Dunkin' Donuts and Oprah

Do we sometimes overstate racism? Emphasis on colour in politically-correct terms only consolidates stereotypes. Finger-pointing bad taste draws attention to it. Racism is way more than the buying and selling of products and the imagery associated with them.

What is wrong with the Dunkin’ Donuts ad campaign by the Thailand franchise? That a female model is covered in dark chocolate, has hair done up in a certain way that makes it appear as though she is black? There have been the usual noises about insensitivity. We are not discussing Trayvon Martin here or people of colour being denied access to space and opportunity. The product is clearly using a particular palette, just as people might paint their faces in shades of, say, the national flag during sports or cultural events.

It took me a few seconds to find this other image by merely searching for white chocolate. If we have a problem with a dark product sold by a ‘black’ model, why don’t we have issues with a white product marketed by a white model? Godiva’s white Kit-Kat has chosen a stereotype, too.

Some reports have pointed out that the pink lipstick stands out and looks bizarre. Advertisements are about drawing attention. It seems like a simple aesthetic placement if we look at the logo. Pink is also about candy, so this is a form of association. A shocking shade would stand out on anyone. What about Naomi Campbell in the ‘drink milk’ promos where she sported a white moustache? What about her posing in those starkly contrasting pictures with Kate Moss?

Dunkin’ Donuts has apologised for this ad, but the owner of the Thai franchise has called it “paranoid American thinking”. It would appear that there is some guilt and discomfort by others regarding portrayal of blacks and racism. On the one hand, campaigns flaunt black is beautiful —another pigeonhole, as I analysed here – and then there is this chariness.

Recently, Oprah Winfrey ‘outed’ a racist salesperson she had encountered in a Zurich mall who told her that the bag she wanted to buy was too expensive. Oprah does not live in a ghetto; her riches are well-earned. She is recognised almost everywhere. Perhaps if she went
to Harlem incognito and tried to purchase a costly thing a black salesperson might draw attention to the price tag. Would that qualify as racism? If not, then what could be the reason? What sort of stereotypes are manifested here?

It is more a matter of hierarchy, or perception of it. I can give a few examples.

• Several years ago, I went into a store in London to pick up some brandy. The woman at the counter snapped, “Not that, it is too much money.” She was of Indian origin and from her deportment and manner looked like a recent immigrant. Between anger and amusement, I figured out that this was something that she could not afford. It was projection. I was a visitor whose cart was filled with goodies. In some ways, she felt slighted and the only manner in which she could to respond was to see that emotion mirrored in someone else.

• In India, one sees even backpackers – white first, then black – given preferential treatment while one is shopping. Although it is more likely that as tourists they are “just looking” and I am the real customer they will earn from, the hierarchy revolts against it. I have walked away quite often after waiting for the shopkeeper to attend to me. However, if there is another Indian who is perceived as less ‘valuable’, then the focus is on me.

• When I took out a $100 bill to pay for a snack at Universal Studios, LA (I didn’t have enough change), the Hispanic cashier almost sniggered, “You got lotsa money, eh?” If that wasn’t bad enough, the black gentleman who was part of the tour group said, “For this much I’d get a full meal at McDonald’s.” Would these be considered racist comments? I did not think so then and I don’t believe so now in hindsight. It is about where we are and who we are dealing with. Cultural baggage is relative.

Covered with dark chocolate or whipped cream, or lips painted a shocking pink, one’s identity is a stereotype too. Unless maliciously used to segregate, it makes better sense to not be numbed by how others perceive us.

© Farzana Versey

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The ad copy says:

Address: America

"I saw a white man purchasing Vicco Vajradanti in a shop here.

I felt immensely proud.

Whether it is a grip on the world as a superpower or on the teeth by gum power...Americans have got it!"

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.

Sunday ka Funda

"Nothing ever goes away until it teaches us what we need to know."

— Pema Chodron

There are some words with religious connotations that go way beyond a particular faith. They become exclamations, pauses; they hold a meaning specific only to an individual. "Good heavens", "Hey Bhagwan", "Ya Allah", "Jesus" can hardly be confined to theology, especially if you hear them ever so often in casual conversation.

I was at a store the other day and the salesperson, upon being ticked off, immediately, and it appeared unthinkingly, let out a "Hai Allah". I did not know her faith, but I am aware of a couple of Hindu friends who use the term, just as Bhagwan, Jesus are used to pepper conversation. They have become like punctuation marks.

The resonance of "Om" is real. It might seem like autosuggestion, but when you meditate the hum in the pit of the stomach that finally reaches the temples can be heady.

My relationship with "Bismillah" is different. I don't use it often, and when I do it indicates a beginning. From the religious perspective it is uttered before every surah. The letters 786 denote the numeric value. I recall how, nervous before an exam way back in school, a relative told me to scrawl the letters on the answer sheet before starting. I tsk-tskd. On reaching the hall and faced with the ominous blank paper, I used my finger to draw out the letters. I do not remember what subject it was and the outcome, but this small act has stayed in memory. Because it became mine. A personal take. And a secret.

These days songs use such words, and they neither glorify nor demean them. They merely link the chain of events, from one to another. That's what life is about. The new. Afresh. Bismillah:

Camera vérité

Of all forms of photography, I am drawn most to portraits. Faces. Forms. Expressions. The result is less about technique and more about what that fraction of a second captures. Is it the essence or the superficial? Does it convey more about the photographer than the subject?

Today is World Photography Day and each of us with a smartphone camera can claim to be quite adept at instant access to what may be loosely termed history in motion. We see it when pictures about catastrophes and revolutions are uploaded. Then, there is the history of ordinary people, which is another story for a sequel.

Now that Princess Diana is back in the news with reports of another twist to her death, one cannot but recall her name without the mention of the paparazzi. Those men — there are few women giving the chase — who will risk life and limb only to snoop on a celebrity getting drunk, or involved in a brawl, or caught in an intensely private moment. They and the celebs feed each other.

However, some famous people do not quite get posterity on glossy finish prints. They are the characters that a camera waits to unravel.

It would be so predictable to mention the portraits by Henri Cartier-Bresson, and I have decided to be predictable. There is a reason: he photographs minds.

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It was not easy for him, it would seem, for he had said, “The most difficult thing for me is a portrait. You have to try and put your camera between the skin of a person and his shirt.”

We are so accustomed to seeing Che Guevara in the iconic posters, the pose of angst, of a rebel on his way to rebel, that this smiling man enjoying his spirits — two glasses at that...was there a companion, a comrade, a visitor? — comes as a surprise. It also makes us question our stereotypes. The revolution is indeed on as is evident, but surely a person is not merely one thing?

This is not a great photograph, but it is a revelation.

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Robert Kennedy lounging on a deck chair is expected. It is the contrast that is brilliant. Machismo against innocence. Or perhaps the innocence of machismo, if we look at Kennedy's almost meditative expression and even the hairy overgrowth that harks back to another age, less sophisticated than his lifestyle. His son seems to want to know what is in the balled fist. There is also a sense of detachment. He is not looking at the boy, who too has his face turned away, although his head rests on the edge of the father's thigh.

The connection established here is of give-and-take role-play.

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Cartier-Bresson believed, "Photography is an immediate reaction, drawing a meditation."

Carl Jung's portrait is nothing less than a fine piece of meditation. It is not candid and he might well have been sitting for an artist.

His own words somehow coalesce into this photograph: "As far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light in the darkness of mere being."

The use of light and shadow is always interesting and here it adds dimension because of Jung's own conflict theory about the conscious and unconscious. The trickle of light in the background, the ever-so-slight swirl of smoke that stops short of being cocky, the deep furrows on the brow and the compact manner of sitting are at once disturbing as well as almost holy.

For Jungians, this would make a whole lot of sense. And for others, it would still be about a man with several tales to tell.

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Henri Matisse loved colours, the more lurid the better. Cartier-Bresson used monochrome and even then managed to capture the shades.

This photograph is a bit of a tease. The main subject is not even in the foreground, but he grabs our attention. Matisse loved his still-life, and the birds do look like one of his works. That the cage is empty and they are poised atop it could be seen as the artist's own freedom from using standard templates for his art.

It looks like a scene from a film. This is not Matisse in a typical studio setting with painting equipment. He is surrounded by life, almost bare and rundown. Like a blank canvas in an attic.

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These are all famous names and we would have seen them in numerous pictures. It takes someone like Cartier-Bresson to not just transform them into subjects, but real people with more than the single dimension they became known for.

I'll have to answer my own question posed in the beginning and say that in complexity the superficial is also the essence.

© Farzana Versey

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Images: Magnum Photos, Washington Post Magazine

Sunday ka Funda

A few thousand people have signed up for a one-way ticket to Mars in 2022. It could mean they have nothing to lose. Or, they are adventurous enough to forfeit life, for it is venturing into the unknown where even death is a mystery. Or, perhaps it is all about looking for something better.

This is what puzzles me. If we want something better, why don't we attempt it here? Why do we turn our faces away from where we belong?

“Did you ever stop to notice
This crying Earth, these weeping shores?...

I used to dream
I used to glance beyond the stars
Now I don't know where we are
Although I know we've drifted far"

How independent is independence?

Emotions can be infectious. When one listens to the sound of music, however loud, however remixed, from street corners and shanties, it is difficult not to at least hum along and somehow join in.

Today, it was relatively quiet. There is one 'celebration' spot across the end of the lane, which would be a few meters from my gate. That is where almost every occasion calls for songs. I waited to be awoken. It was only after breakfast that I heard the first strains:

"Ae mere watan ke logoun
Zaraa aankh mein bhar lo paani
Jo shaheed hue hai unki
Zaraa yaad karo qurbani

What do we remember most about this song? Ask around. They will tell you that Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru had tears in his eyes when he heard Lata Mangeshkar singing Pradeep's lyrics.

India got independence from British rule; this song was penned after the war with China. The China that ambles across our borders.

This song is a paean to the sacrifices of soldiers. In the past few years soldiers have been killed along the LoC, even when there is no war; they have also been killed by their colleagues or by a gunshot aimed by themselves.

"Jab ghayal hua Himalaya..."? The mountains are not wounded. The wars are between pundits in studios, politicians hawking their wares.

I am dry-eyed.

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I don't watch the speeches from the Red Fort on August 15th. However, it is interesting to see the reactions. The prime minister is not going there to clear the air or solve the country's problems. There are 364 days in the year. He is, or ought to be, speaking on behalf of the country, not the political party he represents. Unfortunately, that does not happen.

It is no surprise, then, that the wannabe candidate of la-la-land, Narendra Modi, chose to hit out at the Red Fort speech even before it was delivered. He said that at the Red Fort there would be only promises whereas here — in Bhuj where he was addressing the youth of his state — there would be talk about the work that has been done.

We have seen how his devotees (and he is a god whose clay feet they refuse to notice) have the gumption of passing off sleek buses in China as a model of ones in Ahmedabad to show 'development'. So blinded are they that they forget that India does not have left-hand drive vehicles and it is easy to catch the lie. Or perhaps it is audacity. They do not care.

Just as Modi himself does not. Minutes after the PM address, he sniggered, "Media channels said this is PM Manmohan Singh's last speech from Red Fort but he said he has miles to go, which rocket will he take?"

It is not important whether this man understands Robert Frost's poetry. It is a sophomoric dig, and that should tell us a lot more about him than industry-sponsored speeches.

I have just read the transcript of the PM's speech. It is mostly homilies. In a country where people are now battling with disease, illiteracy, and the rupee being worth one-sixtieth of a dollar and onions at Rs. 60 a kilo — we are even gearing to import it from Pakistan (tears without any skirmish!) — Dr. Singh offered chicken soup, not medicine. What we need is not just medicine, but inoculation. If we don't, anyone with ambitions will pose as a healer. We don't recognise quacks easily.

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Yesterday afternoon, there were cops near a shopping mall. Lounging on uncomfortable chairs, looking tiredly as cars broke signals and pedestrians skirted cars.

I read in the papers there were 721 sensitive spots. 721 spots in Mumbai alone. 721 spots where terrorists could strike, whereas right under the nose of the cops anyone could have been killed by a passing vehicle with a cocky driver behind the wheel.

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So many free things available — electronics, clothes, cosmetics, edibles, travel, even ads for losing kilos "free".

How many people earning an honest living would be beguiled by all this and bought things they might not need. Did they think about the freedom struggle? Did those corporates and retailers?

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What we get free makes us indebted and enslaved. We are all still colonised in some way or the other by commercialism, bigotry, prejudice, casteism, communalism, elitism. So how independent are we really?

© Farzana Versey