freebird

Am pasting a link…http://progressiveboink.com/archive/calvinhobbes.htm

for people who love the strip.

‘For a movie to be great, someone has had to have taken a risk. If no one is willing to do that, the movies will not be good. That much I do know.’

Francis Ford Coppola (in an interview to Sean O’Hagan, Sunday December 9, 2007, The Observer)

‘For a movie to be great, someone has had to have taken a risk. If no one is willing to do that, the movies will not be good. That much I do know.’

Francis Ford Coppola (in an interview to Sean O’Hagan, Sunday December 9, 2007, The Observer)

A friend lost someone dear today. And we don’t know how to console.

Mumbai. Big expensive, glamorous city. I love movies and if you want to make them, then the eventual destinaion is Bombay. I hate calling it Mumbai, but…There is nothing good about the Times of India supplement Bombay Times, other than the fact that they still call themselves Bombay Times.

So I landed one day in the city of dreams in a train from Jamshedpur. Stayed with friends and tried my hand like every other TD and H, that is Tom, Dick and you know what. Those were heady days. Living and fighting and scraping bank balances and utensils to make ends meet. Things have improved a bit I must say. Only a bit though.

I work in television. Some months back I was opposed to it because of the proliferation of mindless soaps etc. I joined tv because it offers to pay my bills. Not on time as I initially thought, but eventually it does, so its better than my luck elsewhere.

Sometimes I am offended by the barrage of self – doubt that assails me. Its a nice cozy office with decent people who do their job, greet you and do not piss you. The work is mostly writing, which I enjoy. But even then - this doubt thing.

It was during work that I discovered blogging. A very good exercise for writers especially if one is blogging from office, like I do. You get 10 or sometimes 15 minutes to peg a thought, make it interesting, error free and contemporary and relevant.

Sometimes I don’t even know what I am about to write, till I actually pen it down. Other times one is distubed by colleagues or actual office work. Imagine – the keys are waiting to be typed, to be converted into a word, a sentence, a thought and it dies, without any prologue.

So television programming, blogging and an interesting city. What else do we need? Lots. One of those boring days I thought of something that sounded interesting. Why not analyze the effect of television on my own life. How has television played a role in my life? I thought it would prop a background to my work, would help in contextualizing. So my exercise begins.

Virginity

The 1^st time i watched television was in Bhubaneshwar.

At my grandparent’s house. They had a Konark television. One of the earliest Indian idiot boxes. Our first television was also a Konark. My uncle brought it with him one morning on one of his visits to Jamshedpur. It sounds romantic but I still remember the early morning of that day. I opened the grill to the house and saw by uncle get out of an auto-rickshaw – he was carrying a carton…it was a television…Konark. I, later on, visited its manufacturing premises, to change the picture tube.

I and my sister jumped with joy. It was the greatest joy for a long long time. Things were never the same after that day. We had a television but it was of no use.

The Antenna

I knew what an antenna was. We have a Marconi radio. It is a giant of a machine, which is now packed and preserved. That radio also had an antenna. I didn’t understand its function though. My father repeatedly tried to make me understand the ‘air waves’, but to no avail. They catch the ‘air waves’, he said, but how can you catch the invisible? I asked and wondered! Frankly it still makes me reel.

So we had a television and no reception. We ran to the nearest Television shop near our residence. We bought an antenna. Which one to choose? we wondered. 7 elements, 9 or 11. We finally went with 9. We fixed the t.v and the antenna and switched it ON.

The television started to beam its images into our household. It was a wonder. We could hardly see the image. There was ghosting that I have never experienced ever, weird net like creatures crawling over the screen, making a veil over the people and things, hiding everything. The antenna was on the terrace. Eager, energetic kids we were and we wanted to see the IMAGE clear and crystal like. The brother sister duo used to run 2 flights of stairs, grab hold of the iron rod and twist and turn it. Somebody downstairs, usually our father, used to shout up instructions, left, right, just there (of course in Telugu and Hindi) STOP.

We used to run down with great anxiety to check out the improvement. Even an incremental change used to make us ecstatic. The entire family used to look and marvel at the new improved reception. In the heart of hearts we knew that this was not going to last, that it’s a momentary pleasure afforded to us, transient. And it was so. After a few minutes things again took a u-turn and we were back to square 1.

And then came the BOOSTER

A small device that promised extra-ordinary clarity to revolutionize our perception. There was a change after the Booster was installed, but soon it assumed the status of your favourite relative who decides to settle down at your house. The booster soon became both inseparable and passe.

In the season of time travel in Bollywood, Sudhir Mishra’s Khoya Khoya Chand, is another tourist. Farah went no-holds-barred, irreverent retro in Om Shanti Om. Sudhir Mishra veers off in a different direction. His eyes are reverent, nostalgic almost awe-inspired. Who isn’t by the pristine, sepia-tinted image of Bollywood when actors, directors, lyricists, composers and other associated technicians had idealism, madness, got drunk, and were unapologetic about leading the life they lead?

KKC is an Insider’s film. Somebody who knows the mores of the industry. The vicarious twists of destiny that an artist is vulnerable to…human and divine. The crest of success and the lows of failure come unattended and the best laid plans are unwoven overnight. Where ambition reigns supreme and compromise is often everybody’s middle name. Where friends and enemies don’t know the definition of either word. Where love is as vacillating as the fortunes at the friday box office.

Mishra knows about all of this. Mishra is also good at something else. History. History and his own place in the space time continuum. He knows the pulse of the time, for sure. Ye Wo Manzil To Nahin and the loss of Nehruvian/Socialist Idealism and Innocence. HKA’s romantic look at the 70’s was a follow up to the darker YWMTN, with a little bit of hope thrown in at the end.

KKC once again locates its story and characters in the Past. A past that is innocent, idyllic, romantic. The characters are all an amalgam of your favourite heroes and heroines from the past. Think Meena Kumari, Madhubala, Nargis and many more. The same with the heroes, directors, script writers…your basic mix of all exploited, angst-ridden, mis-understood, man on a mission kind of character whom we love to see, root and clap for but will never become one. Very appealing on the stage or screen.

So we enter the world of Nikhat, Zafar, Khosa the producer, Prem Kumar, Shyamol, Ratan Bala, Nonida etc. We revel in this world…a world where the Bachnalian spirit seems to rule. Where success is the only mantra and men and women, inspite of their good intentions are seduced by their artistic higher-calling, money, security or plain old weaknesses. Such good fodder where all men and women are morally ambivalent, possibly corrupt but in the end they all possess a halo of…being human.

So we go through the gamut of emotions that artists supposedly undergo…elation, rejection, artistic bouts, the search for one’s muse, unresolved grief and unannounced epiphanies. The world in KKC follows a cyclical nature. You love, you lose, you regain love. You give a hit, you make a flop, you are banished and then you are welcome once again. A friend turns into a foe, an enemy and then becomes a friend once again. The large hearted producer becomes a miser, abuses and then again regains his old self. The casanova hero exploits one woman, falls for another, is unfaithful, has a golden heart. Wonderful world of people who are all fallible, human, make mistakes and are therefore identifiable.

So all the characters in KKC are good. The old Bollywood is populated by larger than life characters who wander, waver and then redermption visits them. Everything and everyone is hunky dory in KKC. and Mishra’s world. There are no villains. But so does Ray’s films. So Ray and Mishra are equals in their love for their characters and therefore make great films. Alas, thats not the case and thank god it is not that simplistic.

What is KKC? Is it the search for love? Both Zafar and Nikhat are abandoned…Zafar by his father and Nikhat by her mother. And both know that they are made for each other. The moment they resolve their personal demons of ambition, self-destructive death – wish and selfishness, they would have gained their paradise.

The film ends on an orgiastic high for Nikhat before the tacky card comes and announces that Nikhat died in a years time. So the film, if I understood correctly, was set up for the realization of love between its two main protagonists. Like any good story, the hero and heroine tumble and fall and then realize their catharsis via each other just before its too late.

Nikhat along her journey cries, laughs, acts innocent, manipulative, stands her ground, becomes a drunk, a lover and a mistress. Same with Zafar, her conscience, who takes a beating when ambition comes calling. Both love each other because of the other’s weakness.

Then why does the film fail?

There are a few scenes that makes one smile, wonder, laugh…Rajat Kapoor’s confession that he is a rake and can’t help it. Sonya Jehan teasing Zafar (the only other consistent performer along with Rajat) when he offers Nikhat’s role to her. Saurabh’s ‘Khosa’ in most of his scenes. And yet?

The CAST.

Soha looks pretty. Great styling. Costumes by Miss Anand are thought out. But these are external add-ons. Tulip Joshi was used brilliantly in Matrubhoomi, she had two and a half words or something. Soha here, unfortunately has to speak a million lines. Ironically, in Urdu, which is her mother tongue. And the labour and effort shows. If only she could have accented where it mattered? But she fails and how. Shiney has a different problem.

What you see is Shiney labouring to play the angst – ridden Zafar. Shiney the actor pops up time and again to remind us that ‘hello, here I was thinking about the time my father scolded me when I was in grade 2’ and I am using that emotion to say these lines etc. Shiney is overpowered and defeated by the very technique that great actors use in an almost subliminal manner.

He should have learnt from the other good performers in the film…Rajat, Saurabh and Sonya. But unfortunately the film doesn’t run on their shoulders.

What Mishra ends up is almost like an apology for the film industry? Just like the film industry is populated by semi-corrupt people who are basically all-right and can be your drinking buddies and all is forgiven when the hangover ends, same with the film. Look at it tenderly, kindly and forgive the follies and mistakes and compliment it for the passable, the moderate, the just-about and as industrywallahs say ‘for the effort’.

Will wait fot the next one Mr. Mishra.

The wind was blowing today as I stepped out of the house. The leaves were swirling and the sun was hiding. Behind smog I think. There were no clouds to be seen. The closest Bombay gets to winter, in mornings and night.

The fishmoners were already selling their catch of the day. Children felt chilly but challenged the cold, just like others before. Mothers accompanied them, some of them weary already, like others before. Older people had mufflers, half-sweaters and a glass of hot tea or coffee in their hands. They massage the container, warming their freckled skin, which refuses to warm up.

Doctors are having a windfall. More cases of allergies because of suspended particles in the air. Bronchial asthma has visited quite a few people I know, including myself.

The 1^st week of December 2007 is already on its way out. It’s the time of reckoning. Wistfully, twirling a glass of wine in our hands, we wonder, ‘how quickly the year has run out on us’? We add further, ‘this happens year after year and yet…’. The year annotated by birthdays, anniversaries, accidents, tragedies and melting ICE.

Melting ICE is more definite and irrevocable than TIME nowadays. But lets get back to December. Parties. I want to party but have not in some months. Small tragedies amongst our circle of friends, tight schedules and broke status, all have conspired to keep our group happy with phone conversations, sms’s and a couple of visits to the theater.

December is also the time to break all resolves. To binge, to not care, to be happy in excess and abuse, to sink under, to pamper and be pampered. And it’s also the Universal time to make new resolves, resolutions, promises and oaths. The yearly cycle after hitting the high notes, calms us down, makes us introspect, lets the past breathe, so that the 365 days live once again, briefly, then expire once again, suddenly, at the stroke of midnight and gives birth to the future.

For a few minutes, or some would even say, some days, into every new year, time doesn’t exist. The new year takes time to wake up from its slumber. It seeps into us, creeping up, like a subtle smell, that numbs us, makes us comfortable. We are thrown against each other along the way and we acknowledge each other like old friends now, almost taking each other for granted.

And then winter and december appear in their cold sillouette. And we stop in our tracks and get nostalgic once again. To everything gone and everything on its way.

Doctors in Hyderabad are on strike. There have been 6 official deaths so far of children at just one hospital where the Doctors are on strike. The deaths, the officials say, are routine. Children die everyday. That’s understood. Doctors too go on strike. That’s understood too. But children dying because of Doctors who are strike is not understandable. They have all the energry to shout slongans. All the passion to fight for their rights. All the resolve to protest against exploitative authorities. All the ambition of a prosperous future to stay hungry, not have food or water.

The children apparently don’t have any rights.

They don’t have the voice.

They don’t have the strength.

They are out – numbered by adults.

They can cry, but they will be slapped shut.

So doctors who are educated, come from cultured families and who have taken the Hippocratic oath stand as mute spectators outside the very hospital inside which children are dying. It’s routine of course. Routine carelessness. Let them die, they are none of ours.