Freudian Slip

I was always a little confused about the meaning of the term 'wannabe'. It is defined as a person trying to be someone he/she is not. Straightforward enough but leaves a lot unanswered.

Recently, I found my answer after Mallika Sherawat opened her gab at the Cannes Film Festival. Back in the year 2010 Mallika Sherawat appeared on Aap Ki Adalat in her signature-style, candid interview. On questions regarding her bold kissing scenes and bikini shows, she claimed to be a victim of media. She, very correctly, pointed out that she was not the first actress to wear a bikini on screen. Legends like Zeenat Aman and Sharmila Tagore had already set the bar and it was only because of her bold image that the media put her at the receiving end.

Sharmila Tagore on the cover of Filmfare

Are we not calling these bikini any more?

Three years down the line, when visiting the Cannes Film Festival, Mallika Sherawat and her PR agent (that is if she has one) should have done a better homework. 

Mallika Sherawat, during an interview with The Variety Studio for their Cannes Edition, proudly claimed to be 'the first actress to kiss on screen and wear a bikini'. Were there no Indian reporters present who could question her about the exact date when she dethroned Zeenat Aman and Sharmila Tagore? And a little time spent on Google (the modern day library) would tell you that the first on-screen kiss queen was legendary actress Devika Rani. To top it all, she spoke in an accent from nowhere (to call it a fake American accent would be an insult to the 'wannabe' rich kids who have mastered the art of fake American accent and could give Sherawat few lessons).

What is this if not a KISS?

For those who are still wondering about the meaning of 'wannabe', it means a dumb person with short-term memory (not to be confused with Gajini who was smart enough to take notes and photographs).

Is Fiction The New Truth?

Reality shows on national television is the new TRP trend. For close to 10 years now television has been ruled by actors (for the lack of a better word) doing everything but 'acting'. From proving that they are the next dancing superstar to getting married on public television to fighting out behind so-called closed doors.

Reality shows have always been in the midst of controversies. Are these shows scripted or are they really real? People have their own share of ideas and opinions. Arguments make the audience believe that celebrities are paid to fight and abuse. Whereas, shedding buckets full of tears are a sure shot way to gain public sympathy.

As opposed to all the media write-ups that fight the case in favour of reality shows, it is always evident that the real talent lies in telling sob-stories. The greater the crisis, the more popular you would be with the audience. Celebrities participating in these shows claim that all is true and real. But then who pays for the real thing? Are we to believe that all celebrities are endorsing charity? Are we to believe that celebrities take the centre stage to prove their talent? But the fact remains that each celebrity participating in a reality show quotes their amount.

To believe their word proves even more difficult when celebrities, within a span of two years, change their statements. Recent discovery was the whole Rakhi Sawant Swayamvar controversy. Post the show and the subsequent engagement break-up, the only question that ruled media channels was, "Why did Rakhi Sawant break her engagement?"

Rakhi Sawant went on Aap Ki Adalat to claim that the show was real and she wished to marry and thus went on the show. Hardly two years down the line she went on All Most Famous and claimed that the whole show was scripted and marriage was never on the cards. Similar cases can be found strewn across media reports where celebrities contradict themselves and create a bigger confusion regarding the authenticity of these shows. 

For channels, reality shows are a TRP jump, specially if there is a controversy revolving around the show. For housewives its a way to while away time and a subject for gossip. For celebrities, its additional money. But for the limited masses who utilize the television for a little more than mindless entertainment, its a waste of money and a huge black box that occupies unnecessary space.

From telefilms and memorable shows like Nukkad, Hum Log and Buniyaad to Rakhi ka Swayamvar and Big Boss and its n number of seasons, television is truly a fiction medium where all that meets the eye is plain and simple lies.

Celluloid Man

The film fraternity is busy celebrating 100 Years of Indian Cinema. Having grown up on Bollywood, I am all for the celebration. It feels great that the Indian film fraternity is only a 100 years young. A breathtaking experience it could be, if one could watch all the movies ever made in India, starting right from the silent era to the latest romantic escapade.

So where does one go and whom does one meet to witness the 100 years? Two simple names comprise the answer - NFAI and P.K. Nair.

The former is not an unknown term, at least, not to the film fraternity. I cannot say the same, confidently, about the latter.

P.K. Nair, unknown to many, spent his entire life archiving Indian cinema and set base for the NFAI. An unfortunate fire in 2003 burnt away majority of his life's work at the archive and only a few survived. But the man himself continued to remain anonymous until the recently released documentary by Shivendra Singh Dungarpur, Celluloid Man, hit the screen.

With interviews from national and international film celebrities who have had the opportunity to work and interact with Nair Saab, as he is fondly addressed, each had a memory to share; a tale to tell about this one man's determination and love for cinema.

It becomes evident that the love of a maker might end once the product is sold. But the real affair begins when one collects and protects a product. Nair Saab's love for cinema is unmatched by any.

Sitting for hours on end, alone in the projection theatre, Nair Saab, untiringly kept notes and made sure that his collection remained unharmed. His passion took him to the extent of making overnight journeys to distant cities and spending nights without food or sleep.

Post-retirement, he moved back to his home town, Thiruvananthapuram. But he could not stay away from his love too long. He was soon back in Pune, close to NFAI, where he continues to reside.

Cinema, in the true sense, is his childhood sweetheart. And the affair continues!

Nair Saab's unrelenting determination made it possible for a whole generation of film makers and actors to be inspired and imbibe the real meaning of cinema that existed, in the words of film critic, Nasreen Munni Kabir, "before the whole Bollywood mess".

Film festivals, commemorating commercial cinema and the whole nine yards. But I cannot think of a better way to honour 100 Years of Cinema than to honour the man who made it all possible - a true connoisseur!

Century

For the last six months the entire entertainment industry has been gearing up to celebrate 100 years of Indian cinema. And yet very few remember the first Indian film.

Dadasaheb Phalke's contribution to the moving arts is, undoubtedly, vast. Yet, it would be unfair to forget those who paved the way in their own significant ways.

Hiralal Sen

To forget Hiralal Sen and his Royal Bioscope in this context would mean to nullify the significance of short films. Sounds contradictory when today released 'Bombay Talkies', a compilation of four short films, to commemorate the birth of Indian cinema. Royal Bioscope Company (co-owned by Hiralal Sen and his brother Motilala Sen, along with two other gentlemen, Debaki Lal Sen and Bholanath Gupta) was established in 1898 and continued operations till 1913.

It would be limiting the man's talents if one were to speak of him only in reference to cinema. He also produced a number of advertising films and news films. He may, very well, have been the first Indian to use film for advertising purpose.

Dadasaheb Torne & the first published ad for the screening of Shree Pundalik

Another name that deserves a mention is that of Dadasaheb Torne. Dadasaheb Torne's Shree Pundalik released in 1912, a full year before Dadasaheb Phalke's Raja Harishchandra hit the cinema halls. 

Many have discarded the man and his efforts with the arguments that Shree Pundalik was the recording of a Marathi play, the cameraman - Johnson - was a British national and the film was processed in London.

For all those in favour of these arguments, I can only think of n number of movies produced today that are adaptations/documentaries, employ the expertise of foreign nationals and are processed partially abroad. It so seems that to downgrade and oppose a pioneer has always been the 'in' thing.

On May 3, 1913 released the historic Raja Harishchandra by Dadasaheb Phalke. Undoubtedly, a landmark in Indian cinema; but not Dadasaheb Phalke's first effort at film-making.

Prior to the acclaimed feature film, Dadasaheb Phalke made the first Indian animation movie, Birth of A Pea Plant, using time lapse photography; stop-motion animation in the modern context.

With all due respect to the man and his genius, it is surprising that no one recalls the fact that Dadasaheb Phalke travelled all the way to London to learn the art of film-making and purchase film-making equipments. Is that not taking help from the west, as in the case of Dadasaheb Torne?

It is an incomplete celebration when it includes only the stars and not the ones who made the stars. It turns into being 100 years of fame, glamour and anonymity. From 1913 to 2013 Indian cinema has come a long way in its stories and techniques. But the star-syndrome remains intact. We continue to be besotted by those who make headlines and forget those who get hidden behind the curtain.

Celebrating 100 years of Indian Cinema; celebrating 100 years of old wine in a new bottle!

Haunted!

Bengal is haunted (no pun intended) and how?

Of late, Bengali cinema has been fascinated with the world of spirits and ghosts. After the immense success of Bhooter Bhobishyot (The Future of Ghosts) and Jekhane Bhooter Bhoy (Where There Is A Fear Of Ghosts), the latest ghost to hit the big screen comes not alone but with a jewellery box, Goynar Baksho.

Aparna Sen's latest is an adaptation of Shirshendu Mukhopadhyay's Rashmonir Sonadana. Alike her last presentation, this one too leaves a lot to be expected. Overt feminist messages and an abrupt ending in Calcutta '71 ruins what could have otherwise been an entertainer.  

The story of an old aunt who passes away in her sleep and never leaves the house and a daughter-in-law who, with the guidance and help, of the aunt's spirit, brings back the lost legacy of the family, talks of a warm friendship and camaraderie between two generations and two worlds. Barring a few adult scenes (judging by the fact that a lot of families went to watch the film with young children who could not stop asking questions), Goynar Baksho could have been categorized as a family entertainer. What ruins the entertainment are the last 20 minutes of the movie.

The narrator of the story is the granddaughter of the family. She too can see and communicate with her dead grandmother. But she becomes the voice of Sen's feminist ideals after the main plot is over. It is difficult to understand the need to step into the life of a grown up granddaughter and enter the Calcutta of the 70s. It is also beyond comprehension why the girl delivers her mother's lover's (if he can be called that since it was a one-sided admiration) letters when her parents have a perfectly happy marriage and she is a product of their love.

It is interesting to hear the old aunt mention that women too, like men, have the right to find love outside their marriage. But she speaks more as a victim of social constraints rather than a rebel. Being a child widow, witnessing the death of her lover because he was a servant in the family, and never having experienced the bliss of a man-woman relationship, her preaching is born out of agony and loss than a misplaced notion of woman freedom.

It was fascinating to find out that the last 20 minutes were edited out for the town and village audience. This goes on to prove that these so-called uncivilized people have a better sense of story than their global, city-bred cousins. And the director is very aware of this difference. 

Then why the need for those 20 minutes? Is it to prove to the city audience her 'global' outlook or to speak for women rights?

What could have been a fun, spook ride turned out to be a sermon with an unnecessary epilogue. Only high points were the two songs, touted as Bangla rap, that are thoroughly enjoyable. 

Seems like Sen needs to take a long break from celluloid for we, sure, can't take any more lonely women treaties on the big screen.

Haunted was the experience, indeed!