Danny's Day

If you've read my previous post, then you'll understand this one better. I just saw Danny Boyle's interviews on various channels. Not once, not a single time, in any of those interviews, did he say or even allude to the fact that he was proud that this film came out of Britain or even to the fact that he was the visionary behind it and how he made the whole thing come together.

He talked about the wonderful screenplay, the words that mesmerised him, the people who helped him and kept him going and acknowledged that timing had a lot to do with the success of the film as well.

He honestly said he loved filming it here but wouldn't be able to live in Bombay. He expressed just enough gratitude to be sincere and stopped short of mindless sycophancy to the powers that be.

When will India have a Danny Boyle with the kind of quality, uncompromising work that he's done, the deep intelligence and the humility that stayed in the face of innumerable accolades? A. R. Rahman is probably the closest we have to that.

Take a leaf, all you overblown narcissistic directors of the Indian film industry who find it more important to polish your egos to shiny perfection rather than your movies.

Take a bow, Danny.

Not your Slumdog.

Yes well, it's official. Slumdog Millionaire rocks, it rules and does pretty much anything you want it to, including winning 8 Oscars. Yes, Eight. Of which the much beloved A. R. Rahman won for Best Music and Best Song. And his speech said it all: All my life I've had the choice between love and hate. I choose love. For me, personally, that line deserved its own Oscar. Especially when it comes from the talent-heavy, publicity-shy and reticent Mr. Rahman. I didn't mind standing up and applauding for him.

Then I started switching news channels. 'Our' very own Slumdog Millionaire won. 'Our' Anil Kapoor. 'Our' Frieda Pinto. Even 'our' Dev Patel (why should the Gujjus not suddenly embrace one of their own, even if he does celebrate Valentine's Day and kiss in public?) Suddenly, India is 'ours' and its slums and dogs and millionaires are 'ours' and in the face of a very red, very international carpet, everything about that movie and everyone in it and around it are all 'ours' and we're all smiling and cheering for 'our' movie. What a warm, cosy, almost Christmassy feeling, it is, isn't it? As Rahman said, we are choosing love.

I find it hard though to get sucked in. India is a country which abounds in such hypocrisy. When we need it or want it, it is ours. When we don't, we literally burn it to the ground, or even worse, alive. We don't really understand the meaning of ours. We do understand the concept of laying false claim, though. Perhaps we did learn something from the East India Company after all. What right do we have to say Slumdog's victory is ours? Is it? Did we rush off to get the rights to make this film? Do we bother to anticipate genius and recognise a book for its true worth? What was the last great internationally-acclaimed film made by the Indian film industry that won anything?

Let me remind the overexcited, hypocritical menaces out there- Slumdog is NOT ours. It is theirs. The British people own this film. The Americans who distributed it, own this film. Danny Boyle owns it for his genius vision. Yes, it had Indian actors in it. So what? With the kind of population we have, we can't swing a dead cat anywhere in the world without hitting one! Now don't choose to misunderstand me. I am happy that they won. I am glad their efforts were justified and I'm even happier that the Underdog triumphed. It was a hard enough film to make and to get it to succeed; someone's soul definitely showed through. What I find ridiculously hypocritical is the way every Indian wants a piece of the glory. Why? With what right? Did you contribute to the film in any way, except perhaps to perpetuate the injustice in the slums that the film explored? When 'Salaam Bombay' did the same thing years ago, did anyone care? Does anyone care even now? Don't talk to me of NGOs. This is about recognising talent, not a political discussion. My objection is simply to the blind-sheep, utterly two-faced, so-called 'morality' that Indians have and what's worse is, that they're not even aware of it. We are so quick to hitch our wagon to someone else's success that we have no trouble heralding them as one of our own, close to the national bosom and part of our very fabric. And yet, come tomorrow, come trouble and come the opportunity to really help, this will just be yesterday's news lining someone's kitchen shelf.

Ironic isn't it. A country that carries deep within it a plethora of talent, even gives birth to an international imagination, still needs someone else's Oscar to validate it.

A revisitation

Ever felt like you wanted to go back and do it all over again? Surely you cannot call yourself human if you haven't. I've been off the radar for a bit as I've been travelling. Strange places like a Mafia-ridden Moscow. And then suddenly, Hyderabad. I've been to Hyderabad before. About two decades ago when I didn't have political opinions. Or social opinions. Or too many opinions. At least that's what I'd like to think. All I remember from then is the Charminar and how frighteningly ugly the surroundings were. I'm in a different Hyderabad as I write this. A dichotomous one, as most large urban areas in India tend to be. But something happened here that made me want to go back and do it differently. I taught. I guest-lectured at a friend's educational institute. I'd never before been confronted by the rising hopes and aspirations of small town India, well-heeled India and confused India all inside one classroom. All looking at me as if I was the box that contained the three wishes. It was daunting for a minute. About ninety minutes later, I disconnected from my body and floated upwards. Probably in reality towards the window because of the heat. And I saw this one woman throwing out questions and giving out answers and this group of young students whose suddenly translucent skulls showed their rapidly expanding brains. It was like peeking into the elixir of youth, knowledge, hope and vitality, all rolled into one. I couldn't for the life of me believe that no cosmetic company had tried to harness the very air they breathed. At the end of three hours and three sweet vended coffees later, I paused. I had just knocked off ten years of tiredness and revisited realms of knowledge and half-lives and reworked my entire understanding of what students outside the cocoon of South Bombay are. And it was so very disconcerting that I didn't know if I should do it all over again to confirm that I hadn't been in a dream or if I should hop on to the next flight to Bombay. I did it again. I wasn't disconcerted this time. I was present. I was with them. I was inside their heads and they were knocking down the doors to mine. I thought for a moment, if I could go back to being a student, I would be this. This energy, this thirst, this humour, this challenge. I would abandon the armour of knowing, the gothic net of false perception, the non-chalance towards life and the taking it for granted.

As I returned to my disconnected, falsely calm gated community, I wondered. Does inspiration need hope? Or does hope need inspiration?

Sharing isn't always caring

In the Land of Sharing, through Facebook and the horrid button Reply All, we seem to have forgotten our basic manners and netiquette (if that's even a word) and think it's perfectly okay to bombard every single person with our cute little witticisms and our opinions which may or may not be worth fishwrap.

After many months of resistance, I conceded to use Facebook. I cautiously sent out mass emails. And a few months later, I remembered why I had resisted. Facebook and Reply All- the tools of the Devil, sometimes. I have reasons.

I use Facebook. I use email. I have a 'Reply All' button too. And I gauge. I try to decipher. I think about whether some poor sod whom I've never met and who doesn't know me, would be interested in knowing if I'm going to accept x's invitation to a party and what I think of the inclusion of wood-oven roasted chicken in the menu.

Now sometimes, it can be a very interesting political discussion, like an article you've sent your friends in order to generate debate. Perfectly acceptable and indeed exciting to hit 'Reply All' in order to continue that debate. Or create a shared link on Facebook for all to see. But to post a comment on Facebook like, hey, did you get rid of that herpes problem? Umm, think. Do the rest of that poor person's friends have to know that he had herpes? That's not sharing, my dears, that's past caring.

On the one hand, we are leading such busy lives that we make excuses to everyone that we don't have the time for phone calls and personal emails. On the other hand, we're only too keen to let everyone and their uncle know something they would never ever, need to or want to know.

Balance people, balance. A little dose of good manners. A little less laziness. And you'll find that sharing will indeed, once again, be caring.

A 'Q and A' session

If I were Vikas Swarup, the author who wrote Q&A, on whose book the movie Slumdog Millionaire was based, I'd be slightly confused about whether I should be ecstatic about the Golden Globes or have mixed feelings about my countrymen. The GGs of course are great and all the fanfare that comes with a lovely movie which I am yet to see but I'm more concerned about the book. Sure it had won plenty of critical acclaim and awards but how many of the author's countrymen had actually read it before the movie came along?

Today the Indian media is carrying all these articles about how various directors from the Indian film fraternity had long ago realised and recognised the potential of the book and had gone a-begging for the film rights only to find that the author had already quietly sold them to someone who had beat them all to it. Then there were a hundred opinion polls about which Indian film director would have been the right person to direct the film and given the book the full justice of its potential. Then there are the inevitable lists of top best-sellers in the country. Remember Aravind Adiga's The White Tiger? That made it to maximum bookshelves after the Booker? Even Jhumpa Lahiri's book Namesake found great fame after Tabu and Irfan romanced their way onto international screens.

And now it's Vikas Swarup's turn. Q&A is suddenly appearing on people's bookshelves. Over the last week, I've had several friends and relatives call to ask me: hey you read a lot, right? Umm, yes I try to. Then you must know the name of the book that Slumdog Millionaire was based on? Yes I do. What is it and where can I get it? Have you read it? Yes, a couple of years ago, actually. So, is it still available everywhere? Is it good? Is it the same story? Well yes, but with a few changes. But the boy's in it, right?

Now, if I were Vikas Swarup, I'd be in tears. When did it become so, that a movie reminded people to read? That a film brought an author's work to life? Gave a good book the respect it deserved well before the movie? Danny Boyle's superb film has certainly worked wonders for what must be freshly minted editions of the 2005 book suddenly gracing the glitter-pack's bookshelves.

That day isn't far when kids stop doing book reports and do DVD reports on the book. I certainly hope I'm dead before that.

The wily fox

I recently read Aravind Adiga's 'The White Tiger' which won the Man Booker Prize. And I confess that I enjoyed it more than I expected to because I am not partial to books set in Delhi. It should have really been called The Wily Fox, is my humble submission but Mr. Adiga has every right to name his own book. However, I am left with a very important question that won't go away. Did it deserve the Man Booker? To honour the format of Adiga's book- a letter to the Premier of China- I'll do the same.

Dear Booker Prize Selector,
This is not a letter stemming from envy, jealousy, peevishness or the sour-grapes syndrome. But one of perplexity. I read The White Tiger only because it had won your esteemed prize and if most of Bombay's readers are honest, they'll admit to not seeing it on the city's premium bookshelves before the honour. The book is interesting, comical, tragic and highlights issues of great importance. But nowhere in the book did I feel that it stayed with me for a long while. In any great book, some form of extreme reaction or repsponse is provoked. Whether you contain it or exhibit it, depends on who you are. This book did neither. What I do understand and appreciate, is that it boldly threw open the doors of the ugly Delhi and its even uglier people (which we Bombayites love to read about) to the world. Since India is 'hot' and everyone wants a piece of it, to chew, screw or brew, I applaud that the 'shocking' tale of Balram Halwai went against the tide of the newly popular India and instead made people look at how shameful it can be. I praise the author's courage and his cleverness in doing it through his unique letter-writing protagonist.

But I am left to wonder, dear selector, was this book judged for its timely subject, its contrariness and at some point, was its literary worthiness and indeed linguistic beauty (or lack thereof) considered at all? Or is it the trend to give Indian authors the credit that's been due for a while now and this seems a rather good way of settling debts?

I once received some feedback from a lovely young editor at a big publishing company about a story I sent her, saying that at this time the publishers were looking for stories more relevant to India and not written for a Western audience. Fair enough. After all, it's the book Business. So what then is this Booker winner? If not pandering to a Western audience? It's certainly of very little interest or eye-opening significance to an Indian audience. My dear selector, we live here. We already know. We also learned long ago how to ignore. We let our politicians pretend to care. We let our socialites ooh and aah. We, the real Indian audience, trod on, sometimes becoming Balram Halwai ourselves!

Mr. Adiga has done a fine job in exposing and dashing the myth of 'India Shining/Rising/Climbing' and all other fairly undeserved praise that India has gained in the Western media. But ceteris paribus, what was the final nail in the coffins of the competing authors? Most of their books read beautifully, with sentences that stayed in one's mind for months to come. The White Tiger may be many things but to a voracious and versatile reader, it does not bear the hallmark of a 'fine book' or even the kind of 'literary elitism' the Man Booker has often been accused of in the past!

Or has irony prevailed? That in the felling of the giant 'India Shining' myth, Adiga's book has actually won because Indian authors are the new 'it' things.

Sincerely,
A confused reader/writer.

Australia- Bollywood style

Mainstream Bollywood hasn't come of age. It's become an infection.

A couple of days ago, two friends M & S and I went to see the movie 'Australia' directed by Baz Luhrmann. We'd heard that the movie wasn't well-received but M and I usually judge a movie for ourselves, frankly because we're addicted to huge tubs of popcorn and partly because in India, movies aren't reviewed, they're merely synopsised.

The start of the flick was conventional Luhrmann- a grand scale introduction, followed by a lone character against the sweeping panorama of Australian ranch land. Beautiful, cinematically perfect, breathtaking and all that jazz. The little Aboriginal boy called Nullah, in the film, elicited the appropriate cooing, although in India, he could be mistaken for a street kid and no genteel sari-clad woman would ever waste her time complimenting him. Not because there's anything wrong with the kid but because India is a country deeply stricken with racism, classism and all other undesirable isms that you can think of. Some of us, avid movie-goers who focus on the talent and not the looks, did appreciate that this young boy had chutzpah and eyes that could express a thousand emotions all at once.

What Gone with the Wind did for Southern hospitality and Rhett Butler spin-offs, what Out of Africa did for safari tourism, Australia could not do for tourism or cattle ranching or Nicole Kidman's plastic surgeon. The only winners were Hugh Jackman's personal trainer and Nullah. The Aboriginal culture was sadly portrayed as mystical without any real comprehension, over-the-top mumbo jumbo and caricatured presentations of a people who are clearly more intelligent and practical than they are portrayed to be. I realise that it was a period flick but the depth just wasn't there. The story was so unbelievable in parts, with inopportune and terrible singing, that one wondered if Baz had been talking to a couple of Hindi film directors with a penchant for insulting an audience's intelligence. As for Miss Kidman, she really needs to extricate the rod that holds her spine up. Her portrayal of Lady Ashley was a sad botched-up attempt to have the bearing of Katherine Hepburn, the hairstyle of Lauren Bacall, the spunk of Meryl Streep and the feminine wiles of Scarlett O'Hara. She could achieve none of it. What she did achieve was amateurish gasping and rounding of her collagen lips and choreographed hand gestures. Sad, because she's shown some real talent in her past films. Hugh Jackman was perfect. He had nothing much to do except scowl, ride beautiful horses, take his clothes off and enthrall us all with his gorgeous eye-candy body. Mission accomplished. Bryan Brown was wasted in his role as King Carney. He deserves a better script and a meatier role in the film. Nullah played wonderfully by Brandon Walters was worth watching. Although it was clear in some scenes that he had been 'coached' to give out more conventional speech rhythms and expressions. I hope the boy doesn't turn into one of Hollywood's factory-churned child artists.

What possessed Baz to do this to a film that had great potential? Who butchered the script? Who lost control of the editing? Who decided to make an Australian film in true kitschy Bollywood style?

M, S and I were uncontrollably laughing at some of the antics, not out of enjoyment but with great helpings of scorn. I'm glad I've seen Australia the country, before Australia the movie. I'd like to remember my version of it.