Q – TBIP Tête-à-Tête

Posted on August 15, 2014 by admin

Q loves to subvert things. Often, without a cause. He believes wholeheartedly in shock for shock’s sake, as an artistic tool. He is unabashed about this, matter-of-fact about making a mission of his metaphors. The adman who went by the name of Qaushiq Mukherjee arrived on the international and Indian alternative cinema scene with films like Bishh and the provocative and acclaimed Gandu, which, unsurprisingly, failed to get a commercial release in the country. Unfazed, he formed Gandu Circus, an indie rock band against censorship along the lines of what the film stood for. Now he’s hoping to make a graphic novel of it, tentatively titled Gandu Goppo. His last feature, Tasher Desh, an adaptation of a Rabindranath Tagore play, is both a tribute to and a subversion of the original play and has won critical appreciation at home and abroad. More bafflingly, one of his documentaries Love In India, on repressed Indian sexuality and, among other things, a quest for the perfect orgasm, won a National Award for ‘Family Welfare’. Q remains unfazed, if a little amused. He sees this as another redefinition, an idea he seems to enjoy. In fact, he redefines himself quite a few times in this interview, on his life and work so far, providing incisive and compelling arguments for each time.

The Song in Her Heart

Posted on July 18, 2014 by admin

Here is TBIP’s pick of five Urdu poems by the actress Meena Kumari, with an introductory note from their translator Noorul Hasan.

Meena Kumari needs no introduction. As a matinee idol and diva of the mid-twentieth century, and despite her untimely death in 1972, at the age of thirty-nine, she remains a legendary heroine of what is known as the golden age of Hindi cinema. It’s not for me to elaborate that point.

However, not many know that she had a way of her own with the pen as well. Soon after her death, Gulzar sahib arranged for Hind Pocket Books to publish a collection of her poems. I chanced upon this slim paperback volume at the Howrah Railway station the same year and have had the pleasure of dipping into that now more than moth-eaten prize paperback for over three decades.

What struck me most about the poems was their amazing immediacy, their power to take you in without any fuss and bother. Plain as conversation Meena Kumari’s poems strike an uncanny intimacy or rapport with the reader. Her imagination hovers over a wide range of subjects from the very personal and idiosyncratic to the more objective though equally heartrending, as expressed in poems like ‘The Dumb Child’ or the ‘Empty Shop’. Hers is an art without artfulness. The sheer audacity of her statements is the raison d’être of her poetry. Her unadorned, screaming verse reminds me of snatches of Donne, Firaq, Wordsworth, and Ghalib. This is not to say that she is anywhere near the dizzying heights scaled by that august fraternity. Her poetry is slight, casual, a kind of intermittent adventure or a holiday she allowed herself from her self-consuming stardom.

As a poet she resembles her screen persona, coming across as a wayward, sensuous, sacrificial lamb kind of woman. Her imagery is soaked in the immemorial customs and traditions of an ageless India. Her voice is very often the tremulous, quavering voice of an invincible Indian woman in the direst of straits. She writes the poetry of ‘some natural sorrow, loss or pain/that has been and may be again’, of ‘some old, unhappy, (not) so far off things’, if you know what I mean. The overwhelming impression one is left with after reading this poetry is, in Firaq’s unforgettable words, ‘Maine is aawaz ko mar mar ke pala hai…’. She is a poet because she has an inimitable personal voice.

I never planned to translate her into a language she would have thought so far removed from her field of light. I used to see the odd poem of hers translated into English in lifestyle magazines or poetry journals. Initially I translated some as an experiment and after several readings I began to feel that there was something of the cadence and clarity of the original in those random translations. So I decided to translate as many as I could. It was very kind of the poet Jayanta Mahapatrara to have published a number of these translations in his journal Chandrabhaga (12/2005) with the kind permission of Gulzar sahib. It’s a strange coincidence that translations of some of Gulzar’s own lyrics appeared in the same issue of Chandrabhaga as well.

In trying to put these translated poems together in a volume I hope to contribute to conveying another image of Meena Kumari which deserves as universal an acknowledgement as her immortal image as the queen of the Bollywood firmament of yesteryears. Her flirtations with the pen are as seductive as her universally celebrated femininity and resourcefulness as an iconic Indian woman actor in film after unforgettable film for nearly three decades during which she could slip with ease and spontaneity from the role of a skittish Miss Mary to that of the soulful and haunting Pakeezah.

A chameleon actor she is, equally spontaneously, a ‘chameleon’ poet.

—Noorul Hasan

Ma’zi aur Ha’l

Har masar’rat

Ek barba’d shuda gham hai

Har gham

Ek barba’d shuda masar’rat

Aur har tariki ek tabah shuda raushni hai

Aur har raushni ek tabah shuda tariki

Isi tarah

Har ‘ha’l’

Ek fana shuda-ma’zi hai

Aur har ‘ma’zi’,

Ek fana shuda ha’l

Past & Present

Each happiness

Is a devastated grief

Each grief

A devastated happiness.

And each darkness is a raped light

And each light a raped darkness.

Likewise

Each present

Is an annihilated past

And each past

An annihilated present.

Aaj ka Insan

‘Ideal insan’ kitabo’n ki

Zakheem jildo’n ke waqt khurda safhat ki

Mahdood dunia mein muqaimad hai

Woh

Bahar ki dunia mein qadam nahin rakh sakta

Bas,

Apne boseeda workon ke jharokhe se

Tumhen dekhta hai

Ishar’e karta hai

Aur

Tumhen aziat mein jhonk deta hai

Man Today

The “ideal man” is imprisoned

In the closed world

Of the time-torn pages

Inside the hard covers

Of books.

He does not step out

Into the world

Just

Peers at you

From the cracks

In his tattered pages

And says

“Go to Hell”.

Suhani Khamoshi

Kabhi aise pursukoon lamhat bhi ayenge

Jab

Mai’n bhi usi tarah so jaungi

Woh khamoshi

Kitni suhani hogi

Maut ke ba’d

Agarche mahaz khala hai

Sirf tariki hai magar

Woh tariki

Is karb – angez ujale se

Yaqeenan behtar hogi

Kyonki

Mai’n

Un zindagion mein si hun jinhen

Har subah nihayat qaleel si raushni milti hai

Um’meed ki itni – si kiran ki

Sirf din bhar zinda rah saken

Aur jis din

Yeh raushni bhi na mil saki to – ?

Enchanted Silence

There will be a day

Of such tranquility

I shall instantly go to sleep

That stillness

Will be so enchanting

Even though

There is just a void

After death

Nothing but darkness

But that darkness

Should still be better

Than this precarious light

For

Mine is one of those lives

Lit by a measly light

Each morning

Barely enough

To last the day

And the day

Even this light plays truant

Then…?

Ghazal

Tukr’e-tukr’e din beeta, dhaj’ji-dhaj’ji ra’t mili

Jiska jitna anchal tha, utni hi saugat mili

Rimjhim-rimjhim boondo’n mein, zahr bhi hai aur amrit bhi

A’nkhe’n han’s di dil roya, yeh ach’chi barsat mili

Jab chaha dil ko samjhe’n, han’sn’e ki a’waaz suni

Jais’e koi kahta ho, lo phir tum ko ma’t mili

Mate’n kaisi ghate’n kya, chalt’e rahna aath pahar

Dil-sa sathi jab paya, bechaini bhi sath mili

Honto’n tak aate-aate, jan’e kitn’e roop bhar’e

Jalti-bujhti a’nkho’n mein, sadi si jo ba’t mili.

Ghazal

The day passed in fragments, followed by a tattered night

As far as you can spread your cloth, that’s your share of light.

The pattering raindrops are honey too, are poison

What a monsoon! My eyes were smiling, my heart cried

Whenever I try to hear my heart, there comes a mocking laugh

As though someone were saying: look, you’ve been defied.

Despite defeats and betrayals, I press on undeterred

When your heart is your companion, agony is your right

It took so many different forms before it could be spoken

The utterly simply thing in your cold yet smouldering eyes.

Chalo…

Chalo kahin chale’n

Ghoomti hui sarak ke kinare

Kisi mor par

Raushni ke kisi khambhe ke neeche baith kar

Bate’n karen

Chalo, kahin chalen

Apne-apne mazi ke

Nuche ghute gharaudon se doo’r

Kisi sookhe nal’e ki pulia par baith kar

Bate’n karen

Chalo, kahin chalen

Darawne jangal ki andheri pagdandion par

Ratjaga manayen

Zindagi ke har marhale par bahas karen

Jhagren

Dher sari bate’n karen

Chalo kahin chalen

Chalo!

Let’s Go

Let’s go somewhere

To some edge of the revolving road

And sitting

Under the shade of some

Pillar of light

Let’s talk

Let’s just go somewhere

Far from the ravaged shanties

Of our past

Just sit on the culvert

Of some dry canal

And talk

Just let’s venture out

And sitting on the pathways

Of the forests of the night

Let’s spend the entire night

Discussing all the imponderables of life

Quarrel

Talk our hearts out

Just let’s go somewhere

Come on! Be a sport

Let’s go.

Excerpted from Meena Kumari the Poet: A Life Beyond Cinema, courtesy of Roli Books. You can buy the book here.

Also read Inhi Logon Ne, on Meena Kumari and all that was lost with her here.

On the Back of a Movie Poster

Posted on May 12, 2014 by admin

Shenky, a film poster seller in Daryaganj, sees the film memorabilia collection his father left him as an inheritance that is his ticket to a better station.

“Rakh de rakh de wahin pe bhai, tere kaam ka nahin hai. Aage jaa.”

At the Sunday Book Bazaar in Old Delhi’s Daryaganj, where everyone is desperate to sell, Mohammad Suleiman dismisses a prospective customer who has stopped at his Hindi film poster collection. “It’s not for you, move on,” he says to the young man leafing through a booklet of songs from the 1982 Dharmendra starrer Teesri Ankh. It has been an uneventful day so far for Suleiman. He has not sold anything.

Opposite a board announcing the availability of ‘Sabse Sasti Magazines’, next to a heap of ten rupee second hand books, Suleiman has set up shop on the pavement, like everyone else in this bazaar. He sits on a stool, surrounded by film booklets and A2 size posters. “This is made by hand,” remarks a passerby, referring to a poster of Boot Polish at the centre of it all.

Suleiman, who sells posters, song booklets and film memorabilia, is looking for a particular kind of customer. “My customer is royal,” he says. “He is a VIP. He is one who is a lover of the old and the antique.”

This rules out most of those who pause before his collection at the bazaar— students interested in cheap school textbooks or simply those out for a Sunday stroll. Suleiman’s visiting card calls him a ‘Cinema Poster Historian’. Also, ‘Shenky’, a name he has adopted because his own is “too heavy” for New Delhi’s “high society”, a society Shenky aspires to sell to.

It was, in fact, on a visit to a regular haunt of this society two years ago—an expensive poster store in Hauz Khas Village—that Shenky, now in his forties, discovered he had had “a treasure” back home all along.

***

Shenky’s family hails from Nainital originally, but his father, Ali Hassan, was born and brought up in the nearby locality of Chandni Chowk. He was a factory supervisor. In the picture Shenky paints of him Hassan appears to have had three interests above all else: his work, smoking beedis and Hindi films.

Almost every day, after work ended at 5 pm, Hassan and his friends would be at one of the single screen theatres in the Old Delhi area. “Such as Excelsior, Jagat, Novelty or Jubilee. Raj Kapoor and Rajesh Khanna were his favourite actors,” Shenky says. Cinema halls used to be different back then. Says Shenky, “There was no other entertainment at that time. We did not have the hausla to go anywhere else.” Hausla, or courage, which was needed even for leisure in a society that remained feudal in its outlook. Connaught Place, nearby, was “hi-fi” in Shenky’s words. He recalls the apprehension they felt in visiting such localities where one would have to be mindful of what one wore. The single screen cinemas of Old Delhi provided for a kind of parallel space, a shield of sorts from the harsh class divisions in society.

Hassan was also a collector of film memorabilia. By virtue of his close association with cinema hall owners, many of whom he did odd jobs for, and because of his friends being on the staff of these theatres, he was able to eventually build a collection of 3,000 posters. “He would not show the collection to anyone.” Not even to Shenky, even though he was the only one from the family Hassan took along to watch films. “He would collect whatever he could lay his hands on.” Those days song booklets would be sold during the intermission, as part of the heavy print publicity distributors relied on. So these too found their way to Hassan’s home. Shenky has added steadily to this personal collection, which he sees as a legacy of his father’s Hindi film “deewaanaapan”, by frequenting kabadiwalas and cinema halls to look for more collectibles.

But till that fateful visit to Hauz Khas Village Shenky had never thought of these as having business potential. Perhaps because they didn’t, for a long time. Ranjani Mazumdar, in an essay on the Bombay film poster, writes that in a “strange twist”, the “once ordinary” hand painted poster acquired the status of an “art object” as it disappeared from streets and public places. Once, it had been “seen plastered on walls in various parts of the country and available for a price of five rupees in the streets till the early 1990s”. With its disappearance, it has “acquired the status of an ‘art’ form as collectors enter the field of preservation, display and sale of the traditional poster”.

What Shenky saw that day was the possibility of bridging the class divide he found himself on the wrong side of. “I initially sold to the Hauz Khas Village poster shop. But they were paying me too little, so I decided to start on my own.” He used to work at a shoe shop in Old Delhi. Now he could hope to work for himself. Shenky recognized, however, that this transition would rely on people of means willing to invest in his collection. To begin, he rented a flat in Daryaganj.

Two years later Shenky is at the weekly Sunday Bazaar, still trying to make that transition. “All this came to me because of my father, otherwise I would have been working at the mercy of someone else.” What started for his father as a hobby has become for Shenky an inheritance, the capital on which he hopes to build his future.

***

Among those selling at the bazaar, Shenky is the object of quiet envy. Even though most people walk by his collection, everyone is convinced he is making a lot of money. Rehan, who sells stationery next to him, is hesitant in disclosing his surname. He was intrigued when he first saw Shenky set up shop. “Initially, Shenky would distribute his visiting cards to whoever cared to give his collection a look and we would wonder why he is doing this,” Rehan says. Shenky knows he can’t take every old poster to the market so he puts on display a few samples from his collection and distributes his contact information to whoever expresses interest, hoping they are back sometime. If they are, he leads them to his flat, behind the market, where the posters are stored.

“Then we got to know he is famous,” Rehan continues. “He has been written about in the papers. There’s a lot of money in this. He doesn’t have to rely on everyday customers. People must be approaching him directly.” Shenky sells each poster for between Rs. 300 and Rs. 400. The song booklets are for Rs. 100. He says this is cheaper than what most people offer, that the karigiri (workmanship) of the posters makes them worth it. “Painting involved hard work and love,” says Shenky as he points to a poster of Night Club from 1958. He says he earns between “Rs. 6,000 to Rs. 7,000 per month”. Sometimes, for weeks, there is no buyer. Then, suddenly, there are orders for many posters. He has also begun to sell small antique items. He claims to be doing sufficiently well for his family of four— himself, his wife and two sons. His daughter is married.

On some days customers have specific requests, such as one who had insisted on a Jaane Bhi Do Yaaro poster. “These days people have also started gifting posters as wedding presents. DDLJ is very popular.”

In her essay, Mazumdar also speaks of the “power of nostalgia within modernity”, fuelled by the release of old films on television.

Advocate Sanjay Hegde, one of Shenky’s clients, has the poster of Zamaanat, an unreleased Amitabh Bachchan film, framed and displayed in his office chamber. “I have not collected with the intensity of a ‘collector’,” says Hegde. “But sometimes you want a film poster because of a certain memory associated with it.”

Today, a man and woman stumble upon Shenky and his posters while looking for books. The two posters they ask for—of the films Mughal-e-Azam and Kaagaz Ke Phool—are among the 12 he has chosen to bring to the market. “These are for my mother,” the woman says. “We think she’ll like them.”

Regular customers drop by as well. Syamantak, a designer, has bought three posters from Shenky. “I’m a regular at this market. One day I saw these posters,” he says. “I bought Shree 420, Shatranj Ke Khilari and Anand.” A NIFT student, he is interested more in the posters themselves, because they are “hand painted and old”, than in the cinema they advertise. Syamantak is unconcerned about where the posters come from. He says he couldn’t care lesser if “Shenky paints them himself”.

Accompanying him is his friend Aman Nigam, a software developer, who chances upon a song booklet of the 1990 Tamil film Anjali. “I have seen this film on television when I was a kid,” he says, humming a song from the movie.

There are also customers whose choices Shenky doesn’t understand. Leena, a Ukranian living in India, visits his stall every Sunday. She seems to be looking for something specific today but isn’t able to explain what it is to Shenky. She can’t speak English, only broken Hindi. She sifts patiently through two piles of movie song booklets, leaving out classics and picking out ones from more recent films. She doesn’t like the painted posters and prefers movie stills instead. Shenky shows her one of Amitabh Bachchan in Deewaar but she waves it aside. “A collector would pay so much for this,” he says. She ends up buying 10 song booklets of films she hasn’t seen.

***

“I am thinking of setting up shop in South Delhi,” Shenky announces suddenly. “Kaisa rahega?” Today “hi-fi” areas like Connaught Place aren’t half as intimidating to him as he said it was for his father.

Nevertheless, he will head to an Old Delhi favourite, Delite Cinema in Daryaganj, later this week, to catch one of the latest Hindi releases. He likes Delite, he says, because it caters to “both the old and new”, by which Shenky means audiences from Old and New Delhi.

Film scholars wonder whether technology will enable a reproduction of these posters from the yesteryears in greater numbers, as well as a more democratic distribution, freeing old movie posters from the clutches of collectors and galleries. But Shenky, who has built his dreams around the novelty of the vintage Indian film poster, would not like this to happen. At least, not till he has discharged his father’s collection of 3000. So far, he has only sold “about 300”.

The Actor Who Prepared

Posted on April 2, 2014 by admin

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?

Maximus Minimus

Posted on January 21, 2014 by admin

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.

Maximón Monihan, 44, is a Brooklyn-based filmmaker, writer, and former professional skateboarder who founded his production house Bricolagista! with 36-year old wife and partner Sheena Matheiken.

Their first feature film La Voz De Los Silenciados (The Voice of the Voiceless), won the Mumbai Young Critics Award at the 15^th Mumbai Film Festival. It has also been screened at the Thessaloniki International Film Festival (in Greece), the International Film Festival of Kerala and the Dharamshala International Film Festival. Based on a true story and shot entirely like a pantomime, it traces the journey of Olga (played by Janeva Adena Calderón Zentz), a speech and hearing-impaired Guatemalan teen who comes to New York to enroll in a sign language school and unwittingly becomes the victim of an international crime ring. The movie is silent. There are English subtitles to explain the sign language in parts.

Previously, Monihan has appeared in landmark skateboarding films Hokus Pokus and Shackle Me Not and served as research assistant to African-American scholar-activists Herman Gray, Angela Davis and Akasha Hull. He also co-authored By Any Means Necessary: The Life and Times of Malcolm X: An Unauthorized Biography (as Ryan Monihan) and made a handful of short films as well as music videos for artistes like rapper Talib Kweli and DJ and producer Prince Paul.

I meet Maximón, Sheena, and the female lead of their debut feature, 24-year old Janeva Adena Calderón Zentz, in the lobby of a luxury hotel. The trio have just finished breakfast at the hotel’s coffee shop and by the looks of it, enjoyed it thoroughly. Maximón adjusts his trademark black fedora before we begin.

I’d like you to clarify something first. Is your name Maximón Monihan or Monihan Monihan?

Monihan (laughs): Right, so it’s like this. My real name is Ryan Maxwell Monihan. Maximón is my nickname. Nobody calls me Ryan anymore, and also, there’s a guy online named Ryan Monihan who makes really, really bad films. So if I say my name is Ryan Monihan, people will say, ‘Oh, I looked at your stuff, and… yeahhh…’ (grimaces).’ So I cut that out completely. I was in an old skateboard movie from a long time ago. And they had this stupid rap song in the middle where they say, ‘Monihan, Monihan, M-M-Monihan,’ over and over. It’s a refrain in a corny rap song where they use this J. J. Fad beat. That’s why everyone calls me Monihan Monihan. I’ve been called all sorts of bad stuff in my life, so this is totally normal.

What prompted you to turn film director?

Monihan: What most people don’t realize about skateboarding is that it was a sort of outcast activity. It wasn’t considered cool at all at the time I started, but we had our own culture. It’s mainstream now in many parts of the world, but at that point skateboarding was what the kids who didn’t fit in did. And because of that, it was very artistic. Nobody cared about competition. What they cared about was expression. We had no coaches in skateboarding. You create your own tricks, you make up your own names, you do your own stuff where there’s a lot of creativity.

Actually, a lot of the great filmmakers now come from skateboarding. There’s Spike Jonze, there’s Mike Mills. Then there are artists like Shepard Fairey. Because for skateboarders, the main form of attraction is filming new tricks, new stunts. So we learned a lot about filmmaking on our own. And a lot of the influence, whether it’s in music videos, advertising, or cinematic language you see nowadays, comes from the skateboarding culture.

In a weird sense, us ramshackle, know-nothing idiots have influenced the larger public. But skateboarding also taught me the language of cinema in a great way.

You’ve talked about skateboarding as a fringe culture. Has that rubbed off on your production house, Bricolagista!? You describe the company as a ‘pre-eminent subterranean creative collective’. Is there a conscious effort to remain unconventional in your approach to making films?

Monihan: Yeah, totally. We come from a very humble circumstance. There are no big production companies to provide backing. It’s just us. There’s no funding, no insurance, no permission, no permits. We do it all on our own, and that’s the only way we know how to do things. We make our way with whatever we can get our hands on. That’s what ‘bricolage’ really means— creating something with whatever you have at your disposal. It’s weird, because people think America is a rich country and you have access to everything. But the thing is, if you’re not connected there, you have access to nothing. There’s no government support like you have in some countries. You have to do it on your own, or you have to do it with some financing from a private source. And we’re not the sons and daughters of famous folks.

Janeva, are you a part of Bricolagista! as well? Because apart from acting in La Voz De Los Silenciados, you’re also credited as the Art Director of the film.

Monihan: Those drawings you see in the film? She did all of that.

Those were lovely. You’re a Visual Arts student…

Zentz: Right. There was a really short period when I helped Monihan out with video work and some of the commercial stuff he was doing. There was also a time I was trying to do some Art Director work in L.A., just to make up my mind and see whether I like it or not. I did two short films—student films—and then a public service announcement. There was a bit of experimenting. But I didn’t like it in the end. I didn’t get paid for a lot of the work I did because most of them were low-budget projects…

Did you get paid for this film?

Zentz (laughs): A very small, small, small amount.

Monihan: The thing is nobody got paid. I didn’t get paid, and (points to wife and producer Matheiken) she didn’t get paid. We were all doing it because we wanted to prove that we can make a movie.

Sheena, you’re a partner in Bricolagista!, and Max has talked about how hard it is to get by on little or no funding. But you do have production teams scattered across the globe, so how do you manage that?

Matheiken: The best way to describe how we work is this: our philosophy is to find like-minded people, people you have a certain chemistry with. So, over the years, we’ve done many projects—whether freelance or commercial gigs—where we’ve built great relationships with those we’ve worked with.

Monihan: It sounds ridiculous, but all those years of travelling around and staying on people’s couches, living the skateboarder’s dream, you come across highly creative people, and the relationships we build are lifelong relationships. So it’s not just about the money. I know a hugely talented person in Hong Kong, so if we have to do something in Hong Kong, we team up and all work together. In that way, you can say we have connections.

You’re not tied down by demands prevalent in big production companies…

Matheiken: We can be very nimble, that’s the beauty of being small. There’s no red tape and bureaucracy. Since we are a small team, we can deliver good quality work without compromising on anything or bowing down to people.

Monihan: There’s no overhead too. We’re like the A-Team. Just put in the different, crazy components in a van, and off we go. But this is how it’s going to have to be for a lot of people in the future, because big salaries, big overheads…

Matheiken: And the hierarchies… It’s stifling.

In the US, do you see La Voz De Los Silenciados being picked up by indie festivals like Telluride, or maybe even Sundance?

Monihan: We would love to be in those festivals, but it’s really, really hard. We don’t know if we can get in because we have no team of sales agents or production company behind us. That world is very, very insulated.

Matheiken: Things like Sundance, for example, the way it works, it’s very difficult to get someone who has connections within the industry to back the film if they haven’t produced the film or have not had anything to do with the film. And in our case it’s a bit too late to get someone with clout on board, I think. Also, Sundance promotes or gives a platform to movies or people who have applied for their grants (to the Sundance Institute). Those films are given a priority. We don’t know anyone in Hollywood. I’m not even a cinema person. I do interactive web designing actually, but I help Max out with the company and he helps me with my work. We collaborate on each other’s projects.

I also feel that movies like La Voz De Los Silenciados do better in Europe and Asia. The thing is, if a movie is shown at a festival in Europe, people back home in the US are like, ‘Oh, it must be worth watching!’

Monihan: So we’ll probably get attention after that.

Maximón, you said you’d met Janeva at a party. How did you know that she would be the one to play the hearing and speech-impaired Olga? It’s not an easy role for a first-timer.

Monihan: I like people who have a special personality. You can sort of sense when a person has an attractive persona.

Zentz: It was at a gallery opening in New York for Brad Kahlhamer, who’s a Native American artist. Between Soho and Chinatown, I think. I’ve sat for Brad a number of times, so I went to the party all dressed up. Anyway, I was attacking the snacks table. Free food, you know… but yeah, that’s how Monihan and I met.

There’s another cast member I want to ask you about. The ‘fourth Beastie Boy’, photographer Ricky Powell. How did that happen?

Monihan: Man, Ricky is such a character. He’s a really good friend. And he’s a handful— most people don’t know how to deal with him. He’s a true New Yorker, your eccentric New Yorker that everybody hopes is still there, one of a dying breed. Ricky is a unique person. It’s not an act with him. He is what he is…

Matheiken: It’s funny, because there are some scenes in the film where I’m like, “He’s overacting”, but he’s actually not.

Monihan: He can’t be any other way.

Zentz: He is over the top, but that’s who he is.

The story on which La Voz De Los Silenciados is based was in the news for barely a few days before people forgot about it.

Monihan: Yes. You have panhandlers on New York subways who sell ‘I am deaf trinkets’, and there was a tiny mention in the local paper about how this deaf girl who made a living on the subway was a victim of the slave trade. It was terrible. The way the media reports the news— they have news cycles, you know. CNN, for example, will just have a sub-line or ticker because they don’t want to keep showing the same thing. So they sweep it away under the carpet. If you didn’t catch it that day, you missed it.

What stood out in La Voz De Los Silenciados was the silent film approach, which totally takes you into the world of a hearing and speech impaired protagonist.

Monihan: Exactly. Our intention was to make audiences feel as helpless as Olga does when horrible things are done to her and other deaf-mute panhandlers. To somehow get a sense of what it’s like to not be able to speak out or cry for help like we would normally do.

So Maximón, as a director, what, to you, is more important- the story, the treatment, or character development?

It’s difficult to assign a level of importance, because they are all crucial. But what is usually missing in many movies is characters that take on a life of their own. Characters who transcend that first screening. I feel like I know Olga really well. I’ll never forget her. And it’s weird saying that because it’s somebody who we helped make up even though she’s based on a real life character.

You’ve spoken about how even though La Voz De Los Silenciados is a silent film, you didn’t want to be one of those who just ape silent era movies for the heck of it.

Monihan: Yeah, and I guess that’s pretty normal in ‘young American cinema’. There’s a lot of gimmicky stuff going on, with people trying to show how clever they are. I’m super self-conscious when it comes to that. I don’t want to be one of them, the ones who go, ‘Oh look how well we did this’, or ‘look how cool is this’. They focus more on the art direction and the look of it. I don’t like that. It’s kind of like, advertising-tainted filmmaking. It’s great that it’s beautiful to look at, but there needs to be a lot more to it.

It’s more style than substance.

Monihan: That’s right, style over substance. I mean, style can be substance too, but I don’t like this ‘twee’ stuff. It’s just annoying. I like stories with conviction, the ones that actually say something and make a point. A lot of people try to be too cool and pretend like nothing around them bothers them. I think it’s sad. People should stand up for something. You don’t want to be preachy, of course, or unnecessarily didactic. But you should still be smart and know what’s going on. There used to be amazing people in their teens and in their twenties making protest songs over the years. We don’t even have that anymore. There’s no Bob Marley, Johnny Rotten, or Joe Strummer any more. Nowadays you have machines like Justin Bieber, and that’s stupid.

Matheiken: You sound like an old man.

Zentz (laughs): Yeah.

That’s alright, nobody really likes Bieber.

Monihan: Yeah, like where are all the grown-up twenty year olds?

Zentz: Twenty year old revolutionaries? They’re all on Twitter.

Monihan: I mean I think they’re out there, but we need to find and encourage those voices.

You’ve spoken about a few of your cinematic influences, like Jean-Luc Godard. Do you have any other favourites?

Monihan: Well, at the top of my head… the neo-realists from Italy. But I really like some of the younger directors from Japan. There’s the guy who made Cha No Aji (The Taste of Tea) and Naisu No Mori: The First Contact (Funky Forest: The First Contact), Katsuhito Ishii. He adds a layer of magical realism to his films and I love that. When you’re older, magic in your life just gets pushed to the side. So yeah, I like the neo-realists, but I also love the ‘magical realists’. And there’s also Yosuke Fujita, who made Zenzen Daijobu (Fine, Totally Fine). These directors are new, they’re fresh, and they’re creative. They take chances, and are influenced by the craziness of the Godards and the like, but they do things their own way and in their own style. Then there are the classics by Yasujirō Ozu, Vittorio De Sica, and Federico Fellini. And (Hayao) Miyazaki and Aki Kaurismäki.

Was the magic penguin Noah in your film an ode to magical realism?

Monihan: Oh yeah. I mean, we all need a way to maintain our sanity through all our problems. And sometimes, the solution is an insane one. Noah was the only thing that brought some hope in Olga’s desolate life.

Is it true that you’ve written an unauthorized biography of Malcolm X?

Monihan: Yes. All of my skateboard graphics were about Malcolm X. I was a huge Malcolm X fanatic. I was going to say ‘Malcolm Xpert’ but that sounds lame (laughs). But yeah, he was my hero growing up, and for most of the kids in my neighbourhood too. Everybody lionized him. He gave us all a voice. It’s problematic to iconize anybody, but all the great things that he said, how he became the spokesperson for marginalized people back then, the way he spoke… he was such a great orator. It was huge to us. And this was before the Spike Lee movie came out, at a time when Public Enemy was big, so you had the whole revolutionary rap scene going on. Young people were becoming increasingly political. There were people like Huey Newton who influenced thousands, and Angela Davis was one of my teachers. So all these great people really spoke to what we were feeling at the time.

Are you planning to write another book?

Monihan: I haven’t thought about it. I’m too focused on doing our own stories right now, through films. But you know, I want to be an old man sitting on a beach writing novels. That would be a fucking dream. People tell me ‘You talk too much, you have too much to say.’ So I think I better put everything in a book, and people can just deal with it that way. So hopefully, I can keep writing as long as I live.

Brillante!

Posted on January 9, 2014 by admin

Brillante Mendoza, 53, is one of best known film directors in the Philippines. Beginning his career as a production designer, he directed his first movie Masahista or The Masseur in 2005 and has made 16 films since. His films have brought Filipino cinema considerable international renown. In 2008, Mendoza’s film ‘Serbis’ became the first Filipino film to compete for the Palme d’Or at the Festival de Cannes. In 2009, his film ‘Kinatay’ or ‘Butchered’ won him the Best Director Award at Cannes, placing him in the league of some of the finest directors in the history of cinema. Of his films since, ‘Thy Womb’, was a contender for the Golden Lion at the 2012 Venice Film Festival and ‘Captive’ (2012) was nominated for the Golden Bear at the 62nd Berlin International Film Festival. His latest film is ‘Sapi’, which premiered at the Toronto International Film Festival, 2013. Last year he was awarded Chevalier dans l’Ordre des Arts et Lettres (Knight of the Order of Arts and Letters) by the French Government for an “invaluable contribution to the field of arts”.

Yet Mendoza’s movies, and the accolades they have won, have also greatly polarized the international film community. Film critic Roger Ebert had said of ‘Kinatay’: “Here is a film that forces me to apologize to Vincent Gallo for calling ‘The Brown Bunny’ the worst film in the history of the Cannes Film Festival.” On the other hand, filmmaker Quentin Tarantino, who was also a contender for the award that year, said: “If there is one film I would gladly defend, it is Kinatay… I found it extraordinary.”

We ask Mendoza about the alternative film scenario in the Philippines and how he sees it shaping up in the years to come. ‘Brillante’ literally means ‘brilliant’, in a sparkling, showy way, and Mendoza is supposed to be all of that. Here, however, in Mumbai, where he’s visiting a film festival, he listens to our questions intently, before addressing them in a measured and sincere manner.

You have said that mainstream films in the Philippines, seem to have taken a beating in the last three or four years and independent cinema is seeing an upsurge, especially because of digital filmmaking. Could you elaborate?

What I’m trying to talk about is the awareness of the movie-going public, in terms of alternative cinema. In the past alternative cinema was almost non-existent in the Philippines. Even the films of Lino Brocka (one of the greats of Filipino filmmaking, whose films created a stir at the Cannes Film Festival), earlier in the seventies, would usually border on the melodramatic. He would make some films for the international market, to send to major festivals. But back home, he would usually make the more melodramatic kind of film.

But in the last three or four years, there has been an awareness of alternative cinema. However, while the general Filipino audience is aware about it, they don’t really go out their way to watch this kind of film. So, it’s the same problem, like anywhere in the world. However, a lot of students are beginning to watch this kind of cinema.

We have this awareness because of, maybe, the publicity and the awards I’m getting outside of the Philippines. So people hear my name, and know that I’m doing these kinds of films. But still they don’t really go out their way to see the film.

Yet on my part, I have realized that if we get the money, we’ll do it (make these kinds of films). Filmmakers don’t have to go out of their way to look for an audience. They make their film, and then talk to the producer about whether they can show the film or not.

What I do isn’t really the forte of those who appeal to the Filipino audience; they really patronize Hollywood films because they are not exposed to the kind of cinema I make. We don’t really have access to world cinema, in the Philippines, except on IMDB… and all that. And many people don’t even have the internet. So most don’t have access to alternative cinema or post-commercial cinema. So I don’t think not watching alternative cinema is the fault of the Filipinos.

However, while earlier I didn’t go out of my way to explain alternative cinema to Filipinos—I used to think, ‘That’s not my job, I’m not an educator, I’m a filmmaker’—now I have changed my attitude. I now think that, if the government is not doing anything about it, I’m going to share my work with the people. So I share my experiences and my movies, when I have time. I go to different schools and universities. Sometimes—you’d be surprised—there are teachers, as well as students, who tell me that they don’t even know what the difference between mainstream and alternative is, because they are not exposed. But they would like to share the experience of this kind of film because they know it’s significant. They just know that when they watch the movie on the big screen that it’s different. But they cannot really put their finger on the difference, or why they like it. Even teachers are not able to explain this difference to their students. So I tell this audience about the difference— why we do this kind of film, why we choose the stories we do, and all that.

I’ve been doing this for the past three years already, and I continue to do this. It inspires me. After showing my films at international festivals, when I go back home, I show them to different schools. It’s good that there are private organizations that help me do this. It doesn’t really pay much. But it’s my share of what I can give to my country, my community.

You are known as the fountainhead of alternate cinema in Philippines. You have created a new space. But are there any other new or upcoming filmmakers who can help you take this space forward, make it a movement, so to speak?

Not the new filmmakers. There is, of course, Lav Diaz (a well-known experimental filmmaker from the Philippines). But, while my films are not really that accessible to the Filipinos either, it is more so the case with Lav Diaz’s films, because they are like eight hour to 10 hour long movies. This makes it very difficult for the audience to connect. You have to have the heart of an artist who can share.

Unfortunately, young filmmakers nowadays are more interested with getting placed in film festivals. They are more interested with their ego. It’s a bit frustrating when you see this. Maybe it’s because they are young? I don’t know. It seems they don’t have the right maturity. They make films for themselves a lot. But you have to have something you want to say. And you have to share a film.

But, that said, we have a lot of young, talented filmmakers making films right now. The only thing missing is the right attitude. I think one should have the right attitude towards one’s craft to be able to move on to become a mature filmmaker.

You started off in mainstream Filipino cinema as a production designer, and then your first film (The Masseur) happened almost by accident. Can you take us through that journey?

You are right. In fact, I didn’t really intend to make another film after that first movie. I just wanted to try it. I’d been in the business for quite some time and I knew that it’s really very difficult to become a filmmaker. So I didn’t want to become a filmmaker like the directors I worked with. It seemed very hectic, very stressful, to make a film. So when I did most of the work for my first film, I just did not think about how I would make films in the future. When I make a film, I don’t want stress. I just want to have fun on the set. I just want to make sure that I am all ready, that I’m doing everything I can with what I have— I should be very focused. So that’s what I did. And I didn’t really realize what I was doing until I saw my film on a big screen.

Also, I didn’t like watching it on the big screen. It’s quite different when you are filming or editing— you work so hard that you believe there is something happening in the film, that you are telling the story in the right way. It’s very different when you show your film on a big screen with a lot of people. In this case, there were disappointments that awaited me. Because I showed it to some people from the academia, some friends, as well as some people who were from the business. Most of them, more than 80% of them, didn’t like the way I edited the film or even the story and the acting. So it was really disappointing.

But then I realized that’s how I wanted to do it. At the end of the day, I’m not going to please everyone. So I just do it the way I think I should do it. And, really, I also had some people reacting differently, positively, to the same film, during the same screening.

So the reactions were varied but at the same time they were each, somewhere, valid. And, somewhere, these mixed emotions and reactions made me feel quite relevant. It really got me interested in exploring some more stories in the future. It’s interesting to have this kind of reaction to your work— with some people reacting violently, and others enjoying it, to have a work that would be attacked (laughs), or protected, for a long time after you have created it. So, anyway, that showing of my first film was the turning point in my life, where I realized I should make some more stories.

After The Masseur, you continued to work with the same actors. Why? Couldn’t that be limiting for a filmmaker?

When you do your first film, you don’t care. You don’t care whether people will like it, you just want to do it. But after completing it, the trouble starts. You start to think, become ‘mature’. You start to look for money. There are a lot of complications. So to be able to secure yourself, you surround yourself with friends and people who you think can help you with your insecurities. That’s exactly what I did. My actors and crew—especially my cinematographer—became my friends when we were filming The Masseur and I got comfortable with them. So I have continued to work with them because they are like my security blanket. I am a very insecure person when it comes to making my films. I feel that there is always something wrong with what I do and I need to be assured that somehow what I’m doing is the right thing. So these people I mentioned are sort of my friends, and professionals working with me, at the same time. And they don’t like it (laughs). But that’s why I have kept on working with most of them.

As you mentioned, after your films won a lot of recognition abroad, there has been a boom in experimental cinema in the Philippines, in the last five years or so. Isn’t this a weird paradox— that films from your country have to go to Cannes or to a Venice Film Festival to be valued at home? It’s a paradox Indian alternative cinema experiences as well. As does cinema in the United States— though at least they have their own festivals, such as, say, a Sundance…

Unfortunately, that is the sad reality and it doesn’t happen only in the Philippines or in India. I think it’s happening everywhere, even in Europe. Not only in the developing countries. So I think it’s a common problem of this kind of film circuit. Recognition outside is finally recognition back home. It’s sad.

I must repeat though that, while I’m quite known in my country, and I have respect and recognition from my colleagues and the people, that’s quite different from actually patronizing my films. I showed Captive (2012) back in the Philippines and it was very sad because the box office collections were the same as the box office for Kinatay (2009) or my previous film, both of which were a lot smaller in terms of production budgets. So what’s really the truth is that despite all this recognition, despite all these awards and people recognizing my talent, people don’t really go out of their way to buy the tickets to my movies.

In the Philippines, Tagalog is the predominant language and then you have several other dialects. Are films made in all these dialects?

No. We only create in Tagalog, our main language. Well, in some of my films there are some lines, some characters, who speak in other dialects. I try, from time to time, to insert characters who they speak in their own dialect. So we subtitle those. But it’s basically Tagalog and that’s not really a problem.

There is talk about these bills that will revive independent cinema being considered by the Filipino legislators. Are they likely to be passed? Also, has there been sufficient state support, for you, and Filipino alternative cinema at large? President Arroyo was known to be very supportive of your work. Since 2010, you have had a different president. How have things been with him?

Basically, with state support, I think the best thing that happened with this administration is that they appointed Briccio Santos, a dear friend, as the Chair of an organization called the Film Development Council of the Philippines, which also supports alternative filmmakers. I can’t comment on the President’s own actions, because as a person he doesn’t really prioritize contemporary culture and the arts. But appointing somebody who knows culture and art well— I think that’s the best thing he did.

I have major support from the current government, through this organization, through Santos. In fact, the organization I mentioned is part producer in my next film and it has been helping a lot. It was able to build at least 10 cinematheques all over the country in two years time. And also, finally, from 2011, we have had our own film archive.

Because you are seen as one of the driving forces behind independent cinema in the Philippines, do you feel a responsibility to support this kind of cinema, besides as a director? To produce films by newer filmmakers maybe? How else do you see yourself discharging this responsibility?

I think you can’t really help but be responsible when you are recognized abroad. It becomes a sort of challenge. At one point, I realized I would have to share films, share thoughts about alternative cinema, because nobody else was going to do it.

After Lino Brocka we were gone for almost 20 years from the world cinema scene, and now that we are back again, it would be a shame not to do anything about it.

So I started last year. I call it the Brillante Mendoza Film Foundation and I produce films. It’s not necessary that I make money, but I do it for fun, for the filmmakers. So I have four projects right now and I have this one which is the Brillante Mendoza project, to be able to help other filmmakers who have stories that the mainstream are not interested in, which can be produced. And, I intend to continue to do this. Some stories are out of the box, very unusual. One filmmaker has a script about human trafficking, which is also very relevant and a global issue.

You mentioned that your films have greater budgets now than they did before. Don’t you see that as something risking your independence? Because with a smaller budget you can afford to experiment a lot more, without the pressure of having to recover a lot of money…

Like I said, it’s a continuous struggle. But as a filmmaker you just have to concentrate on what is your priority and which of the two—money or art—are you really interested in. Because if I finally think of just earning money from the film, I might as well do an all out commercial movie.

But I think I’m more interested with the other thing, with doing the right thing first. When I say ‘right’, I mean, to tell the story you want to, to concentrate on that, to make sure that you are sharing what you have with young filmmakers and other people, rather than only telling them how to re-coup the investment.

When you look back to two decades ago, do you ever wonder what happened? Why was the last Filipino film to make it to the Cannes, before yours, so far back? Why did the alternate cinema movement appear to die down after?

Well there have been a lot of experimental films in the last couple of decades. I think the reason alternative cinema was never really given too much attention is also because it was kind of expensive to make films at that time, because they had to be made on 35 mm, even 8 mm film. I remember that at the time we had to process most of the films in Hong Kong, because we didn’t have the ability to process the 8 mm. And 8 mm was cheaper than the 35 mm, so it was what many films were shot on. So part of the reason filmmaking was so expensive was because we had to ship it out of the country.

So, because it was so expensive, the alternative cinema movement never really flourished in the Philippines. We have had Kidlat Tahimik. He is an experimental Filipino filmmaker who has been making films since the last 20 years. And we have had Raymond Red, who won the Palme d’Or (2000) at Cannes for his short film (ANINO). But they were exceptions. Filmmakers now, however, are capable of much more because of the technology. Now you can shoot a film with a cell phone and just a small amount of money. So I must say that this generation is a lot luckier than 20 years ago. Now we also have the access: the computers and the internet to watch other movies from other countries. So I’m happy for this and I hope this generation won’t take this for granted. Because it can also be a problem when everything is already accessible and there. You tend to be lazy, you tend to resort to easy ways out unlike earlier, where filmmakers had to really struggle to make a film, so they put everything in it.

Ayushmann Khurrana – TBIP Tête-à-Tête

Posted on January 2, 2014 by admin

Ayushmann Khurrana, Bollywood Class of 2012, is one of those bright young actors that makes us feel hopeful about the Hindi film industry. Talented, dapper, hard-working, sorted, he has done theatre, been a video and radio jockey, acted in TV soaps, participated in reality TV shows and writes poetry. But there is also a little something more about him. He is a happy guy. And that sense of joy overrides his slight discomfort at being interviewed, his slight anxiety about how he is answering questions. Here is a young man who knows his mind, accepts the highs and lows of his life and reminds us that the only thing worth savouring is the journey.