for their 'best man'. The officers are caricatures; the guys initiating backroom deals are just what you expect; Anna, the LTF chief, could have been playing poker; even the female lead, a war correspondent with a foreign agency, seems to be on a lone mission to tell the truth and not be biased. Have you never seen all this before?

Major Singh's wife plays the pining woman who does not do anything else but wait. On one of his return home trips, they manage to get into bed. It ought to have been a letting go, a release of passion. It need not have been shown, but implied. Nothing. This was as robotic as much else. Even when she is killed, his remorse is barely discernible.

• There is nothing over-the-top.

If we can have just one man who can save "our national interest", then we better get some emotion out of him. This tomtoming about reined-in performance just does not work. The film has taken 'staying in character' to new levels. Once introduced, the characters do not alter their expression at all. John Abraham could have been a poster on a wall.

It is immensely amusing that the lack of any romantic involvement between the Major and the reporter Jaya is seen as an important factor. Seriously, this is how most interactions are in real life. Since she is the only one who has access, has contacts, has a purpose, she manages to announce that standing for the truth does not make her anti-national. Why she does not smile is a matter that ought to make us deeply concerned about such expat patriotism.

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The last 15 minutes do pick up momentum, never mind that although there was intimation of an assassination plot, the ex-PM was not kept in the loop. The RAW officer calls him up directly at the airport lounge asking him to cancel his visit, but does not even hint about the suicide bombers waiting for him.

In the end, the so-called national interest looks pathetic in 'Madras Cafe' because the police, the intel agencies, mainly RAW, the army, the secretariat all come out as effete and ineffectual, depending totally on one man they pulled out to conduct a major operation. Ek Tha Tiger should have been his code name.

{I hear the filmmakers are wrangling for a tax-free certificate. Perhaps, they should try one from the Sri Lankan government too.}

There is no need for realistic cinema to resort to affectation. Some critics are glad that this film was made at all. Have they never watched the movies of the 80s, of Shyam Benegal, Govind Nihalani, Saeed Mirza, not to speak of regional cinema? Have they not been exposed to the subtle performances of Balraj Sahni, Naseeruddin Shah, and Amitabh Bachchan too in a few films.

Each genre requires different skills, but at the centre of any film is the ability to connect. 'Madras Cafe' does not. It ends where it began: the drunken Vikram Singh has revealed all, and is guilty about his wife's murder and that he could not save "our ex-PM". His beard grown long, was there some mirroring of Christ in his slightly hunched form? Creating this aura around him makes him worse than mainstream; it takes him straight into mythology.

Finally, he brings out a crumpled sheet from his pocket — given by his father-in-law when he got married — and reads out from it: "Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high, where knowledge is free..." What has this Tagore poem got to do with his predicament? He has been sozzled for a few years. He has been visiting the church, the priest has seen him all this time.

Why now? Because there has to be a denouement. A flat cappuccino.

© Farzana Versey

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Images in collage clockwise from top left - Anna; the ex-PM; Major Vikram on his way somewhere; with Jaya, the news reporter.

All quiet at the crematorium: A.K.Hangal

How the social hierarchy reveals itself is evident in how many people did not attend actor A K Hangal’s funeral. He lived to be 98 and half of these years were spent in the Hindi film industry.

This is showbiz, and most of the people in it make it a point to be present for various reasons. At one of the prominent funeral pictures, I spotted two well-known stars having a good laugh. Could the joke not wait? Or were they, as has become so trendy to say, “celebrating his life”?

Okay, so why were no prominent names who Hangal saab acted with present? They will run to see a newly-born baby who will come out all swathed to hide her from the world; they will rush to the hospital for an actor who suffers from fever or routine checkups; they will visit to condole the death of a parent/grandparent of one of them.

Of the few character actors present, Raza Murad did not mince words:

“The actors would’ve come if a political party summoned them. But they didn’t have an hour to spare to pay their last respects to the man who gave 50 years to the industry and worked with all top stars.”

I’d also ask the media the same question: where were they? They will climb atop trees to capture a baraat they are not invited to; they will sit for hours outside vanity vans waiting for some star, or even starlet, to turn up after giving 40 retakes to get a sound byte; they will do their Entertainment slots with loops that make no sense. Had they landed there, some stars might have turned up.

Of course, they tweeted about it, or gave their two paise worth.

“A K Hangal, passes away this morning!! A veteran, a gentleman, a congenial co artist and a master at his work” – Amitabh Bachchan

But he is not Uddhav Thackeray getting an angioplasty, right? Besides, what are those two exclamation marks for to announce a death?

“An era comes to an end. Theatre and film were enriched by him” – Shabana Azmi

So what happened? After all, he was part of the great theatre movement IPTA, a card-holding Communist that Ms. Azmi admires so.

“Undying father figure in world of theatre n hindi cinema lived for 50 years in this profession only because he was disciplined n a thorough gentleman, who would bring theatre discipline on sets of a film shoot too . He worked with me in ‘Krodhi’ n ‘Khalnayak’ and we used to call him ‘humble sahib’. Great soul, indeed” - Subhash Ghai

I suppose Mr. Ghai thought he was so humble he would not have wanted to feel conceited about people attending his last rites.

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This is only one of the concerns. More important is the fact that Hangal saab could not afford treatment when he fell seriously ill last year.

I have written this earlier, but let me repeat it. The day after it came out, the film industry woke up. Some contributed quietly, some raised issues of ‘doing something for our seniors’. Jaya Bachchan sent a message to be conveyed that his ‘daughter’ remembers him (he played her father in many movies) and her office will handle his medical bills. How dismissive is this. Office? Could she not visit him or just keep silent about who would manage it? Why this announcement?

Upon mild recovery, Mr Hangal was on the ramp in a wheelchair. The reason? Part of a fashion show was organised by designer Riyaz Gangji to generate money for the ailing actor, according to Mumbai Mirror.

Helpless to save his health

This was insensitive and gross. Was he a showpiece? Can there be no dignity in such charity? Imagine someone who was a “freedom fighter” - incidentally everyone is mentioning this having discovered one more use for their patriotic fervour - expected to display himself and his “abject poverty” to get a decent life. These people get mileage and our seniors have no choice but to go along.

Following this, another case was highlighted about someone leading a penurious life. The editor of Sholay, a blockbuster and pathbreaker of its time, was living in Dharavi. Shocking? Yes and no. How many of us ever bothered to find out who edited the film? What about all those researchers who did critical tomes on these movies? Why such discoveries now?

M.S. Shinde worked on a salary of Rs. 2000 and he has no regrets:

“I worked with Sippy Films on a salary of Rs 2,000 (per film) all my life. I didn’t mind the salary because they allowed me to take up work outside.”

At one time even film stars, the visible beautiful faces immortalised in black and white, led lonely forgotten lives. They did not invest their money and instead chose to flash their Bentleys. That was stardom and glamour in the pre-red carpet days. It also had to do with splurging arising out of insecurity if they had made it from the pavements.

Think also about art house cinema before it got sponsors and acquired marketing skills. A whole bunch of idealists would descend on the city and often crashed at someone’s place. Or took the train back home after performing in a few street theatre plays.

This is not to deny the genuine problems faced by our veterans, but before we dismiss it as callousness think about the hierarchy that has always been prevalent. Even today the actors are paid much more than the director. We won’t get into the subject of junior artistes, at one time called ‘extras’, who have to await their turn and often cosy up to the ‘provider’. It is not a business that is organised and therefore a risky proposition for almost everyone concerned.

Mr Shinde might have had it better if there was mandatory provision for provident fund and retirement benefits.

Newspapers and TV channels, if they do take notice do so in a patronising manner: to announce how people came forward to help after they ‘broke’ the story.

The Hindi film industry is acting out a farce with its fake philanthropy helped along by the media.

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I’m afraid, this should have been a tribute to a fine actor, but this attitude upsets me. About Hangal saab and his most-remembered character of the blind Rahim chacha is Sholay, I have some reservations. It was a stereotype, the token nice Muslim posited against the rough terrain of thakurs and dacoits. His blindness, of course, gave it added pathos of not seeing the bad and therefore understanding the good.

But I cannot forget being creeped out by him as the lecherous old skirt chaser in Shaukeen. I disliked him, so credible he was. He, Ashok Kumar and Utpal Dutt, all wonderful, formed the trio of shaukeens. Dutt was always stylised; Ashok Kumar had his mannerisms. A.K. Hangal had the ability to not act. After seeing him as the genial grandpa or the family retainer in other films, this was a shocker.

I mentioned elsewhere how it is perhaps our moral obsession that makes all tributes glorify his Rahim chacha character and of course, the famous line, “Itna sannata kyon hai bhai?” (Why is it so quiet here)

It was indeed very quiet at the crematorium, for no one was there.

Zindagi ka safar: Rajesh Khanna

He did not have screaming fans, yet the frenzy was unparalleled. Is unparalleled. Rajesh Khanna was not the first superstar. He was the only real one Hindi cinema has produced. He was not a durbari or a durbar. He knew the value of keeping that little distance. 

He had no muscles, no abs. He had a pimply skin. He was not tall. He did not have a great voice. Yet. It is that yet...that undefinable aura that made every strand of his hair worthy of emulation. His 'guru' shirts started a trend. Many actors have trends to their credit, so I'd say this was just an occupational bonus in his case. 

To even suggest that Amitabh Bachchan and he were rivals is disingenuous. Bachchan's formula had method - from the angry man to the drunken scenes to the comedic moments. Khanna's acting, even though heavily stylised, did not seem to have any plan. Bachchan may be seen as a pitashri; Khanna was a combination of Arjuna and Duryodhana, and Krishna too. There was an element of narcissism. Which is why the women married his photograph, applied the dust his car passed over as sindoor in the parting of their hair. I have witnessed one kissing his car, her obeisance so complete. They were all Meera; he their unattainable lord, an image, an idol. 

It is, therefore, interesting that he married the teenager who used to stand outside the gate of his bungalow Aashirwaad. Of course, Dimple Kapadia had shot to fame with her debut in 'Bobby', but she gave it all up for the idol. Like all such alliances, it was tumultuous. Rajesh Khanna could not be anything else but Rajesh Khanna. The famous chamchas surrounded him, people who fed his ego and led him to believe that his life was not his own. 

Yet. It is that 'yet' that takes us to how the couple, though separated, continued to be together in many ways. Neither compromised or faked happiness. 

The reason for this personal look is because his stardom cannot be parodied. It lacked affectation, and was intrinsic. The persona and the person became one. 

There are too many roles, too many films to remember. I would not box him into the “romantic hero” category. What about the 'Patch Adams' like cook in 'Bawarchi'? Or the criminal in 'Raaz'? While in and as 'Anand' he made the life of a cancer-stricken patient live after death, for me his character in 'Amar Prem' epitomises true love. Here, he was so much like Devdas - trapped in an unhappy marriage, he finds solace and companionship with a courtesan. The sensuality is unspoken, despite her profession. They do not romance; they share. No dream sequences. Nothing. 

It is a love that endures, and the physical distance means little as they meet again when the hair's turned grey and the gait has slowed down. He still hated tears. 

Rajesh Khanna. Now in another world. 

And the perennial questions of life that his character asks:

"yeh kya hua, kaise hua, kab hua, kyon hua, jab hua, tab hua
O chhodo, yeh na socho..."

(Why did this happen, when, what, it had its time...think not about these now...)

Mani Kaul: Beyond the surface

Long before Cannes became the stomping ground of red carpet gowns, Mani Kaul had quietly made a mark. Even if his cinema was abstruse. He, in fact, seemed to revel in that. I admit that there have been moments during his films when I had wanted for something to shake, but he could not care less about audience expectations. He would freeze the frame on a chimney and, being ‘aficionados’ who had just been rendered ‘Breathless’ by Godard, one had to give due respect to our own avant garde, so one stared wide-eyed hoping not to miss a thing in a blink and were rewarded with smoke rising finally.

It was like a landscape painting in 3-D. Much of Kaul’s scenes seemed like still images. He was not a story teller, though his two wonderful works remain classical music biographies – Dhrupad and Siddheshwari. When you ventured into a Kaul film, you were supposed to know about the subject and then approach his cinema. It took me a while to understand quite a bit, except as brilliant visuals.

It was different with Uski Roti, a simple story about a woman who carries food for her truck driver husband to stop on the road and collect it. There was the sub-plot of a mistress and her own sister and even the idea of waiting on a road. But I recall a “proud heathen” friend once saying, “Woh roti kitni deir tak pakk rahi thi?” (How long does the roti take to cook?)

Indeed, the wait on the road was nothing as compared to the wait to get there. It was process. Had he been a mainstream director, it might be said that he was tantalising. In his case, he just wanted to see each frame as a vignette. For those of us who like interpreting, it could be fun, although occasionally tiresome.

I have read a few tributes and he is referred to as the “god” of cinema. This was the problem. Put a person on a pedestal or in a shrine and make offerings, but how many of these new wave filmmakers followed their god? I guess he had to die on 'ashaadh ka ek din' (a rainy day and the title of one of his films) so that people got their convenient headlines and quotes about cinema verite.

His guru was Ritwick Ghatak. Now, I found Ghatak accessible. Kaul not so much. Watching a Kaul film was like visiting a modern art museum, even if he spoke about real things. This was realistic cinema that was abstract.

His greatest contribution, besides the films on music, was the use of literature. He did that quite extensively and in Satah Se Uthta Aadmi (Arising From The Surface) he used the Hindi writer Muktibodh’s work. At a time when we are discussing issues of people’s involvement in the democratic process, some of the scenes are subtly political. The following extract has potently captured quite a bit of it – panning the panorama and then using the person, the transposition of a fight with the manner in which the observer just walks round as though circling a pyre or making mental notes without getting involved. Questioning the idealist - what have you done? The fog in the distance then completely takes over.

It is all about fogginess – of people, of ideas, of how we see and then watch the disappearance. Fade out…

'Yeh Saali Zindagi' - Life is a bitch, so is the film

Okay, I did not like Yeh Saali Zindagi. In fact, I thought it was a waste of my time. This sounds awfully non-intellectual. You are supposed to like pathbreaking cinema, appreciate nuances. Guess what? I don’t think those guys who were whistling at the cuss words or going “Oye, oye’ at the kissing scenes knew any “maa ki aankh” avant gardism. They probably did not even identify enough with the goonda-gardism.

I took a quick look at some of the reviews and phrases like “dark comedy”, “twisted plot”, “unconventional narrative”, “love with the backdrop of a thriller” hit me. Then there are technical hosannas, especially about pace.

Smart accountant Arun works for slimy boss, falls in love with nightclub singer Priti who can’t sing, who is in love with a businessman’s son, who is engaged to a minister’s daughter, who is angry because he loves the singer, who needs help of the other guy who loves her. Pace? Yeah, yeah. “Bhenchod.”

Then there is Kuldeep who is in jail, wants to reform, has an aggressive wife who he tames with kisses and a son, decides on one last big ticket kidnapping with the help of corrupt cop, gets the wrong girl, who goes to real girl and real father of girl, finally goes to real lover of her singing…nah…of her body...nah…of her soul…well…Pace? Yeah, yeah. “Chutiya.”

Cut to auditorium. People are laughing. Not because the comedy is dark but because a man is killed and his corpse farts. They are whistling not because there is anything exciting but the coarse language seems like their “saala”. It is programmed to sound rough and tough and hard. Oh yeah, they get the weapons and the phallic stuff to convey that.

The film is supposed to give you the underbelly of Delhi. Honestly, this could be in Jharkhand, Patna or Virar or even Sicily. No wonder they have to dateline every event. “Somewhere in Sohna, “Outskirts of Delhi”. Okay, we are such dolts, we Angrezi types that we won’t know the underbelly.

Arun's love for the nightclub singer is shown as some sort of obsession. It isn’t. He moons like an adolescent who has just discovered new use for a water tap and just as suddenly has her accounts in order (where in the beginning he had managed to get the thumb impression of another corpse…dark, na?) She goes “Oh, Arun,” like Saira Banu used to in those old films, except she is “real”. Uff, how everyone is telling us again and again that this is real, and all about subtext and layers and ensemble cast, which is a nice way to create 'confujan' and make it sound like it has so many “bhadva” layers.

It is so ‘witty’ that a bullet that backfires and boomerangs on the unrequited lover becomes the cause of denouement. Geez, the object of his love finally says, “I love you.” Now, is one supposed to go treacly and get goosebumps? No, no. This is serious cinema with layers. So, should one laugh but only slightly because it is a dark comedy? No, no. They are finally snuggled in bed.

Sudhir Mishra has made two marvellous films: Ek Raat Ki Subah Nahin and Hazaaron Khwaaishein Aisi that meshed love and the thriller genres. Yeh Saali Zindagi is neither here nor there. I mean, there are people who think describing the person one is crazy about as rajma chaawal is different and potent. Really? All Punjabis probably do, that is if they are not calling them tandoori chikkan or sarson da saag. But rajma is kidney beans and he goes on about kidney…kaleja…(which is liver)…dil…

Mishra can take a bow. He has finally made a film for the frontbenchers.

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Note: I have used cuss words in the post that were there in the film and passed by the censors. I suppose I got some of the layers right. To the readers, please excuse, but I also had to be 'realistic'.

Angst and the Alpha Male

Maverick: Angst and the Alpha Male
By Farzana Versey
Covert, March 1-15

Never understood this coming-of-age stuff, especially if it refers to that which is regressing if not regressive. Why would we need a reinvented Devdas who is trying to find a balance between his two selves – one that he has escaped to and one he is shackled by? How different is he from the fast-driving, pub-crawling yuppies? Is urban feudalism too a patriarchal construct?

The problem with films like Dev D that supposedly snip out the floss is that they in fact romanticise the dark alleys. Pornography, MMS clips, shagging, drugs, self-destructiveness are put on a pedestal. While the older versions had an almost Krishna-Radha-Meera sort of triangle, with the courtesan interestingly essaying the role of the pining woman, this new version has the Delhi belle as a full-blown slut willing to spend quality time with a good-for-nothing spoilt brat.

Even the love of his life is shown as a sexual adventuress only because she carries a mattress to the field for a roll in the hay. And, then, sick of his ways, moves on. As does the other woman. But, do they get sanctified for their conflicts? What I find disturbing is that we do not have any exploration about female angst. They remain two-dimensional characters whose clear-cut choices appear bold but are in fact tailored for them by society. It is still about the ‘hero’, even if he is a loser. A woman doing what he does and going through those internal pangs would have been deemed neurotic and hysterical. She would be in a psychiatric ward and not guzzling vodka.

This elevation of alcoholism forces the women to play the role of props. Even Sanjay Leela Bhansali, when he made a film on the same subject, had said that an alcoholic can be a beautiful human being. Tell that to the woman in the slums who pays for her spouse’s booze or the socialite in the skyscraper who smiles through insults to maintain grace under pressure.

We have a tendency to deify men who have been rejected and then behave as though the world owes them their marijuana and damn-you attitude. This Dev has also been called an idealist. What is he idealising about? The virginity of a lover whose nude pictures he craves for or the neatness of his drink or the rawness of his sexuality? He is just another punk from Paharganj, a mimic of the backpacker tourist who has come to India to seek nirvana, in his case from a rich family and poor self-esteem.

All through cinematic history you will find that tragedy queens die, tragic heroes become martyrs. It is not angst, but narcissism. There is nothing to beat the ego of a man on the Cross. We can easily hate the brawny guys, but the real danger comes from these hidden marauders. They are the eternal cribbers who declare in sepulchral tones, “I am going to die.”

A personality profile of such a man would be that he is most likely a hypochondriac, a one-line philosopher, and emotionally rootless. He feels let down by the world. He will blame his mother for giving him birth and his father for being the other man in her life. He hates his wife/lover for taking away a part of him. This character is guilty of being alive so he is busy yelping about imagined self-inflicted crimes.

This is a shrewd move. If he is not a knight in shining armour, then he does not have the responsibility of trying to save anyone. His motto is “Use me” -- the stuff they write on garbage bins.

Little of his guilt has to do with morality. By the very act of having suffered at the hands of cruel fate, he seems to have exalted himself. Women watch helplessly as he goes on with his childish games. He never quite rids himself of his oral obsession which manifests itself in drink and talk, both of great assistance in creating a simulated suffering.

For all his obsession with death, he is really striving for immortality. He takes his time dying. So how relevant would he be in today’s times? Such characters, and people, are not a reflection of the new age but a nod towards the renaissance cave man.

Vijay Tendulkar: Khamosh...

I saw him coming out of the gate of Sahitya Sahwas, the complex for littérateurs in Bandra east where he lived. He was wearing very dark glasses and for a moment looked like one of those dark characters that he created so well.

Vijay Tendulkar would just have easily been relegated to the small world of ‘art cinema’, but going by the films he scripted, the plays he wrote, it is clear that there weren’t many like him around at the time to sustain the avante garde movement. But Tendulkar was not experimenting; he was giving it to us as real as it was, mostly a hard slap ...with the sharpness of a whip.

He was groping the underbelly of society – tribal, rural and urban.

He exposed hyprocrisy – political, social, gender. The last I am a bit iffy about. His men may have been victims but they were pretty much in charge. However, it is when he showed them as vulnerable and helpless did they become human and not the off-beat version of machismo.

I suppose of all his work I do rate Manthan the best, precisely because it was a subtler film; the intent was less oblivious…perhaps the subject lent itself to that sort of pace.

In theatre, Tendulkar will forever be known for Sakharam Binder and the pathbreaking Ghashiram Kotwal. In the latter he coalesced folk theatre, music and dance to make a hugely political point using history.

I shall always remember this play fondly because it was the main actor who enacted Nana Phadnavis, Dr. Mohan Agashe (he is a practising psychiatrist) who drove me to the hall after feeding me laddus and then went and sat at the ticket counter minutes before the powerhouse performance. This is commitment.

This is how people like Tendulkar woke us up to several realities. In some ways, even his own death...yesterday, May 19.

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A list of some of his works:

# Shantata! Court Chalu Aahe (Silence! The Court Is in Session) (1972)

# Nishant (End of Night) (1975)

# Saamna (Confrontation) (1975)

# Manthan (Churning) (1976)

# Simhasan (Throne) (1979)

# Gehrayee (The Depth) (1980)

# Aakrosh (Cry of the Wounded) (1980)

# Akriet (Unimaginable) (1981)

# Umbartha (The Threshold) (1981)

# Ardh Satya (Half Truth) (1983)

# Kamala (1984)

# Sardar (1993)

Should Amitabh Bachchan retire?

...Who cares? But it is fun watching the slaves...

Okay, so Anurag Basu (Life in a Metro) a film director says it is time for Amitabh Bachchan to retire. I get to read a hilarious rejoinder by another film director, R. Balki (Cheeni Kum).

For his views in full and my comments look here.

Saeed Mirza Haazir Ho...

Saeed Mirza has written a novel, Ammi: Letter To A Democratic Mother. One day I will read it. As a film-maker, I used to consider him one of the finest we had. He did not quite make the leap that Shyam Benegal and Govind Nihalani managed in parallel cinema, but his works left a huge impact.

Arvind Desai ki Ajeeb Dastaan, Albert Pinto Ko Ghussa Kyon Aata Hai, Mohan Joshi Haazir Ho, Salim Langde Pe Mat Ro…the titles were more or less representing the stories.

While my memory of Arvind…is a bit hazy, I can never forget Albert…the anger, the helplessness of coping with unemployment, the trade unions, personal relationships. Mirza did have a way with both the city of Mumbai and the minorities, religious or economic. Mohan Joshi is fighting a battle in the courts against his landlord…it turns into a Kafkaesque drama, although the darkness is farcical. Salim deals with the Muslim issue without really emphasising communalism. His physical handicap is metaphor enough.

Why did Mirza remain on the fringe? Was he too preachy? I think that he did not use emotions very effectively. There was something that held him back. That is a failing when you are trying to reach out. He was also not a canny craftsman…no jerky hand-held camera movements to convey disorientation, no sudden light switch on-off tactics (oh, how tired I am of this ‘device’ whenever they want to show confusion; now even Ekta Kapoor uses it in her saas-bahu serials!).

Mirza used a clean wall and then he wrote out messages that he might himself want to wipe out. He took clear sides but it was like watching from a distance. I suppose this is what appealed. His cinema is what I am not. I liked the ‘otherness’ of it. The low lighting, which is not candlelight, just something close to darkness.

The novel is based on his mother, and I like what he said about her, that she “symbolised possibilities”. What a potent phrase.

It all got mucked up when a report mentioned that Rahul Bose who was reading out passages said that people like Mirza were the “chewing gum that held society together’’. I wish he would shut up instead of trying to get smart. Since when has chewing gum ever held anything together? Whenever the word chewing gum and bubble gum are used they have a negative connotation. Remember “chewing gum for the eyes” for television? It is about something jaw-aching, cud-chewing, perhaps boredom.

Bose probably did not want to use an ordinary word like glue. And yet in my city it is said his sex appeal works for the intelligent woman. Bah! I shall remain a dullard for life…Read what I think if you wish…

Two actors and their 'blind' powergames

Michelle, her body twisted with helpless longing, asks her teacher, “Will you kiss me, please?” His age does not matter to her. He is the only man who she has known at such proximity, the one who has taught her – a blind, deaf, mute girl – to understand words by feeling them on her hands and through those tortured breaths that throw up disjointed sounds when fingers touch her mouth.

Her life may be the colour of a moonless night, as Sanjay Leela Bhansali has shown so brilliantly in the film Black, but within her the storms have shades and layers that she is trying to grope with. “Will you kiss me, please?” she pleads with the one man who understands her suffocation. He turns his face away only to return his gaze and see her bundled up in the chair, knowing that no man will give her physical love ever. He holds her and gently brushes his lips against hers. Next morning he disappears. As she says later, “He gave me the respect of a woman, but felt too ashamed of his act…”

She internalises her gratitude, tapping away on a Braille typewriter, a sound she does not hear, and smiles with lips that she herself cannot see. She can only feel the denial, the weight of holding back…

This was my opinion on the film that I had written about. My views were based on hands-on experience with people with disability. As I wrote then…

During a demonstration on one White Cane Day, I had joined the group. The local corporator and another politician asked some of us to come along to Jogger’s park. It was around 8 pm and dark. While the rest of the lot were huddled in conversation, Arpan Singh and I decided to take a stroll on the mud-track. I was wearing heels so I had to tread carefully. To Arpan all walking places were the same, and darkness and light made no difference.

Suddenly, he stretched out his arm and touched a leaf. “There is so much greenery here,” he said. In the dark I, the sighted, could not see any greens. “It is wet,” his voice trailed off as he ran his hands over the foliage. We reached the low wall and sat for a while. He was swaying gently as one would to the music of the swelling tides as he inhaled the scent of flowers of the night. I did not wish to interrupt his reverie, but when his face broke into a smile, I told him that the waves and the fragrance were indeed overpowering and soothing.

“No,” he said. “I have been thinking about those wet leaves.”

The touch of night-dew had not left him.

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It is disturbing to see Aamir Khan and Amitabh Bachchan battling it out about the sensitivities of such cellulouid portrayal. Both are smart businessmen, and Aamir has a film based on children and their needs due for release, his first directorial venture. It is disgusting to rake this issue up now only to tell us that he is sensitive. And just in case they don’t know most people with disabilities are treated in a horrible manner.

Here is what the two actors have to say about the film…

Aamir Khan: “I didn't like the film. I found it very insensitive, it sends out very wrong signals. It was extremely manipulative…Most importantly, it was about a child who had these problems, an alcoholic person comes and says you have to leave her alone with me for forty days, and he slaps her around. I don't know of any parent who'd agree to that. Black reminded me of The Taming Of The Shrew, and I found that very disturbing. It was a film about 'I can teach a bear how to dance’.''

Amitabh Bachchan, who won a National Award for his work in Black:''If Aamir is unhappy with this, let him demonstrate otherwise. I would be keen and anxious to educate myself on any prospective change that he might introduce to cinema. With due respect, all the films that he features in and that I have had the great pleasure in watching, have all adhered to the very qualities that he dislikes in Black. From using the distinct handicap, or to be politically correct, challenged condition, of a crippled human in his cricket team in Lagaan, to the 'sensitivities' of a blind girl in Fanaa.”

First day, first show?

Okay, so two films are being released tomorrow and there is already so much noise that I don’t know whether I want to watch them.

But, I would like to give my two-bits even before they ‘hit the screen’.

Saawariya is irritating me for only two reasons – one is that ghost-blue backrgound in all the promos; the other is the title song that is usually played along with the scene. “Saawaariya, aa, aa, aa…” It reminds me of someone beckoning hens that have escaped from the coop. Aa..aa…aaa…

Om Shanti Om has the irritating Shahrukh Khan striking an irritating Rajesh Khanna pose and looking like Vinod Mehra. Only RK could get away with being irritating.

Now for my puff prophecy:

Saawariya will do well because of curiosity value and Sanjay Leela Bhansali’s haveli hangup. The news kids: Sonam seems immensely likeable in a ‘Let me help aunty cross the street’ way. She will be a sure-fire one-film hit. Much like that tepid Vidya Balan who scored because of a great Parineeta role and then realised she could not even say, “Good Morning Mumbai” in Lage Raho Munnabhai with aplomb. Sonam will get nice girl roles and will be praised by critics for her warm presence.

Ranbir Kapoor is going to strike gold. He looks like he is trying really hard (watch those moves with the towel) and effort pays, especially if you are backed with a great name and look like Mamma’s wholesome laadla. Fine. Ranbir is big for the next few years.

Coming to Om Shanti Om, Shahrukh’s new abs are disgusting to anyone with respect for stomachs. Yet, there is gloss in the film, because it has cinema as its theme, that too the wonderful 70s. If Farah Khan has not messed it up with caricatures, then this will be a bigger hit. Deepika Padukone is going to be a star. She is no star material, but she seems to have that extra thing that will transform mundane to very subtle masala.

One day, when she is older, I would like to see her enact Waheeda Rehman's role in Guide.

I haven’t seen a single ‘scene’ from either of these films, yet…

If I turn out to be right, then this post will be paisa vasool. If not, heck, you haven’t paid for it, anyway!

Winning the West, filmi style

Eklavya is the Indian entry to the Oscars. I don’t care much about the Academy Awards, at least whether we figure in it or not. But I am really pissed off with the controversy surrounding it. Apparently it won by one vote against Dharm. I have not seen the latter, so shall reserve comment. It is a debut film and from what I hear quite interesting. It is also about social status, though woven into religious belief fabric.

Yet, I do not understand the general voices being raised against Eklavya. (I had earlier written a political analysis of the film vis-à-vis Bachchan, and not too kindly about the latter!) The film has an epic sweep; the cinematography is lush; the performances are way above average – I have to admit that I have never felt so empathetic towards a Bachchan character ever. He is amazing, the pride in his obsequiousness, if it may be called so, just reaches out to you. And then there is the backdrop of the Mahabharata. It has taken just one strain from it – the guru-shishya one and given us a flip side.

When I watched the film, the cinema hall was virtually empty. Two women behind us kept saying, “Yaar, nothing is happening” as they crunched irritatingly on some munchies. The ‘nothing happening’ was the brilliant silences, the darkened screen, and the repose in the eyes of the protagonist even as his lips twisted in an inexpressible agony.

Saif as the son he could not openly acknowledge and Boman Irani as the impotent real father were excellent.

I admit this was largely a male canvas, including the terrain, the high walls, the turrets, the large gates, the blood, the dagger…it is disingenuous to try and feminise everything. But for the sake of argument, I’d say Eklavya in his sacrifice and his quiet nurturing was indeed feminine. When he kills, he later holds the dagger as a woman would hold a child close for having committed a wrong.

This has nothing to do with the Oscars. I had loved the film and stick my neck out and say that Eklavya is an assured film and it is most definitely more Indian and exotic than those silly NRI home movies about aunties gobbling food and match-making young women who look like they have just played holi, wearing such garish costumes.

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I read the news that Akshay Kumar is overtaking (or almost getting there) Shahrukh Khan in the overseas market. Amusing. Are we exporting livestock? Why has it become so important to appeal to the non-resident Indians?

Movies are increasingly catering to their needs and sometimes it is pure sugar-puff.

Isn’t it surprising that for the enlightened West where these people make their homes and where they learn about ‘liberal’ values no female star commands that kind of interest? Aishwariya Rai has a following because she helps market a foreign brand of watches. Making it in Hollywood is such a big deal, it just is not funny.

And when one of their big or small stars visits our country, why don’t these media people stop behaving like fans when they are supposed to be asking questions? And why is it mandatory to want to know what all these LA types think of India? How does it matter?

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Salman Khan has refused to have his wax-work prepared for display at Madame Tussaud’s. They say it is because his ex-girlfriend is featured there. By this logic, he would refuse to pose for pictures in magazines where she has been featured. How puerile.

I should hope he has the good sense to have refused because he has a case against him in court.

And that he does not give a damn about how any Madame legitimises him.

The Making of Benegal

Just the other day A was telling me that we in India did not give Shyam Benegal the recognition he deserved. Yesterday’s announcement that he has been honoured with the Dadasaheb Phalke award should make her and us happy.

For many of us who had been exposed to and in fact got to study the New Wave cinema movement, Benegal is said to be the most likely successor to Satyajit Ray and also a pioneer of the ‘middle cinema’. I do not agree with either assessment. Benegal’s early films were primarily rural and wholly political. Who can forget Ankur, Nishant and Manthan?

My favourite Benegal films, though, are Bhumika and Mammo, the former based on the life of a Marathi film actress. How deliciously he recreated the era and all the characters that dotted the turbulent life of Hansa Wadkar.

Mammo dealt with the Indo-Pak conflict through the emotional prism of its protagonist when she makes the journey from Pakistan to meet her sisters and her return ‘home’. This was in many ways un-Benegal like, but rarely has a film dealt so subtly with a subject of contemporary history.

That has been Benegal. A strong political undercurrent running through most of his work but conveyed with sensitivity. Many have not liked Samar, thought it was trying too hard, but I felt that he dealt with the issue of Dalits without huffing and puffing over it, using the simple device of a film within a film to show how the scourge of untouchability even besets the liberals. The sympathy towards the character versus the attitude towards the actor were rather wonderful swipes.

The films he directed for Shashi Kapoor were again a departure from what one might expect, but only just. Junoon had the backdrop the 1857 revolt; Kalyug transposed the Mahabharata to the contemporary environment.

Suraj Ka Saatwaan Ghoda, Mandi, Trikaal all had their moments. Personally I feel he was out of his depth with Sardari Begum and most certainly Zubeida.

Shabana Azmi wasn’t the best thing Benegal discovered. It was Smita Patil, starting with a small part in Nishant and going on to reveal her wonderful combination of smouldering sensuality and vulnerability in Manthan, Bhumika and Mandi.

His biopics include those on Satyajit Ray, Nehru and Bose, but I particularly liked The Making of the Mahatma.

What I would love to see from Benegal now is a story on the absurd political and social climate of Uttar Pradesh and the hype that comes with the baggage of the Amar Singh-Bachchan clique.