Lights! Camera! Everything!

Zac O’Yeah on how Indian cinema, unlike Western cinema, challenges the idea of genre, and how this can be traced back to the theatrical roots of each.

 

There’s no doubt about it— Kamal Haasan’s Vishwaroopam (2013), which he wrote, directed, co-produced and starred in, is an out and out action blockbuster on par with the most spectacular Hollywood thrillers of all time. Yet, for the first 41 minutes of its running time of two hours and something, the character Viz, played by the versatile superstar himself, is actually a comic one: a caricatured, cuckolded teacher of Indian dance in America, whose clownish antics have driven his attractive wife, Nirupama (played by model Pooja Kumar), to seek out a therapist and a private eye (specializing in divorce cases), resulting in a series of events that make the couple end up in genuinely unsavoury company.

 

It’s only in the 42nd minute, as Viz and Nirupama are about to be slaughtered by a group of hardcore terrorists, that he loses his deep cover and reveals his true identity as a virtual one-man army, the toughest bare-hands killing machine in cinema history, disposing of his enemies down to the last man. Nirupama then realizes that her husband is a true hero, and so do we in the audience.

 

My point is not that Kamal Haasan clowns around a bit in his own movie—his track record includes many hit comedies as well as romantic roles in a very long and distinguished career—but rather that he mixes comedy with thriller, and highly successfully too. So when the silly dance guru cuts off his flowing locks before the bathroom mirror and turns into the powerful superhero, I totally buy it.

 

And it occurs to me that I’ve rarely seen anything like this in Western cinema. Could it be because comic relief and elements of slapstick are normally expected to defuse whatever suspense a thriller may laboriously be building up? This may explain why humorous elements are treated with utmost care in Hollywood cinema. If a Western movie opened in the manner of Vishwaroopam, it would have stayed there—in comedy land—rather than switching genre midway. But here the switch is made remarkably effortlessly from a domestic comedy of errors to an international high-tension war-zone thriller of terrors, as if the home and the world were but different facets of our complex daily lives.

 

This is not to say that Western thrillers never have humour in them. Comic effects are frequently used in horror cinema. Shock-slash-guffaw is a thoroughly exploited formula in, for example, the top-grossing Scream franchise, which went on to inspire the early 2000s spoof series Scary Movie. You might recall that Wes Craven’s original Scream (1996) was a spectacularly self-conscious satire on horror genre tropes— starting with that “What’s your favourite scary movie?” quiz which the prank caller subjects Drew Barrymore to before the slashing begins. But the fact remains that most horror movies, through horror history, have taken themselves with deadly seriousness.

 

As for Hollywood films that blend comedy and crime genres, the only memorable one I can think of is Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid (1982), starring comedian Steve Martin as a detective. This is more of a film buff’s film, where Martin (shot in intense black-and-white) interacts with a selection of classic clips from vintage Hollywood noir. There’s no actual suspense, though, and the thrills (and jokes) consist of the juxtaposition of unconnected typical pulp thriller scenes (Humphrey Bogart in The Big Sleep, Bette Davis in Deception, Burt Lancaster in The Killers, Veronica Lake in The Glass Key and fourteen other genre classics) loosely held together by Martin’s private eye navigating through the mix. The whole film is a gag.

Other than that what’s funny about modern Western action? The Indiana Jones flicks were action-packed and occasionally bizarrely funny, granted, but essentially they paid homage to the swashbuckling heroics of 1930s Saturday matinee yarns— so whatever they were, they weren’t comedies. The same goes for Quentin Tarantino’s films. The epic Pulp Fiction (1994) made us see modern Hollywood in a fresh light, but no matter how riddled it is with memorable and macabre gags, it really is a homage to classic gangster pulp. Whatever comic effects Tarantino uses in his films operate to intellectualize the action and make the viewer step back so as to analyze what’s happening on screen.

 

The truth seems to be that Western action flicks can contain fun sequences but steer clear of out and out comedy. Humour, if incorporated, comes in minimal doses. One of my personal classics is the ski chase in The Spy Who Loved Me (1977) when James Bond (Roger Moore) escapes the Soviet agents by jumping off the Alps— in what was, at the time, the most expensive stunt ever filmed. Just as we think this is goodbye to 007, a Union Jack parachute unfurls from his backpack. But even if some critics view the James Bond franchise in its entirety as ridiculous and campy, as in this scene, it wasn’t the intention of the filmmakers to make spy spoof flicks.

 

It is quite another matter that the James Bond films spawned several genre parodies, perhaps most notably those with Mike Myers’s Austin Powers character (featured in films like The Spy Who Shagged Me and Austin Powers in Goldmember), but their action quotient doesn’t count for much if we try to watch them as thrillers.

 

Another great instance of limited fun that comes to mind is the acerbic wit of Clint Eastwood in the 1970s ‘Dirty Harry’ cop movies (“I know what you’re thinking… Did he fire six shots, or only five? Well, to tell you the truth, I forgot myself in all this excitement… ”) or the low key way in which Eastwood, playing the aged, reformed gunslinger William Munny, falls off his horse in the Academy Award-winning Unforgiven (1992). The grim-jawed one liner cracked by an action hero in the midst of nail-biting drama was developed further in the Die Hard series starring Bruce Willis (starting with Die Hard way back in 1988 and followed by several sequels including A Good Day to Die Hard in 2013), where our streetwise NYPD hero often stops, when the thrills peak, for a fraction of a second, to quip about something— usually along the lines of “this is a bad, bad, bad idea” before he jumps down an elevator shaft or out of the window of a skyscraper. But these are small instances of lightness in essentially dark, violent films, and that’s as much fun as it generally gets in your typical Western action.

 

Meanwhile, in Indian cinema, broad-spectrum entertainment seems to be what it’s all about. When watching action heroes like Shah Rukh Khan or Sanjay Dutt, I’m usually clinging on to the seat at the end of the show, my heart rate irregular from pumping too much adrenaline, my eyes sore from crying during the sentimental scenes, but also—significantly—my stomach aching from having laughed a lot.

 

Comedy or suspense? As I look back at a number of favourites from over the decades, films that for one reason or the other have stuck in the mind, I really find it hard to say if I was watching comedies or thrillers.

 

Yash Chopra’s final epic Jab Tak Hai Jaan (2012), for example, is a romantic drama-comedy about the joys and hardships of immigrant life in London, true, but the opening scenes of the film actually show Shah Rukh Khan as the cynical hero in battle fatigues (the character he later becomes after love disappointments): a major portion of the plot is centred around his career as a tough bomb-defusing expert hanging under booby-trapped bridges. Before that there was Delhi Belly (2011)— we may remember it as a disgustingly funny black comedy of unrefined toilet humour, but underpinning it there’s a solid thriller centred around a dangerous smuggled package. A special cinematic treat in the film is Vijay Raaz as a memorably sinister gangster. One of the funniest Wild West farces I’ve seen is Quick Gun Murugan (2009)— which is at the same time a hardboiled gunslinger action with remarkable shootouts, as well as being centred around a vegetarian cowboy (Rajendra Prasad) who tries to stop the creation of the ultimate non-veg dosa. Before that there was Munna Bhai MBBS (2003)— brutal slapstick where a gangster don (Sanjay Dutt) has to redeem himself by going to medical college; come to think of it, Dutt has an unrivalled talent for acting the clown and also the tough guy (rivaled perhaps only by Kamal Haasan, who remade this gangster comedy as Vasool Raja MBBS in the south). A couple of years earlier there was the Kannada hit film Upendra (1999), a violently funny but also intense psychological gangster movie by superstar Upendra who wrote, directed and starred in it. Here the witty actor-director plays the rowdy Naanu who smokes “filter bidis” (bidis tucked into filters torn off cigarettes) and sees the world through “cooling glasses” (shades).

 

The oldest example I can think of right now is Kundan Shah’s satirical Jaane Bhi Do Yaaro (1983)— a goofy comedy about bumbling photo journalists (Naseeruddin Shah and Ravi Baswani), but on the other hand a cult detective movie with pretty macabre sequences in which a dead corpse is carted around town.

 

Although this essay isn’t based on statistical analysis, I’m sure it is possible to come up with many more examples of comic thrillers or thrilling comedies. We laugh our hearts out but enjoy the hard-hitting action, and we’re horrified by the violence. Notably, many of the above actors, although expert comedians, aren’t typecast as comic characters— most of them are equally comfortable doing serious roles. How is this possible?

 

It is the caricatured dance teacher in Vishwaroopam who might hold a key to unravelling this cinematic mystery. The theatrical emotions that Kamal Haasan plays out in the dance class, taught to him—incidentally—by the Kathak maestro, Birju Maharaj, himself, hint to us that this might be one movie appreciated best if we lean back and think. Hassan’s classical dance moves take us back to the Natya Shastra, the famous, ancient Indian treatise on the performing arts. But what do these more than 2000 year old codifications have to do with 21st century cinema?

 

From the ancient Indian theory about dance, theatre and music, we learn that any artistic performance must have a dominant mood, a rasa, built out of emotions (bhavas) of which there are eight in number (in addition to which there’s also shanti, or peace, which is the ninth and the opposite of the other eight bhavas). A subtle mixing of the component bhavas, displayed in different segments of the work, serves to create the ultimate rasa or emotional response in the viewer.

 

One of these components is comedy (hasya), but others include terror or thrills (bhayanaka) and, of course, there’s heroism (vira) and love (rati). Natya Shastra explains in detail how each of these particular emotions is conveyed to the audience.

 

After the performance, having gone through the emotional turmoil thus produced, the audience experiences shanti or peace, calm, inner purity, insight, which glimpses the truth of life. A performance is judged by its success on this precise count. This very matrix, constructed two millennia before Bollywood was born, can give us a fascinating analytical tool to separate the various elements of a modern Indian film, and understand how components that would oppose each other in Western cinema, actually interlock and produce—through the friction created between opposites—a singular and unique greater experience.

 

By contrast, Hollywood cinema seems to operate according to the classic strictures of ‘the dramatic unities’ such as they were expounded by ancient art critics starting from the time of Aristotle through to the Renaissance. In about 17th century Europe, this resulted in an extreme purism in the interest of creating a semblance of credibility, particularly strongly expressed in French classicism which rejected all hybrid art forms, such as tragicomedy for example. In the olden days a staged play therefore had to confine itself within a rigorously delineated timeframe, social circumstance, and so on. Although modern cinema isn’t bound by these traditional unities, there remains in Hollywood filmmaking that same strong sense of a formal unity of plot with a single, central, pivotal action at its base: hence an action flick is a thriller and not a comedy, and vice versa. Incredible as it may sound, this tendency, that can be traced back to the 3rd century B. C. philosopher Aristotle, remains very much alive today. Check out Quentin Tarantino’s directorial debut, the iconic Reservoir Dogs (1992) or the more mainstream, claustrophobic David Fincher thriller Panic Room (2002) starring Jodie Foster for extreme cases of adherence to these dramatic unities.

 

These tendencies that I’m discussing here aren’t absolute or exclusive, of course. There are also clear parallels between Indian and Western films— both types of cinema aim at taking us through classic cathartic experiences, for one. Hollywood and Indian cinema have influenced each other through the years, and there are many Indian films that are rather Western in their expression.

 

All the same, the hallmark of the Western tradition is that it tends to focus on a single emotion, whereas the Indian tradition not only has space for many more bhavas, but we expect this particular quality from the films— they must operate on all possible emotional levels, speak to the whole body, the brain, the heart, the guts, the groin, as well as the funny bone.

 

Like life itself, the Indian hero (and the heroine too) is complex: consisting of one part heroics, one part love, one part comedy, and so on. We in the audience are all smaller versions of our multi-tasking heroes. Paradoxically, the Western cinema’s attempt at achieving lifelikeness through its dramatic unities and purer realism may to some extent actually be less close to the viewer’s real life.

 

So, therefore, a typical Indian film contains, within itself, the elements of every other cinematic genre: a romantic movie will also have a villain who plots to do nefarious mischief as well as a clown who makes us laugh until we cry. A comedy is also likely to have heroics of the nail-biting kind, as well as a romantic element which will bring tears to our eyes. And the action film, too, will have serious comic elements in it, the latter seeming to enhance the thrills rather than defusing them— as we Indian cinema-goers very well know. If a Western film attempts the same, critics and audiences are likely to judge it as being all over the place; it is impossible to imagine Sylvester Stallone sing, dance and horse around on a mountain slope, and then go on a shooting spree. But this same impossibility is not only possible in India, it is the prerequisite of any really great movie.

 

The Actor Who Prepared

Anirudh Nair ran the distance between the Bollywood dream and the Bollywood reality. Here is his story.

 

I am an actor. It is probably useful at this stage to qualify that statement. I am a stage actor. I don’t say this with any disdain for my fellow actors in cinema but rather to put into context my association with the ‘film world’, which is close to none; my understanding of how the film industry functions, which is negligible, and my expectations of individuals existing in that universe. That is where this story begins.

 

One fine morning I received a call for a screen test for Rakeysh Omprakash Mehra’s Bhaag Milkha Bhaag. Though I have never had great aspirations as an actor to make the big transition to Bollywood, I would be lying if I said my heart didn’t skip a beat when half way through the audition the casting director whipped out his phone and made a call straight to Mr. Mehra saying there was someone he strongly felt should be considered for the title role in the film.

 

Things moved pretty swiftly from that point on. A week later I was due to leave for London and then onto New York for two months to commence work on a theatre project, when the casting director called me and said that it was imperative that I fly down to Mumbai immediately to meet with Mr. Mehra. So I booked myself on a flight to Mumbai from Delhi and spent the day at Mr. Mehra’s office reading the script cover to cover and then sitting in on a meeting with Mr. Mehra over lunch. We talked about life and the theatre and art and my training and interests in a candid one-on-one in his office.

 

Through all of this I was of course more than a little bit star struck and overwhelmed— in casual conversation over lunch with the director of films like Rang De Basanti and Delhi-6!

 

About a month later I received a call from Mr. Mehra’s PA telling me that I needed to be in Mumbai for a second screen test urgently, within the next couple of days. I told them that it would be very difficult since I was in London, set to depart for NYC the next day. They seemed quite certain that there was no way around it and so I immediately booked myself on a flight from London to Mumbai and an onward journey from Mumbai to NYC. I should mention at this point that all my travel was paid for out of my own pocket with the unspoken understanding that it would be sorted out later. But then perhaps it is my presumptiveness that is the villain of this piece.

 

Mr. Mehra himself was present for the screen test this time round. We worked meticulously through three scenes from the film with Mr. Mehra being very hands-on and pushing me hard to clarify the tiniest details— an experience I value to this day. As far as a day in the life of a jobbing actor goes, this was a pretty darn exciting one. I left for NYC on a high, thinking that the fact that I had come this far was commendable enough and, even if I didn’t get the role, this experience was reward enough.

 

Another month passed before Mr. Mehra’s PA got in touch with me again telling me that Mr. Mehra was in New York with his family and would very much like to meet with me. I joined them at their hotel and once again had a long conversation with Mr. Mehra, this time specifically about the film and my audition. He told me that there would be much to be worked on but that he was definitely keen to take this to the next step. What remained was a final physical audition in which they would film me running since that was such a major part of the film. He explained to me how he was very intent on casting a ‘new face’ as the lead in the film since he wanted the film to be about Milkha Singh, the man and not the actor. In all fairness he did also warn me that the financiers might think otherwise and want an established actor for the lead.

 

I returned to Delhi full of all these thoughts, trying desperately to keep my excitement in check. The running test was soon set up and a crew met me in Delhi. Thinking back now, I wonder at what point all of this started to become real for me. At what point did I stop and say to myself, “Wow! I think this actually might be happening!” Was it at the end of the screen test I flew half way round the world for? Was it when I met Mr. Mehra for coffee at his hotel in New York City? Or was it after the running audition, when I was asked to immediately start training with the national athletics coach who was to train up the actors for the film? Or perhaps it was when I was told to not take up any other big projects as the schedule for the shoot was being decided.

 

And so I started training, turned down what work came my way and prepared myself for what was to come. Writing this now I realize how naïve of me it was to carry on like this with little more than the intermittent verbal assurance that things were delayed but definitely on track. And for this I have no one to blame but myself.

 

In the meantime, among the offers I received, one was to perform in a play that would rehearse in Kerala for two months and subsequently go on tour in South India. The opportunity was far too exciting to pass up so I got in touch with the producer P. S. Bharathi who advised me to go ahead and take up the project, as it seemed that the schedule had been delayed further. And so I did.

 

I was immersed in my new play but couldn’t help notice that another month had gone by without any communication from them. When I eventually did try to get in touch with someone, anyone, from the project, I was met with a week of unanswered phone calls and emails. It soon became clear why. Friends of mine from Delhi soon called to tell me that they had just read in the Delhi Times that Farhan Akhtar had been chosen to play Milkha Singh in Rakeysh Mehra’s new film.

 

Rejection is part of being an actor. The factors that go into selecting an actor, especially for a role in a film are numerous. Height, weight, complexion, age, hair, accent, the list is endless. And finally, if all the above check out, ability.

 

Was I upset that I didn’t get to do the film? Yes, of course I was! But that did not begin to match either my utter confusion at how this situation had played itself out, nor my anger at my own gullibility. Given how much I had invested in this project already (monetarily and otherwise) is it truly unimaginable to have expected a simple call or email or even a text to tell me that their plans had changed? The truth is that it probably was. Working actors in Mumbai will probably read this, scoff and say, “Welcome to my world… ” This probably happens every week to countless aspiring actors.

 

What bothers me now, in retrospect, is only the fact that for them this probably was a complete non-issue. Again, in my naiveté, I had assumed that in the three meetings I had with the director some sort of a relationship had been forged between two individuals. A relationship, which in my book, at the very least warranted a simple phone call.

 

Recently, I chanced upon an article in a daily newspaper. At a talk Farhan Akhtar gave in Delhi he had this to say about playing Milkha: “I must thank all the actors who refused to play Milkha Singh before me; I was sold on it in the first 20 minutes of the story’s narration. Working on the film taught me that there is potential within each human being to achieve anything they set their mind on to if they’re willing to sacrifice luxuries and remain focussed.”

 

I entirely agree. Except that all the actors didn’t quite refuse. In all honesty, by the time I read this article, I had put this experience behind me, but suddenly, I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to feel. It’s not that this experience left me deeply wounded or scarred. If anything it was a sharp learning curve. My grouse in the end is not with any of the individuals mentioned in this story; it is with what we accept as ‘the way things are’. My only question is: Is there a better way?

 

The Delhi Durbar in Full Colour

The world’s first colour blockbuster was actually filmed at the Coronation Durbar in Delhi, as far back as 1911. But its reels were missing till 2000. Raghu Karnad pieces together the story of the film and its maker. 

 

In 1981, in the approach to Doordarshan’s first colour telecast, the Union Minister for Information Vasant Sathe announced, “Black and white is a dead technology. Dead like a dodo.” Three years later, Rajiv Gandhi was the darling of the middle classes, according to India Today, for being the first Prime Minister “who understands the importance of colour TV”. The final triumph of the moving image in colour has been declared many times, in many places around the world. But it was in Delhi in 1911 that colour cinematography made its first and perhaps most confident promise to end the age of black-and-white pictures.

 

The story of Charles Urban at the Coronation Durbar is usually overlooked in histories of film. Urban used his Kinemacolor process to record the events of the Durbar, the cresting moment of the British Empire and its greatest visual spectacle. With Our King and Queen through India became the first colour cinematography – or film of any sort – that most Western audiences had laid eyes on. The film elevated the “picture show”, a cheap thrill for the working classes, into an entertainment suitable for the most shimmering sections of world society, including the British royal family, the Pope and the Emperor of Japan. Yet within a few years, the footage had disappeared, and it wasn’t until 2000 that one reel was recovered, in the Russian town of Krasnogorsk. Ten minutes is all that is left of the most grandiose and course-altering production in the first generation of natural-colour films.

 

In the first decade of the twentieth century, the sole technology for colour films involved painting dyes onto the filmreel. In 1906, GA Smith patented a camera and projection technology with two filters, red and green, that captured the natural colour of light. He called it Kinemacolor (a reminder of the origin of the word “cinema” in the Greek root for “movement”).

 

Charles Urban was an associate of Smith’s, and a man who did not lack imagination about the eventual role of Kinemacolor, or of himself, in how the world viewed the world. Urban recognised that if this regal new motion-picture technology was linked to a regal subject, Kinemacolor films would be more like the theatre than the picture-shows: genteel, desirable and also lucrative. Urban began recording royal outings. In 1909, King Edward VII was shown a Kinemacolor film of himself and reportedly said, “Very good, very good.” An even better film was recorded when the King died the next year, and the colour newsreel of the funeral caught the public’s interest. According to Luke McKernan, film curator at the British Library, Urban was brilliantly equating fidelity to nature (through colour) with fidelity to the Crown, an unbeatable combination in the peak years of the Empire.

 

The association of Kinemacolor with royal extravaganza was built up through the unveiling of the Victoria Memorial (when the Kinemacolor catalogue trumpeted: “No one can henceforth regard monotone pictures of the glories of pageantry as anything but obsolete and unsatisfying,” that is, dead as a dodo) and later the coronation of George V. But it was when Lord Hardinge hosted the new King-Emperor at the ancient capital of Delhi that Urban would shoot his greatest film.

 

Five firms received permission to shoot “featured actualities” – what we’d now call documentary footage – at the Coronation Durbar. Of course, Urban’s team was the only one shooting in colour, and he nursed paranoid fantasies of sabotage. Urban later claimed that each day’s negatives were boxed, buried in the sand with a rug on top, his bed on the rug and his pistol under the pillow. The footage followed the King and Queen from their disembarkation at the Apollo Bunder in Mumbai (later the site of the Gateway of India). They entered Delhi between the stone elephants at the gate of Salimgarh Fortress, just north of Lal Qila. The actual Durbar was a series of parades and proclamations, which culminated with the Emperor making two announcements: one annulling the partition of Bengal, the other proclaiming the relocation of the capital to Delhi.

 

The scale of the Durbar would be difficult to believe if it hadn’t been thoroughly filmed and photographed (filmed by some of India’s first cinematographers and photographed by everyone – like today, there were complaints about guests bringing their Eastman Kodaks). Between the pomp of the assembled maharajahs, the shining brass of 34,000 soldiers, the Viceregal entourage and the Imperial retinue itself (the King wore a little something called the Imperial Crown of India, set with 6,100 diamonds), Urban couldn’t have asked for more natural colour to record. After it all wound up, the monochrome film teams raced each other back to Britain, each needing to be the first to screen their footage. But Urban remained at his leisure and filmed the military review at the Badli-ki-Sarai, which would prove to be a good thing. Later, he rejoined the Imperial tour in Calcutta.

 

Back in London, With Our King and Queen through India was screened throughout 1912 as a 150-minute programme, the longest film-show to that date, accompanied by a 48-piece orchestra, a 24-person choir and a full fife-and-drum corps. “The film was raputurously received in Britain,” McKernan said via email. “It received similar acclaim worldwide.” He points to a review in the film trade paper The Bioscope, which “sums up the feeling many had on seeing it”. The review reads: “Men and women yet unborn,…by the magic of a little box and a roll of film, will be enabled to witness the marvels of a hundred years before their age, in all the colour and movement of life…Man has conquered most things; now he has vanquished Time.”

 

Famous last words. In 1913, the Kinemacolor patent was defeated in court. Urban’s company was liquidated and its holdings – including its film library – sold off. Kinemascope reels required special projectors, without which they couldn’t be viewed. “The film ‘disappeared’ from general consciousness soon after the start of the First World War,” McKernan said. Since then, Urban’s role in cinematographic history has been underrated. “With Our King and Queen Through India’s importance to film history is social rather than purely cinematic,” McKernan explained. “[Urban’s] great contribution to film as record, as an educational medium, and to film’s social status isn’t recognised.” The Durbar footage itself was lost: vanquished, quite efficiently, by time.

 

Among many other effects, the filming of the Darbar created an Indian tradition of filming political extravaganzas. Baburao Painter shot The Congress Session in Bombay in 1919, and thereafter every Congress session was filmed. Gandhi alone was a walking cottage industry for filmmakers.

 

Still there was no sign and little recollection of Urban’s pioneering footage. Until 2000, when the filmmaker Adrian Wood was researching a documentary series on the British Empire. Wood caught wind of a stray fact, that Urban had had a franchise in Tsarist Russia and that some pre-revolutionary materials might survive in the Russian state archive in Krasnogorsk. Along with Victor Belyakov, a local producer, he unearthed a number of reels of Indian troops.

 

In the fourth reel, something titled With Our Indian Troops Now Serving in France, Wood recognised the flicker of a Kinemacolor film. “It clearly showed a military parade (at Badli-ki-Sarai) that formed part of the Durbar celebrations,” Wood said, in an email. “It had been repurposed to show Russians their British Empire allies fighting against German forces in WWI.” No more was found. But we do have a glimpse of the world’s original colour blockbuster, and through it the event, in all its imperial hues, that sounded the modern rebirth of Delhi.

This article first appeared in TimeOut Delhi’s December 11-24, 2009 issue.

 

Vishal Bhardwaj – TBIP Tête-à-Tête

Makdee was more than Vishal Bhardwaj’s debut feature— it was a promise, a sign of times to come. Times when the line between art and commerce would blur, when we would be treated with real stories, our stories, told in a manner that befits a country obsessed with stories; when literature would enrich our movies again; when cinema will be magic again. Twelve years on Bhardwaj has come a long way in keeping that promise. Getting him to reflect on his journey is an exciting prospect except he strongly dislikes being interviewed formally. Getting him to talk is a Vikram-Betal act— ask him a question he really wants to answer and hope he begrudgingly will. An exercise worth it only because the answers are so very fascinating.

 

An edited transcript:

 

What do you think of when you think of your childhood the most?

What do I think? I think of my sports days, you know. Because I am a sportsman. I have been a sportsman so I remember that I used to wake up at 4.30 in the morning, even in winters, and I never missed my morning workout and my evening nets. So my life was around sports only.

 

Okay. You know, your dad wrote lyrics for a couple of Hindi films. I believe your brother also wanted to work in cinema in some capacity. When you saw the Hindi film industry through their eyes, what did it look like? What were the impressions? And did that either deter you or spur you to go and explore it?

I mean, cinema from outside or from someone’s eyes always looks glamorous.

 

No, no, not cinema. I meant the industry. Log kaise hote honge (How would the people be)? You know, when you are a child you imagine something.

Not imagine, because I used to come over here. I used to accompany my father. Every summer holidays, we used to be here for a month in that heat. So, we all were cinema crazy people and my father was friends with Laxmikant-Pyarelal (popular composer duo Laxmikant Kudalkar and Pyarelal Sharma). And, at that time, we were all vegetarians. So, on Tuesday, we used to go to his house for dinner, and see lots of film trials. So, it was like a glamorous world. Jitne logon ke contact me aaye toh door se toh sabhi acche hote hain (From afar, everyone appears to be nice). Because this was not my father’s first profession. So, this was fine, we used to come here for a month or so and my brother— he wanted to be a film producer without money, so that was the most difficult thing to do. You don’t have money and you want to be a producer. So he also struggled here for a long time. I remember watching trial shows of many big films like Taxi Driver  of Dev Anand and Hema Malini, then Aetbaar  I saw with Smita Patil. So, those kinds of memories are there.

And I remember seeing a film called Damaad. In that, I remember Mithun Chakraborty sitting down because there was some old lady. So he gave his seat to that old lady and he sat on the floor and saw the whole film from the floor. So, it was an exciting world. I was like a child.

 

Vishal, I wanted to ask you. A lot of things happened early in your life. You lost your father; you lost your brother. I believe your father was also involved in some kind of a land dispute jahan aap log rehte the (where you used to live). You chose… you had to make a critical choice between cricket and cinema— well, cricket and music at that point. Do you see these as turning points in your life?

Turning point? Actually I think the turning point, you realize once you achieve the success and you look back. Then you see it as a turning point, and at that point it could be a very disappointing turning point. And then you realize some kind of a screenplay is there, some kind of a destiny is there. So, that’s why I am a big believer of this thing called destiny. That whatever happens, happens for the best. I seriously believe in this because when I came to Delhi University to study, it was not planned. I was to play for my state. And I was selected. I was actually the Vice-Captain of my team. Somehow, some objection came because of some eligibility issue because I was repeating my 12th (standard). So, some stupid rule was there that those who were repeating their 12th couldn’t be a part of the state team. So I couldn’t play and I dropped the whole year. And then I was so pissed off that I (thought), ‘I don’t want to stay in this state. I want to play for some other state.’ And that’s why I came to Delhi. And when I came to Delhi, my life changed. Suddenly I was exposed to the metro life, the people definitely behaved differently in a small town and in a metro city. My life changed, my friends changed. And because of that my taste changed. I discovered myself. So that was the main turning point, and everyone in my family was against that event, that I should go to Delhi and study. Everyone— my mother, my brother, it was only my father who was supporting (me). And financially, we were not in a very good position to send me, but somehow things happened and I landed up in Delhi. I was not a good student either but I got admission. I think that was the first turning point in my life. Yeah, that was the turning point because that’s where I met Rekha (Bhardwaj); I met lots of friends who were into music, poetry. And in those days, in 1980s, India was going through a very unique phase when ghazal was being rediscovered by the youth. It was the days when (Mirza) Ghalib was the rock star, and Faiz Ahmed Faiz and Sahir Ludhianvi, so it was a very unique period and one of the best periods of the last 60-65 years after Indian independence. I think that the eighties was a very unique period where the ghazal came back. And with ghazal, a lot of Urdu culture and the traditional things that came back to the youth of which I was a part of.

 

And theatre also, you were involved in theatre also.

Theatre was always there, but today’s youth, unko toh pata bhi nahin hai ki ghazal kya hai, Faiz Ahmed Faiz kaun hai, Ghalib kaun hai. Shayad hum bhi aise hote, humko bhi nahin pata hota (They don’t even know what’s ghazal, who is Faiz Ahmed Faiz, who is Ghalib. Perhaps we would have been like that too. We might not have known either). Jagjit Singh was a huge thing, or Pankaj Udhas, they were like… So, I think wahan se, uss ghazal se, uss poetry se, uss culture se meri grooming shuru hui. Aur wo agar main Delhi na aaya hota to shayad nahin hota wo mere saath. Toh Delhi aana meri liye bahut bada  turning point tha (So I think from there, that ghazal, that poetry, and that culture started grooming me. And had I not come to Delhi then that wouldn’t have happened. So, I consider coming to Delhi as a huge turning point).

 

No. I was just smiling because of the conversation we were having before, and now you are giving Delhi so much of credit after…

And leaving Delhi was a bigger turning point. That’s why I was waiting for you to say this so I could say that leaving Delhi was the bigger turning point. Because had I been in Delhi, I would have been so stagnant because there was no scope for musicians in Delhi. Even now, I don’t think there’s scope for musicians in Delhi. Even the good recordings are done in Bombay and there was some kind of unprofessionalism in the Delhi music circle. I remember in one studio where I used to record, after seven o’clock, the recorder used to make his drink and he’s recording and drinking, even if you are recording Gita ke bhajan (devotional songs from the Bhagwat Gita). So, he’s having his drink. And I have no problem with that. Somebody can have a drink—Gita ke bhajan ho ya (be it the Gita’s bhajans or anything else)but I am against that approach of unprofessionalism. So, I mean leaving Delhi was, and it was very difficult for me to leave because Bombay is very brutal. I remember when I first landed here, my brother had a small flat at Yari Road— Zohra Azadi Nagar, it’s called. And we were in that one bed and hall— if you say one bed and hall, the hall is smaller than your bedroom. But they say ‘one bed-hall’. It was a two room apartment where me and my mother and my brother with his girlfriend, they lived inside. And they… they don’t give you work. In Bombay you have to close your eyes and jump from the 120th floor, then only the city accepts you. Otherwise you have no place over here.

 

I believe the first thing you composed, I mean professionally, as in it was put out, was when you were 19. Was that true?

Yeah. Actually in a way this is my 29th or 30th year as a film composer. Because when I was 19, my father’s friend, his name was  A.V. Mohan. He was a big producer, he produced many films including Damaad, of the time I’m telling you about.  So he was planning a film at that time called Vahem. And my father was arranging some kind of finance for him, which he couldn’t later. Out of that favour, that producer agreed to take me as a composer. Not agreed to, I mean he showed as a gesture, he was a nice man. But my father couldn’t arrange the finance. But he was a nice man. He said, “So what if you’ve not arranged it? He’s going to be the composer of the film.” And in 1984 I recorded my first song when I was 19 with Asha Bhosle. And that studio, there was a very big, famous studio called Famous Tardeo. Now they have an Axis Bank over there.  A few days back I was travelling to Tardeo and I saw now they have a big Axis Bank branch over there.

 

When did you start taking it seriously? Being a composer, when did you start taking it seriously?

My father was writing songs for a film called Yaar Kasam. Funny names of the films, when I look back. He had written one song which I composed, you know ghar mein aise rehte hue. Sabhi  tune bana lete hain, toh maine bhi  tune banayi (you know, when I was at my house. Everyone composes tunes. So I composed some too). So then I came to Bombay with my father because that film ka mahurat, vagera hona tha (that film’s mahurat was taking place).  Usha Khanna was the composer of that film. So we were sitting at the director’s place, his name was Chand saab. He was, again, my father’s friend. So they were having drinks in the evening. My father said, “He’s also made a tune, that song I wrote.” So like a kid, they were having drinks and (said), “Okay, gaana sunaao, tune sunaao (Sing that song; sing that tune).” So I sang my tune and they all loved it and immediately he made a call to Usha Khanna ji  to listen to this tune. And I sang that tune to Usha Khanna and she said, “It’s so good.  So meet me tomorrow.” And she said, “I’m going to take this tune and now I’ll develop on this. Do you mind?”  I think I was so encouraged with that, and so was my father. For the first time I got the confidence that yeah, if a person, an artist of Usha Khanna’s calibre and stature is liking my tune and taking my tune, then maybe I’m good. That’s the first time I took myself seriously.

 

Aap ki kya umar thi uss waqt (How old were you at that time) ?

Around 18.

 

Did you have any formal training in music? Did you train in music at all?

No.

 

Who or what did you learn the most from when it comes to composing? Who taught you the most about composing?

Actually mostly self-taught.  But as I told you when I was in Delhi University, there were a lot of musician friends that I had. There was a flute player who was a very good friend of mine called Thakur, who’s now no more. Being with him I learnt about Mehdi Hassan. I was not exposed to Mehdi Hassan. Then there was a friend of mine whose name is Deva Sengupta. He sang a few songs for me in Anurag’s film Paanch and later in No Smoking  he sang one song. He was like the star of the University and he used to do professional shows even at that time. He was a ghazal  singer, classically trained and he knew western classical as well and very good in both western and Indian classical.  And I didn’t know anything about western classical. Indian classical, I had an idea because my sister used to learn sitar and there was something… Bhatkhande ki kitaab se main khud hi sa re ga ma pa dha ni sa, raag-vaag kar leta tha. And paagalon ki tarah main laga rehta tha toh mujhe idea tha (from Bhatkhande’s book I used to sing sa re ga ma by myself, and like a lunatic I used to keep at it, so I had an idea). But I knew nothing about western (music). So he taught me writing a chord chart and exploring a chord or understanding a western chord in one night. Because he had devised a method where he mixed both Indian and western things. And it was so easy for me, in one night I understood it.  And in that one night I knew the western method of chord deprecation. So then I kept on learning, jo bhi mila main use seekhta raha (whatever I got I learnt from it). And it’s still going on.

 

Yeh toh learning ki baat hui (This was about learning). I wanted to talk about influences. You know you spoke about coming to Delhi in the whole phase of ghazals. I’m sure that must have been an influence in the way you compose your music. How have the influences changed? What are the new influences that you have allowed in to the music you have composed, over the years up to now?

It’s not the question of allowing. If something is good, it comes in and overpowers you. You are overwhelmed by those things. I was a great fan of Jagjit Singh and a great fan of Mehdi Hassan. Then Rekha…

 

Matlab their compositions also you mean?

Their compositions also. I mean Mehdi Hassan’s style of singing and Mehdi Hassan’s style of composing, is so, so good, so unique and so beautiful. The way he expresses a word, a line, a whole ghazal, it’s out of this world. Jagjit Singh’s expression of words, his simplicity. Then R.D. Burman’s chord applications, his whole approach to tune. So I’m a mix of all these things— Mehdi Hassan, Jagjit Singh, R.D. Burman. Then I loved Madan Mohan. Unki jo emotionality jo thi gaane ki, jo jis tareeke se sur lagaane ke tareeke the, jo unke notes ka combination hota tha, jo unke raagon ka jo combination hota tha. (The emotionality of his songs, the way he applied sur, the combination of his notes and raag). Then Salil Chowdhury, S.D. Burman and yeah, I think I’m a mix of all this. And then I devised my own thing. Somehow I explored myself and I made my kind of music. But I remained open. I still remain open about this.

I was a big fan and I am a big fan of Gulzar saab and I grew up on his poetry. In fact, my father used to tease me. He used to take some of Gulzar saab’s nazm (poetry) or some song and then criticise it purposely in front of me ki  “What is this? Aankhon ki kya khushboo hoti hai (what fragrance do eyes have)?” And I used to fight with him, fiercely fight with him. And then I later realized that he teases me and that’s why he does it. But after this death, the ghazal  was just emerging, then I read one poet and his name was Dr. Bashir Badr. He’s a great poet. The greatest poet of this century. And I realized that he lives in Meerut where my family was at that point. So I read his poetry and I remained with him. Even now I’m in touch with him. He has been the greatest influence in my life as far as poetry, culture and sensitivity is concerned. Even now when I’m lowest or down in my life emotionally, I just open his book and I feel calm. And every time I open his book I find some new line in that. That’s where I developed my taste for poetry and I discovered Gulzar saab. And his films songs suddenly I started hearing it and listening to it in so many points of view. Mera dost tha, uska naam hai  Ankur Gupta. Gupta jiToh usko pata nahi  kahaan se itna accha taste tha songs ka. Toh woh mujhe rare songs sunaya karta tha Gulzar saab ke jaise— Auron ke ghar mein rehta hoon, kab apna koi ghar ho? Usme ek expression tha ki— Kiraye ke ghar mein aisa lagta hai ki jaise main apne aangan mein moze pehen ke baitha hoon. (I had a friend, whose name is Ankur Gupta, Gupta ji. I don’t know how he had such good taste in music. So he used to make me listen to rare songs of Gulzar saab such as, ‘I live in someone else’s house, when will I have a place of my own?’ There was an expression, in that song which went like, ‘Living in a rented house feels as if I am in the courtyard of a house wearing socks)’. I can’t feel the floor because I’m wearing socks. These kind of expressions-

Din khali khali bartan hai

Raat hai jaise andha kuan

Sooni andheri aankhon mein

Aansoon ke jagah aata hai dhuan

Jeene ki wajah toh koi nahi

Marne ka bahaana dhoondta hai’

(The day is an empty vessel

The night like a bottomless well

In vacant, dark eyes

There’s smoke instead of tears

There’s no reason to live

I look for excuses to die)

Iss  poetry ne mujhe itna zyaada affect kiya hai ki meri zindagi ka sirf ek hi dream tha ki main  Gulzar saab ke saath at least ek gaana kar loon. Doosra dream tha ki  Lata Mangeshkar mera ek gaana ga dein. With this dream I was living in Delhi. Aur Dilli mein ek recording studio tha. Uss waqt Gulzar saab Amjad Ali Khan saab ke upar ek documentary bana rahe the. Toh main uss  studio mein apne chhote mote  jingles record kiya karta tha. Woh [studio ka] owner Punjabi tha. Toh woh kisi din phone pe bola, “Haan Gulzar aa raha hai raat ko yahaan par”. Toh unhone jab phone rakha toh maine poocha, “Kaun aa raha hai raat ko?” “Arrey, woh hai na Gulzar, woh film director, woh yahan par aa raha hai raat ko Amjad Ali Khan ki  recording karne.” Kisi ke liye bhi izzat nahin thi uske dil mein. Toh bajeere shaam ko aur sardiyon ki Dilli, December ki raat. Kadaak ki sardi pada karti thi December ko. Ab toh nahi padti utni. To main wahan baith gaya ki main aaj Gulzar saab ke darshan toh karke jaaonga. Toh nau, sadhe nau baje aana tha. Toh sardiyon mein log chale jaate hain idhar udhar. Mere session main baitha hua tha. Toh phone baja. Maine phone uthaya toh Gulzar saab the, bhaari awaz mein bole, “Hello, main Gulzar bol raha hoon. Mujhe rasta nahi mil raha hai.” Bada odd si jagah tha studio, Safdarjung Enclave. Toh  Bengali sweets ki dukaan hai, Safdarjung Enclave mein. Toh unhone bola, “Main Bengali sweets se phone kar raha hoon.” Uss waqt toh  mobile bhi nahi hote the. Maine bola aap wahin khade rahiye, main aapko lene ke liye aata hun. Aur maine kisi ko bataya nahin aur main unko lene ke liye chala gaya. Wahan se paanch minute ka walk tha. Uss walk me maine unhe bataya ki, you know, “I am a composer. I am a big fan.” Aur bahut log unhe aisa bolte honge but he was very nice and polite ki, “Bombay aao toh milna.” Phir yahan aa kar milne ki koshish ki toh badi mushkilon se… phir main toh yahan aa kar pehle do saal main job hi kar raha tha as an Area Manager. Finally I met him through Suresh Wadkar, jo mere dost hain, jo singer hain, unke kehne se Gulzar saahab ek T.V. serial ka gaana likhne ke taiyar hue jiska naam tha Daane Anaar Ke. Chitrarth (Singh) uske director the aur do log hain Delhi mein – Vinod Sharma and Mohan Paliwal – uss waqt Doordarshan se serial pass hua karte the na, bahut badi baat hua karti thi, ki humaara 13 ka serial pass ho gaya, humaara 26 ka pass ho gaya, humara 52 ka pass ho gaya. Toh unka 13 ka ek serial pass ho gaya tha aur unlogon ko mujhse gaana karane ke liye bola and maine somehow chakkar chalaya ki agar Suresh Wadkar Gulzar saab ko bol denge toh woh likh denge.

(This poetry affected me so much that I only had one dream in life that I record one song with Gulzar saab. Another dream was that Lata Mangeshkar would sing one song for me. With this dream I was living in Delhi. And there was one recording studio in Delhi. At that time Gulzar saab was making a documentary on Amjad Ali Khan. So I used to record some of my jingles in the same studio. The owner [of the studio] was Punjabi. So, one day he said on the phone, “Yes, Gulzar is coming in the night.” So when he put down the phone I asked, “Who’s coming in the night?” “You know that Gulzar, that film director, who’s recording Amjad Ali Khan.” He never respected anyone. It was the night of December. And Delhi used to be really cold in December. Now, not so much. So, I was sitting there thinking, ‘No matter what, I will see Gulzar saab and then leave’. So he was supposed to come at around 9 to 9.30 p.m. So people, in the winters, go here and there. I was sitting during a session and my phone rang. I picked up the phone and it was Gulzar saab on the other end. He said in his deep voice, “Hello, this is Gulzar. I can’t find the way.” The studio was at an odd place— Safdarjung Enclave. So there’s a Bengali sweet shop in Safdarjung Enclave. So he said, “I am at the Bengali sweet shop.” At that time there were no mobile phones. I told him, “Stand there. I will come to pick you up.” I didn’t tell anyone and I went to pick him up. From there, the studio was a five-minute walk. During that walk I told him, you know, “I am a composer. I am a big fan.” There might have been a lot of people [who would have told him this], but he was very nice and polite and he said, “If you come to Bombay, do meet me.” Then when I came to Bombay I was working as an Area manager in a company for the first two years. I finally met him through Suresh Wadkar, who’s a friend of mine, a singer, and Gulzar saab agreed to write a song of a TV serial, which was called Daane Anaar Ke. Chitrarth (Singh) was the director and there were two more people in Delhi— Vinod Sharma and Mohan Pahliwal. At that time, serials used to be approved by Doordarshan. It used to be a big deal – “that my [serial of] 13 episodes got approved by Doordarshan, my 26 episodes got approved by Doordarshan, 52 episodes.” So, similarly, his 13 episodes were approved by Doordarshan and they told me to compose a song and I somehow, through Suresh Wadkar, made Gulzar saab write a song for me).

That’s how I met him. We did that first song. Then he developed some liking for me and he got me my first successful song. That was for serial called Jungle Book, Chaddi pehan kar phool khila hai. So, that song became a hit and the company I was working in, which was a recording company called Pan Music, R.V. Pandit was the owner of that company and he saw my photograph with Gulzar saab in some recording studio and he called me, “What are you doing with Gulzar?” So, I had said I am becoming a music composer now, I have recorded a song with him. So he said, “Can you arrange a meeting with me and Gulzar?” I said, “Of course. But, for what?” He said, “I want to make a film on 1984 riots, whatever happened in Punjab.” So, I asked Gulzar saab, “Can I arrange a meeting?” And that’s how Maachis happened. And I got my first break. Such a long story.

 

Vishal, other than the films that you’ve done for yourself, films that you’ve directed, what would you say were your most exciting films as a music composer? Most exciting projects.

I think, Maachis, still remains my most exciting work because I had so much energy within me. I wanted the success so badly that I just blasted in that. So I think that work was very good. To an extent Satya was good. But I think the same kind of energy I felt again in Omkara.

 

You know, I also found your work in Paanch very exciting and I just thought it was, for lack of a better word, different from… like I remember hearing the cassette and then having to check who had done the music. Because my natural conclusion wouldn’t have been that it was you. I mean other than Akhiyan Chipki. Did you feel like that was departure for you in any way? Or little freer as a project in some way?

More than freer, I was very excited about it because it was not my kind of work. And it was Anurag’s first film and he showed me The Doors. And he said, “I want this kind of music.” And I was so excited to make a rock song and it was so ahead of its times that Main Khuda, that song, I feel so pained for that. Good you reminded me. That music, that film never came out. But it remained a cult film. But it’s available only to those people who… But I think, yeah…

 

Okay, I also wanted to ask you, before you made Makdee, you were doing a lot of films as a composer. Did you feel somewhere ki  you were getting stagnated as a music composer? Or did you feel that you just weren’t getting the opportunities to grow as a music director? Which one of the two did you feel— if any of them?

I think the second one. Because I was not getting the kind of films I think I deserved. I was feeling stagnant also. And one thing apart from these two factors, which I felt, was I’ll be very less important in the industry if I don’t do something really out of the box. So that was the reason. Because I knew that I’ll be out of work in some time. And I’ll have to go back to television or advertising. And I wouldn’t be in the mainstream of this industry, of this media and I always wanted that. I always wanted to be in the limelight. I always wanted to be in the front. I always wanted to lead. Wanted to, not now.

 

Not now?

Yeah, not now. So that lutf  (enjoyment) was at its peak, right? And that fire was… I’m a sportsman, I knew that if I don’t do something extraordinary, I’ll be out. I’ll be out of the team. I’ll be resting in the pavilion for the rest of my life. That’s how it started.

 

Tell me about the struggles about making Makdee. Particularly with the Children’s Film Society of India (CFSI). And do you feel now that you look back it was a blessing in disguise, that things didn’t work out very well with CFSI?

This is what I said at the beginning of the interview.  When you look back you see the turning point as, “Oh that was the turning point.” When you’re going through that, you think that you’re in a mess. And this is the worst situation you can be in your life. Yeah because they rejected the film I showed. I think they didn’t even see it properly because the way they used to see the film is like on a 24 inch T.V. with windows open behind. And if you’re trying to work in shadows and darkness, less light… They didn’t get it; it was a rough cut. They didn’t get the film. “Poor chap”, they said, “This is not a film, this is not what we expected.”

So there’s a friend of mine called Krishna and he really turned out to be Krishna for me. That he gave me 24,50,000 (rupees) that time. I paid that money, bought that film back, for a year I kept working and somehow had it released and then everyone appreciated it.

 

Vishal, do you feel that the attitude that the CFSI had at that point that’s also part of the reason why we don’t, despite being one of the largest film industries in the world, don’t make enough children’s films? Is that part of the reason why, you think?

It’s the attitude with which they approach cinema. I don’t think… I think it must be happening with every government organization. Because the kind of material that they produce, it’s so boring, so bad. And the government doesn’t have that kind of drive in it. Government and politicians, they don’t have time to do something good for public interest. Bichare apni kursi mein, apne problems mein itne phase huey hain, apne scams mein itne phase huey hain ki  (Poor things, they are so entangled in their own problems, scams that) they really don’t have time to do anything for the public. Parliament sits for one quarter of the time it’s supposed to sit. Toh kya kaam hua iss desh mein? (So what work really happened in the country?) It’s useless, in our lifetime we’re never going to see good governance for this country. So to talk about poor Children’s Film Society, it’s a very small thing.

 

Okay, I wanted to talk to you a little bit about screenwriting. Again, like you’ve not been to film school as such. What were some of the ways in which you taught yourself screenwriting?

Screenwriting is a… you can never learn. I mean you have to keep learning. I mean, it’s the most dicey form of cinema. You can never learn it. Every time you think that you’ve learnt it and you’ve failed next time.  So I read lots of books like a book called The Art of Dramatic Writing  by Lajos Egri. And just three days before I read a book. I still keep reading. I read a book called Backwards and Forwards  by David Ball. And suddenly I realized that what I was missing in my life. I mean, if I had got this book 10 years back, I would have made my films better. So it’s a very difficult thing to learn and understand and express, screenwriting.  Because it’s like the story telling and then you don’t know where you fail. Character establish karne mein  time nikal jaata hai, kabhi  conflict aane mein der ho jaati hai, kabhi  climax kharab ho jaata hai, kabhi  plot point one kharab ho jaata hai, kabhi  two kharab ho jaata hai. Kuch samajh mein aata nahin, jo kabhi achcha ho jaata hai, woh kashmas achcha ho jaata hai. Isiliye maine aaj tak hamesha collaborate hi kiya, writing mein (You need a lot of time in establishing a character, at times conflict arrives too late [in the plot], at times the climax is botched up and at times the plot point. Sometimes the plot point one hasn’t turned out well, sometimes the plot point two. It’s difficult to understand, and if at all things turn out to be well, it’s by accident more than anything else. That is why I have always collaborated in writing).

Because I’m so scared of writing alone. I think only my first film, which I wrote, Makdee, because usmein itna kam paisa tha, co-writer professionally aata nahin. Aur jo dost toh sab log  busy the. Mera paas kuch chaara nahin tha. Toh main socha bachon ki  film hai toh koi dekhega nahin. Main khud hi likh leta hoon (It involved such little money that I could not have afforded a professional writer. And all my friends were busy. Also, I thought since it’s a children’s film, no one will watch it anyway, so I might as well write it myself). Uske baad (After that) the more you work, the more you realize how illiterate you are in screenwriting. So that’s why I depend on Shakespeare, because I take his structure and I adapt it my way.

 

No but tell me something, is it something you enjoy? Do you enjoy the process of writing your films?

I mean there is no other choice because I enjoy making films. So if I have to make a film, I have to write it.

 

Why is that?

Because…

 

You’ve been a co-writer in all your films. But why do you have to be involved in the writing?

Otherwise I can’t direct. If the film is not internalized, the only way to internalize a film, the only process I know, is to write it. Otherwise I won’t know, if somebody else has written a character. I’m still not that mature a director where I can take somebody else’s work and internalize it. For me the process is that I have to internalize it and that process starts with when I sit and write it with my own hand and with my… or bounce it with my co-writer. But that’s the only way I know. I feel confident.

 

You’ve always… I mean after Makdee, like you’ve said, you’ve always worked with co-writers. How does that process work for you? Does it change with every writer?

With every writer, you know, you h­ave a different style but one writer friend of mine, his name is Matthew Robbins. He’s from L.A. And I met him in one writing workshop in Kampala, where Mira Nair had arranged a workshop. We all were mentors. He was head of all of us. He has written a film for Spielberg also, called The Sugarland Express, very early films of Spielberg. He has written films for the guy who’s made Pan’s Labyrinth, Guillermo Del Toro. So we became friends in Kampala. And he came to India. And I wrote a film with him. With him actually I learnt a lot, the methodical way of approaching a screenplay. Still you fail in that also, but at least you know how to approach this beast. That you have to start by catching it from the horns or by its tail. Earlier you just go and just uska sar bhidaa ke aap lad gaye. Ya toh aap gir gaye lahu luhaan ho kar ya script gir gayi. Pehla toh ye hi nahin pata tha. Ab yeh toh pata hai  at least light bujhake aur  torch uski aankhon me dal kar poonch se pakad kar deewar par marna hai. Toh ho sakta hai ki aap jeet sakein, toh uss tarah ke kuch gur aur, ya  how to approach. (Lock horns [with the beast] and either you fall down completely bloodied or the script turns out to be no good. Earlier I didn’t know all this. Now at least I know that I can switch off the light and flash the torch in its eyes, hold it by its tail and then bang it on the wall. If I do that, maybe there’s a possibility that I can win). Then I realized it’s like when you want to become a doctor, you go to a medical school. You want to become an engineer, you go to engineering school. But in cinema if you want to become a writer-director, you don’t have to do anything, just come. Hum toh bachchpan se, dil se writer hain, bahut bade writer hain, hum toh bahut bade director hain. Toh yeh jo cinema ko leke, jo logon ka approach hai, jo mera bhi raha. Main bhi toh aake seedha ghus gaya ki main  director ban jaaoonga, main  writer ban jaoonga  (Most people think that they are born writers, directors. So a lot of people approach cinema like that, and even I used to think the same that if I just come to Bombay I will become a writer and director). Fortunately for me things… because I was intelligent enough to understand that I’m a fool.  Some fools don’t understand that they’re fools, they are actual fools. So I’m very intelligent that I understood that I’m a fool. So I always had intelligent people around me, working with me, guiding me. So that’s how, you know, still, I am learning.

 

I have a bunch of questions on adaptations but I’ll start with this. There are so many forms of… Shakespeare ko har tarike se, har jagah, har kone mein adapt kiya gaya hai (Shakespeare has been adapted in every manner, everywhere). Two questions here. One of course ki, was there a sense of, did that make you a little wary or did that liberate you? Ki yaar sab ka ek alag Shakespeare ho sakta hai, mera kyon nahi ho sakta? Ek yeh sawaal hai. Dusra yeh ki what did you feel you had to add to that? Because it can also become a yeh sab toh kaha ja chuka hai? So what was it that made you want to adapt Shakespeare?

Actually to tell you honestly the truth, I thought nobody’s going to notice that I’ve adapted Shakespeare. And that was what I was made to feel by the industry people when I wrote Maqbool. So one of my financier friends, he told me, “If you want to make this film, please take out Shakespeare’s name. Because nobody will come to watch because literature is boring.” And I was somewhere, you know… and even I didn’t care for Shakespeare to be honest. I didn’t know who Shakespeare is, what his writings are. Because Shakespeare to me was a scary writer who haunted me in my school with The Merchant of Venice. And to me also, like anybody else, I thought that literature is boring, there’s going to be no drama in this. And in school you don’t even look at the drama, you look at the question-answer, what is this character doing, for what. So you miss the drama in school. When I saw Angoor  and in that, in the last shot Shakespeare winks. And I realised, this is a story by Shakespeare, this is very dramatic. That was in my subconscious. I wanted to make a film on the underworld and I was looking for a story. I happened to read in a child’s book, in a very abridged version form of Macbeth. And I thought it’s a very good for an underworld film, so let me adapt it to… And I think somewhere it was Angoor  I had in mind. So that’s how I started. And I didn’t realize that what kind of liberty I’m taking with such a great writer till my film was screened in Toronto (International) Film Festival on that premiere night when I was attending to the Q&A with the audience and the world press. And there were big filmmakers like, I knew Deepa Mehta. Like Deepa Mehta stood up and said, “Today I’m proud of India that a filmmaker has made such a beautiful film from my country. I’m so proud to be an Indian.” That really struck me. And then the kind of questions the press asked me. Fortunately they had loved the film and I realized— what if they had not liked the film? Toh mera kya hota? (Then what would have happened to me?) And I realized ki I mean Shakespeare ko leke, main aisa kar raha tha, jaise mere baap ki story hai. Maine kuch bhi change kiya uss mein (I was adapting Shakespeare’s story as if it’s my father’s story. I changed whatever I wanted to). I’ve made Lady Macbeth into the king’s mistress. But I think somewhere, I was very me. When I say I, I include Abbas Tyrewala. He was my co-writer. That we were very true to the soul of the film rather than the text. Soul of the play rather than the text of the play. And that encouraged me to do Omkara— Othello.

 

Do you sometimes miss that, for lack of a better word, a sort of carefree unknowingness? Do you sometimes miss that now? Because you can’t have that now, where you already know every film that you do will be scrutinized?

Yeah it is a problem because people come with their own screenplay in their head. They expect something. Then you’re told that your audience needs this, wants this, they expect this out of you, they take you so seriously. When I announced, when it was announced at one point I was considering doing Chetan Bhagat’s 2 States. I mean the kind of mails I got from that Facebook page I had for two months. And on my friend’s Facebook page that, “What has happened to him? He has come down from Shakespeare to Chetan Bhagat.” I mean this is stupidity. Chetan Bhagat has… he can write well, that novel is good. And I wanted to explore that frothy side of mine but it was such a strong reaction to my selection of that material. So I think obviously it’s a curse and this is very natural also.  When people love you, they love your work, equal amount of people hate your work. So it comes in a package.

 

What is your approach to adaptation, one? And if you could quickly explain how the two (Ruskin) Bond processes have been different from the Shakespeare? Because you know, Bond is a living writer, he’s working right now, you know, again our milieu. So one or two quick differences that you can tell between the two adaptations. 

Shakespeare, I mean his work is timeless. Therefore it is so relevant even now, every filmmaking country makes one or two films in a year about Shakespeare. So his dramatic sense is definitely very unique and timeless. So it’s very easy to adapt Shakespeare. With me fortunately, especially in Maqbool and of course with Omkara  also, I never felt the burden of Shakespeare. I treated him as my co-writer, my invisible co-writer who has given me material and I say, “Thank you very much, but I want to change Lady Macbeth to the mistress of the king.” Because he is invisible, even if he is getting disappointed with it, he can’t tell. So I never looked at him, at Shakespeare like that. I looked at him like a friend who was…

 

The guy who winks at the end of the movie…

Yeah.  And who has done a very good, decent job in his story. I treat him like that. But I’m the director finally. That’s why that burden was not there and now I feel little burdened. But the day I’ll make another Shakespeare, I’ll again be treating him like that, “Come back, we haven’t met for so long, let’s have a drink together and talk about the story. Do you have anything new to offer?” So that way, you know, I was fine. And that’s why if you talk to Gulzar saab, his point of view is that my films are not adaptations of Shakespeare. He says, “Just for cheap publicity, you say Shakespeare and because you want to have (the) publicity of Shakespeare, you want Shakespeare’s name attached to your work. Therefore you’re saying. But otherwise they’re not adaptations of Shakespeare, they’re original films.”  So I don’t know whether it’s a compliment or it’s not a compliment. I don’t ask him because I don’t want to know. I take it ki  okay it must be a compliment. But he says that.

As far as Ruskin Bond is concerned, Ruskin is actually like a friend. And I told you, I have a house in Mussoorie, where we share the same wall. And most of the time, you know, he’s… Sometimes on a wintry evening, he’s standing on his window and I go on my terrace for a smoke. So he says, “What are you doing?” I said, “I have a good malt.” He says, “Why don’t you offer it to me? I’m coming to your house.” So we actually sit and have a drink and we discuss. And even sometimes, when I’m not doing his stories, I bounce off my work with him. He’s like an encyclopedia of storytelling. Sometimes he takes out a book which is like 72 years old, printed in 1942 or 1946 and he just presents it to me ki, “ I think, I have marked this story called Cocaine, you go and read, you’ll get a good inspiration for your work. The kind of film you are doing, the kind of script you are writing.” The Blue Umbrella  had a problem because it was a very short story and there was not enough material to turn it into a film. So some day a friend of mine, Minty Tejpal, who co-wrote that film with me, he came out with this idea ki

 

What if it was actually stolen.

Stolen and the person comes with a red chhatri  (umbrella). And then we made it like jo hamare folktale hain, ki wo seeyar pani smarang mein gir gaya aur aa gaya toh (in our folktales, where there’s a jackal that falls in the pond and then came back), we took that route. And in 7 Khoon Maaf  he wrote it specially for me, before that was a short story called Susanna’s Seven Husbands. Then I asked him, I want to make it into a film can you write a novella for me? Toh  it was specially written for me.

 

Okay Maqbool, you set it in the underworld, the Mumbai underworld. But it was not like the underworld films that were being made. It was still your underworld film. It was not… for us underworld films are… it was not Satya, it was not… How much research did you do and how much of it was… Was it a real Mumbai? How did you balance the real and the sort of ‘inspired’ Mumbai underworld?

It was not at all real underworld. In fact I was amazed that nobody noticed that. Because it was the underworld of the 1960s. That Abba ji  kind of figure, was like a reference to Karim Lala or Haji Mastan. I had met Haji Mastan once, long back when I came to Mumbai around 1988-89. I happened to meet him. I went to his house, so I had that image. Then I met few police officers who did encounters, like that. But I think, what I did and what I generally do is I take a fantasy and treat it very really, in reality. That is what I keep doing. I take a fantasy and treat it in reality. That is what Maqbool’s underworld is. That is why Omkara is politicized the way it is. That’s what actually happens. It’s not that it’s totally fantasy. Like Omkara, there’s one scene where police is being frisked by the gangsters. And actually it happens, in one of the villages, if the police had to go in, the gangsters actually search, frisk police.

 

No, but in Omkara  there was a lot more… Also, that was very real.

Yeah because that’s where I come from so I know it. But the Mumbai underworld you don’t know, it’s a fantasy for you.

 

Actually Mumbai underworld is a fantasy space in any case. You know the gangsters mimic their own screen versions and their screen versions. You don’t even know what is…

Yeah, you don’t even know who’s whose mirror.

 

Who came first, it’s a chicken and egg thing. Okay, now tell me a little bit about the choices of making Lady Macbeth, not Lady Macbeth but the mistress of the king. And the other one, of making the witches more active than passive. Just handing them more power.

Lady Macbeth, the reason was, because I thought, in a married relationship with a man and woman, which Macbeth had, I thought it’ll be so boring. Because it’s only being done for money. It’s only being done for power or for the lust for power. Because Macbeth and Lady Macbeth, they must have been married for a long time. And Lady Macbeth wants that power, that throne. So I thought that it’ll be so dry. So what if Lady Macbeth becomes a throne herself for Macbeth? He has to kill his father to get that throne and there will be a lust. A real lust, a romance hidden with lust. So I thought that will be so good to explore. That was the reason, to have romance, otherwise there’s no romance in a married relationship of 12-15 years and where they’re planning to kill their father. So it’s a different zone, a different tone, a different genre. So I didn’t want to treat it that way. I wanted to have a little passionate romance, throbbing romance between Macbeth and Lady Macbeth. And the only way was to avert the obstacle of the king. The king is the obstacle. Which is… I thought that, because I was looking at the contemporary parallels of all the things in Macbeth. The first thing was witches. So I thought the cops in the contemporary world will make the best witches.

 

Yeah but what about making them more active? They’re not just predicting, they’re also in a way making it…

They’re making it happen, yeah. Again I told you, that I treated it as my story. That after a point I forgot about Mr. Shakespeare, that I thought the basic material is his, I’m… like Gulzar saab says, ki main uske zameen pe apni  building khadi karke bol raha hoon ki yeh Shakespeare ki  building hai. Toh Shakespeare ki toh sirf zameen hai, building meri hai, toh (that on Shakespeare’s land I am constructing my own building and I am saying that it’s Shakespeare’s building. But only the land is of Shakespeare, the building is mine) this is what he says. But I don’t like that. I want this building to be called Shakespeare Apartment. So I can sell it well.

 

Okay Omkara. How quickly did that choice of the adha-brahmin come to you, how quickly did that…

Because again I was finding it parallel to the Moor.

 

But there are lots of other parallels. I mean yahaan pe aur bhi parallels ho sakte the, jo aap explore kar sakte the (there could have been more parallels, which you could have explored). Of that psychology, of that…

Kyonki iss mein ek… Nahin! Nahin hota (Because there could have been one more… No! It wouldn’t have been possible). You tell me what is the parallel of a Moor? What will be a parallel of a Moor? I mean… there I think with a Moor, which I very smartly avoided is that he’s a… it’s to do with a skin colour. And the person who is complexed with his colour, with his looks and he’s more complexed with the beauty of his wife. So that’s where I realized okay, he is jealous of his wife. He’s jealous, not jealous of his wife, he’s a jealous man because he is complexed with his wife’s beauty. Because he doesn’t see himself as beautiful as he should. Which I think the beauty has got nothing to do with your looks. I think it is your inner looks which make you beautiful or not beautiful. So for that, I think that adha-brahmin where uski maa…father Brahmin tha, he’s…

 

You grew up in U.P (Uttar Pradesh). You are a Brahmin yourself. How much did your own… what you actually witnessed, how much did your own experiences and things that interested you about the politics of U.P., go into this film?

The characters actually, more than politics. Politics sabhi jagah ek si hai, but wahan pe (the politics is the same almost everywhere but there) politics has a muscle wing. So every political party has or had a muscle wing. One big gangster is affiliated with one party. That is what the politics was. Aur uske bahubali hote the. Ki ek bahubali yeh hai, uska bahubali kaun hai (They used to have chiefs. That he’s one chief, who’s the chief of that group)? Matlab they had their muscle wing. But what I used with my experience of living in western U.P. were the characters. Like Langda Tyagi ka character. That character was a senior to me in my school because I studied in a government college. And there we had students from all classes of society. So I’m very fortunate. At that time, I was very… later I was very angry, that I should have gone to some English medium and you know, where high class, people from the high class of society were there. But now I thank God, thank God I was there, because I could see so many people. Which I would have never experienced in my life. So Langda Tyagi was there, he used to carry a knife in his pocket and he was a gangster and later he became a very big gangster. And when I went to research, I came to know that he is a professor in a college now. So this was his growth. Then Ajay’s character, there was again a gangster called Rampal. When we were kids we used to go through Tyagi Hostel which was there in the film also. So all those characters I had seen in my childhood.

 

I want to talk a little bit about the… see Shakespeare’s universe has a very distinct moral universe also, very in tune with the Victorian times, right? How different is the moral universe of your films from Shakespeare’s? And what other things influence the moral universe of your films? Because morality and how you interpret that changes over time. The drama doesn’t but the morality does.

I don’t think morality changes. I don’t think morality changes because… and morality has a very strange point. I have a very strange point of view for this morality. When we are watching cinema we all become very moral. We must be doing the same wrong thing in our real life, but when we watch a film, we actually become very moral, that good should win. He is a bad guy, why did he do this? And it’s very natural that, it’s very strange that we become so moral. When we are watching film in a theatre or with bahut logon ke saath baith ke dekh rahe (a lot of people). We become very moral. So I think morality never changes. And the morality you are talking about, it has got to do with the filmmaker. Uski jo morality hogi, wohi screen dikhayegi (Whatever his morality is, you will be able to see it on the screen). What he thinks about women, what point of view he has on relationships, what way he treats kids, whatever he is in his real life, is shown on the screen.

 

Whatever he is or whatever he is interested in exploring?

He explores only those things which he is interested in. You keep going back. It’s like a domino thing, you keep going back and you’ll find the filmmaker only. He’ll only… because nobody will give his life for…

 

Something that he doesn’t…

Something that doesn’t interest him.

 

There were lots of ways in which Susanna’s Seven Husbands could have been interpreted. What was your first attraction to the… what was it that “Mujhe yeh explore karna hai (I want to explore this).” Kya tha usme, story mein (What was in it about the story)?

Usme  I think the character Susanna, and the characters of the husbands.

 

And the idea of love? The very strange idea of love?

Uh…Yeah. I think what attracted me [was] the black humor part of that, that she kills her husbands. I liked the streak of that character, which actually attracted me. And it was so unusual, and it was based on a real character, Ruskin told me about that.  So, I found it very fascinating that a lady who can kill, get married seven times, and kill her husbands.

 

Why did you think that the film didn’t do as well as should have really?

I think what I was hoping that, I was actually following Hitchcock’s line that thrill is better than the suspense, that we know that she is going to kill a person but how she’s going to kill a person, that process is interesting. And I think that didn’t work with people, that they knew that he’s going to be killed so they weren’t interested in the process, they wanted him to be killed as soon as possible. So, I think that episodic feel, which came, that didn’t work with people. For me, I think I still love that film. I think it was a very literary work of mine, where I put in the history of India through her husbands, and you see the Pokhran (nuclear explosion), you see 1984, and I think a doctor who makes killer mushrooms, so I think it was a very literary work of mine. The only thing which I am ashamed of in that is the makeup of Priyanka’s (Chopra) older look, which I hated and I was cheated by a foreign company who promised, we did tests in L.A. six months back, but the people who did the test didn’t come. It was a different team, which came, and there was so much at stake and we were in flow. Then I was promised by the special effects guy that we’ll do it in the post—that’s the easy way to get out, so don’t worry—but finally it couldn’t be achieved. But I think that wasn’t the reason that the film didn’t do well because it must be something else.

 

Was it also, did you feel that because you didn’t explain Priyanka’s character that people didn’t understand this character somewhere. They wanted a more directly moral tale for a woman. They didn’t get what was driving her? It wasn’t a black and white moral tale. Yeah, I mean she does turn to God in the end and all that but…

Yeah, I think because, two things for that. One is, there were explanations about her character but people don’t pay that kind of attention. It was very subtle…

 

It was. Ped ke neeche baith ke (sitting under the tree), when she’s saying why not just divorce them, why kill them, and she explains that. It’s an almost poetical explanation; it’s not a spoon-feeding explanation.

Yeah, and there was an explanation for that, where one of the servants, the three stooges, one of the… Jab wo bachpan mein school jaati thi to ek kutta bahut bhaunkta tha, jis galli se jaati thi. Toh usne apna raasta nahin badla, toh usne apne  father ki  gun le kar kutte ko uda diya. Toh Sahib raasta nahin badla karti hain, Sahib kutte ka bheja uda diya karti hain. (As a child, when she used to go to the school, a dog in one of the gully on the way used to bark a lot. She didn’t change her route; instead she used her father’s gun to kill the dog. So, Sahib doesn’t change her route, she kills the dog instead). So, she was like that, that was she had in that. She wouldn’t change her way; she would rather get rid of the person. And, she was looking for love, every time she was deceived in love. If you see all those marriages, she was betrayed in love every time and I think after one point, she became, to me, a psychopath. After the third murder, when after John’s character, I think she became a psychopath because when she kills the Russian husband she had a… she didn’t have to kill him, but I think by that time she had just started enjoying the killing. So, to me, she became a psychopath killer. And it was supposed to be black humour, which people didn’t get. So, it was supposed to be… and maybe Ruskin also blames me for that. Ruskin said that you have made it so intense that the black humour went out of the window.

 

Okay, I want to talk to you about Kaminey. What did you start with? It was a caper film, it was a sort of take on a very Tarantinoesque genre, it was a sort of… whatever, it was a hat doff to Bollywood clichés. What did you start with, where do you root those characters, where do you find those characters in the world that you wanted to root it in?

Again, it was like a fantasy put into reality. But, my starting point was to make a caper. To make a Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels, Snatch, Pulp Fiction, those kind of influences, so the starting point was that. And, then I wanted to have a little depth that why did these two brothers are at war… and yeah, I think that was my intention and that remained my most successful film so far.

 

Okay, Matru (Ki Bijlee Ka Mandola) intrigued me even more. Where did you find, again, there was that fantasy, there was this bi-plane out of Tintin, the cow, the socialist politics, the whole land grab thing? Where did the characters in Matru… come from?

It comes from Brecht’s play called Mr Puntila and His Man Matti. And Brecht took those characters from Charlie Chaplin’s film called City Lights, in which a drunkard man takes Charlie Chaplin home and he’s drunk and treats him like his best friend, and when in the morning he’s sober he kicks him out, forgets that who is this guy, why is he sleeping next to my bed. So, that was a starting point and of course, I think there was a left side of me politically, so it was an expression of my left…

 

So you were also trying, was it also something, like did you also want to explore (Emir) Kusturica’s idiom?

Yes, yes, Kusturica, because I gave homage to Kusturica at the end because I loved his films, Underground…

 

But, that’s how he treats politics, right? There are these characters that he’ll create but the way…

Yes, it’s treated like farce. Black Cat, White Cat; Underground; those films were a big influence on me.

 

I wanted to quickly talk to you about dialogue writing. Because that is something, you know, you do for all your films. Tell me about some of the pitfalls of dialogue writing? Tell me two secrets of good dialogue writing?

One secret you can acquire, you can achieve. The other you can’t. First is, which you can acquire and achieve is, never let two people agree in a scene. Even if they are saying the same thing, never let them agree. So that’s where the conflict comes and that’s where the fun comes. If there’s a conflict, people are interested, and if there’s no conflict, they are not interested then. If two people are fighting, they are interested, so, this you can acquire. Okay, three things. Second thing is, never, which I learnt, I’m not giving you a gyaan, but this is what I do. The second thing is, never say things directly, say it through some object. If I want to tell you something, I will tell you through biscuit— that why don’t you have this biscuit. I will start my conversation, I will say through, I will say it indirectly, not directly. That always has an impact. And third thing, which you are either born with it—you either have it or you don’t have—which is sense of humour. If you don’t have humour then you can’t be a writer and you have to be… the more wicked you are, the better dialogue writing you can do.

 

Casting. Especially when you have casted for smaller roles, character roles, it’s something you are really known for. Something that’s widely discussed about your films. One, is there anybody you consult or take advice from, when it comes to casting? Secondly, is there a director that you admire for their casting?

Now, we have good casting directors, who weren’t there before. In my case, that guy, Honey Trehan, he has been my assistant the day he landed in Bombay, he has been with me. And over the period of time, he became a big casting director. And, as far as my casting is concerned, I am never excited about stars who are working in my film. I am always excited about the side cast, who are working. So, I get a kick out of their performance not by the stars’ performance, so that’s why they become very important for me. Like Deepak Dobriyal in Omkara, or Chandan Roy Sanyal or the Bengali brothers in Kaminey, or like Bhopey Bhau. So they give me child like excitement. So that and the one director I admire for it, I think, (Quentin) Tarantino. His casting sense is out of this world. If you see the Kill Bill, that Bill’s casting, I mean, such a great casting.

 

Two things, like I said with dialogue writing, that you have learnt along the way with directing actors, be it stars or actors? Two things that you have learnt on the job, or three things that you have learnt on the job about directing actors? Some tricks that you have picked up.

Yeah, never ask them to repeat what they have done in the shot. If the shot is okay, and for some reason you have to do it, never ask them to repeat the same thing. And, I never spoon-feed them about what they should be doing. In fact, and that I came to know, because they have worked with many different directors. But when they work with me, am told again and again, especially many times by Priyanka, that when an actor comes and asks me that this is the scene and you have to go and sit over there, there’s a biscuit plate lying over here, and I have to come and sit over here. So, this is the scene. So, they ask me, if they ask me, that, “What should I do? Should I come from this door or that door?” I never tell them. I say, “It’s your character, you should tell me where your character should come from. Don’t ask me to think for yourself. You think and tell me. If I don’t like it, I will tell you.” So, if I do my first rehearsal, I tell no one what to do, I tell no one how to do, I just tell them, let them weigh themselves, and that’s where they get thrown off. This director is not telling us anything! This is my style of working. I never give directions. If I feel they are going wrong, I will tell them, “This is not the way. Your character should be doing this.”

 

Tell me, why did you turn producer? What was one big reason that you turned producer?

To have the power for the final product. Because I saw Gulzar saab suffering in Hu Tu Tu, then that producer after the release of the film, he went to the theaters and edited the film, the way he wanted. And, I saw him in pain, and when I became the director, then I realized that that’s the way you can kill the director. So, to avoid that day in my life I became a producer.

 

How much creatively… you know the kind of films you produce, which you are not directing yourself, how much do they have to be a piece of your own creative sensibility? And, how far would you say that, okay…

Yeah, it’s a very difficult thing to produce and I am stopping to produce anymore now.

 

Really?

Yeah.

 

Are you taking a break or stopping?

I mean, stopping for the time being. I don’t know, right now I am not in a mood to produce forever for anybody. Because it’s a pain.

 

What is it that gets to you about producing?

Because you are wasting your energies, you know. I can make my own films. Why am I doing it for others? This is the first feeling that came to me. Because I don’t do it for money. I never get money back. My films don’t make money, so then why should I be doing this? I should be creating my own work, why should I be doing it for others?

 

Have you gotten better at understanding marketing, or selling a film?

No, I don’t understand because even if I understand marketing better than the marketing people, the marketing people think that they’re understanding the marketing better. So it becomes a very difficult situation when it comes to marketing because they have preconceived notions about a film because they have set patterns that so many hoardings, hero should be there, the masses should come for this. So, it’s very bad, marketing, I mean, should be left to a filmmaker, which doesn’t happen because of the co-production thing. And the corporate has its own marketing wing— a bunch of fools, who know nothing about it.

 

What kind of aesthetics are you drawn to, when it comes to cinema?

Excellence.

 

I mean, I am not going to ask you to even explain that. You know, a lot of filmmakers have a thing for creating a partnership with a cinematographer. You know, whether it was (Jean-Luc) Godard or whether it was (Satyajit) Ray, they did that. You have not. You have worked with different cinematographers, you have repeated one. But you have worked with different cinematographers at different points of time. Why is that? I mean, is that because you did not find the partnership, or making the partnership doesn’t interest you?

I want to remain in a live-in relationship in my creative world. I don’t want to marry, so this is one thing. And because the problem with cinematographers is that they think that actually they are directing the film, the director knows nothing. This is the basic problem with most of the cinematographers because they are either failed directors or they didn’t have the courage to become a filmmaker, or they don’t get a chance to become a filmmaker. So that kind of arrogance, because they have a kind of power on the set. Because the scene has to be lit and then they say that, “I am not getting my meter correct. I need so much time.” They have that kind of power. So I have had a very bad experience in my first two films with my cinematographer, that’s where I thought I am not going to repeat my cinematographer. One reason because that cinematographer, he was a friend of mine, that he kept saying to everyone that he has directed those first two films, he (Bharadwaj) knew nothing about it. He knew nothing about the lens. True, on the first film I knew nothing about the lens, but by the second film, I knew everything, everything, but… and I felt very offended, I felt very offended with that, and to prove him wrong and prove to myself that I can work with any Tom, Dick, and Harry, and get my job done, and that’s why I started doing this. Now I enjoy… because it’s a very boyfriend-girlfriend, husband-wife, kind of a relationship between the director and the cinematographer. By the end of the film, he knows all your weaknesses and you know his, but the problem is he knows your weaknesses. So, the next time he knows how to manoeuvre you, how to manipulate you, and I just don’t like someone manipulating or manoeuvring me. So when you get on the set with a new cinematographer, by the time he realizes your weaknesses or problems, the film is over. That’s why I don’t and I won’t.

 

Do you allow yourself flourishes as a director? You know, like a painter, as one of those flourished strokes, which may not be needed but it’s a flourished stroke. Do you allow yourself flourish, just purely indulgent, as an artist, as a director, strokes in your films? I mean, indulgent in a way that would not spoil the story but your own, jaise keeda kehte hain, kuch bhi kehte hain, jaise bhi…?

Yeah, I think, all the creative people do that.

 

Not all, I think.

Yeah, but if you realize that it’s an indulgence then… you know, that’s why I am very conscious about what I do. I don’t like to do anything for the sake of intelligence, but now I think I feel I should have in few cases.

 

But why Vishal? I mean, the whole reason why you are doing this is because you have to enjoy it, right?

Yeah, yeah, but you know when the film comes to your final stages you become very insecure that whether it’s reaching what you wanted to say, whether it’s reaching or not, and I am very scared of one thing, which is boring people. Because I get bored very easily. Like if I am talking to you or if I do not like being in someone’s company, I feel that’s the most horrible thing. And I don’t want to do that to people, so sometimes it happens. But in few cases I am saying I should have been indulgent, like Irrfan’s (Khan) story in 7 Khoon Maaf, I think that’s the best work I have ever done in my life, but I butchered it because of my editor and I will remain angry with him all my life. Because that section was 20-25 minutes, 30 minutes long, or 25 minutes long and there was total poetry, no dialogue in that. The whole relationship was translated on the screen in poetry, using music and poetry. Still there’s no dialogue in the film in that story but that was long, and I should have gone with that.

 

Do you ever self-censor while making films for the fear of running into censorship problems?

 No.

 

Never?

The thing is, I am always morally right when I am doing a film.

 

Haan, but phir bhi hassles bhi bahut hote hain na? (But still there would be a lot of hassles, right?) You are also a practical director, and a producer, so is there something where you say, I don’t need this yaar, forget I am not going to

Nahin, ab problem aane lagi hai kyunki satellite deals mein woh maangte hain (Nowadays, there’s a problem because satellite deals need) U/A, so broadcasters have started blackmailing. That’s where the cinema is feeling a big hurt and we will realize it after five years. Because of that the filmmakers are forced not to do certain things, which is very wrong for a creative man.

 

You know, Vishal, I am very intrigued because you had an anti-smoking song, you had an AIDS awareness song. How do you feel about the regulation that says that you have to put a warning? Where do you think the line needs to be drawn? Do you feel like it’s fair game to say that there should be a warning every time someone, a character, smokes on screen? Or, the long ad that happens before…

Mera mann karta hai main jaa kar parda phaad dun (I feel like tearing the curtain). It is so inhuman. It is so stupid. It is so unnecessary. It’s like a fascist thing the health ministry is doing to us, the filmmakers. Because it’s not treated like fine arts, no? It is not treated like (one of the) arts at all. Abhi bhi nautanki tamashe ki tarah liya jaa raha hai cinema ko. (Cinema is still treated like a gimmick). Seriously lete hi nahin hain, kuch bhi ho cinema ke saath yeh kar do. Jaise har cheez film galat kar rahi ho. (They don’t take cinema seriously, whatever be the situation, cinema will be on the receiving end. As if cinema is responsible for everything wrong). Now this is really, really stupid. Isse bura aur kisi filmmaker ke saath ho nahin sakta hai, filmmaking community ke saath isse bura kaam nahin ho sakta hai. (That’s the worst that can happen with any filmmaker, with the filmmaking community). Now they are trying for alcohol also. That anytime if somebody has a drink, that (a warning will appear that) ‘Alcohol is bad’. I think kuch dinon ke baad yeh bhi karna padega ki kuch acchi cheezein jo kha rahe hain ki biscuit khana accha hai. Nimbu toh zada nahin khao (After some days, they will start showing that eating biscuit is healthy; don’t have too much lemon). That was my retaliation when I did the smoking song. That’s the way I retaliated to what they were doing ki zyada nimbu khaane se daant kharaab ho jaate hain magar cigarette peene se aap mar sakte ho (your teeth will be spoiled from a lot of lemons, but cigarettes can kill you). So, it is… I mean, I was feeling frustrated.

 

Vishal, you are a composer but the trend today is not to have songs as a part… matlab item numbers ho sakte hain, (you can have item numbers though) but songs as part of narrative, in a way they take the story forward, brings out the inner conflict that is becoming… Is that something you would regret if it went out of our cinema entirely?

No, no, I think I would rather like it. Because mostly, songs are not required in our films.

 

So, then what happens to the rich, absolutely rich treasure of lyric songs woh bhi toh chala jayega na uske saath (even that will go with it)?

Haan toh maybe uske saath non-film music upar ayega jiske liye (So, in that case, the non-film music will shine more), you were regretting. Delhi guys will have much more fun.

 

Yeah, but I don’t mean to have my life without Sahir Ludhianvi, without Gulzar..

But then Sahir Ludhianvi or Faiz Ahmed Faiz ne kaunse filmon ke gaane likhe? Ghalib ne kaunse filmon ke gaane likhe? Uss waqt toh Ghalib poetry kar rahe the…Toh aur cheezein upar ayengi na? Filmon ki wajah se aur cheezein upar aa hi nahin paati hai na. Film sab kuch apne andar absorb kar leti hain. Aap bahut bade poet hain, apne koi filmon ka gaana likha hai? Nahin likha. Toh aapke upar glamour hi nahin ayega. Dr. Bashir Badr ka naam bhi suna hai kisine, Dr. Bashir Badr jaisa poet nahin hua pichle sau saal mein. (What film songs did Ghalib write? At that time Ghalib was writing poetry. So other things would shine, right? Because of films, other things are not able to come up. Film absorbs everything. You are a renowned poet, have you written any songs for films? No, so you would not be glamorous. No one has heard of Dr. Bashir Badr. A poet like him has not been in our country for 100 years).

 

You touched upon the cinematographer, what about the editor? What is the balance? What is the secret of that relationship? What is the ideal relationship between an editor and a director? And have you ever found it?

No, I am still finding it. Yeah, editing ka bada hi tricky hai, woh donon hi confuse ho jaate hain aapas mein baat karte karte ki kya theek hai aur kya nahin theek hai. But, I think usme apne gut ke upar jaana chahiye. (Editing is very tricky. A director and an editor often get confused while talking to each other about what’s right and what’s not. So, in that case, one should go by his instinct). Which I will try in my next film. Sometimes it’s not working as a whole story. I mean, you come across with very strange choices when you are going for your final cut. Very strange choices. Some moments you would want that is not adding to the story, so it’s very, very strange, the choices that you have to make. And you would realize your mistakes after six months or one year, like I am realizing about 7 Khoon Maaf.

 

What would you want in an editor, ideally?

I am telling you it’s a very strange relationship between an editor and a director. But, what I want? That he should not contradict me. He should listen to me whatever I say. Not come with justifiable logics.

 

Come on! You know you also want that because otherwise you have no counterpoint at all. You are living with one film for so long. Clearly, you haven’t made your wish to Santa Claus about editors yet…

No, I am very happy with the editor I am working with right now, A. Sreekar Prasad. But one thing you hate about editors, when they read the script they don’t realize that it’s not needed. Once you have shot it, they say it’s not needed, so what were you doing? Were you sleeping when reading the script? So, this is one thing I hate about editors. They say it’s not needed. But, you read the script? Yeah. But now it’s not needed, so…

 

You know Vishal, the way we make political films in India, either it is a backdrop of politics or it’s a moral film disguised as a political film. Do you feel we have a mature political cinema in India? And, what kind of politics woven in cinema attracts you?

We can only make farcical cinema, as far as politics is considered because politics is farce in our country. Either we can make farce or we can make (it) very dark because there is no middle road. Most of the institutions are corrupt. Which good political films we have made? Koi bhi nahin. (Nothing).

 

What has shaped your politics?

I think social justice. I mean, if you are an artist, you can be an artist only if you are left. If your left is strong, only then you can be an artist, otherwise how will you take the injustice happening in society? If you are taking that, and you are still happy then you are not an artist. And only left provides you that window, which makes you see okay, that’s why you keep reacting with your left.

 

Why did you take a break from Shakespeare?

Because I am very scared of being slotted in something, and again, you know the fight within me, with myself, why can’t I say original stories? Why can’t I say original stories? For that I tried Kaminey so it’s because of that.

 

Why did you drop 2 States? You mentioned earlier that there was some opposition, but why did it not work out?

There were many reasons for that. One thing is that Shah Rukh (Khan), he developed cold feet, and then I thought it will be very insensitive of me to go and make this with somebody else. This was the main reason. Because we planned that film together, but then both of us, we thought that…then he thought that he shouldn’t be doing this, then I thought I don’t want to do this.

 

What attracts you towards romance? How would you like to explore romance? What kind of romance in cinema attracts you and how would you like to explore… Is there any way in which you would like to explore romance in your cinema?

I think the Ijaazat kind of film I want to make, because that is one of the most romantic films ever on Indian screen. Very beautiful film and that went unnoticed. That kind of romance where hawaldar ne ulta ek athanni de kar karke lautaya tha, usme meri ek chavanni padi hai, woh bhejwa do. Mera kuch samaan tumhare paas pada hai wo bhejwa do. I think that is one of the best romantic songs an Indian film has seen.

 

You know, you have explored your Kusturica’s idiom, your Tarantino kind of medium, (Krzysztof) Kieslowski, where you started off, you have always said that’s one big push you got towards cinema. How would you like to explore that idiom? What is it about that idiom that you would like to explore, if in future?

You know those kind of quiet films he made, which looked quiet on surface but they were screaming from within, that kind of quality of cinema I am really excited to make, and want to explore because Kieslowski’s films had this quality. To explore extraordinary conflict in an ordinary life is the most difficult thing and that’s what Kieslowski did in all his films. You see his (The) Decalogue, you see his (Three Colors:) Blue, White, Red— extraordinary conflicts in ordinary life. Otherwise, it is very difficult to create gangsters, it is very difficult to create politicians, or you know farce, or those kinds of films, very easy to make. But to explore that conflict in normal people, that’s the most important thing.

 

What is your ambition today as a filmmaker?

To create a very, very honest film, which (it) has always been.

 

 

Eye of the Beholder: Zoë Heller

New York based English writer and journalist Zoë Heller, 48, is the author of three novels: Everything You Know (1999), Notes on a Scandal (2003)—which was shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize—and The Believers (2008).

She was ‘Columnist of the Year’ at the British Press Awards for her columns in the Daily Telegraph  in 2002. In 2009, she donated her short story What She Did On Her Summer Vacation  to Oxfam’s ‘Ox-Tales’ project, four collections of UK stories by 38 authors.

Heller belongs to a family of screenwriters. Her father Lukas Heller had won an Edgar Award for Best Motion Picture for the thriller Hush… Hush, Sweet Charlotte. Her brother Carl Bruno Heller is the creator of the TV series Rome  and The Mentalist.  Her ex-husband Larry Konner has penned Hollywood screenplays such as Superman IV: The Quest for PeacePlanet of the Apes  and Mona Lisa Smile  as well as the TV shows Boardwalk Empire  and The Sopranos.

The only movie Heller wrote was way back in 1991. “I haven’t seen it since,” she says. “And I wouldn’t want to.” However, a film based on her book Notes on a Scandal, starring Judi Dench and Cate Blanchett, written by Patrick Marber and directed by Richard Eyre, won rave reviews and was nominated for four Academy Awards.

In this interview, Heller speaks about the challenges of screenwriting and adaptation, reservations she had with the film Notes on a Scandal  and a TV screenplay she is working on currently.

 

 

You wrote a screenplay for the independent film Twenty-One  way back in 1991. Have there been any scripts or screenplays since?

I am writing now for HBO. Something for TV, but no films. I haven’t written for films since then. Because I come from a family of screenwriters…

 

I know, your brother (Bruno Heller) writes for TV…

My brother writes for TV, and he also writes for movies. And my father and my ex-husband and so on… First of all I’m aware of how difficult it is, and it’s never seemed to me that it was my métier.  I actually like sentences and aspire to write good ones. The particular skills that screenplays require, it always seems to me like there are more architectural skills involved. And it is also a more visual medium, obviously. They always struck me as things that possibly, you know… if I worked really hard, I might become competent at, although I didn’t have a natural flair for it. However, I’ve had the very good fortune to be offered this work with HBO. And I need to pay the bills, so I’m trying.

 

How was your experience with that particular screenplay (Twenty-One)? Because it did go on to win a lot of acclaim. The film won awards, it was at Sundance and created quite a stir there.

Between you and me, I was a completely know-nothing ignoramus.

 

It was way back in the day.

I mean, I haven’t seen it since, and I wouldn’t want to. The screenplay, I can only imagine, was fairly incompetent. So that was a piece of immense good fortune. Somebody used to say, “Oh, you’re around the age of the person I want to make this movie about. You write it.” And the director—I wouldn’t say he dictated it to me—but he said, “Now I want a bit in which she utters a monologue about what it’s like having a boyfriend”, or something.

So the sort of skills I was talking about just now, about how you structure something. You know, were not in it at all. So I wouldn’t say that experience taught me anything. I neither brought any skills to bear, nor did I pick any up in the process. It’s the truth.

 

You didn’t work on the script of Notes on a Scandal ?

No. A great guy, a great playwright, Patrick Marber, wrote that script. They’re very keen these days that when they adapt a book, that they kind of keep the writer on the side. Otherwise you have the writer standing around saying, “Nooo, I hate it!” And that’s not good for the movie. They were very nice to me and they kept me abreast of what they were doing. As it turned out, I had a great friendship with Patrick and he said from the start, “You’re going to hate what I do. I’m going to take your baby and I’m going to tear it up and change it.”

But I like Patrick very much. I think he’s very, very smart. I understood that in order to adapt a book, you can’t do sort of an illustrated version. It’s turning it into a different medium. I have reconciled to that. So I watched them do that. They showed me a first draft and said, “Please give us your notes.” I innocently give them copious notes, which they then went ahead and ignored. I watched it with interest, and I thought that the movie that came out really worked on its own terms. If my book had ceased to exist as an independent object, no one could ever kind of go and look at the original document… I think I would be disturbed. Because the movie is so different. But my book is still my book and the film is something else. So I’m fine with that.

 

But letting go at that point, when you knew that somebody else would be working on the script. Was that a tough choice…

No…

 

…or was it something you were sort of (okay with)?

First of all, you’re being given… I mean at one level, as a writer there’s something magical about being given a cheque and not having to do any writing!

 

Absolutely.

And the other thing is, I think it’s particularly difficult to adapt one’s own work. I know some writers do. They even relish it. I think it would be… for all the reasons that I said, the whole business of having to tear up what you’ve done and rearrange and think about it in a completely different way. And of course, lose some of one’s favourite lines because it simply doesn’t work. They don’t work in the screen version. I think it would be quite painful. So I was very happy to not enter into that.

 

You mention not being very pleased with the happy ending to the movie, which was not the case in your book. How did they convince you? You mention sort of expressing your doubt about that, but then you were finally convinced. What did they say to convince you finally?

No I wasn’t convinced. I was talking to the producer. He was a very smart guy who made a lot of successful movies. And he said, “People aren’t going to put down… ”—I guess in those days it was 10 bucks—“…aren’t going to put down 10 bucks to go see a movie in which people don’t learn something.” It was a kind of a classic Hollywood homily about the idea that a movie has to have an arc, and the characters have to go through a journey and be better in some sense at the end. Of course, literary fiction doesn’t actually keep to quite the same rules. My feeling is that I’m not sure that all independent movies have to keep to the same rules either. I don’t think he persuaded me exactly, but I said, “Okay, you’re going to make a different kind of a movie.”

 

You also mentioned about not being very sure of how Barbara came across in certain places. Could you elaborate on that? What did you mean by that?

I felt that I had written about, obviously, an awful woman, and a woman going slightly nuts. But she had a real story to tell and a real complaint about the plight of a middle-aged woman who had no role and wasn’t seen by men or women. Who felt herself to be invisible. There was a sort of, if you like, a feminist moral in there somewhere about what happens to women who don’t offer pulchritude or beauty, who reach a certain age. (Women) who don’t have the status of marriage or children.

I felt that in the movie she was a much more straightforwardly crazy villain. And her sexuality was much more unambiguous. I never wanted to say she’s a lesbian. I felt that she was sort of truly sexually ambiguous, that she was sort of retarded sexually. She wanted sex with intimacy with anybody. She wanted intimacy with anybody. Her most passionate feelings had traditionally thus far historically been with women, but you couldn’t really pigeonhole her in that way. The movie, it seemed to me, was much more straightforwardly…she’s a crazy, repressed lesbian who’s got the hots for Cate Blanchett. Again, I completely understand why you might have to be a bit more straightforward.

 

Also when you have lesser time…

Yeah.

 

Would you put that down to the script or Judi’s (Dench) portrayal?

No I don’t think it was Judi’s portrayal. In fact there was a wonderful moment on set when I think Judi sometimes felt… I don’t want to put words into her mouth but I think she found it quite difficult playing that character because it felt a bit, at times… You know, she’s a very attractive woman and they made her…she had to wear a special wig that showed her scalp.

 

It was overdone.

Yeah. And I remember there was a moment on set where she was going through drawers with especially revolting underwear. Grey, vast panties. She said, “Just because I’m an unpleasant person? I might actually have attractive underwear.” My reading of that was there was some sense in which she wanted to say, “I’m not mean and vile and repulsive all the way through.” If there was anything that slightly upset me, it was the sense that they had made her repellent in precisely the way that Barbara, the character in my book, most feared. That she was regarded as a repellent creature.

 

When one thinks about what book is good to be made into a movie, what book is a good book to adapt…have you thought about it, especially coming from a family of screenwriters? Are there any other parameters besides the fact that, ‘Hey, this is a really good book’?

I still don’t understand now in retrospect why Notes (on a Scandal)  lends itself to other treatments. I mean subsequently people have said, “Can we turn it into an opera? Can we turn it into a stage play?” And to be frank, I think it’s because it has a very strong melodramatic dimension to it. With The Believers, which I think is going to end up not being turned into a movie, it strikes me as really not the kind of stuff of which movies are made. It’s very…

 

It’s socio-political in that sense…

Well that’s fine. It feels like one of those great Italian movies about dynasties and also about politics. I just think it’s very ‘talky’.

 

That’s funny because I thought The Believers, especially considering its twists… there’s the protagonist, and then you find out little bit into the book that the person goes into coma… The way things move in The Believers, I would think it would be very exciting to see it in a script. It might not be as much of an internal journey as the other book, but the fact that it’s dynamic and there are all these characters… Would you feel that it would be better for something like a mini-series or television, maybe? Now that there’s good work happening in television…

Here’s the thing. The truth is I don’t ever think about these things. I am wary of thinking about things in those terms because the next step would be that as I am writing a novel, which I’m doing at the moment, I start thinking, “Hmm. How would I do the second season of this? Does this lend itself to…” You know what I’m saying?

 

Yeah I understand that.

And it’s enough to try and write reasonably well in one medium without sort of…

 

Thinking about the other medium.

People will say, ”And who would you cast?” As if one has been writing it with the casting in mind, and I really don’t. As I said, I’ve always recognised my limitations. I don’t think of myself as a movie and TV person in that sense. So I leave that to people who have the expertise. Now of course, writing a TV script, I’m having to think about all those things. It’s a real challenge, it’s a real intellectual challenge writing a TV script and having to consider all kinds of different things. One has the, sort of, leisure as a novelist. You know, point of view and being able to write inside people’s heads and all of that stuff. But there is something glorious about, you know, you do a day’s work and you’ve got twenty pages of dialogue and you’re like, “Wow!” If you’re trying to write a half-hour comedy, if you can get the hang of it, and I’m not underestimating how difficult getting the hang of it is… wow, you know? It seems just like a holiday from the whole pace of writing a novel, which moves so slowly.

 

You also mentioned that after a writer’s book gets made into a movie, there’s this other extent of fame and recognition that a writer achieves.

No I absolutely mean it though. It is a revelation.

 

But what does that do to a writer? The fact that your book gets made into a movie— what are the pros and what are the cons, if any?

It is a revelation that movies mean much more to people in general than books do. You can go on scribbling and being recognised in your own field for many, many years. Notes on a Scandal  was, relatively speaking, a small movie. A small kind of independent movie. (But) to my dying day, it will be the thing that people mention first off most of the time. It’s a little humbling. You recognise your place in the great hierarchy of the arts or the media. That’s the main thing. I don’t think it has any sort of corrupting influence. It doesn’t make me think, “Oh, I’m going to try and write another one.” I recognise it as a once in a lifetime thing.

 

You’ve also spoken about literary characters that you were interested in, and they were complicated characters. In an earlier interview you’d mentioned nasty characters. You mentioned characters like Peter Pan, Humpty Dumpty, Alice in Wonderland, Elizabeth Bennet— who is a complicated character. Have there been any cinematic characters you’ve particularly been fascinated by?

The movie I was passionate about recently, really the best movie I’ve seen in the last decade was A Separation, the Iranian movie. I want to see it again and again. It has these dimensions of a Russian novel, and I feel like I want to go back and look at it and see how they did it. There are a lot of the things I loved about that, and it’s a perfect example of the sort of thing that interests me. Usually with movies, modern Hollywood movies, within the first act you establish who you’re rooting for and who’s the baddie. And I kept trying to do the same here, “Okay, oh the Islamic fundamentalist is the baddie. No, oh the wife is the baddie.”

And every time, some more complications would be added. There were layers and layers and layers, and everyone was trying to do their best in that movie. This fantastic tragedy was unfolding in, as it were, slow motion. I found it completely compelling. It was such a beautiful miniature. No car chases, no nothing. Also no self-indulgence, no bourgeois discussions about the affairs of the heart. No adultery. Just a beautiful movie and such fantastic observations of human nature. No villains. Just complex human beings.

 

There are just a few questions you need to answer quickly. Which was your first film-related obsession which you remember? Something you saw as a child?

You’ll have to remember the name of it. It’s a French adaptation of Cinderella (Donkey SkinPeau d’âne ) in which Cinderella was played by, I think, Catherine Deneuve in a donkey’s skin in the forest. I saw it once in a movie house and then I got the book of the film. It absolutely obsessed me.

 

A book to film adaptation that really shouldn’t have been done? One that was a real disaster when you watched it, after you read the book.

You’ll have to give me examples. I can’t think, I can’t think. I can tell you one thing. One adaptation that I think is better than the book is Rebecca  by Daphne du Maurier. I think that’s a better movie than the book is. I know there are lots, but I just can’t think of one now.

 

A writer whose biopic would definitely be A-rated? Very sensational, very scandalous. Extremely interesting and titillating.

Don’t know.

 

It could be a writer from the past.

All the obvious ones are so boring. Casanova… I can’t think, I’m so sorry. I’m not being clever.

 

What’s the one thing a book can really achieve that a movie can’t?

Interiority.

 

And the one thing a movie can achieve that a book can’t?

Well what I can’t do that a film can is just the beautiful landscape. I can never describe landscape and I keep saying, “Can’t we just have a picture here?”

 

Rani Pink

Nishtha Jain’s documentary, Gulabi Gang, is about a group of rural women in Uttar Pradesh who fight for the rights of women and Dalits. Sampat Pal Devi formed Gulabi Gang in 2006 to combat corruption and crime against women. The group is named after its pink sari clad members who wield bamboo sticks and seek to bring about justice in a patriarchal society riddled with poverty, caste divisions, and crime. Here’s Nishtha Jain on why she chose to make this documentary, the process of making it, her relationship with Sampat Pal during and after shooting the film, and her views on the gang’s ideology. Gulabi Gang releases in India, in select cities, on February 21.

 

There were many reasons for making Gulabi Gang. The most obvious reason was to look at a women’s movement in one of the most backward parts of the country. I wanted to profile the members of Gulabi Gang. The majority of them are poor, old, unlettered and from backward castes. The film is an ode to their courage, humour and resilience.

 

Bundelkhand has thrown up very strong women—some celebrated, some notorious—Jhansi Ki Rani, Phoolan Devi, Mayawati and Sampat Pal Devi, the leader of Gulabi Gang. Ironically, women are forced to become masculine in order to fight machismo and patriarchy. I can talk about it from my own experience of growing up in Delhi. Travelling in public transport meant we had to be in combative mode all the time. We often had scuffles with men who violated us. We had to raise our voices to be heard. And we had to be vigilant. My whole body language and attitude changed once I moved to Mumbai. I realized that only people living in equal societies could afford to be soft-spoken. They don’t need to be shrill or aggressive. It’s with this consciousness that I travelled with my camera to the charged and conflicted spaces where Gulabi Gang functions.

 

We know so little about what’s happening in our rural areas. These areas reek of neglect— not just governmental neglect but neglect of the intelligentsia. Women have no one to turn to in these areas. There was one known NGO, but in the several months we were there, we didn’t manage to meet anyone. The extent of gender and caste violence that goes unreported is shocking. It was absolutely crucial for me to present this heartless milieu in which Gulabi Gang is attempting to bring about a change.

 

In January 2009 when I started making my film there was no feature documentary on Gulabi Gang. There was a book but it was in French (Moi, Sampat Pal: chef de gang en sari rose). And there were only a couple of written pieces about the gang on the Internet. It took me some time to raise money for the project but when I was ready to shoot I learnt that another crew had landed there so I had to wait. I finally began shooting in September 2010. I shot for five months, edited for over a year and it premiered in June 2012.

 

I chose to shoot in winter because of the winter-light. It might sound strange that documentary filmmakers should have considerations like this over and above the content but my documentaries are not reports or newsreels. There’s conscious planning of what stories we’ll be pursuing and why. For me, the visual aspect of the film is equally important. This is a visual medium after all. The composition of shots, the light, the movement— these are all elements that enrich the narrative. But I don’t blindly lust after the image either; it’s not about capturing beautiful images but about capturing the right moment in the right way.

 

Often people ask me whether the members of the Gulabi Gang cooperated with me. I think people don’t realize that documentaries shot for such long periods of time cannot be done without the permission or cooperation of the protagonists. People also wonder about how the women opened up to me. I don’t have an answer to this question because it happened organically, I didn’t have to try. Looking back, I am inclined to say I was closer to the two Lakshmis— the protagonists of my previous two documentaries (Lakshmi and Me and Call it Slut). But perhaps that is not entirely true because all relationships are different and they also change and evolve over time.  My relationship with Sampat took a different trajectory. At first she would get very impatient with what she called my ‘NGO-urban-feminist’ views. She could sense my reserve. But still she was generous enough to allow me access. I grew to admire certain qualities in her, especially during editing when I could closely observe what she had said, how she conducted certain negotiations. It’s only when we travelled in Norway during the theatrical release of our film that we got a chance to relax and unwind a little.

 

When it comes to making a documentary, I believe editing is the most important stage because documentaries actually take shape on the editing table. We shot approximately 200 hours of footage, which is not much given the kind of film it is. The final running time of the film is 96 minutes. That is roughly a 1:125 ratio. There were very interesting cases that we pursued but some were too complicated to include in the film and we also had to keep the final duration in mind. But now I would like to put back some important stuff, which I had deleted to bring the film to its current length. There’s always a trade-off between detail and attention span. The initial feedback was that the film is too long so we had to reluctantly cut some portions. The new length worked for everyone but at the same time some people would ask why I didn’t show this or that. It’s difficult to please everyone with one film. But I’m still hoping that I can bring out the longer version for outreach purposes.

 

As regards my views on the ideology of the gang, I don’t know if there’s any homogenous discourse around feminism or whether that’s desirable. The Gulabi Gang is doing what they can within the limitation of their understanding, means and circumstances. I strongly believe that we should allow room for different voices to exist. If India as a nation has survived this long it’s because of its ability to resist homogeneity. Let us not try to kill that with the dominant urban western views and paradigms. There are other lessons to be learnt out there, let us not dismiss them without examining them.

 

Are they vigilantes? What’s my opinion about vigilante justice? In her personal capacity, Sampat Pal does arbitration in marital and inter-personal cases, but not as a Gulabi Gang representative. People come to her with their problems, largely related to their marriages or inter-caste, inter-religious love affairs and she makes the two parties come together, makes them reach a settlement. She makes them sign a paper and acts as a guarantor. She claims 90% success in these cases. These are non-criminal cases.  A lot of people come to her because they can’t afford long, drawn-out legal battles. These settlements have to be understood in the context of a non-functional and corrupt judiciary. But also Gulabi Gang as a group doesn’t dole out vigilante justice. They hold rallies and protests against malpractices. Gulabi Gang’s protests are no different from people’s protests in any part of the world.

 

Of late, I haven’t kept up with the activism and politics of the gang in as much detail as I would like to. I don’t have the means to travel there as exhaustively as I did while shooting. But I know what happened to the particular cases I followed in my film.  About the gang’s activities I know from what I hear from them or from the media reports, though one cannot fully trust what is reported. The kind of access we got during the shooting is impossible to repeat. However, I would like to take my film to the far-flung villages where it was shot and share it with as many Gulabi Gang members as possible. I hope that there’ll be a spin-off from the theatrical release enabling me to do this.

 

As Told to Tanul Thakur

 

The Big Fight

Beth Watkins dissects an age-old rivalry between two of Indian cinema’s biggest icons, that is part real, part concocted in the minds of their followers. 

 

Fencing match. Duel. Swordfight. Movie manifestation of what would become a legendary rivalry between the titans of Bengali cinema. Call it what you will, it is the moment I most eagerly anticipated in Jhinder Bondi,  Tapan Sinha’s 1961 adaptation of The Prisoner of Zenda and the first pairing of West Bengal’s most famous actors, Uttam Kumar and Soumitra Chatterjee. Kumar, already well established as the king of Calcutta cinema, plays royal lookalike Gauri Shankar Rai. He comes to the beleaguered kingdom of Jhind to stand in for their missing ineffectual king (also Kumar), who has been kidnapped by a devious brother. Chatterjee, just a few films old after his debut in Satyajit Ray’s Apur Sansar (1959), is the kidnapper’s conspirator Mayurbahan, the story’s principal face of evil and the actor’s first stab at villainy.

 

When I first watched Jhinder Bondi,  I had little idea who either of these men were and had no investment in them beyond how they were performing in the film at hand. But there was a lot riding on this swordfight simply because I’d heard so much about it. Everyone I asked about Jhinder Bondi, every write-up of the film online, implied some kind of epic confrontation, satisfying in the story of the film in itself but also significant for splashing onto the screen the kind of real-life celebrity conflict fans live to witness.

 

Jhinder Bondi  is full of ingredients that implicitly promise some kind of mano-a-mano confrontation as well— arrogant men with blousy satin shirts and matinee mustaches clanking around with swords hanging from their belts. Gauri practices fencing in his Calcutta club. Mayurbahan throws a drink in the imprisoned king’s face. They try to stare each other down on horseback (even if equestrian malfunctions interrupt the tensions).

 

 

 

Everything seems to whet your appetite for the great climactic duel I had heard so much about. Except, in the end, it doesn’t come. What actually transpires is choreography I like to call a strangulation tango: in the shadows of the palace dungeon, the protagonist and antagonist lunge at each other, but as Gauri restrains Mayurbahan’s sword arm, Mayurbahan knocks Gauri’s pistol away and pins him against the wall. Violins tremble in the background, facial muscles strain, and Gauri fumbles for his dagger and stabs Mayurbahan, who reluctantly collapses onto the floor.

 

 

 

Now, maybe years of consuming Manmohan Desai have made me unfairly expect something larger and grander in scale but this is certainly not the end it was billed to be.

 

Disappointment notwithstanding, in the months after I first saw Jhinder Bondi,  I went on to fall head over teakettle in love with vintage Bengali cinema. However, amidst all the Ray, Mrinal Sen, Ajoy Kar, and even some Sukhen Das, I keep coming back to Jhinder Bondi, partly because it’s so entertaining but mainly because I am fascinated with the fact that this epic confrontation, that so many people remember in its climax, does not exist.

 

I have no idea why the scene I was made to imagine by fans of the film does not exist but what is clear is that people want this scene to exist. It has long been believed that the world of Bengali cine fans is divided into those who love Uttam and those who love Soumitra. We want to see Uttam and Soumitra, so close to their prime as actors and men, duke it out— Uttam’s hair impeccably in place despite turbans and Soumitra’s eyes glinting with evil instead of brimming with grief as usual. The scene needs to exist so we can compare them directly, not just in the same film but in the same situation, and have one idol emerge the undisputable king of Bengali cinema. We need evidence to go with our respective faiths.

 

Particularly because otherwise it isn’t easy to imagine them on a common ground where they could face-off. They cannot really be compared as stars. They’re simply too different. One was called ‘Guru’ and ‘Mahanayak’ (the great hero) by his fans, so great that the metro station in the filmmaking Tollygunge area of Calcutta has been officially renamed Mahanayak Uttam Kumar and its interior plastered with his image. Outside the station is a larger-than-life metal statue of the man striding confidently in billowing dhotikurta. Soumitra on the other hand is the sort of star that is revered, not nick-named. The movie-consuming public seems not to have been moved to give this international yet still very Indian star an honorific, a superlative, or even just an affectionate shorthand. When I asked a Calcutta-bred friend to provide the local version of “thinking woman’s crumpet”, he suggested I call him “Soan Papdi”: a popular Indian sweetmeat complexly layered, delicious, delicate yet substantial.

 

Examined from our far-away perch in 2014, this popular concept of rivalry could have had its roots in the nature of the stars’ projects and the industry in which they worked. After all, Jhinder Bondi,  their first film together, pitted them as enemies, even opposites: Kumar in a dual role as both selfless hero and innocent victim, Chatterjee as unjust usurper who cackles in the face of virtue. They were often cast in opposing roles in real life too. The two men were affiliated with different artistes’ associations that were occasionally in boisterous conflict, dragging the two figureheads into the fray (probably against their will). They were also each a part of the two different sub-industries in Bengal. Kumar and his star power were the very center of the matinee movie machinery. Chatterjee was the flag-bearer of respectable, intelligent movie-making in Calcutta— at the centre of which was the work of Satyajit Ray, Chatterjee’s long-term collaborator and mentor. When Ray was asked why he preferred working with Chatterjee over Kumar, he is rumoured to have said “Ghee’er kaaj Dalda diye hoye na (You cannot use cheap emulsified oil where only clarified butter will do).” When Ray did cast Kumar finally, it was in the role of a restless, ruthless superstar in Nayak— a character bearing close resemblance to Kumar in real life. Ray went to the extent of saying he would have shelved Nayak had Kumar not agreed to be a part of it. And yet, he worked with Kumar only once after Nayak. Nayak  remains one of Kumar’s best films to date but in a recent interview his co-actor in the film, Sharmila Tagore, attributed his performance to Ray’s genius direction saying, “Manik da (Ray) was a better actor than Uttam Kumar.”

 

Their actual life stories up to the point of stardom are also in stark contrast— one rocky and a bit unlikely, the other well-poised and full of momentum. Kumar, from a nondescript upbringing, held an office job and delivered flops early in his career before redefining the Bengali film hero and still embodying it 60 years on. Chatterjee, a graduate student in literature, editor, poet, and theatre protégé, became an instant star through the film that more than half a century later remains a masterpiece of India’s globally best-known director (Apur Sansar ).

 

If their lives had differences, then perhaps, sadly, Uttam Kumar’s death may have fossilized the contrasts. One of the first mythic-but-true stories I heard about Bengali cinema was that Kumar, aged 54, had a fatal heart attack while shooting a film. He had already been moving away from hero roles but had yet to truly age as a major star when he died. Chatterjee, now 78 and making multiple films a year in addition to his work in theatre, has grown old before our eyes both as a human and as an actor. Chatterjee’s image and impact continue to be shaped by his further decades of work, but Kumar’s can be enhanced or diluted only by us, not by the efforts of the man himself.

 

To the narrative built on their origin myths, bodies of work, and roles in the industry, add their typical acting styles. These too seem to position the performers at odds. In his reflection on Uttam Kumar in the magazine Sunday after Kumar’s death (and now included in the Columbia University Press collection Satyajit Ray On Cinema ), Ray discusses his joy at working with such an easy, confident, instinctive actor in Nayak (1966), setting that experience off from that of directing a cerebral actor who analyzes and probes his characters. Ray doesn’t name anyone in particular here, but one imagines he means the man he cast in half of his feature films. In The Master and I: Soumitra on Satyajit, a book by Chatterjee on his decades of work with Ray (an English translation by Arunava Sinha), he repeatedly mentions the talkative, discursive nature of their long friendship. We audience members don’t even need stories from the sets to appreciate these differences. We can see it in their performances. Kumar’s nonchalance puts joy, loss, and passion at the perfect scale for empathy; Chatterjee is at his best when his characters are deep in thought, whatever that thought might be, whether or not it is expressed out loud. Chatterjee claims he admired Kumar long before he became an actor himself and that the two were comfortable with each other, often hanging out at the Great Eastern Hotel post shoots. In an interview in 2012, to illustrate this comfort he speaks of, Chatterjee recalls an incident: “Once during a film shoot, he was getting stuck on a word and wasn’t being able to pronounce it properly. There were a lot of takes and still he wasn’t able to deliver the line. I was there and asked him what was going wrong and, mind you, we shared a very good rapport. He said after some time, ‘Do something, go out for sometime’. So I did. Then in one take he delivered the line. When he came out, I asked him why he had asked me to leave and whether he was feeling uncomfortable in my presence. He told me, ‘I was getting self-conscious. You have very clear pronunciation and I don’t really have that.’”

 

If you simply must compare the two as actors, it might be most interesting to look at how they performed when visiting each other’s home turf. The most prominent examples for Kumar may be his two projects with Ray: the flawless performance as the complex hero based on his own life in Nayak  and his often overlooked turn as the Bengali detective, Byomkesh Bakshi, in Chiriyakhana (1967). I may get booted from the Ray fan club for saying so, but I like his easygoing, slightly silly Bakshi every bit as much as I enjoy Chatterjee as the drier, more tightly wound and more famous of the two detective characters Ray portrayed: Feluda. It is significant, I think, that neither of these roles is the anxious or weary yet thoughtfully persistent protagonist that Chatterjee perfected with Ray.

 

Chatterjee as a more urbane Kumarian romantic lead seems uncommon too. He’s suave in much of Aranyer Din Ratri (1970) but his detachment comes from restlessness, not from comfort. Barnali (1963) has a sweet, simple love story, but it takes the heroine far too long to realize she should be in love with the hero to imagine the Mahanayak in the role. Basanta Bilap (1973) focuses so long on the ‘boys vs. girls’ obstacle to romance that there’s no time for an Uttam-Suchitra-style ‘us vs. the world’ drama. Where Chatterjee shines in a truly Kumar-type role is Baksa Badal (1965), a screenplay by Ray (directed by Nityananda Datta) that puts him in a dual role as a smug psychiatrist who also pretends to be a softer, kinder orchid enthusiast, the two identities indicated by the presence and absence of a mustache. There is a swaggery confidence in this comedic performance that is the closest I’ve seen Chatterjee come to unleashing his matinee idol potential.

 

The two went on to star in other films together but they were all rather dismissible for one reason or the other. Chatterjee is the villain in Pratishodh (1980), plotting to murder Kumar. They are both shades of despicable in Stree (1972), with Kumar as a cross between the zamindar from Sahib Bibi aur Ghulam and Jabba the Hutt (in temperament and mannerisms) and Chatterjee as the sensitive lover of the zamindar’s cruelly mistreated wife. In other movies, Kumar is avuncular to Chatterjee’s younger characters. In Jadi Jantem (1974), Kumar is a lawyer who proves Chatterjee’s innocence in a murder trial and in Devdas (1979) Kumar plays Chunnilal, best friend to Chatterjee, ridiculously miscast in the title role. Which is what makes Jhinder Bondi  even more critical. None of these other films have the potential fire and brimstone that it offers up.

 

Now that we are back to where we began, you should know what happens to Chatterjee’s villain (Mayurbahan) in the end, even though the legendary sword fight is just a legend. When we left off, Gauri (Kumar) had stabbed him with a dagger and left him on the floor of the dungeon. A few minutes later though, we learn he is not quite dead and staggers after both Gauri and the real king with his sword drawn. But before he can attack, he is felled by a shot in the back from a royal advisor who has come rushing to the scene. If this first co-starring film encouraged the idea of Chatterjee and Kumar as competitors, it also left each with his dignity regarding the other intact. Chatterjee himself talks about his relationship with Kumar as one of a “healthy rivalry,” as well as brotherly and encouraging. Maybe it is time the rest of us learn to let go of our need to say “mine is better than yours” too, to respect both for what they achieved, and to appreciate their complementary, occasionally entangled legacies.

 

But where is the fun in that! In case you couldn’t tell: #TeamSoumitra.

 

The Costumer Cometh

For over eight decades, Maganlal Dresswalla has created costumes for the best known Hindi, South Indian and even Hollywood movies. Akshay Manwani brings to you the story of a legend. 

 

Maganlal Dresswalla is not difficult to find. In Mumbai’s posh suburb of Juhu, on the Vainkunthbhai Mehta Road that connects the city’s iconic Prithvi Theatre to the eminent Nanavati Hospital, it is situated in the middle of a bustling shopping complex. The number of vehicles the complex attracts has the effect of slowing down, dramatically, the pace of traffic on this thoroughfare.

 

And yet, the high profile of its neighbours, on either side, leads visitors to walk past Maganlal Dresswalla, without so much as casting a look in its direction. Situated right between Kala Niketan, a famous sari store, and two designer couture boutiques, Jesal Vora and Archana Kochhar, Maganlal Dresswalla does precious little to battle the ethnic charm of the former or the contemporary glamour of the latter. Where the bedecked mannequins within the glass facade of these three outlets entice many a passer-by into paying the shops a visit, the words ‘Maganlal Dresswalla’, inscribed on a solitary rusted metal hoarding that stands a few metres before the narrow entrance to its basement premises, appear more like a warning for construction being carried out at a site than the sign for an institution that has been an intrinsic part of the history of Indian show business.

 

But the moment you make your way down the flight of stairs, from this inconspicuous facade into the sprawling 3000 square feet plus premises of Maganlal Dresswalla, you are transported into another realm. The feeling is that of a Harry Potter-finds-himself-on-platform-nine-and-three-quarter experience, where visitors, much like JK Rowling’s protagonist, are left wide-eyed at what lies before them. A swan-shaped wedding palanquin greets you as you step off the staircase. Beyond it lies an unlikely landscape steeped in colour— a variety of costumes, turbans, masquerade masks. Piles of wooden and metallic bows, arrows, maces, spears, bayonet-laden-rifles are stacked up in one corner. The sound of tailors working away frenetically at their sewing machines can be heard from the other end. The space is brightly lit— a glow of yellow light accentuating the ornate interiors of the shop.

 

It is from here that Maganlal Dresswalla serves the requirements of Mumbai’s film and television industry. Its association with Hindi cinema dating way back to 1926. The family that has founded and runs this enterprise is not so much an overlooked chapter of the industry’s history, as a quintessential and ongoing participant in the evolution of cinema for so long that its presence has perhaps been taken for granted. From Indian films like India’s first talkie Alam-Ara (1931), to Mughal-e-Azam (1960), to Jewel Thief  (1967) to the more recent Jodhaa Akbar (2008), Hollywood movies like Steven Spielberg’s Close Encounters of the Third Kind and Life of Pi, TV shows like Shyam Benegal’s Bharat Ek Khoj and B. R. Chopra’s Mahabharat to innumerable regional language movies, Maganlal Dresswalla has provided costumes to hundreds of characters, protagonists as well as extras, for close to 90 years, working closely with filmmakers such as K. Asif, Shyam Benegal and Ashutosh Gowarikar.

 

***

 

Suresh Dresswalla, 67, is the man at the helm of Maganlal Dresswalla today. Even on this lazy Sunday afternoon he is carefully dressed in a silk maroon full sleeved shirt with a mandarin collar and black pin stripes, dark brown trousers and a pair of formal black shoes— all seeming to reinforce his Dresswalla credentials. We are seated on either side of a wooden desk, with a reflective glass panel on top, in the section of the premises reserved exclusively for film costumes. Garments of various hues are stacked in metal racks along the walls behind him and to his right. To my right, a female mannequin, dressed in Kimi Katkar’s sultry red flamenco outfit from the widely popular Jumma Chumma number in Hum (1991), catches my attention, as Suresh bhai, as he is called, begins speaking.

 

Kya hai ke, pehley jo hai na, before 1926, mere daddy aur unke bhaisaab, gaon mein pagdi baandhte thay shaadi byaah ho ya koi function ho (Earlier, before 1926, my father and uncle would tie turbans at weddings and other functions at their village),” Suresh bhai tells me in a hoarse voice, laced with a distinct Gujarati accent. Hailing from Dhari village in the Saurashtra region of Gujarat, the two brothers worked their way into Mumbai’s film industry, making a name for themselves in the turban business. “Us zamaaney mein gents hi ladies ka role kartey thay, as a heroine (At that time, men played female characters in films). Maganlal Dresswalla is established since then.”

 

There are other tidbits that emerge— like how the firm got its name. “My father’s name was Harilal. Maganlalji was his elder brother. The business was in the company’s name, which my father was handling,” Suresh bhai tells me. The story of how Dresswalla was incorporated into the firm’s identity, which Suresh bhai tells me, with a hint of pride in his voice, involves his father going to meet a film producer at his office. The producer made Harilal wait. “Daddy ko achcha nahin laga. Appointment lekar aaye thay. Toh unhoney turant bola, ‘Mujhe bulaaya gaya hai isi liye aaya hoon. Unko time nahin hai toh main jaata hoon (Daddy did not appreciate being made to wait. He had an appointment. He said, ‘I have been called here and that is why I have come. If he does not have time, I will leave.).’” When the message was relayed to the producer, he said the ‘tailor’ should wait patiently for another 10-15 minutes. To this, an angry Harilal’s parting repartee to the producer, which went on to define his enterprise, was: “I am not a tailor. I am Dresswalla. Mere paas sau-sau tailor kaam kartey hain (Hundreds of tailors work for me).” It is this pride in their work that has kept Maganlal Dresswalla going in the entertainment business for over three generations. The commitment to their craft, their work is something shared by their employees as well. Their expertise in mythologicals and period films, built over the past several decades, doesn’t stem from their ingenuity alone, but from hard work, too. “We study literature, photos, books with designers,” Suresh bhai tells me, explaining his commitment to respond to any kind of costume requirement.

 

***

 

‘Tailor’ is used as a generic term by Suresh bhai. It describes the array of people—tailors, cobblers, metal and fibre craftsmen— Maganlal Dresswalla employs and works with to execute costume requirements in films. Eventually, the scope of Maganlal’s services was broadened to include the entire gamut of livery, headgear or weapons that formed a part of a character’s appearance in a film. Suresh bhai extracts, from his fading memory, a cursory list of names of the films Maganlal Dresswalla has been associated with over the last nine-odd decades.

 

“All the costumes in Mughal-e-Azam were ours. Kranti (1981) as well. Babubhai Mistry’s Sampoorna Ramayan (1961) and Mahabharat (1965) had a lot of our costumes,” he says, taking long pauses while recalling these films. Then, suddenly, he remembers, “The dacoit costumes in Sunil Dutt’s Mujhe Jeene Do (1963) and Vinod Khanna’s Mera Gaon Mera Desh (1971) were done by us.” In the next instant, he names a film from an entirely unrelated genre: “The side artistes in Ajooba (1991), the crowds in the film, their costumes were done by us.” From the present day, he speaks of Jodhaa Akbar. “The turbans for most of the main artistes were done by us,” he says. “Ashutosh Gowarikar khud aaye thay selection ke liye (Ashustosh Gowarikar himself came to select the turbans).” Suresh bhai adds: “We have easily done more than 100 films. Itne kiye hain ki abhi mind mein hai bhi nahin (We have done so many, that it’s easy to forget them).”

 

However, when I ask which film so far has posed the greatest challenge for the Dresswallas, he talks of television. He cites Shyam Benegal’s Bharat Ek Khoj (1988). “What would happen is that every 10 days, the show’s period would change. That meant the character’s turbans, their dhotis, everything changed.” In order to deal with this constant state of flux, Suresh bhai stationed more than a dozen craftsmen in Mumbai’s Film City, where the serial was shot, who often worked through the night to meet production requirements. “It was a very tedious job,” he says. “But I did my best.” He adds, almost shyly, “Shyam babu ne mujhe gold medal bhi diya thaa uske liye (Shyam Benegal even gave me a token of appreciation for my efforts).”

 

Suresh bhai is a ready reckoner on material that has been used to dress up artistes over the years. While speaking of Mughal-e-Azam, he tells me that Prithviraj Kapoor’s armour for the war scenes weighed in excess of 50 kgs. “In those days, armours were made of iron. Today, they are made of aluminium.” Similarly, he explains, crowns worn by kings or divine characters today, have thermocol, instead of metal, as the base frame material, to make them lighter on the actors’ heads.

 

He talks of how K. Asif kept telling his father, Harilal, during the making of Mughal-e-Azam, with great conviction, that the same film that had landed him in a penurious state, would deliver him from it. (The film, started in 1944 and released in 1960 was made on a whopping budget of Rs. 1.5 crores has since become a cultural milepost in our cinema for its grandeur, scale and beauty.) Or how Dilip Kumar insisted, unreasonably at times, on having Suresh bhai, who was then a young man, present on set to tie his turban throughout the shooting schedule of Manoj Kumar’s period drama, Kranti (1981). But the one memory that stands out for him revolves around the 1975 mythological blockbuster Jai Santoshi Maa. The episode, besides highlighting the fickle nature of luck in the movies, is also a telling comment on the urge to repeat a successful ‘formula’ to death in the industry.

 

Usme maje ki baat kyaa thi (What was interesting about it was),” says Suresh bhai, sitting up in his chair in excitement, “Ashish Kumar, Jai Santoshi Maa ’s hero, made Solah Shukrawar (1977),” a rehashed version of Jai Santoshi Maa, which he hoped would cash in on the former film’s success. Kumar even called his production house Santoshi Maa Pictures. And Maganlal Dresswalla, who had done costumes for the previous movie, were called upon for this one as well. But the film tanked. “Yeh taqdeer ki baat hai, ki yeh (Jai Santoshi Maa )superhit gaya aur usi ka hero, jo khud film banaaya, us type ka, woh flop ho gaya (This is destiny, that while Jai Santoshi Maa was a hit, a similar film, made by its hero, tanked).”  

 

***

 

Tea arrives. The conversation changes track. Suresh bhai says he lost his father, Harilal, almost 13 years ago. Maganlal, his father’s elder brother, had passed away much before that, “Some time in the 1940s or 1950s, I don’t know.” Until seven years before Harilal’s passing, the family had continued to operate from the first Maganlal Dresswalla premises in Bhuleshwar, a crowded neighbourhood close to Kalbadevi in South Mumbai, also famous for being the early residence of the Dhirubhai Ambani family. Suresh bhai and his father Harilal moved from there to Juhu only in 1993, when the Indian television industry was beginning to grow.

 

“I was doing Tipu Sultan (The Sword of Tipu Sultan, a historical drama on TV) at that time,” remembers Suresh bhai. Coming to South Bombay, with its constant traffic snarls, was a problem for producers, many of whom lived in the suburbs. “Sanjay Khan (director of The Sword of Tipu Sultan) would pester me regularly, saying you have to take up premises in Juhu. He would tell me, ‘Even if you take up a place on the fifth floor, aur lift nahin hoga, toh bhi hum chad ke aayengey (and there is no lift, I will still climb the stairs and come).’”

 

Before joining the business with his father, Suresh bhai went to Kishinchand Chellaram College in Mumbai’s Churchgate, from where he studied up to “Inter-Arts only (two years of college)”. He says he had a passion for acting in those days and performed in several college shows, but could not take up acting professionally because his father would not allow it. “Daddy ne thappad maar ke bitha diya shop pe (Daddy summarily dismissed the idea and made me sit at the shop),” he tells me, breaking into a wistful chuckle. His warmest memory from those days is of acting in a play whose title may be seen with some irony in hindsight: ‘Yadi drama na ho sakey, toh yaaron mujhe maaf karna (If the drama doesn’t take place, then friends please forgive me)’. He grins as he says the title out loud. “Jatin, means Rajesh Khanna (Hindi cinema’s first big superstar), was there; Amjad (Khan, a star villain) was there; Jeetu (Jeetendra, also a film star) was there (they were all acting in the play). We stood first in the inter-college competition.”

 

The other acting memory Suresh bhai recalls is when he dressed up as the Hindu god Krishna from B. R. Chopra’s television series Mahabharat, having provided costumes for the same. “Kabhi kabhi aisa lagta hai na, itne heroes ke costumes kiye, film mein, serial mein, mujhko khud yeh banna hai. Toh mujhe Mahabharat ka Krishna banna thaa (Sometimes you feel, you have done costumes for so many heroes, in film, in TV serials… you would like to be one of them. I wanted to be Krishna from Mahabharat ).” The opportunity to fulfill this whim came his way when an independent director, whose name Suresh bhai cannot recall, approached him for a short film. “I was in Bhuleshwar then… She made me wear Krishna’s costume and took me to Marine Drive where she asked the beggars to gather around me,” he says, laughing heartily at the idea. “She wanted to show the contrast— between the time of the Mahabharat, with its wealthy kings and prosperous setting, to the poverty in Mumbai today.”

 

While speaking of Marine Drive, Suresh bhai decides to clear the confusion created by two other Maganlal Dresswalla outlets in this part of South Mumbai. These, he explains, are run by his brothers, but have nothing to do with films (“They are not in Bollywood”). Kirti bhai, his elder brother, functions out of Marine Drive. “He is dealing mostly in school and college functions, fancy dress costumes for kids.” Girish bhai, the youngest of Harilal’s three sons, operates out of Bhuleshwar, but not from the original Maganlal Dresswalla premises. “He is doing exports to Middle East.” When I ask Suresh bhai what led to the division in the business, he says, “Daddy only said to do so.” He insists that all three siblings have been and continue to be on good terms with each other, but “now everything is separate.” The one time that I managed to connect with Girish bhai over the phone, he too ruled out any conflict between the brothers: “Whatever we are doing, we are satisfied. Whatever he is doing, he is satisfied.”

 

***

 

At the 2012 Mumbai Film Festival organized by the Mumbai Academy of Moving Image (MAMI), young, upcoming actor and filmmaker, Shriya Pilgaonkar’s Dresswala, a four-minute short film, was shown in the ‘Dimensions Mumbai’ section of the festival. Shriya had known of Maganlal Dresswalla for a long time as a place for costumes, but once she got to know of the films they had been associated with, she says, it became “like a heritage site” for her. “That is when I realized that I have to know more about this (place).”

 

While Shriya believes that the audience at MAMI left with a new perspective of Maganlal Dresswalla, she feels bad that not enough goes into preserving Maganlal’s legacy. “In the 2005 floods, a lot of their stuff was washed away,” she says. “In India, a thing like preservation is not taken very seriously. I wish there would be archives of these costumes for people to see.” Pilgaonkar’s statement is an echo of Suresh bhai ’s own regret, at the devastation brought about by the 2005 Mumbai floods, which obliterated records of their work not just in Hindi cinema, but in English films like Steven Spielberg’s Close Encounters of the Third Kind (1977) and in several Gujarati and South Indian language movies, including N. T. Rama Rao’s costume for Ashoka The Great (Samrat Ashok – 1992). “Sab ke album thay, photograph thay original, woh sab paani mein chale gaye. Khatam (We had albums of all our films, original photographs in them, but they were all destroyed in the floods. Finished.).”

 

Presently Suresh bhai is more focused on the television industry, which for him takes precedence over films. He says this is due to a decline in the quantum of period and mythological films being made today. “Aajkal Western type kay… ya Las Vegas type kay… toh woh costumes zyaada chaltay hain. Woh type ke costumes main nahin karta (Nowadays, Western costumes, Las Vegas style costumes, are in greater demand. I don’t do those kinds of costumes),” he says about costumes in today’s movies. His discomfort is especially reflected in the way the words ‘Las Vegas type’ stumble off his tongue, with great reluctance, as if by merely mentioning the phrase he is compromising on a value system. “But I do a lot of TV serials. Sagar Arts ne jitney Devi Ma ke upar serials banaaye, usme mostly maine saarey main lady artists ke costumes diye hain (Whatever mythological serials have been produced by Sagar Arts around Devi Maa—the Hindu goddess—I have given the costumes for most of the main female protagonists),” he adds, immediately.

 

Forty-five minutes into our conversation, we are joined by the younger of Suresh bhai ’s two daughters, Sarika Dresswalla, 36, who is visiting the premises on this Sunday evening with her husband, a banker. Like her elder sister Rupal Dresswalla, Sarika has been involved in the business for more than a decade now. “As a child, this was like a dreamland for me,” she says. Her face lights up at the memory. “Every time papa would call me to the shop, even if it was in the middle of the night, I would be ready because there was so much going on. So many colours, so many costumes. It was like a passion for me, it was in the blood.”

 

As Suresh bhai gets up to attend to matters of business, Sarika gives me a tour of the premises. She begins with the film section, right behind the mannequin styled like Kimi Katkar from Hum. A wide array of outfits are on display here, iconic costumes that have been worn by heroes and heroines over the years. Amitabh Bachchan’s Shahenshah jacket, with netted-metallic material on the right arm and a rope that the character usually carries in his left hand, stands out. Another female mannequin is dressed as Madhubala’s Anarkali from Mughal-e-Azam. Then there is Aamir Khan’s Elvis Presley outfit from the song ‘Tere pyaar ne kar diya deewaana ’ in the 2011 film, Delhi Belly. But these are duplicates, made by tailors at Maganlal Dresswalla to cater to the rising demand for Bollywood themed parties. They allow people to relive their favourite film characters vicariously. “Everyone has a dream. Everyone wants to become something,” says Sarika. “And when they come here, we bring their dream to life.” The costumes also represent new avenues of business being developed by the Rupal and Sarika, the third generation of Dresswallas.

 

“I want to expand into foreign films. That’s my dream,” says Sarika, when asked about her vision for Maganlal Dresswalla. “There’s such beautiful work that we do here and I think we can offer so much more to them (foreign films). I’ve already done foreign films— supplied costumes for Mission: Impossible Ghost Protocol (2011, for a section that was set in India) supplied for Life Of Pi (2012)— about 400 to 500 school uniforms.”

 

Rupal, who I spoke to a few days later, spoke of plans for expansion as well. She pointed out how Maganlal Dresswalla today helps create mascots for brands such as Bournvita and Colgate, an initiative driven entirely by Sarika and her. Rupal is older than Sarika by four years. She did a course in fashion design from the J. D. Institute Of Fashion Technology before joining the family business. She says that since her husband, Gujarati superstar Hitu Kanodia, is part of the entertainment industry, “it helps”. “We are 21st century women. Once you are married, you need to know how to balance your life,” she added, in a measured way.

 

***

 

As we near the end of the quick look around the Maganlal Dresswalla premises, Sarika mentions the store is about to undergo a complete overhaul. “What I am trying to do is… ” she begins to outline her plans— essentially a more compact, functional and organized premises, suited to the next generation of Dresswallas. Her zest sits well with Suresh bhai ’s own plans as he nears 70 and looks to his children to take the legacy forward. “My ambition is that both my kids – Rupal and Sarika, woh dono bahut aagey badhey film industry mein, badi badi filmein karey (go a long way in the film industry and do good work),” he had said earlier. From an idea that began at a time when even female characters in the movies were portrayed by men, to an institution that now sits on the shoulders of two confident young businesswomen, the Dresswallas have had an eventful journey.

 

Nothing is quite the same since when they started. In the last two decades Hindi films have become glossier and slicker. Every star today has his or her own stylist, as does every film. The fashion industry is of global standards in India now and almost all the top designers are involved with the movies. The large number of fashion magazines in the market has cemented the bond between cinema and fashion. It is common practice to have makeup and prosthetics technicians flown down from Hollywood now and costumes in superhero films like Ra.One are generated by SFX. The space for traditional costumers like the Dresswallas is shrinking. But their significance is not. To have loved Hindi movies and their inimitable characters is to have loved Maganlal Dresswalla.

 

Sooni Taraporevala – TBIP Tête-à-Tête

Sooni Taraporevala, 56, grew up in a large Parsi family in South Bombay, leading a fairly regular life until the day she found out she had been accepted to study in Harvard University as an undergraduate. She had applied for a lark and still cannot believe she got in. Harvard opened up a whole new world for her, sowing the seeds for the extraordinary work she was to do as a photographer and screenwriter later in life. It was also here that she met her collaborator in cinema, Mira Nair. After her post-graduation she moved back to Bombay without a plan, “for emotional reasons”. Back in her hometown, she began photographing her community, building an unparalleled body of photographic work compiled in several exhibitions and a book called Parsis : The Zoroastrians of India – A Photographic Journey. Furthermore, she brought to life a city slum in Salaam Bombay!, Mira Nair’s directorial debut. Since then she has written several films including her own debut feature as a director, Little Zizou. She wants to continue writing films, directing them and taking pictures. Also on the bucket list is a novel. Here is hoping the newly acquired and richly deserved Padma Shri will keep her motivated.

 

An edited transcript:

 

Okay, so we are going to start from, obviously the beginning.  You grew up in Bombay?

I did.

 

What were those times like? When you think back to your childhood, what is it that stands out the most in your memory?

I grew up in a large extended family. Went to an all girl’s school, Queen Mary School next to Kennedy Bridge, and I guess what stands out is that I had a really happy childhood because I had a very large extended family. I am an only child myself but the extended family was pretty large and we did everything together, like large groups going for holidays and everything, so I think that stands out for me.

 

Did a lot of people live together as well?

Yes. I grew up with my parents, my grandparents, my father’s two brothers. Unmarried brothers.

 

Okay, okay. So that’s a fairly large group. And you went to college here as well?

I went to Xavier’s (St. Xavier’s College) for a few months and then I got very ill and could not attend college and then applied to a lot of American universities, got admitted and so never went back to Xavier’s.

 

How did Harvard happen?

Just by chance (laughs ). Fluke. Luck.

 

Yeah it was undergraduate studies. It was not very common for…

It was not at all common and in those days, you know, no undergraduates went, actually. And everyone severely discouraged me, not my family, but everyone else. The USCIS (United States Citizenship and Immigration Services), people who knew, they said, “Don’t be silly, you will never get in.” I just wanted to try and I just tried. I wrote to forty universities; that got narrowed down, down, down and then Harvard was the only one where I got admission as well as a scholarship.

 

Wow! Not a bad choice.

It was an amazing thing. I still can’t believe it actually, so many years later. I don’t know. It was one of those amazing things.

 

This was the seventies, right?

This was… yeah… I went in 1975.

 

What was Harvard like in 1975?

It was kind of… You know, it still had shades of the sixties when I was there, but kind of fading. I was there through the mid-seventies in America and the eighties. The eighties were very much an era of (Margaret) Thatcher and (Ronald) Reagan and all that, so in comparison the seventies were much more like the sixties.

 

At least the shadow of the sixties. What did you major in?

Literature but did a lot of film and photography courses as well.

 

Which is also very interesting to me because this is photography, this is not when digitization had come in such a big way. And you were at the centre of lot of intellectual discourse being in Harvard. What were the kind of conversations that were happening around photography, anything that you can remember? I am sure there was a lot going on because that was also the time when someone like Susan Sontag was writing On Photography. On Photography was published, actually, I think in 1975 or 76.

You know I never really took part in any intellectual conversations about photography.

 

Anything that you remember of how people were thinking of photography then or what was trendy?

What was prevalent in those days, I think, was street photography, documentary photography and it’s something that I also was very interested in and went into as opposed to commercial advertising or things that were set up. Which is also, I think, kind of leftover over of the sixties, because that was what was really prevalent in the sixties as well, that kind of photography. But my photographic education was very different in the sense that I took mostly independent courses so that I could use the facilities and the dark rooms to do my own work and projects. So I was always very…. I did a lot of independent studies which was basically fashioning my own projects and my own courses and I didn’t really learn photography, like, I never really learnt screenwriting. So I approached both of them kind of indirectly. And I was taught photography by a fellow student who was a stringer for The Boston Globe at the time, who was also a student at that time. And he taught me the basics— how to use the camera, how to print etc.

 

So you took more technical….

I took help for technical stuff and then developed my own kind of style and my own eye. I didn’t really do courses that taught me how to see or what to see.

 

 What did Harvard leave you with? What was your takeaway from Harvard?

My takeaway was huge. It opened my eyes; it gave me an entire world. It’s impossible, actually, to describe it because I went from Xavier’s to doing one text in an entire year to doing courses like Shakespeare’s tragedies. All his tragedies in one semester, all his romances in the other semester. Three thousand courses to choose from. Every semester you had a week where you could shop for courses— that’s what it was called, it’s still called that. Sort of a mall, you went into lecture halls to see which courses you wanted to take. It was huge— the breadth of knowledge, what you could study, how intensely you could study it. It was really amazing.

 

What about after Harvard? You stayed on in the US for a bit after Harvard.

Yes. I then went to graduate school at NYU (New York University). I was, actually, at Columbia’s film school but I transferred out to NYU because NYU had a dark room and I did cinema studies at NYU and, again, did a lot of independent courses in the photo department.

 

Okay. I have read that your decision to come back to India was more an emotional one, but didn’t you want to stay on for a little longer in terms of your work? How did you reach that decision? I read somewhere you quoted, actually, a very beautiful (T.S.) Eliot verse in some interview about coming back, about making a journey and then coming back and discovering a place anew. What were your concerns? Were they purely emotional or were they also professional? I mean, at that time was it easy for someone like you to do what you wanted to do there in the US as well?

See the thing is Mira’s (Nair) father’s nickname for me was ‘rudderless ship’. I had no clear career goals or plans. Itwas purely an emotional decision. I didn’t even know what I was going to do because I graduated in cinema studies. I knew I didn’t want to teach and I didn’t want to be a film critic. Everything I did I did because I wanted to do it. I liked studying films but it had no practical kind of consequence in terms of… and I might add that I only did all that because I was on a scholarship. Had my parents been paying high fees I would have probably been more practical. But I was lucky that I didn’t have to be practical and that I could, actually, follow my heart and do what I wanted, which is what I did. But at the end of those two years I said, “Now what am I going to do?” And so photography was almost… being a professional photographer was almost like a default kind of thing to do.  I love photography, it’s not that I didn’t, but to make it my career was because I didn’t want to teach and I didn’t want to be a critic. And I didn’t think I had the personality to be a filmmaker because at that time I thought, and rightly so, that filmmakers really have to go out there be extroverted, sell themselves, sell their projects, be kind of mini army generals putting together crew, putting together money. I just didn’t feel that I had that kind of personality and photography was just myself with one camera and a few lenses.

 

Tell me, you didn’t study screen writing, right?

No I didn’t study screen writing.

 

You mentioned that it was something you taught yourself, like photography in a lot of ways. How did you go about that? Did you read a lot of books on screen writing or…

No, no. Actually I didn’t even know that such a thing like the three act structure exists when I wrote Salaam Bombay!. My education as I said was very indirect but I am glad that it happened that way. For instance, literature taught me a lot of things about character, about point of view, about narrative. Studying films taught me a lot about how you construct a film, how you make a film and photography taught me about the visual world. So I approached screen writing through all those three strands when I wrote Salaam Bombay!.

 

Did you ever, at some point, go and read the different theories?

I did, and I am so glad that I didn’t start out that way because had I done it I would have not continued; because a lot of them are very confusing and very scary, in a way. Everything is so like, you have to reach your turning point at this page and that and that and that. It was all very complicated so I would not have made it as a screenwriter.

 

Have you ever referred to any of those theories?

Sometimes when I am stuck, I do but I have never actually gained much from it. Sometimes I wish that I had learnt it that way because sometimes it would be easier rather than trying to forge your own quirky path but it is what it is.

 

Mississippi Masala and Salaam Bombay!, I want you to talk a little bit about both the processes and how they might have been slightly different. I know that research was involved for both. And the director was the same. So tell me about how the processes were different for you.

Sorry, I will have to think about this because it has been so long… but I suppose when I wrote Mississippi Masala I was one film old but otherwise it was, I think, pretty much the same in the sense that Mira and I were working at it together.  What was really different is that we had this huge star, Denzel (Washington). Sorry, actually there were lots of differences. What was also very different was that I was writing about the African American community and that I felt very responsible about getting it right and very scared about not getting it right. Though having said that, Salaam Bombay!  had the same kind of responsibility of not being part of that world but representing that world and wanting to get it right.

 

Actually that was my next question. Salaam Bombay!  is based in Bombay but it’s the Bombay right outside where you lived, where you grew up and this is completely different. Is it important for you as a writer to find certain connects to the story you are writing? Even if only in your head?

As a writer you always I think unconsciously or consciously, most often unconsciously, bring your personality and everything into it, into the character.

 

Of course. So where did you find your points of connects for both these?

With the characters. It would sound strange to say because I am so different from Jay. I am so different from Mina in Mississippi Masala but made her an only child like I am. When you are writing you bring things in from your own life. I think everyone kind of does that.

 

 Did you work with Mira at the scripting stage, a lot, as well?

You know, we were friends before we started working together.

 

You guys met at Harvard, right?

Yeah we were both college students there. We were both undergrads there. We both got there, in this near miraculous way and we both couldn’t figure out how we had got there. So there were lots of points of contact, lots of similarities. We shared a lot of things. My process with her is very different than if it was a purely professional kind of thing with a director. We can’t rule out the friendship part of our lives together.

 

Which is probably the best part. Tell me what the success of Salaam Bombay! meant for you guys. It might have seemed like… you guys did make a great film but it was your first time and it was 25 years ago. How did the Oscar nomination happen?

I don’t know how it happened but it happened. At that time, because I was not a screenwriter and it was my first script, I didn’t really realize the import of what had happened. It didn’t really strike me as how amazing it was. It was fun and it was great but it was not like earth shattering like it would be now; because now I have been in the industry for 25 years, so if an Oscar nomination happened it would be a completely different deal than what it was in those days. In those days also nobody in India knew or cared about the Oscars. So Mira and I were there in L.A. and as Mira jokes, “The Indian government didn’t even send a telegram saying congratulations.” We were completely out there. Nobody knew. They used to broadcast the Oscars on Doordarshan early in the morning. Nobody knew, nobody watched. It is very different now, from when we were there.

 

How did you process that? How did you guys process that success?

Well, it gave me a career for one thing. Salaam Bombay!  gave me a career. I was always really surprised. I knew it would do well, but not as well as it did.

 

Salaam Bombay!  also gave you a lot of other things. Lifelong friendships, a lot of people in a production house you guys went on to form, the trust that came out of that. Tell me a little bit about those journeys.

The trust Salaam Baalak Trust is still running very successfully in Bombay and Delhi. Sorry, what else?

 

The friendships and the production house. Lot of people from the Jigri Dost production house are also from Salaam Bombay!.

Mulchand Dedhia who is the most famous gaffer in India now started out with Salaam Bombay!. A lot of people started out and stayed friends. The late Hassan Kutty became India’s most well known continuity person and assistant director; he started out with Salaam Bombay!.  Lots of friendships— Dinaz Stafford, Anil Tejani. And when Dinaz and I started Jigri Dost Productions to make Little Zizou, my debut film a lot of the same people came on board and that was lovely.

 

Where did the name come from?

Jigri Dost Productions is actually a name that Mira was thinking of calling her production company; which then became Mirabai Films. I had always remembered it and so when it came time I said this is the name I want.

 

It’s a lovely name, I am glad you used it. You have worked on two adaptations.

Actually more.

 

Yeah, but I wanted to compare these two: The Namesake  and Such a Long Journey. Both very popular books, read by lots and lots of people. I just want to understand how both these processes were different. The novels are different essentially.  How are the processes different? How were the challenges different? Did you work with the writer in either?

I didn’t work with the writer in either. Both of them stayed away from the script process and actually went and came down for the filming, for part of it. Jhumpa (Lahiri) was there in the America part of it not the Calcutta part. Both of them were very hands off with the script and I didn’t really work with them at all. Such a Long Journey  was my first adaptation and so I was very, very nervous about it, I had never done it before. It’s a very different book from The Namesake. It is full of incident, detail, plot, character. It is extremely dense and long and rich and amazing.

 

The Namesake  is almost the polar opposite of that because it’s a very sparse sort of novel. Almost something that would be thought un-filmable.

Absolutely.The Namesake  is much more interior. Though The Namesake  also spans generations and continents.

 

And journeys.

So they both have a sweep but I remember Such a Long Journey  being much, much harder to kind of condense into a 100 pages. The Namesake  was hard for other reasons. Finding out whose story it was, how to convert something that’s so interior into something that’s exterior, that’s cinematic. So those were the challenges of The Namesake.

 

Can you remember couple of things you changed for both?

I don’t think I changed much in Such a Long Journey. The Namesake, a couple of scenes were added that were not in the book. One is, after his father dies, Gogol’s father dies, in the film he goes to this barber in a black neighbourhood and gets his head shaved. It’s a lovely scene because Mira put this great rap music over it and then he comes back and at the airport his mother and sister are surprised to see him with his shaved head and his mother says, “You didn’t have to” and he says, “I wanted to.” That scene was new and for me it was a way of showing that he had come round to the Indian side of his life, that he felt a certain regret and a certain kind of… almost feeling guilty about his father’s death because he had not been great to his parents. He had kind of favoured his girlfriend’s parents over his own so that scene was new. I can’t think of what else.

 

There was a place. You guys changed the place.

Mira wanted to make it New York instead of Boston. Yeah, that was changed. And of course, also she (the character of Ashima Ganguli) is a singer in the film where she is not in the book.

 

Why was that?

Again Mira wanted it so that we could do things with music and just give her more of a personality rather than just being a housewife.

 

You studied literature. You are familiar with so many books. Can you, at the top of your head, think of some book that you feel like, ‘That would be a really difficult novel to adapt’?

You know, some novels are really about style, about the way they are written. For example, The God of Small Things. You could make a film of it but you would just be making the plot, you would not be translating the language and so it would not really be a true… it would not really be in the spirit of the book. I think novels where the writing is as important as the story, the way it is written, those are harder to translate.

 

Can you think of a couple of adaptations that have worked for you, which you haven’t written? Can you think of any that you liked and any one that you feel like was couldn’t live up to the book?

I have seen a lot of adaptations which I think are good films but I haven’t necessarily read the books that they were adapted from. I loved The Last Emperor and I remember actually studying it because I was actually doing Such a Long Journey  at that time and I actually watched that film and tried to study it to see  how they went from past to present etc. I remember really liking that adaptation. Of course Pather Panchali  is one of the most well known and most well beloved adaptations but again I haven’t read the original.

 

I want to come to Little Zizou, which given that  you felt for the longest time that you did not have the personality of a filmmaker, you started to make a film quite late in your career. What was the first idea, what was the first seed of idea? How did you start with the…

You know I came back from shooting. Not shooting, I came back from visiting the set of The Namesake  and I had some time on my hands and at that time there was a lot going on with fundamentalism around the world and it was (George  W.) Bush’s America— there was Osama (bin Laden) on one side and Bush on the other side. And in my own little Parsi community, there was someone very junior to both of them, trying to aspire to that level. It was out of a sense of frustration at the state of the world that I started on this. I also had never embarked on a Parsi kind of film before because I thought that, you know, the reality could never really match up to whatever I would put on film. But when I started I said, “Hey, you know, actually…” and then I made a list of everyone who could act in this film and there were lots of people at that time and I actually wrote parts for specific actors, including my two kids. I wanted to address this business about patriarchy, about religious fundamentalism. But I wanted to do it with humour and I wanted to make a local tale have universal resonance. So those were the ideas that went into Little Zizou.

 

You’d already documented your community in a book, which we will come to later. Was this, part of the impulse for this, also a sort of documenting your community or just the ways of your community, not documenting your community itself?

No, no. I don’t think that I think I could have made the story in any other community. The reason I did it in my own was two reasons. One is that I think that basically first you have to look at yourself before you can point fingers at others and secondly, for my first film I wanted something I knew really well in terms of a world. I didn’t have the confidence to make a first film like Mira made Salaam Bombay!  about a world that was actually out of our comfort zone. I didn’t want to do that because I didn’t think that I could. So I stuck to what I knew best, which was this community that I grew up in.

 

Tell me about where some of the characters came from?

I don’t know actually.

 

How many of them were amalgamations of people you knew and how many were direct translations of people you knew?

Well, the two antagonists, the newspaper editor and the religious nut were based on real people. My kids, I used a lot of their sibling rivalry and many things that I heard them say and do I put it into the script. Tknow Francorsi, one of the friends, I met him at a party and I loved the way he looked and when I found out he was half Parsi, half Italian that went into the script. The flight sim came out of a real situation, and I am not allowed to say the name but a dear friend had actually made a flight simulator like that. I think what was enjoyed most by the community was watching who was going to come next on screen.

 

That was practically enjoyed by even Bombayites who are not part of the community.

My husband used to say, because whoever I’d meet I would say, “I am making a film, you ought to be in my film.” My husband Firdaus would say, “Are you crazy? What kind of film are you making? Anyone, come on, come on. Be in my film.’” Anyone and everyone was in it. It was made with a great deal of love by the crew and the cast and it really was a very pleasant and great experience making the film.

 

What I also found interesting was, Such a Long Journey. I know you didn’t make your films to portray the community in any way or to document the community but how would you say the portrayals of the community were different in Such a Long Journey  and Little Zizou?

For one thing, I think, Such a Long Journey ‘s characters are more middle class. The building and everything is different from Little Zizou. I mean, no one is practicing black magic in Little Zizou . They are listening to ‘Hey Mambo’. Such a Long Journey , the main characters are about a family that has seen better times but are now facing hard times. Little Zizou  is not about hard times, in that sense. It’s more about a psychological hard time that the characters go through. So I think that’s the main difference that I would say.

 

I want to start talking about the book now. The first question I want to ask you is that, I believe that the exhibition that you are having, an exhibition of your photographs on the community, I believe that your edit for that is slightly different from the book.

Yes it is.

 

Two things I heard you mention. One is that—but I want you to explain more because I didn’t understand what you meant— that this edit is a little more courageous, if you will. Basically what you said was that you were not afraid of courting controversy with this edit and the other was that you also said that this was more about contextualizing the community in the larger social space, which perhaps the book was not. I wanted you to talk a little about both.

You know, when I did the book there was no visual documentation about the Parsis at all and when I did the book, also the first edition, the kind of issues that are confronting us today were not really at the forefront. So my book was a kind of non controversial document of the community. Also when I did the book I felt responsible to portray not every aspect, but as wide a breadth as I could. My mentor Raghubir Singh who started me on this journey was very eager that I document as much as I could, that I don’t stay in one area, just make it as broad as possible. When I did the exhibition, I was not concerned about representing the community; I just wanted it to be a visual journey. That’s it. So I chose photographs that I liked visually and that I thought would look great on a wall and that I wanted to see blown up. So the show is really a photographer’s show. It’s not really a Parsi photographer’s show. It’s a photographer who photographs Parsis putting up a show. The book is really about the community. It’s not about me, it’s about the community.

 

Tell me how you started, a little bit on how did the journey begin to…

For the book?

 

Yeah. For the book.

It began a long time ago when I just came back from NYU. Before that I had come back, I had taken a leave of absence, I’d bought a camera and I was photographing. Among the pictures I took, I took pictures of my family— aunts, uncles, grandparents. I met Raghubir Singh in 1982 and he is the one who saw my pictures and said, “Concentrate on this because you have a feeling, you have unique access etc.” That’s the time when I started out actively working towards the book. Then Salaam Bombay!  happened. I was a screenwriter. Photography kind of took a back seat. I got married and Firdaus, my husband, said—and his name is Firdaus Bativala, he hates it when people call him Firdaus Taraporevala. My husband said, “What are you doing with all this? Do something with it. It’s all going to just catch fungus and disintegrate if you don’t.” So then I started again putting it together and the first edition was published in 2000. Unfortunately, Raghubir Singh passed away a year before and so never saw the book, which I really regret. I hope he can see it from where ever he is because he was a huge, huge help to me.

 

Of course the access, the feeling is there and all of that but it can be very tricky for an artist to document their own community. It’s so common for photographers now to work with communities, they look for communities to work with. They go out find a community and document them. I am sure you have seen a lot of that work. For example, even someone like Ketaki Sheth, she has done work with the Siddi community. I could think of so many. Karan Kapoor has done work with the Anglo Indian community. How is it tricky in ways for you to be documenting your own community? How did you see your own journey vis-à-vis theirs?

I am just trying to think. I think the tricky part is not the photographing; it’s what you choose to show afterwards. That’s the tricky part.  Because I have such an affectionate feeling for my own community, at heart, I really don’t want to offend anyone or hurt anyone. Other than that, I can’t think of any kind of land mines that I negotiated.

 

What about the access? You spoke about it, how much access did you get from your own community?

I got fantastic access. Everyone was very warm and welcoming and open.

 

And you also shot in the Agiarys.

You are allowed to actually, except you are not allowed to shoot the central fire which I didn’t ever do. At that time, I was also allowed to shoot at the Towers of Silence. Now it’s a complete no-no. I would never be allowed.

 

Why is that?

Now people have become very paranoid about Towers of Silence. It has become a very contentious issue and so now I would never be allowed. There are certain things that have divided the community very bitterly. One is the issue of who is or is not a Parsi, and the other is how we dispose of our departed. These are very emotive issues that people feel very strongly about one way or another.

 

What about the response from the community? Has it been uniformly…

Even when the book was out, because we are such a… (laughs ) you know we love to fight, we love to argue. So I was expecting anything after the book came out. But I was very pleasantly surprised that it was received so warmly and so well. Same with the exhibition.

 

Tell me something. What are some of your continuing concerns about the community and would you want to continue to document the community? If yes, in what ways would the journey be different? What else would you like to explore?

You know, I will always continue photographing. Whether it will become anything or not, for my own, for myself I will continue photographing because now I do have a document that spans 35 years so there would be no point to my stopping it. If I continue, it would become even richer. So I will always continue. I don’t know if I will do a book or show or anything else. I might just do it for myself. So that will continue. I don’t think I will make any more movies on Parsis, now I am going to move on.

 

Tell me something, what has being a writer brought to your photography? Do you feel like it helps you to build a narrative or tell your story, in any way?

No because I don’t do photo stories that well. All my photographs are like single shots but within those single shots, when I first started photographing I did them only for myself. I did these five pictures from India. I had printed them small and I wrote a story around each one of them. It wasn’t a photo story or photo essay. It was a single picture but within that single picture I created a story of the people in that picture. So in that way I can spin stories, imaginative stories of people in photographs. In that way maybe it helped but I don’t know how else.

 

You actually spoke a little bit about it earlier; how has photography helped in writing? The other way round.

A lot, in terms of screenwriting because it helps me to think visually which I think is essential if you are a screenwriter.

 

What about film making?

Same. I am not saying cinematography for film and still photography are same. Not at all. I could never operate a film camera but I do know my lenses and I do know what I want it to look like and I do know light and things like that.

 

How do you edit your work? Your photography work, how do you edit it? Do you take help from other people or do you take opinions from other people for your edits?

I pretty much do it on my own. Though of course Ketaki is a very old friend and a very dear friend, so I show her. I show my husband. But basically on my own. It’s just a question of getting it down, down, down. You start large and then you edit, and it’s smaller and then you edit and it’s smaller. That’s the way I do it. That’s the way I did the show.

 

Raghubir had a very studied approach to photography whereas someone like Raghu Rai always spoke about it being in the instinct of the moment and being very… where do you stand on this? What is your approach to photography?

I think more instinctual because Raghubir, you are right, it wasn’t a studied approach but Raghubir was very into that you need to know the history of photography, you need to know the traditions, you need to know (André) Kertész, you need to know (Eugène) Atget, you need to know this that and the other. Which I actually kind of glanced through but I don’t know it as well as I should. I instinctively like certain works and I instinctively don’t like certain work. That’s how I approach photography. The work that I instinctively liked very much and still do is the work of (Henri) Cartier-Bresson because for me the way he used the medium, for me, it’s the way… What is so unique about photography for me is that it can really capture a moment in a way that films can’t do and books, words can’t do. So for me that is the joy of photography, is capturing a moment and capturing it and rearranging the world to make it make sense stylistically. All of it comes together to form content, that is what I find exciting about photography.

 

Other than Bresson who are some of the photographers who have either influenced or..

Robert Frank’s The Americans. (Robert) Doisneau, who again did a lot of street work in Paris. Atget, Kertész, Brassaï. A lot of French photographers.

 

Have you ever, consciously, paid a tribute to any picture that you really loved or any photographer that you really loved with any of your work? Okay, I will give you an example. A friend of mine who is a photographer, went to shoot a film in Benaras and the first shot that he took was of a boy leaping from…

Like Raghubir?

 

Yes. So I was wondering if you’ve done tribute somewhere or emulated something.

I am too uneducated to do these tributes (laughs ).

 

Pictures are for the uneducated really.

Yeah. I would be thrilled if I could actually do a tribute to someone like Bresson, to Raghubir, but the situation hasn’t arisen.

 

I wanted you to name a couple of films that have either professionally or, simply, personally really moved you.

All the films of (Federico) Fellini. I saw his films when I was an undergraduate at Harvard and they really spoke to me, they really moved me, they really touched me. The characters I felt I knew, they were like Parsis to me. So, I would say Fellini.

 

I can see that. Little Zizou  was about your concerns, of course you wanted to speak about the themes of the film, the community which was a second layer. I also felt like—I don’t know if you tried to do that—it was also a sort of portrait of a much lesser seen Bombay, at least to a viewer. I don’t know if that was the intention.

Yes, absolutely it was an intention that these were locations that were usually not seen on film.

 

Also the locations, which perhaps is great because they’ve been documented. I don’t know long they will look the way they look. You came to Bombay, it was an emotional decision but the city has changed so much in the last 20 odd years. Have you taken well to the way it’s been changing?

Not really. No.

 

What are your concerns about the city today?

I am concerned that we don’t have any sense of heritage, that we are breaking everything down for money and very soon there is going to be nothing left and these are buildings that once they are gone we are never going to get them back. I think it’s very unfortunate that even the ones that we say are heritage… It’s the most ridiculous thing that you keep a facade and then you will have some skyscraper shooting up from the middle of a beautiful old bungalow, that’s our idea of heritage. Everything is about development and everything is about money and its going to be a horribly ugly city in a very short time if we continue this way.

 

Do you think its character is changing in other ways as well, not just architecturally or externally but its character is changing internally as well?

I think so. From what I read in the papers, there is horrific stuff going on. I don’t know if it’s just Bombay or all over India. I don’t know, maybe you didn’t read about it when I was growing up but it just seems to be… every day is more horrific than the next in terms of what comes in our newspapers.

 

But it’s also interesting for us. Do you feel that in the last 20 years or 25 years… has there been any incident that you feel the city has changed around? In the way that 9/11 changed New York, in a lot of ways, not just the fact that the towers are no longer there but it’s a slightly different city.

Of course I think all the bombing and the riots completely changed the character of the city. The city that I grew up in was very different in terms of tolerance. I mean there were riots but now people have really closed themselves into their various communities. I grew up in a different city which was genuinely cosmopolitan, Bombay was.

 

What endures? What is something that survived through the years in Bombay?

All those gyms at Marine Lines. Parsi Gym, Hindu Gym, Islam Gym, Christian Gym, Catholic Gym.

 

I don’t know if they are the same anymore but they have survived. Final question— what’s next for you? Are you going to make another film, I know it’s not going to be about Parsis. You said that.

I am hoping to. I’ve been working on something for the past few years but it’s a very large subject, it would be a large film. I want to get the script right before I take it out. So that’s something I am doing. I am also writing something for Mira and an American studio, that I can’t talk about right now.

 

Have you found the personality of a filmmaker or have things changed?

I think I have adapted the personality to suit my own personality and I have realized that you don’t have to be a certain way to be a film maker, that’s what I have realized.

 

Also things have changed. A lot has changed for filmmakers. It’s not so difficult anymore.

That’s true. I have certainly become an addicted filmmaker and I certainly want to do it again.

 

I hope you make a lot of films. Tell me, I know I said that was the last question but I’ll ask you one more, why did you never think of writing a book?

I have thought of it and it’s something I want to do. It’s on my bucket list.

 

It’s on your bucket list. Will it be fiction or non-fiction?

Fiction. That’s a huge commitment. I don’t know how writers do it, it takes years and you’re completely isolated and you have to have so much confidence in what you are doing. At the end of it, it may never be published. It’s a very courageous thing to do.

 

But it’s also a fantastic journey. It’s a lonely journey but once you take a few steps, it’s also a fantastic journey. Well, I hope you write that book and make that film. Thank you.

Thank you.

 

Little Zizou by Sooni Taraporevala is available to watch free online on Hulu

(Geographical limitations apply, not available in the Indian sub-continent)

 

Winter of Content

Voices from Afar is a series of interviews with filmmakers and film professionals, critics and experts from various countries around the world. The idea is to, through these voices, better our understanding of films and filmmaking communities which may seem alien at first glance, but whose joys and struggles, on closer examination, may have a deep resonance with our own. 

 

Julian Pölsler, 59, is a towering presence. ‘Coming to Mumbai, it’s like coming to summer’ he says as we sit down to talk.  Pölsler is an Austrian filmmaker who has written and directed several TV films and series. He directed his first feature film The Wall ( Die Wand), starring actress Martina Gedeck, in 2012. The film won the Prize of the Ecumenical Jury in the Panorama Section at the Berlin Film Festival 2012. It was also Austria’s entry to the Oscars 2014 for the Best Foreign Language Film.

Pölsler has worked as an Assistant Director with acclaimed Austrian director Axel Corti. He teaches at the Konservatorium of the City of Vienna, Multimedia Production at the Vienna University of Technology, and at the Institute for Computer Science & Media. In 2006, he began directing the opera.

He smiles gently and continues to talk about the weather but is shocked to hear Mumbai doesn’t have any  winter to speak of. He describes the dark winters in Austria where the landscape is buried in snow for months. 

 

Your film is based on the book The Wall  by Marlen Haushofer. It’s not an easy book to film. Why did you decide to make this particular book into your first feature film?

Well, it took a long time to adapt the novel to the film. It took more than 25 years. In Germany and in Austria, this book is very well known. It’s a special book, especially for women, because it’s a feminine side to the world, to the problems of this world. It isn’t easy, it’s true. But when I read it—and I read it in one night—I knew that this is really a great, great novel to adapt to film. And everybody said it’s impossible to make a film; but I thought I love extraordinary films and themes. It may also be because I spent my childhood in the woods. Me and my family, we were high up in the mountains and very alone. But I was not alone only with animals, I had many others, I had my brothers and sisters and my father and grandma. We were a very, very happy, lucky family. But when I had problems I always went outside, to be surrounded by woods. And the same is in the film, The Wall, the woman has to survive and can only survive because she has the woods. And that was fascinating to me. I thought after I have finished the film I will find out why I was so enthusiastic about this novel. But now after I have finished the film, I still don’t know why.

 

The book is set in a specific period, but in the film you chose to not commit to a particular time. Why is that?

Yes. I think that the problems that Marlen Haushofer describes in the novel and the questions she’s asking are for all times. She wrote it in the sixties. But the questions are still valid in our times and will be, even in 20-30 years. Because they are questions about what concerns human beings. What are their hopes? What are their losses?

And it has worked around the world. The film was in Mexico (at the Monterrey International Film Festival 2012) and it won the Audience’s Award for Best International Feature Film. And I was very happy about it because it shows me that people everywhere in the world, we’re all one great family and we all have the same problems— in the really important sense, not which company’s mobiles I shall choose. But in terms of “What should I do? What does love mean to us? What does loneliness mean to us and how can we survive?”

 

Austrian cinema has been getting a lot of attention in the international scene but within the country American films dominate the market. Is that true? 

Yes, it’s true. But my film, The Wall, was very successful in theatres. We had a lot of people coming in Germany as well. The problem is that Austrians always think a prophet doesn’t count in your own country.

You know we are a small country. When I came yesterday from the airport and the driver takes me to the hotel, I ask him how many inhabitants there are in Mumbai and he says 20 million. I said, “Oh god! We are all only 7 million in the whole country.” So these are other dimensions. Yes, but the people in Austria, they love American films. Maybe it takes time and we need patience to bring our own people into the cinema. I think it will happen.

 

Right now, what market does Austrian cinema have within the country?

Well, the people are proud of how important Austrian films are in the world but they prefer to go to American films because they are easier to consume. But you can’t forget that Austria has a high level of cultural activities. We have very, very, very high standards in theatre and opera and music. Our famous composers Mozart, Beethoven— they are in the minds of the people. Maybe one day, in hundred years, Michael Haneke and me, we will be the Mozarts of our day (laughs ). Who knows?

 

Austrian cinema that is successful within the country, at the box-office, consists mostly of comedies. What about the films being made in the other genres?

Well, the people also very much love the so-called Bollywood films— because there are colours and happy people and dancing and singing. And me too. When it is winter and the dark days are coming, I like Bollywood films because there is so much sun and so much light. It’s good. So maybe one day there will be time, right time for me to make comedy too. Is it only in Austria? Comedy is popular everywhere. People love to laugh. And it’s ok. It’s the reason why American cinema is so successful, because they give the audience what they want. The European films mainly show people what they don’t want to see but what is necessary.

 

When one thinks of European cinema, French and Italian films dominate our imagination. Has Austrian cinema managed to create its own identity?

That’s a good question. I admire French films very much. And, you know, Michael Haneke is a little in this tradition of French films. Well, he is half-Austrian, half-French. Maybe, Austrians are now creating new kind of films. There are many directors, many colleagues whose work makes me happy. There are many young directors coming from (Vienna) Film School and they are really great. And, they have their own style.

 

I was coming to that. It’s being called the New Austrian Film. Filmmakers coming from the Vienna Film Academy, working together, working on each other’s films— writing, directing and co-producing. Is that giving a predominant characteristic to the cinema from Austria? Is it creating a new language of cinema?

It’s one of the reasons. But it’s not the only reason. We are like a very close family and everybody knows each other. And that’s good. It’s good because Austria is a very small country and it is concentrated to Vienna and in Vienna is the famous film school. But there is a difference. There are some filmmakers coming from the cities and filmmakers coming from the country side and they are different. Maybe it’s the reason I’m writing comedy now because I am from the countryside. I hope Michael doesn’t hear it. Maybe he is working at the same time to write a comedy. I don’t know (laughs ).

 

Do all of you work closely together? 

Well, we are close to each other but each one is working by himself in his own isolated area. And we just come together when there are award ceremonies. But it’s true, Michael Haneke was a very good guide to me, came into the editing room and talked to me about music, why he doesn’t want to use music in his films. He suggested to me that I also shouldn’t use any music in my film. But I said “No, no. I don’t want to make a Michael Haneke film. I want to make a Julian Pölsler film” (laughs ). He smiled and said that’s good.

 

Outside the country, Michael Haneke, cinematographer Christian Berger, actor Hans Landa— they have been recognised at the Oscars and internationally. But because they are associated with American or German production houses, they are not necessarily recognised as Austrian artists. Then there have been legends like Billy Wilder and Fritz Lang who had come from Austria, moved to work in other film industries and made their careers there. Do you see this as a problem?

There is a difference. Fritz Lang and Billy Wilder, they were forced to leave Austria because of the Nazi regime, this was another time. Now, many of our filmmakers are cooperating with other countries because Austria is very small. We have a very, very good film institute supporting us, buts it’s too small to survive on its own. You need a production partner.  So for Michele Haneke, and for most Austrian filmmakers, it is Germany, because we have the same language and it’s easier to cooperate. I think that’s the reason. But it’s not like in the thirties and forties when Austrian filmmakers were forced to leave the country and it’s a shame on the political system that that happened.

 

So, the working of current filmmakers with production houses outside of Austria, like Germany and America— what does that do to the identity of the Austrian filmmaker? Does it make a difference somewhere? 

No, if you see my film, you will see that it’s a typical Austrian film. The only thing that connects it to Germany is the language. It makes it easier to distribute it. But I can only speak for myself. If you know the difference between, Germany and Austria, you know it’s very important for us to have our own identity because the Germans are better football players (laughs ).

 

Within Austria there is funding for films from the Ministry of Education, Art and Culture, from the Austrian Film Institute and the local govt funds. How accessible are these funds to all kinds of filmmakers? And how much do they help? 

Well, the Ministry and the Film Institute, it is very important for the so-called Austrian film phenomenon. There is really good funding coming from the Austrian Film Institute and that’s very important. There are different reasons why it is. One of them is the development of the film institute, film school; there is the (Vienna) Film Academy. There is also that there are great directors who are not so well-known like Axel Corti. He was a very famous filmmaker but not internationally famous like Michael Haneke is now. The Film Institute is very important. If there wasn’t this form of Institute, we wouldn’t have this wonder of Austrian filmmaking.

 

Can you tell us a little more about this wonder of Austrian filmmaking?

When I was coming to the film school, I got a book in the flea market and there was a list of great filmmaking nations and Austria was, I think, placed 149. And now it has changed and that’s because the politicians have recognised that is important to not only support the opera and theatre and music but also important to support films. And there are the filmmakers by themselves. And so I hope soon the audience will also be on our side.