Let's talk about Bollywood!

I’m sure you BW fans in the four corners of the world have had a similar experience: uneasy admittance of that shameful addiction: Bollywood obsession! You know, it starts like a dream, a nice dinner party with friends at your place, or at the restaurant, and the conversation lags a little, or people ask you what is your hobby, or revolves around cinema, while just before that, you were wondering how ON EARTH you were going to able to have people speak about Bollywood, so much as to say: about you, about what you love, and are so knowledgeable about! Well, it continues as a dream: they do it! They DON’T KNOW your craze, and they ask you what you do in your spare time, or what kind of films you like watching, or even more WOW: some cherishable person actually starts warbling about an Indian film he’s just seen on TV!

You then “reluctantly” admit that yes, you’re a fan too, or something of the sort, but inwardly you exult: you’re sharing that passion of yours once again!! You can vibrate with whoever it is who has liked SRK, Abhishek, or AR Rahman’s songs, and of course you can drop the names nicely, authoritatively… You can demur when somebody mentions silly remakes, because the originals were so much better, and blah blah blah. Then the not-so good part starts: you try to avoid your partner’s gaze, he or she who knows everything concerning that fad of yours, and perhaps doesn’t share it, and who has already tried to explain to you that OTHER films exist in the world; you also have to confront that nagging impression that, past the first moments of interest, your passion is not regarded as so very important by your listeners. They listen politely at first, but as soon as you go deeper into the differences between Kollywood and Lollywood, or something as inane, you see their eyes looking elsewhere as if to find some other people already involved in another discussion. There you are, you are now reduced to the not very enviable status of Bollywood weirdo.

And you long to be left to those dear blogs and forums where you can splash thigh-high in your passion, your life, your dream. Or of course, watch that dear film that you’ve just bought and that has been quietly waiting for you to lift it gently in your hands and drop it as gently in your DVD drive. And when you’re there, finally doing that, it’s that dear bliss and rapture. But, I am now going to ask: why all this? Why this fad? How long is it going to last? How come I’m so alone with this? I know I’m not crazy, but do I know whether I’m “doing the right thing”? Shouldn’t I be looking after my children and family more? My cultural universe isn’t connected with India and Indian cinema. I’m a geek, a weirdo. All this Hindi I’m learning, which pleases me so much, why, kyu? I do hope one day (ek din) to go there, to see this world I’m plunged in through this deforming lens of Indian cinema, and which I must correct thanks to other sources of information. But why India? Why not Brazil? Why not Vanuatu??

So here I am, struggling with my justifications, explaining my quirkiness, like the other day at work, when a little book about Hinduism (“Hinduism, a very short Introduction”, by Kim Knott) fell out of my pocket, and a colleague asked me “Ah, Hinduism?” and I found myself saying, “yes, I’m a fascinated by all that.”. Not very noteworthy, of course; everybody has a right to read books about Hinduism. But this colleague had already, not so long ago, seen me with a teach-yourself Hindi manual (“Hindi express”, by Aparna Kshirsagar & Jean Jacquement), and has already commented on it, and so this second discovery bared me in front of him as a kind of monomaniac which I tried to masquerade as passion. Perhaps it worked for him. But for me? I can’t hide from myself the doubts that I have about the unconscious reasons of my addiction. What’s gotten hold of me? Why has this culturally so distant world of art and life taken such an importance in my life? I find myself hiding the films which I receive through the mail, and congratulating myself when I am the first to open the mailbox and spirit the brown package out of sight. I have this huge box of films in my study, and my children admit it’s my hobby while wondering why the films have to remain in that box, out of the normal family circuit?

Well, there you have it. The musings of a lonely Bollywood fan. Hmm… Does this mean I’m on the downhill slope towards a normalisation of my passion and that it’s burning itself out? I s'pose the future will tell.

 
It came to me as a big surprise to learn that a large fraction of the Indian cinema goers do not appreciate Mani Ratnam. I was reading this article by Anita Nair, which sums up the criticism:

- All his movies have been hyped excessively

- His movies lack originality or a strong theme

- He tries to impress with his controversial themes

- His story lines are predictable, the dialogue irritating with all the characters speaking in monosyllables. Surely, different characters would be expected to speak differently from each other, right?

- Only the technical aspects of his films stand out (no help from him) - the biggest contributors to his success was a combination of terrific camerawork + amazing music scores - take that away from his movies and they will fall like nine pins

- Mani Ratnam is simply an above average commercial film director. -

If you have been reading this blog before, you know that I’m biased the other way. It's not difficult tofind sites developing the reasons why he’s so acclaimed. Some people mention his skill at combining the intimate and public spheres: political problems and individual concerns blended in a satisfying perspective. Others underline his “technically strong films that are beautifully photographed with well picturised songs” (link). But, as Ratnam says himself:

If you read a book and say the English is good, it doesn't say much about it. Technique is just one element in film-making, along with the screenplay, music, rhythm, symbolism and performance. If the film is interesting enough people forget the technique and watch it. (link)

I have also read that he is an excellent storyteller. He himself stresses the importance of storytelling in fact. But he also puts it in perspective:

“To me the story is merely a vehicle for the theme it underlines, along with many other elements, an excuse to make what you want to make. The less story you have the better.” (same article)

I think we come close to the core of Mani Ratnam’s art when he says: “At first all you want is to make a film. You have something to say.” And he gives the example of “Iruvar”:

“Iruvar'' was really about idealism when you are young and fresh, you have nothing, and nothing to lose; you get corrupted as you become successful. At some point you switch off and ask, what happened to my idealism?”(same article)

I’m not going to be able to explain why dissenters don’t like his films. So this’ll be a defence of Mani Ratnam. My impression when I watch his films is: he’s not just pandering to my instincts as passive spectator, but he’s asking me to actively grasp a problem which he has taken pains to describe artistically. So there’s both the intellectual challenge and the aesthetic appeal. Let’s take an example. 

In Yuva, that apology of youth involvement in politics as a source of rejuvenation and reform, I can hear Mani Ratnam asking us: aren’t corruption, power and violence all related? How can one still believe in the virtues of politics in that case? And he is suggesting that there is something in youth, in the cycle of generations which contains a strength capable of changing things. Now this not a new idea, but it’s a challenging and profound one. We need to examine it once again.  It’s not just the old French saying “Si jeunesse savait, si vieillesse pouvait” once again. Because this “solution” isn’t far-fetched or hackneyed. The young belong to society, they have not only a right, but also a duty to recreate it, by bringing into it the freshness and new perspectives which the older generations can’t see any more (the symbol of all this is JF Kennedy). Mani Ratnam is also telling us “innocence” can be manipulated by “experience”: that’s Lallan’s character (this guy below).

(Funny, as I write all this, I find myself wondering whether Ratman himself doesn’t represent for Indian cinema what I have just described for society: he’s (or he’s been) a young movie-maker, without much training, and his new perspective has shoved old practices, and that’s especially true for Tamil audiences, I’m told)

 
But Yuva also has artistic qualities. Not the least of these is Ratnam’s briskness, his knack at catching what is life-like and suggestive for the mind. In many of his films, there are scenes that make you react like: “oops, stop, what are they doing here, I’d like to see that again!” And if you have a DVD and can go back, you realise what the director is doing. He’s playing with cinema conventions that have nearly always favoured the “look, this is a show, it’s not real life” approach. His films are peppered with these little moments of grace and life, the real half-noticed moments where beauty is observed, where emotions skim the surface, where a gesture conveys much more than its codified meaning. Probably the multiplication of these allusions to the underlying buoyancy of life makes them more visible, and also the way Ratnam films these moments. Essentially he doesn’t grab them: he suggests their presence, and lets them do their fleeting magic. In Yuva, they crop up all the time, In Guru too – less often perhaps, as if Ratnam has detected the potential trick-dimension inherent in his technique.

So if all this goes against the habits of Tamil audiences, “habituated to theatricality, histrionics and rhetoric”, as Shyam Benegal puts it in the article aforementioned, well, why not. I’m not sure it’s dealing fairly enough with Ratnam’s disapprovers, but I’m not a Tamil, and it seems that they’re also criticizing him for bringing some “westernization” to Indian cinema, an element which as a westerner I’m probably going to appreciate. Realism is a subtle thing anyway. On the whole I’d say that Indian films are more codified, more conventional than western films, which also have their conventions, of course. But there’s probably a history of criticism of these conventions that is more ancient in Western art? So that it’s perhaps harder for certain types of public to accept artistic auto-criticism in the name of reality. 

After all, for a certain level of artistic pleasure, art must not be like reality; reality is what art makes forget, what art can transcend. Hence all that theatricality, called “histrionics” by some! But very codified, very elaborate theatricality corresponds to that need of artistic sensitivity. And when an artist (is it the case for Mani Ratnam?) seems to be going back towards reality, he might seem to be flaunting artistic rules.We know of course that “realism” is not at all “reality”; it’s just another form of art, more subtle, perhaps, at least on the surface of it. Let’s say Ratnam’s art is more realistic then. It’s not less artistic though. And he’s retained enough of the popular liking for music and dance, even if he’s more in favour (from what I’ve read) of song scenes being integrated in the story and somehow blending into it. No Switzerland here, no Scotland! Is it here that I should speak about that other “question”, the “commercial” dimension of Mani Ratnam’s films? Well, apparently, it’s hotly discussed, he’s either praised for doing entertainment, being an entertainer, or derided because he’s compromising with popular escapist culture… It’s hard to be a director, isn’t it?

One last word about “politics”. That’s probably the most “realistic” dimension of Ratnam’s cinematography. If, as in Bombay, you insert dates and places in your film that are so close to people’s minds that you get your own house bombed as a result, you’re certainly dealing with reality. I am in two minds about too much politics. Political art tends to be preachy, and I believe that art is at its political best when it says nothing about politics. That scene in Bombay where they all hold hands at the end is perhaps moving; it’s also rather manipulative, I thought. The artist has a fundamental role in politics: and that is to show (more than to say) that the society is not just a confrontation of interests and power. Being human in humanity, and being infinitely more than just that, even, is what art can suggest. Only art (well, faith, too) can suggest that human beings belong to another realm of reality. So politics, Mr Ratnam, OK , but not too much.

I've seen Khamoshi: a musical. Watching it has been like a revelation. Everything it says, everything it hints at, everything it suggests, because it cannot be said, I have avidly drunk as one drinks from a familiar well, knowing that the effect is exactly the well known effect one loves to feel. Sanjay Leela Bhansali is a poet, his poetry is in my eyes, in my ears, in my heart. What he says is less important as what he doesn't say, as in all poetry, and the flashes of beauty that he whispers are those that I remember from long ago, from life, from love, from the infinite resonances of the sea trying to recreate the earth. I believe that in that poem by Edgar Allen Poe called Annie, we can hear that beat, that dhadkan:  

But my heart it is brighter
Than all of the many
Stars in the sky,
For it sparkles with Annie--
It glows with the light
Of the love of my Annie--
With the thought of the light
Of the eyes of my Annie.

There is also one called "Annabel Lee", whose name also evokes that of Annie in Khamoshi, and whose memory is linked to the sea (you can read it here). The wonder, the beauty, the magic, the delight: those ravishing feelings are all in this film. I won't tell the story

(Carla has a nice summary), but I want to concentrate on what it means for me and Bollywood. I think this way you will understand why I seem so moved.

Music, as we all know, is a language. Different from that of words, but definitely it says something, it tells us something. We listen to it because the musician who has created it wanted to impart a sense of something of his world to others. Listening to his music, we know this; we know he has been trying to express emotions, feelings, impressions, desires. They may be positive or negative, but they use this medium to reach us and the amazing property of music is that it transcends its own language. What it says carries the listener directly to that zone of interpretation where freedom reigns, where desire is alone at play. Well, naturally, it's going to be difficult to feel bubbly when listening to Shubert's "Death and the Maiden?" but what I mean is that music has means to speak to the heart in ways which only the individual listener could really recognise. There's an unutterable in music which I think is beyond the musician's intentions. And if music harmonises with what is best and most beautiful in humanity and the universe, it refers to these realities and becomes religious. Its language connects man to what transcends him, and one might hear in a poorly written piece, in an ordinarily played melody, voices which are made audible thanks to this poor medium.

Annie in Khamoshi is a witness to this transcendent voice: she has heard it flowing through her, her grandma Mariamma (Helen, the actress who has played in about 260 films!) has taught her this language belongs to us, because humanity needs to reach higher than the earth. She sings, but as she sings she speaks of a food and of a drink that our soul needs to eat and drink from. This food and drink flows from inside, and it flows from outside too, and it is of course love. There is moment in the moment when Annie faces her father, who has just learnt she is expecting a child from having "erred" with her dear Raj. He wants her to abort it. First she says it's against the commandments of the Church, but he reminds her that he has ceased to be a believer, that God is dead for him, that He doesn't listen to prayers. So she asks him: but I have this baby because of love: you do believe in love, don't you? The only proof that God exists is if He is love. This love which we need like food and drink of our very lives. 
 

So the film is called Khamoshi, Silence. In one scene, Joseph, the father, who has always been made fun of because of his handicap, motions to Annie: trees are silent, the sun is silent! His idea is naturally that life can thrive and be full of meaning, even if it is without verbal language. And perhaps even: all life sings, and it doesn't need a voice. Lack of language doesn't mean dumbness or animality, as commonly thought. Lack of language isn't imbecility, rather it is Silence. And silence is often the unutterable, the unspeakable. Just as silent objects and silent life testify to a language that cannot totally be expressed through words, so deaf and dumb individuals testify to a kingdom of meaning to which they are more sensitive because of this deficiency in "normal" language skills. The same goes for blind people (Cf. the movie Black). You can get educated to this other language, as shows the scene when Raj, Annie's lover, wishes to be the one who will translate Joseph words in Church at the end of the film. His desire to translate is more than just to show that he has made the effort to integrate this special family: it is also a sign that he has started to understand that verbal language users can also learn from non-verbal users. That there is meaning beyond our words, that there is a meaningful darkness behind the clarity of our world of signs and symbols. That night is a source of meaning as much as day, and what the eyes of our intellect can grasp thanks to words and language must accept to be enriched by the chandni of silence shining inside our hearts, and eclipsed by the bright light of our human communication systems.

There is another language which is at the junction of darkness and light: the language of tears. Tears come when an understanding of the insufficiency of our human languages is felt and stops the self from responding adequately. They are our expression of this other language, the language of silence, the language of the unutterable within us. Tears have often been referred to as the presence of the divine in man, and their meaning interpreted as a testimony of a truth which is greater and beyond our human truths. And when Joseph and Flavy cry during their daughter's concert, even if they can't hear it, they too are saying something which even our words could not rightly express.

When I listen to Bollywood music, more often than not, it is music that explores a kingdom of meaning which I long for, which takes me back or forward in life, towards regions of fulfilment I am made aware of thanks to it. The musicality of the melodies, the inspired tones of the voices, the combination of the instruments, the rapid or slow rhythms, most of them speak to me about those feelings I would not really be able to word, but which are very real, very present.  A few days before watching Khamoshi, I was making precisely that sort of remark to myself while listening to O sanam O sanam (from album Jurm 2005): when the female voice launches into "Apne labo ki hashi"?, the beauty is so poignant that what else is there left for me than to shout, cry, and open my eyes wide in the dark to try and discern where it might come from?

Silence, invisibility, tears: the film is full of this allusiveness but it also blessedly full of very visible and audible beauties. Manisha Koirala, in N° 1, whose charming beauty, and feminine grace inundates the screen, but also Nana Patekar, whose handsome face and superb acting radiate too. Seema Biswas (of the fame of Water) delivers very well too, and I would like to underline how ravished I was with young Annie's character (Priya Parulekar), what a child's face! Another beauty of the film is its location, the coast of Goa, the ever-present Ocean, the sunsets, the lighthouse, the countryside. It has been said that the music is not very memorable, it's true. But the dances and the choreography are always successful, surprising, wonderfully blended in the story. So all in all, and despite a few commoner moments, a very lovely movie.